While I still plan to useit in that capacity, it took so long to write that she already has abasic understanding from other avenues. This story is sem...-autobiographical. The events are obviously not real,but many of the people, even if their names have been changed, are realpeople and play a role in my life. I wrote it this way to help show herhow I feel in a way she can relate to my life. I hope that nothing Iwrote has been too specific that it detracts from the story.It took a while, but I. She just found her memory going back to what Bull had told her about him not like getting drunk. This stuff would be too easy for it to happen. He was reading her mind again as he bent his head and put his lips by her ear, ‘Relax love, I know my limits and even this taste of home won’t make me go over them, not now, not with you and our baby in my life.’ Bull helped Helen put Jack to bed, and smiled as the older woman shook her head. ‘That man, he knows better than to drink beer after he’s put. I feel her get closer, and closer to my balls. I am struggling to maintain the illusion of being asleep. My breathing is getting erratic; I am twitching more and more as she gets closer to my cock. God, I hope she thinks I am dreaming.My senses seem to be on high alert. I am bombarded with sensations, mostly from my throbbing cock. Her smell is all around me. I am focussed on every sound. I try to picture what is going on around me. It just makes me more aroused.She stops suddenly then. It seemed honest.It also encouraged eye contact, allowing me to study her face with some frankness without appearing to be rude.Her hair was still a mess, even though she'd swept it back where it belonged. This made her seem somewhat in disarray, as though she's spent the last hour or so lying in a haystack. I guessed that in the correct light those complex ringlets might make her look rather sultry and mysterious, a gypsy masquerade, but at the moment they were merely comical.Her eyes, though..