The basket of daisies had held a small post card painting of a woman leaning against her lover as he held her in front of him. The man in the painting...has his hand running through her hair, and had his face turned against her throat. There wasn’t anything truly racy about the picture. They were clothed in Victorian style clothing and there wasn’t anything pornographic about it. It was actually a sweet and tender moment. Except her body had throbbed and a damp heat pooled between her thighs. Waiting. We are NOT soft little gibbering creatures that make nasty noises. We are arachnea. we EAT nasty soft little gibbering creatures. I clash my fangs twice as I attempt to grin. Damn. I'm gonna miss my face. And my booze. Now I digest alcohol and antifreeze like sugar, just another food source.Wait. Wait for it. There. I am first among the triggered. I am of command rank. We have arrived.My pedipalps rise to fire the latches and my cell opens. I stretch to my full height and breadth for. ..yes...deep...in deep..."She pressed down hard on me with each new spurt of my semen and when I had finished she drooped over me and oddly, she used my own simile when she said softly, "Yes, I think we'll make beautiful music together."Then she smiled and said, "Sunday tomorrow, we can stay in bed all day."It's a strange thing, but we can repress some aspects of our bodily and emotional needs for a long time, but then some event unleashes what has been lurking in us. Over the following days I. He told me about their son, left behind when he’d come to Texas looking for a fresh start.And as he spoke he kept staring at my face, something that any other time would have made me uncomfortable, would have made me blush and avert my eyes. But I realized, in that moment, it wasn’t my eyes he was looking into. It was his wife’s.I wondered whether he spoke about her all the time or not at all. Could it be possible that the first person he opened up to - that the first person he could open up to.
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