by Brian McCloskey
It’s in a window this time. Spring upwards, and rapidly interlace one foot with the other. In fact you could fit the seat early to help shape the bottom. A woman dressed up as a French maid, preferably poised seductively on a hotel bed. A nickname for Paul McCartney. A naughty librarian who perhaps moonlights in a house of domination. I am wearing the new black tights I bought when I bought the skirt. It was impossible to ignore the feel of the stockings caressing my legs. Long ago and far away, your gaze rejects you. We got a wet batch of wheat and it gummed up the stones so badly. I’ll put you into something a bit more flowing with a petticoat. Seeing the silky smooth nude or black fabric at the top of her sexy long leg. Blowing large, pink bubbles while she cleaned the house in a sexy French Maid's costume. Then pantyhose came along. She wore the sort of black fishnet stockings that used to feature largely in fifties' films involving French tarts. Throat your daughter is beautiful. I dress slowly and deliberately, starting with my lingerie. I also like to wear the occasional pair of pantyhose. My first bird was green. You carry great power within a slim body. Spend a day in drag. I can’t help but get stimulated when I put on the nylons. Crossing her eyes and scrabbling on the other side of the intangible aquarium. And the recruiting sergeant stood alone among his robots. I killed your bride, I could not hide. Why has she got padlocks on each shoe? That dentist is not enjoying writing near my home. The librarians don't remember skiing for more than an hour. I am turning my sleeves into paper. Our fish slept in the ocean last night. I am so sick, so sick, so sick.