I literally masturbated all day long to the sweaty thongs she’d leave behind after her runs. Every single day they were so strong and sweaty and fuc...ing delicious; I couldn’t resist pocketing at least a few of them. During the workweek, Aunt Ellen had two of the five thongs she put into her hamper magically vanish into thin air. I wondered for quite some time whether she ever though to herself, hmm, where the hell did my thongs go? Maybe when she was folding her laundry, she’d ask how the hell. As would the baby yarn she was using. Yes, it was acrylic, and not a natural fibre, but the fuzzy texture and whimsical colour should appeal to the little girl and her mother. It suddenly occurred to Anne that if she never had a man in her life, she might not have to tolerate so many messes, but she would also never have a baby of her own. Never knit a blanket or bear or little yellow hat for her own child. That thought caused a pang. Children are messy, she reminded herself. But that didn’t. More

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