Clare And James, Part One: That Time Clare Told James About Her Affair. free porn video

By the time they'd left the Christmas house party, the world had become white. The cab driver hadn't wanted to go the extra two hundred yards on the untreated surface of their street, so he'd pulled up at the corner and Clare had stepped out onto a snowy carpet that enfolded her feet and hushed her heels as she walked alone towards their house, leaving James to pay the driver.

The key won't go into the lock. Is this the right door? Yes, she is sure it is. But the snow has changed everything, softened all edges, made the facade of home strangely bewitching. She looks up at the plaque just visible under a dusty white veneer, sees the digits that dispel her silly doubt. She tries the key again, but the lock still will not give.

The cold and upset make her clumsy. Starting to panic now. Why doesn't it go in? "Fuck!" The keys fall to the ground and disappear into the heaped snow. She stares down at the dark hole into which they have vanished, decides she is not going to go down on her knees to retrieve them. Instead, she turns around to look for James. He is barely a reality as he walks towards her in the whiplash dervish dance of whiteness. 

The wind is blowing directly against the front door, piling snow up against the three shallow steps leading up to the porch. Clare looks down at the small drift into which her keys have vanished, a patine of flakes already threatening to obscure their whereabouts. She tells herself, It never snows in London in December, so why tonight? 

The cold is beginning to sting her toes. If she had known the weather was going to turn, she would not have worn strappy-heels. There are a pair of new boots in her closet just itching for an outing. 

Soon the lid will be blown off the simmering anger she's kept on low heat throughout the ride home. She can't control it any longer, can sense it about to overwhelm her. The pot lid is rattling, her inner raving is about to boil over again. There will be a mess; spillage and hissing. 

He hasn't said a word since she discovered them together. There's been no explanation, no apology. He thinks he's being so clever; it's what he's always quoting, his moto at work: 'Never explain, never apologise'. But he's had plenty to say to the cab driver during the drive home. Now the guy knows where James works, how successful he is. During the journey, it was as if they are still perfect, she still his adoring wife. Like nothing has happened. Bastard!

"Why aren't you indoors? You'll catch a death," James says as he saunters up the drive.

"The keys." She casts her eyes down. "I dropped them."

"Jesus, Clare. Don't go all precious on me, he says as he stoops and dips his hand into the heaped snow. Then he is up straight, and she hears them jangle as he fumbles with the lock. "Just iced up," he says. He takes out his lighter and applies a flame to the recalcitrant latch. When the door opens, she pushes past him, not giving him time to even extract the key.

She goes directly upstairs and changes out of her party clothes into cosy cotton flannel pyjamas and towelling robe. Back downstairs in the lounge, she fixes herself a drink and takes it to the sofa, pulls her legs up and tucks her still chilled bare feet under her bottom. There's a draft. The front door is still ajar. She can hear James brushing the snow from his car on the driveway. Why bother? It will only be covered again by the morning.

The front door slams, then the bump of shoes falling onto parquet. He pads into the room in his socks, his hair is grizzled by powdered snow, soon melting and dripping onto his collar and shoulders. 

Her fury is no longer containable. "You fucking cunt! How could you... In front of all those people? What must they think of us!"

"For Christ's sake, Clare! Let it drop. It was Just a Christmas kiss."

"The fuck it was! Your hands were all over her bare arse". 

He looks abashed, reaches out to take her hand. 

"I hope you've washed them!" she says.

 He winces, almost withdraws his hand, but doesn't. "Oh-my-fucking-god! You haven't, have you?" Her hand escapes his, rises and waves him off with an ostentatious dismissal. "Just sod-off, James. Don't you dare lay a finger on me."

He stands up and leaves the room.

When he's gone she pours herself a large vodka, downs it in one gulp and pours another and takes the half-full glass thought to the kitchen where she gets ice from the freezer. Back in the lounge, she sits alone, sipping now, occasionally shaking the tumbler and listening to the ice rattle.  

She hadn't wanted to go to the stupid party. But he'd insisted. Not knowing anyone had been bad enough, but being left alone had been the worse. She'd gone off to find him and found the pair of them together! It was humiliating. Everyone had heard her yelling and come into the conservatory to see what the commotion was. 

Carol — she remembered her name now — with her short dress hitched up around her waist and him groping her starkly white buttocks while his tongue filled her mouth. Had she worn panties? If so his hands had forced them way up her crack. God; that fat arse of hers. She can still see it, the four fingers of his right hand lost to view. She shudders at the thought. And all those people — mainly his colleagues — who had rushed to see and then whispered and sniggered. She wonders how many already knew.

She should have guessed weeks ago. He's mentioned her a lot lately — Carol. It had been Carol this, Carol that — for months. Why hadn't she picked up on it before tonight's humiliation? 

"Have you fucked her?" she asks the instant he walks back into the room.

"Of course not."

He's lying. Carol was the one he had plans for. 

"She's the one, isn't she?" Of course, she is.

"The one?"

"The woman you wanted to bring into our bed. The threesome..." 

"So?"

Well, have you fucked her?"

"No!"

"Liar!"

He's holding a bottle of Czech beer and looking at her with puppy-dog eyes.

"You know I'll find out, James. It'll be easier if you come clean now."

And she will. She'll ask Pete. He'll tell her, dish the dirt, best mate or not. He's always fancied his chances with Clare. If she asks, he'll tell her everything she needs to know. All those brownie points will be his, a finger's length closer to the inside of her knickers.

"It was just the once," James says.

"When was this once?"

"The Harrogate conference last year. What could I do when she handed it to me on a plate?"

"You're pathetic."

"Come on, Clare. I'd offered to share her with you."

She thinks of Carol's exposed buttocks again, forces the hatch down on that thought and seals in her rising bile.

"I bet you thought, if Clare doesn't want to, I'm not letting her go to waste."

"It wasn't like that."

"Of course it was like that. And if for one moment you think I'm going to believe it was just the one time — I'm not bloody stupid, James."

"But it was only –"

"— The fuck it was!"

She sits quietly while he remains standing. Neither looks at the other.

"You're not the only one, you know," she says as he sits down next to her. She will not regret this. She is done with James and his selfishness.

"Only one what?" he asks. 

To mess around with a work colleague."

He's baffled, asks, "Why, who else did?" 

She sees his mind reviewing the evening.

"I'm not talking about your colleagues." 

"Oh... Who then?"

"Adam and me."

"Adam? There's no one named Adam at Grosvenor Brothers."

"Not your poxy firm. I'm on about my place. One of the drivers. Adam. You must remember Adam?"

He shakes his head.

"Big guy, Fair hair. Extraordinarily handsome. He dropped me off once. Last year — remember?" She waits for the penny to drop, but it doesn't. "That time when my car was in the garage having the timing chain done. I invited him in, and you chatted with him about the game. You said he was Okay."

"Supports Tottenham? Yeah, I remember. What about him?"

"He fucked me six times last summer."

Her words are strategically placed detonators that neatly bring the highrise of his ego tumbling down in smoke and rubble. His eyes begin to sparkle and swim.

She does not regret her words.

They argue and fight until the insipid dawn light makes facing each other unbearable. 

The discovery of betrayal often destroys a marriage. But other times it can take a couple to a new place, a place from which they can start afresh, script things anew. Clare and James take four months to re-write their relationship, get to their new place. To arrive, they've thrashed it out night after night: grievances and resentments repeatedly brought out and dried in the blistering furnace of jealousy and hurt. The minutia of infidelity is dredged up and laboured over long into winter dawns. Eventually, that something new emerges.

"Tell me again." 

"Do I really have to, James? Really? Again!" She waits for a reply but he just stares, his eyes demanding that she talk.

So she takes a deep breath. "Okay. That first time I saw him, it was his first day with us. He'd come into the office to hand in his P45, or something — I forget now. Soon as he saw me he came to me smiling his who's-a-lucky-girl smile, came to me even though it was Kathy he was supposed to give his paperwork to. Straight away, I knew I wanted him. Later, after we'd chatted a few times, he said he couldn't believe I was married, said I looked too young to have a husband, how unhappy he was that I was already taken and why couldn't he have met me years ago, because now he'd never have a chance with me."

"You must have encouraged him."

"No, I didn't have to. He was so determined, kept asking me to meet him after work. I was flattered, but I kept telling myself to not even think about it, not to go there. I do love you, James. In spite of what you might think. I did back then too. I kept telling him, 'No. I have a husband who I love., Even though deep down, I wanted to say yes.

"But you did, didn't you. Couldn't resist, could you'?"

"I tried. I really tried. But I had these needs just then. He was too good looking to resist. But more than his looks, his insistence and self-certainty wore me down. It was so flattering to know how much and how deeply he desired me."

"Was he that good looking. Better looking than me?"

"James, don't. Let's not fight anymore."

"We won't. What's happened has happened. I just need to get it sorted in my head."

"Okay. Adam was a hunk. You've seen for yourself. There was something unrestrained about him. Almost animal. Most days I'd wait until he was back in the depot re-loading his truck, then I'd take the new orders down to the warehouse and snatch glances of him working as I gave them to Ken. I loved the way Adam moved, the way he lifted and shifted crates, how he bent and twisted while he worked. His enormous biceps were like nothing I'd seen before — and to see his tight butt in black wranglers as he twisted and turned! There was a brutish elegance in how he went about his job. Watching him working really excited me. He was always right there in the moment, giving it his all. When I went over to him, just to say hi, I could smell how fresh and alive he was. And when he broke off for a moment and looked my way, I could see his hunger for me in his eyes."

"You thought about having his cock in your mouth, didn't you? That's what you said last time."

Sometimes she hates James when he makes her tell, and so she jabs with sharp words and twists her point: "That's right James, even before he'd ever kissed me I thought about his big, fat cock in my mouth." She's never talked so coarsely before, and her own words shock her. They lend her power before they fly her mouth.

"Oh, god! You dirty-fucking-cow," James says.

Clare looks at him, sees that there is something about James today... What is it? She's not sure. It's the wretchedness in his tone, yet how he angles for salacious details to garner more pain.

"Tell me how you sucked his cock," he demands.

"I never said I had."

"You did, though, didn't you? You wanted to —so you must have."

"Not until the third time we fucked."

"I bet you loved it in your mouth, didn't you?"

"Yes, James, I loved it in my mouth. It was nearly too big to go in." 

She senses amidst his jealousy and hurt that there is arousal. To start, she thinks it's quite pathetic, sick even, that he's enjoying what she tells him. Then a dawning understanding: the pressure is off. She doesn't have to feel guilty anymore. She can use this new thing, make it a source of power.

She gets closer to him and whispers into his ear, "I sucked him after he'd fucked me on our couch – right here where we're sitting. He wanted me to get him hard again, so he put it into my mouth. I soon got him big, and when he cum I couldn't swallow fast enough because there was so much of it and it dribbled down my chin."

Then James is kissing Clare like he might die if he doesn't. His tongue is a lash that scours the inside her mouth. It is as if he is hoping to taste traces of Adam in there after all these months, find a homoeopathic tincture to cure his erotic dis-ease. Afterwards, that night, Clare thinks the sex she and James have just had comes close to being as good as with Adam. 

More weeks go by, and she has finally forgiven him his indiscretion with Carol. She knows it was nothing compared to what she and Adam shared. This new thing — his obsession, her telling of her times with Adam – excites her more than she can begin to understand.

Tonight he wants to hear about when Adam first kissed her. "It was in the kitchen at work, wasn't it?" James prompts.

"You know it was."

"Tell me again."

"James, aren't you bored by this yet?" She knows he isn't, but he likes it if he thinks he's forcing her to tell him stuff.

She feigns reluctance as she tells it again.

"All morning I would wait for him to come back from his deliveries. He would smile in at me when he went past the office window on his way to the kitchen to make a brew. I would give him a few minutes start, then I'd offer to make the girls coffee and go down after him. There wasn't much room in the kitchen, and I had to squeeze past him while I worked. That's when he turned around and pressed himself against me. Before he kissed me, he asked if this is what I wanted. I said yes, and he asked about you, said, 'What would your husband say if knew what you were really like?' He asked whether I still loved you. I told him I did love you but that I still wanted him to fuck me." 

"That's when he pulled your panties and tights down, right?"

"Not quite. First, I put my arms around him and kissed him. My tongue told him exactly how he made me feel. I could smell fresh sweat rising from under his shirt, and if filled me with a longing for his cock to be inside me. I loved the smell of him. He'd just been loading his truck, and there was a ripeness mingling with a waft of deodorant. As we kissed, his hands lifted my skirt. The next I knew my tights and panties were around my knees and he had his big hands between my legs. I felt so exposed and vulnerable stood with him like that, him rubbing my pussy like a magic lamp. He pushed two fingers inside me, and I groaned out loud. Anyone could have heard, come to see and walked in on us. But that just added to the excitement of it all.

 "In that kiss, I let him know I much I desired him. But I hadn't expected him to fuck me right away. As I said, anyone could have come down and seen us — GIna, Ken, or even Mister Gracing. But he did. And even though I was wet enough down there, he was so big that it still hurt when he first pushed his cock into me. I let out a yelp, and he kept saying, 'Is this what you want, Clare? 'Is this what you've been waiting for?' And it was, and I kept saying it, 'Yes, yes', over and over." 

"How big was his cock?"

I've told you before, James: it was big!"

"Bigger than mine?"

"Longer – and fatter. In fact, it was much, much bigger than yours."

"You cow! Did you have to say it like that?"

"You asked. And it's true."

"You know that time I met him... when you asked him in... after he'd run you home..."

"I remember." 

"Had he fucked you before bringing you home?"

"Not just then."

"When then? Was it at lunchtime? Did you go up to the woods and do it there?"

"No. You know we didn't. Not that time. I've told you before, on that day it was in the morning. I didn't have my car, and I'd asked him if he'd come and pick me up in one of the vans and run me into work. I'd told him what time you left the house, and he came just after you'd gone. It was seven-thirty. We had an hour."

"In our bed?"

"Not that time."

"On the sofa, then?"

"Yes. Right here." She taps the sofa with the flat of her hand.

"What were you wearing?"

She has to think. James has not asked this before, and it throws her. She is surprised how hard it is for her to tell him about the things she'd worn for Adam, the trouble she'd taken to look good for him. The preparations for her lover were so personal, intimate. She struggles to give the words life. To release them. 

"The long silk night-gown. The magenta one," she finally manages to confess.

"Jesus, Clare! That was my first ever birthday present for you!"

"I know."

"You fucking bitch! How could you have worn it for him." 

His old anger is rising, the previously dwindling jealousy flaring up again. Now her confession shames her. But she pushes on, begins to relish her ability to rekindle his hatred, make him feel something again.

"I felt like the proper unfaithful wife wearing it for him, knowing you had picked it out for me, and that he'd fuck me while I wore it. You know how I love the way the material hangs heavy and clings to my body when I move. That morning I felt lie a really filthy hotwife thinking Adam would be touching me all over, feeling my body through the slippery material that meant so much to us both. It excited me so much to know he would be making love to me while I was wearing something you'd given me, something I'd worn for you."

They are all lies. She had picked it out because she thought it sexy, that Adam might like to see her in it.

"I can't believe you could be so callous, disrespect me in such a cruel way. I bought it for you because I loved you and knew how beautiful you would look wearing it. And now I find out that you went and wore it so some bloke could get hard and fuck you?" 

"And I wanted to wear it for him. I was right to choose it; he loved touching me in it. He said I looked gorgeous, said I felt like a goddess."

"You really are a little slut, Clare." He's silent for a moment. Then says, "Go upstairs and fetch me that piece of crap."

"What?"

"The night-gown. Go and get it."

She just stares.

"Now!"

Quickly she is on her feet and then on her way up the stairs to their bedroom. She returns with the gown draped over her right arm, carrying it respectfully, like the gift of love it once was, a relic from another time and reality.

"Put it on," he says.

"Now? Here?"

"I want to see what he saw, how you looked for him when you walked into this room offering yourself. I want to see how you look when you slut-yourself-up-for-a-fucking."

She pulls off her top and wriggles out of leggings, picks up the gown and raises her arms and begins to pull it down over her head."

"Did you wear underwear for him?"

"No."

"I want you exactly like you were for him. Take your bra and knickers off too." He thinks for a moment, says, "And did you wear scent?"

"Yes."

"Which one?"

"The Fendi you brought me for Christmas."

He might explode, might kill her now.

But he doesn't: he tells her, "I'm going out for a fag now, Clare, and then when I'm done I'm going to go to the front of the house and knock on the door. When I do, I want you to answer it and let me in. Just like you did him. I want you to look exactly like you were for him that day. Understand?"

"James, Please, do I have to? This is just silly."

"I need to do this, Clare, so just do as I fucking-well-say."

When he's gone, she goes back upstairs and finds the perfume, the one she wore for Adam all those long months ago. She hasn't worn it since that day, and now as she dabs it onto her neck and chest, its oily, sweet aura envelops her. Memories of Adam flood back. She wonders where he is now: married to Sarah, probably. She'd met his girlfriend only once. She was a mousy girl, always quick to please with a smile, had a head full of celebrities and shopping.

Clare couldn't understand what he saw in her. She knew Adam mustn't have really loved Sarah because he'd said he wanted to leave her and had even asked Clare to run away with him to start a new life in Scotland. She'd refused, of course, didn't want to leave James. Her infidelity was pure lust, an itch to be scratched, she told herself. 

Adam had got heavy when she'd told him she didn't want to run away with him. That's when his amiable gentle giant façade cracked, and she saw a darkness brewing below. So she'd broke it off. What a passion killer a needy man is. There was a scene. Shortly after Adam gave in his notice at work. She has not seen him since.

The loud knocking downstairs brings her back to the room, her preparations. One last look in the mirror and then she rushes down, just as she had that June morning last year. Her tummy is a tumble dryer, her breath sharp and fast. For a moment she thinks Adam will be on the other side of the door waiting to be let in, his randy, wide grin lighting up his face. She inhales. Three deep breaths, counting one, two, three.

Of course, It's only James. But just for a moment, she'd forgotten it was her husband knocking and not her lover. Now she remembers the game they're playing. 

She takes his hand and leads him into the lounge, where she presses herself against him, wraps her arms around him. Slowly, James raises his arms and puts them around her waist, pulls her close. Just for a moment, he is someone else. They kiss, and she tries to remember how long she stood with Adam just kissing. Not as long as she had wanted to. She could have stood forever pressed against him, wrapped in the safety of his arms. Just to be embraced by him would have been enough, but he had been impatient to touch her.

"Your gown?" James whispers when their kissing subsides.

"What about it?"

"Did he lift it over your head, or did he slip the straps down from off your shoulders and let it fall?"

Her voice is husky with excitement. "He felt my bum through the silky material. Did that for ages. His hands felt fantastic, rubbing round and round, pressing the fabric up between my bum cheeks. Then harder, gathering the material. Soon it was up over my hips, then my tits, and then over my head."

"I bet it really made him feel a big man – having you naked in his arms, knowing you were another man's wife, and that he'd soon be fucking you."

"Perhaps. I don't know. But he was breathing fast, and I could feel his heart beating when I rested my head on his chest. His cock was still inside his jeans. I could feel it pressing into me, pressing so hard it hurt. He told me he'd never been so excited. Later I found a bruise. Just here." She looks down and points.

"You couldn't wait to have it inside you, could you?"

"By then, I really couldn't. It was such a turn on being naked for him, feeling his desire for me. I pressed myself against him. I felt so vulnerable being naked in his arms, so utterly yang to his yin. I had never felt more female, so desirable, so malleable. 

My breath was frantic, my heart pounding. I had to suck in great lungfuls of air. My nipples against his clean starched shirt, my pubes and thighs on rough denim. And all the time, his cock trying to escape his jeans."

"Tell me how he touched you when you were naked."

"Gently. On my back and down to my bum, then my cunt from behind. Here, let me show you. Like this." 

She takes both his hands in hers, guides them to the small of her back, presses his palms against herself so that they rest for a moment, quite still, before she draws them down over her buttocks. But now she cannot stretch, and so takes his fore-arms instead and pushes until his gingers find the greasy smearing of her passion. 

"Was you as wet as this.".

"Wetter." 

"How many fingers?"

"Two."

James slips two fingers inside her now sodden cunt, his palm sealing the crack of her buttocks. He wriggles his hand to go deeper, simultaneously splaying her butt cheeks, the heel of his palm soon pressing against her arse. She wriggles for him, just like she had for Adam.

"Yeah, that's right, just like that, mmm," she says, "yeah, that's it."

"How can you be so wet?"

"I'm thinking of Adam."

"Were you this wet for him?"

 "Shhhh. Let's not talk anymore."

He rams his tongue between her lips, forcing apart her teeth. It sweeps her mouth while he furiously fingers her.

She pulls away: "No! He wasn't rough! He was gentle, considerate."

"Did he get completely naked too?"

"First, he sucked my tits. Like this." She pulls his head down to her breasts, keeping it cradled in her palms to prevent him ad-libbing. The rasp of his whiskers on her tender nipples is exactly how it was with Adam. She tells him. "He was frantic for me, James. You should have seen how crazy I made him. He couldn't wait to fuck me." 

"Which end of the sofa was your head when he fucked you?" James whispers. His diminished voice betrays his souls untwining.

His fingers are still inside her as she says, "I was facing the window. It was sunny outside. I put the gown under me and lay on it. It was soft against my back, stopped me sticking to the leather. When we fucked, it slipped about under me on the leather."

"Exactly where did he fuck you?"

"Just there," her eyes telling him the position. "I sort of sat propped up and watched him get undressed."

"Be the same for me."

She does as he asks, takes her gown and spreads it out on the leather of the sofa, plumps up cushions to rest her back against. Delicately, she positions herself, sitting slightly up, her dark hair falling across her breasts. When she is comfy, she parts her legs and strokes her pussy while she watches him take off his clothes: "I did this," she says. "While I waited for him, I rubbed myself, my legs as wide-as-could-be, showing him everything."

James is rushing to take off his clothes. She tells him:

"Slow down. He folded everything neatly as he removed each item. It seemed forever before he was with me again. So frustrating. I was desperate to have his cock inside me. I kept touching myself while I waited, nearly made myself cum right then."

James is naked now, asking her, "Tell me about his cock again, how much you liked it and how big it was."

"I liked it so much, James. It was much bigger than yours — and circumcised too. The end was all swollen, purple and raw. He came to me, his palm full of his own cock, and I took it from him, grabbed it and held it for a moment, savouring the weight of it in my palm before I guided him into me. I got so much pleasure holding it, wrapping my fingers around it, squeezing and clenching them knowing it was soon going be inside me. He was so hard, James. So fucking hard I thought it might burst open as I squeezed it. I just knew he would be a sensational lover. 

"There was one moment." She stalls. Should she say? Yes, she will tell. "There was one moment — just as I placed his cock at the mouth of my cunt — when he reached down to lift my chin, coaxing me to look up at him. It was all there in his eyes, how he wanted to see me, know the person I am, make sure I was there in the moment with him. I know it sounds silly, but that is how it seemed. And so when he pushed into me, we were totally present for each other. I'll always remember it.

And then we were fucking, really going at it. He was liquid, his hips undulating like an incoming ocean swell delivering his cock with hard, steady thrusts. I was a boat at anchor, rising and falling. I kept thinking, I shouldn't be doing this in our house. I don't deserve this. James does not deserve this.

 I pressed my hands down hard on his buttocks while he fucked me. I was trying to make him go deeper than deeper. I wanted his cock to inflate inside me, fill me, push Clare out, become all of me. I wanted there to be more and more of his extraordinary cock. He was like a machine, James: steady, unrelenting. It was wonderful. I wanted him to never stop."

James is between her legs now, and she guides him into her, just like she had Adam. He fucks her as if he has never fucked her before. All his rage and hatred, his sexual arousal and his pitiful jealousy are finding expression in every thrust he makes. The power she has to stoke such emotion in enflames her too. She claws his buttocks and brings her knees high and pincers his body between her soft inner thighs. His balls bang against her arse while his urgent breath hisses in her ear. The smell of his jealousy is acrid, pungent. It contaminates the air all around.

When it is over, and they lie side by side quiet and still, he asks, "Did you talk — afterwards?" 

"Not at first: I had to go upstairs and get dressed for work. By the time I came back down, he was anxious to get gone. He was on his rounds, see, and had a schedule and was starting to worry about being late, or someone seeing him. You see, this wasn't his area, on his round. He was supposed to be over the other side of the city. 

But before we left the house, he kissed so deeply, so gratefully, and thanked me. He asked if we could do it again, and I said yes."

But James has lost interest now, has gathered his clothes. Without a word, he goes upstairs.

She eases herself down onto the sofa, hears the shower switch click upstairs, the hiss of water jets against ceramics. She thinks of Adam again. There are things she has not told. After she and Adam had fucked, Adam had gone down on her and cleaned her with his tongue. He had been unselfish, taken his time to bring her to orgasm. Now her fingers are inside herself and gathering cum — James's and hers — smearing it like its Adam's mingled saliva and sperm. Her hand become a blur, her fingers frantically giving a conclusion to her memories.

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