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Feels good." I won't tell you his thought. It wasn't nice. "Sara's, too. If arousal were measured by temperature, yours would be in the red zone, but Sara's would be blowing the lid off. She's seriously needy, Dad."He pondered my statement, I guess. His thoughts were so fragmented I couldn't make any sense out of them. I'd noticed this pattern a lot lately when I read Dad's thoughts."What are you thinking?" I asked. It had been years since I asked that question. The idea stunned me.He laughed, hooted, actually. "You're the mind reader. You tell me." I can't, and you know it. What are you doing?" Reclaiming my mental privacy," he said smugly."How?" I'm thinking with mental images, not words. At first, I needed the words to create the imagery. Now, I can generate the images with only a few words, in some instances, none at all. Of course, imagery doesn't serve all thought processes, so my mental privacy isn't complete, but some is better than none."Tears stung my eyes. "I didn't. It had disappeared inside her and I thought of how I never, ever wanted kids. Kids were gross. While she cleaned up the bottle and the wine stains from my floor afterward, I lay on my pillow amidst a red catastrophe blotch, feeling really mellow, my cock still somewhat tingly, my eyes closed. I listened to the squeaking of the paper towels and windex Emily pushed across the floor. She wore her panties and her black blouse. Her panties looked rumpled and misshapen on her ass. I think she knew that she looked sexy. I shut my eyes and told Emily about how I’d woken up that morning on some random girl’s thigh because I had blacked out at the party and had no idea what her pussy tasted like, but that Emily’s tasted better, and felt better, too. As soon as I’d stopped telling the story, Emily had stopped cleaning. She stood over me, just breathing. My eyes were still shut. Emily said; “Dennis, you’re a fucking creep, you know that?” A pause. “I’m not going to fuck you anymore. You need.
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