I pick up the pantyhose and start to slide them up my legs. I assure that everything is where it is suppose to be. I make sure that the seam is not going to drive me nuts today. I pull the jeans up over them. I slip my bra back on and pull the silk blouse over my body. I feel the coolness of the material on my skin. I feel my nipple getting very hard. I walk around the room looking at everything I couldn't look at the night I came here. I look for any photos of Nick's late wife. I cannot find any. I don't dare check drawers. I walk out of the room and head for the family room. I walk around there looking also. I see no evidence of her anywhere. Nick comes out of the kitchen. "Enjoy your freedom my love, I have more planned for you today." I feel myself getting wet at the tone he tells me that in. I nod. I enter the kitchen and he has several muffins in a basket and fresh coffee on the table. The table is a heavy oak table with the maroon tablecloth still on it. The brass. The case hadn't been opened in more than two years.He picked it up and sat on the couch across from the computer desk. He set the case down next to him and opened it. Inside was his old acoustic guitar — a Fender knock-off that he'd purchased in a Heritage music store way back in 1977. Of course the Brogan guitar company — his official sponsor — had given him several high-quality acoustic guitars as well as five electrics, but he had never even opened the boxes they'd come in. This guitar was the one he'd always used to compose with, the one he'd always strummed for the sheer pleasure of strumming, for the thrill of making music, for translating the rhythm and melody in his head into the air around him. He looked at it now. It was covered in a layer of dust despite the case. He strummed his thumb over the strings. The sound was muted and out of tune. He felt horrible as he looked at its condition, as he listened to its imperfection. It was almost like he'd abandoned a child.Gently he.
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