” She commanded him in a low tone. Nobody ever called me John, that I recollect. She felt conscious of her nipples becoming visibly erect under the tight t-shirt and wished that she owned a thicker brassiere. "Good night, Master. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy.
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