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October 16, 2007


You need to kill an hour. So, what do you do?

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Jeff R.: After the Trial

It was the witching hour, and it was guilty as hell.

The jury barely bothered to deliberate, and the judge read down the sentence with relish. That left things to the executioner, who was, for once, at a loss.

He'd carried out death sentences on people before: beheadings, hangings, electrocutions, injections. He'd put down mad dogs and killer horses and rogue elephants. No ordinary executioner, he'd carried out final sentences on ideas and trends, like Disco and men's hats, the Edsel and phlogiston and communnism. But how could he execute a span of time?

The clocks began to chime thirteen.

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Michele: Delay

His flight is delayed an hour.

One more hour of peace. One more hour of not being one insult away from tears.

I walk the concourse and enjoy the silence of this small airport. Soon I’m standing in front of the Southwest terminal looking at the departures, the same place I always end up when I’m retrieving Brad from a trip.

Portland. Home. Something stirs in me, like always.

This time the stirring is stronger.

Without looking back at Brad’s terminal, I purchase a one way ticket to Portland.

He’ll be mad.

But his anger is no longer my problem.

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Ted: Susan, Driving home

Ohhhhhmmmmaha. Susan drove back to her house through the snow and slush, trying to make her town sound like a zen meditation chant. It sounded more like a Gregorian chant, by some some very backed up monks.

The snow had traffic at a crawl.

She peeled out of her pants, let her coat hide her skin, and started to rub her clit.

It became a game: could she get off before traffic unsnarled? Could she cum again before her car reached the next exit?

Her usual fifteen minute drive became a pleasant hour instead.

Damn, was she ready for Nathan!

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