It is twenty years now since that afternoon. The bed remains as it remained. Only the covers and the linen have been changed, are frilled more now with lace and pooled with silk. The same sun casts its glow into the room on summer afternoons as then it cast, dappling their breasts and thighs with leaves of light.

Love is a game. My wife-dear Caroline-has made it so. A game that has no losers, she declares. Dice of desire are cast, the bottoms and the cunnies wriggle on. Even this afternoon, lying with them both, poking my sister first, then Caroline, we spoke of it. Adelaide smiled with hooded eyes, stretched like a cat as she always does, black stockings sheathing up her fine, firm legs, richer and plumper now about her thighs, her breasts the heavier, her bottom ever eager to receive.

“We would never have done so many naughty things if Caroline were not so wicked,” she will often say. It intrigues her to use the adjective and adds a spice to it. I have known them both laugh against my mouth the while we teased each other, sheathed it in. There is laughter often and no darkness here. I have known… But no, my pen runs on.

Caroline interrupts me frequently to read what I have written. I do not like what I have written and have told her so. I come not within a dozen leagues of what I mean to say. The words, like butterflies, escape my net. The weight of a pendant tit upon the palm, the rearing of a naked bottom to the hand, the ineluctable sensation of coursing up one's fingers to the curl-fringed quim of a young girl who sobs against ones mouth-such cannot be described. It is a mere pointing to the moon that hangs too far above-a stabbing of the fingers to the stars whose distance mocks one. Thus I say again, again, to Caroline. She teases me. Her kisses breath upon my mouth the same desiring that I always knew.