Forbidden Fruit by Annie Murphy, Peter de Rosa Page B

didn’t want it in my bed.
    “Love, Annie, covers a multitude of sins.”
    Because I really did love him, I spoke honestly.
    “If you’re only doing this for me, I’d rather go home. I don’t need healing that badly.”
    “Believe me, Annie, you do.”
    I had had my say. The decision was his now.
    Even talk of religion was sexy, in fact the sexiest thing of all because it stressed the forbidden. So the pump was already
     primed. Now we were both raring to go.

Chapter Eight
    T IS QUITE CHILLY TONIGHT, ANNIE.”
    “It’s warm as toast in here.”
    “Would you mind if I —?”
    “You want to sleep next to me?”
    “Maybe.”
    After a minute or two’s delay, he put his brandy glass on my bedside table, kicked his slippers off, and crept in beside me
     with his bathrobe on.
    I said, laughing, “This is uncomfortable.”
    “Shush, girl, your giggle can be heard in Killarney.”
    I laughed even louder. “If you’re concerned about modesty, why not wrap yourself in concrete?”
    “Annie —”
    “It’s okay,” I said. “If you really feel safe like that, leave the thing on.”
    I turned to the wall and pretended to snore.
    I couldn’t make him out. He had decided on my form of therapy; why delay implementing it?
    He moved around restlessly while 1, eyes open, still snoring, turned over again to play with the cord of his robe and tickle
     his face with the tassle.
    “Don’t do that,” he begged. “You might leave a mark on my eye and how will I be able to explain it?”
    Finally, I untied the cord.
    “There, Eamonn,” I said, coming awake, “more comfortable?”
    “Indeed.”
    “Fine,” and I started to play with the buttons on his pajama jacket, undoing the top three.
    He hooted at this. “I am like a woman being stripped.”
    “No, Eamonn,” I said, leaving his buttons alone, “you’re a big boy and you can leave any time you want.”
    For answer, he put his hands under my nightgown and started to stroke my thighs and fondle my breasts. He was like a clothier
     testing the texture of his merchandise, the silkiness of the thighs, the bruise-like swelling of the breasts, the roughness
     of the nipples.
    He removed my nightdress and threw it on the floor.
    “Give it back,” I cried.
    For a moment, he thought I was resisting him.
    “I might have a panic attack.”
    “You won’t need that thing while I’m here.”
    “Don’t count on it,” I said. “I might run out of the house naked and you’d have to shoot me to preserve your honor.”
    He retrieved my nightdress and I rolled it up under my pillow. He then unclothed himself in a frenzy and the man took over
     from the priest.
    Soon he was sating himself on me as before. And, though this time his erection lasted long enough for him to enter me, he
     ejaculated early, causing him to whimper, “God, not again.”
    I appreciated the fact that his distress was on my account, not his.
    “No matter,” I said, soothingly. “If you make that a big problem, it’ll only get worse. Forget it.”
    “How can I?”
    “Part of the trouble,” I suggested, “is you drink too much. Guilt, shame, and drink are a pretty potent mix.”
    “But I’m thinking of you, Annie.”
    I waved his objection aside. If he knew more about me, he would worry less. For me, penetration was almost scary. What endeared
     him to me was that though he was starved of affection, he saw me as a human being and not an object.
    “I really enjoy the womanly warmth of you, Annie,” he enthused. “Inside you ‘tis incredible.”
    He didn’t just grunt and roll over. He verbalized the things he enjoyed.
    He also encouraged me to say what I liked. I told him that when I was sexually aroused as now and failed to climax, I got
     a sharp headache, which was often the prelude to a panic attack. I reached for my nightdress just in case.
    “How can I help you, Annie? Like this?”
    “Yes, the nipples can be very sexy, but here below”—I took his hand—“is the most