It was Sunday, and even Mr. Belate lets them sleep another hour. She layed in her bed, but then sat up and pulled her baggy pyjamas up, as they were a...round her ankles."I seriosuly have to get new pyjamas..."she muttered to herself as she wiggled and squirmed to get them up, without letting herself be exposed to the cold winter morning. She groaned as she looked at her alarm clock.5:45aam??? she groaned again as she realised she stil had over an hour, but couldn't possibly get back to sleep. So. When I woke up I couldnt shake the dream. While I showered I had visions of my story going out over the local news. My mothers shame. My grandmothers horror. At odd moments I groaned audibly. This was the kind of shit you couldnt even take to a therapist. I felt so filthy, so awful. And yet still I had to walk Monty every day, watch him sashay ahead of me, his head erect, nose twitching in the air, his balls swaying between his thighs. I threw myself into my work and went back to Montys later. The nude remains where she always has been, but she hasbeen temporarily forgotten as the gaze flits here and there; when sheagain commands attention, she seems newly discovered, as if she wereonly now introduced into the room in which is located upon a bedwherein she half-sits, half-declines, studying the white pipe in hergloved left hand.Pastels soften, and a painting full of them--drapes the color of thegolden dawn, cloud-white sheets, a soft-pink blanket, and a carpet thecolor of marigolds. I watched as she made another gimlet. She came back to the couch and plopped down, her big tits bouncing as she did. I got up to go change because my jeans were getting a wee bit tight in the crotch watching my aunt’s tits. I put on a pair of shorts with an elastic waistband and a tshirt…..no underwear. I went back to the living room and “Jean” was in the kitchen making yet another cocktail, muttering that that was the last of the vodka. She stayed in the kitchen and downed the small drink in 2.