But I am well bound and as Elsa so well understood, there is comfort in that. Still perplexing is why certain women understand that better than me.
Young Luke slathers on a usual bright Texas morning. p***s, between my globes, finally the empty sac where he was formerly given to squeeze, the odd ritual of the intact male celebrating his completeness.
“All gone,” he chides in the Texas drawl I rarely hear. The ranch hands are a sententious lot, caring and guiding by using hand signals, pushes and prods and ultimately my reins.
A finger abrades the side of the scrotum, applying suntan lotion but also ascertaining the status of the small incision. Then the finger assesses the opposing side as well.
“Healed. Miss Heather will want to know.”
With that the reins guide me to stand upright an
