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Joyce sighed, feeling her muscles grow limp. She ran her icy fingers through her hair, glancing at the wall clock again. Seven-thirty! She had been home from her part-time job at UCLA’s graduate library for nearly an hour and she hadn’t put dinner on. Debbie would be coming home soon from her volunteer work at the county hospital.
Joyce smiled, wiping her forehead with the back of one hand and trying to ignore that concentrated burning itch still making itself felt between her shivering legs. Debbie had become the ideal daughter, helping her out at home, doing well in school, and now helping out in the hospital as a candy-striper. She smiled, glad she had sacrificed so many years to the raising of her daughter. And now . . . now she was standing in the kitchen, fully dressed, thinking about lovely things!
Dear God, what was happening to her? She staggered to the doorway, holding onto the molding and breathing hard. It had been long? oh so long since a man touched her. During the time since her husband had been killed Joyce sacrificed her own pleasures for those of her daughter. And now she was paying the price for it.
Maybe if I shower, she thought, feeling a little better.
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.