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Then I focused back on my book. It was a romance novel, a real page-turner. It was all about a girl living in suburban America – a life so very different from living on a farm. In this current chapter she was at a wedding reception and she’d had her very first kiss with a handsome young guy. It was all very romantic.I dived back into her story as her friend grabbed her and turned her around so she couldn’t see the painting. The story felt so real, the words simply jumped off the page and brought the characters to life. I felt like I was right inside the skin of the main character. It was almost as if I were her – living her life.“Bec! Bec you should come back inside. It’s nearly time for Dad to do his speech.”Liz shook me a bit and I jumped back into my own body. I shivered for a moment and blushed as I remembered imagining myself lying out in the sun wearing only a very brief pair of shorts like the girl in the painting.I allowed myself to be led back into the room and back to my. Her eyes never left my face. I let her fellate my finger, or was I finger-fucking her mouth? It doesn’t matter. It was to let her know I liked how it felt and liked what it represented. Now I could take the next step. I pulled my finger out and placed my hands on her breasts, over her blouse. I just touched the tips. Her breasts are oval and soft, all natural, what there is of them. I grasped the tips and squeezed a little, and she closed her eyes. ‘Loosen your hair.’ I didn’t let go of her nipples. Elizabeth opened her eyes half way, to look up at me through her lashes, shyly. She raised both her arms to pull the pins out. She didn’t step back or try to break free, and I squeezed her nipples the entire time. When the pins were gone she shook her head and ran her hands through her hair to spread it and take out the tangles. That finally pulled one of her breasts free, so I had to catch it again, and while I hunted it Elizabeth’s hair fell below her shoulders and over my hands, dark,.
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Finally. My eye to the rifle’s scope, I zero in upon what used to be a bakery, patiently waiting to see if it was more than a stray flap of cloth flirting with the wind. Again. I smile coldly, my instincts telling me that there is a beating heart hidden somewhere in the scatter of rubble that marks the building. Sure enough, I make out a shape, well camouflaged in white and grey. A Russian soldier. With a practiced eye, I center the cross hair on where I discern his head to be, my finger tightening almost imperceptibly on the trigger as I force myself to take a deep breath and hold perfectly still… In that heartbeat, the shape turns, and I can make out a face. A woman. From where I lie, hidden in the shadows of a shattered factory, I stop to reflect. The Russian army had swelled its ranks with anyone who could hold a gun. Every man, women, and even children fought and died in defense of this already dead city, holding us here through the summer and fall months until finally winter.

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