A cry of anguish came from his lips. He had been bull-dozed and it felt like the earth-mover was still parked on his chest. He scrunched up the magazine in his fist and flung it against the far wall. “No... no... no!” he pounded his bare thigh. Then his pillows followed the flight of the magazine, dashed hard against the opposite wall. Jack rolled over and buried his face in the mattress trying to force the image from his mind. Instead of a photograph of Lynda-Lee's naked inner thighs, he had seen himself, sitting in an office chair, his p***s in his hand. The picture was of him, gazing up at the wall of photographs and Lynda-Lee, standing behind and to one side, had lifted the black satin gown, the round crescent curve of her bottom, held in one hand. She was watching. He felt a tingling
