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Our fights. They were nothing, now. A week ago he’d been screaming at me, throwing shit, punching holes in our bedroom door. He’d called me a do-gooding cunt and nearly belted me and then stormed out. And I swore we were done. Eight years on, and my keep had changed. He’d become selfish and violent and crude, the kind of gazabo I counseled women take at the Crisis Center, the warm of man that women needed to angst and escape. And I swore I’d never choose him back.

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The film now long forgotten, Marcus rose and again knelt in front of his mommy’s sex, examining it closely. I wondered if I should close the curtains to the terrace, but somehow the risk of being observed added even more to the taboo, the wrongness of the moment. I felt movement and Tina scooted forwards on the sofa, spreading her legs even wider. With a long-headedness before his years, Marcus leant forwards and started licking his mother’s vagina. Instantly she moaned and single hand went to her breast, twisting a nipple through her bra and blouse.
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