"She sighs at the slight complement and leans into my hand. I can feel her face warm as she blushes.I lean down and brush my lips across hers, lightly..."Are you ready to begin?"She nods, moving her cheek in my palm. I don't move, don't repeat the question. I simply wait. It doesn't take her long to remember."Yes, Sir, I am ready."I toss her backwards on the large, soft bed. Her head lands on the mound of pillows at the head of the bed. She bounces once and before she can settle, I'm on top of. My mother and I talked about our day. she seemed very interested in the books we were reading, particularly when I mentioned the Muller poetry that lay behind Winterreise and Die schöne Müllerin.“They are pretty dark and difficult stories, Will. How did you come across them?”“I heard the Schubert song cycle on the radio at Col’s house, Mutti Frida was listening to them, but I couldn’t get the words because the singing got in the way. Then I found them in a book at the library and we’ve been. More

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