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I had not seen her for over six months. She was married, to the preacher of all people and I had figured her little adventure with me had scared her too much. I never thought all that much of it, she had been fun but I knew it had no future. I had told her to find me if she wanted, I would leave it to her and I figured it was over. It was not a very good part of town but the best blues club was there so I had braved the cold and panhandlers and headed out on a Friday night for a little blues and booze. I almost never saw Susan; she stood behind a long table with huge pots of steaming soup. Ladle in hand, she and the other do-gooders had a long line of homeless waiting for their soup. It was one of the few worthy causes which churches seem to donate a significant amount of time. Maybe that is why I actually looked over at the people who had bothered to volunteer. The last time I had seen Susan she had smiled sweetly at me and looked a little ashamed as she left my place, guilty but satisfied I thought. I had been surprised that she had not come back for more. But who can figure the sexually repressed? Maybe the power of their own sexuality is to much and it becomes safer to just push it back down and try and forget they’re really sexual animals inside. Susan was most definitely the real thing when it came to a sexually repressed slut. On the outside, she was a sweet wholesome preacher’s wife but in her heart and mind, she was a slut. Wanting to be nasty and feel the power of a man use her and dominate her. I could do what her husband could not. I hadn’t thought the first time with me would be the last and had thought about seeking her out, finding her and taking her but had left it to her until now. Now she stood their ...

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