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Is that nice, or is that nice?" continued Jackie."Ye-ess!" wheezed Sissy as her corset constricted her heavy breathing."Well we'd better stop now. You have to take another bath. That last van journey has made you all hot and sticky and dirty. I dread to think what was on the floor of the van before you lay on it. It's not nice for a girl to be hot and sticky, is it?"Sissy sensed she was beginning to feel exactly that between her thighs and wriggled urgently towards Jackie to beg for relief. Jackie smiled again then got off the bed and spoke to Sarah through the bathroom door. Sissy could only watch and flounder as her fate was openly discussed."I will need some help when Sissy's corset comes off. Her back is still a bit sore and weak." I'll be right there," replied Sarah, "the bath is nearly ready."Sarah reappeared from the bathroom and saw Sissy about to slide off the bed. She lurched forward and caught her just as Jackie turned to realise the situation."Oops-a-daisy darling, you. “Tony?”“Dad,” I said. “He’s so excited to have you here to visit he arranged to have a court for us tomorrow morning for a kind of local exhibition.”I pulled into the Y parking lot and got out of the car, motioning the girls to join me as I approached the front doors. The Y closed early on Sunday afternoon, so they were locked up. Plastered against the glass of the door, though was a big poster that Dad had made up at Kinko’s. The pictures were what he’d managed to download from the Internet.“U.S. Women’s Open Champion Lissa ‘The Ice Queen’ Grant vs. National Intercollegiate bronze medalist Tony ‘Tornado Alley’ Ames in an Independence Day Exhibition Match...” Lissa read from the poster. “Oh, Tony.”“Really, I couldn’t,” I complained.“You are so going to get spanked,” Lissa threatened.“Hey! What do I have to do to get spanked?” Melody asked. We both looked at her and broke out laughing.“Just get naked,” I suggested before I thought about what I was saying.Melody pulled her t-shirt over.
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Her bright, happy face was like an angel in a Renaissance manuscript. I looked away from the skirt that fell limply over her wasted legs. Her arms were thin but strong. She seemed at one with the wheelchair, as if they had been friends for many years. Her long thin blond hair was brushed but untended, and she ignored makeup. I shook her hand, expecting the strong grip of one whose life was in her hands. The strength and delicacy surprised me. ‘I very much admired The Owl’s Story,’ I began. ‘Thank you,’ she replied, ‘I really care about that poem.’ ‘I could tell,’ I said, and looked at the floor. ‘Your story about the printer in the printshop and the gymnast on television was very real to me. I do watch television whenever I can find something good.’ Obviously she didn’t get out much in the evenings, I thought, I was a stupid bastard as well as arrogant in those days. Well, maybe some things never change. I said, ‘I try to write what I feel, but mostly it doesn’t come out right..

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