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Both Ginger and Toby enjoyed the isolation of the lemon groves. They were not really isolated; it was only fifteen minutes into town. But here they had the open spaces, without neighbors to see them. They played among the groves and in the watering sprinklers all the time. Susan never worried about them. She had no reason to worry about them. Nothing could harm then in the groves.Susan didn't remember unzipping her shorts and pushing her hand into them. But she had, and was strolling with her hand cupping her cunt, feeling the soft hair against her palm, the puffy heat of her slit, the wetness on her fingers. Her tits moved in a tight manner as she walked, her nipples high and swollen. She pressed at her clit, and the soft moan it brought from her almost caused her to miss the other sound. She stopped, turning her head, listening. "I can do that, too," she heard her daughter's happy voice. “Not standing up,” came her son's reply.“I've done it before," Ginger said. For a reason she. One day I resolved to force myself to remember. We were having a get-together that evening (shit we had a get-together every evening!) to smoke, talk, drink, laugh, listen to music, and when we split from our friends, fuck.This time I was going to be prepared. I carried a paper and pen. When we said these profound things, I was going to write them down! Oh, yes, we'd capture those profound utterances for eternity this time.This next morning, I remembered. I remembered I had written our most important discoveries on a piece of paper. Now, if I could only find out where I put the damn thing. Sure enough, it was sitting right where I left it, on the coffee table in our living room.Written in shaky but bold letters: "The room smells funny."My brother demonstrated to me pot's second greatest attraction. Sitting me down by my stereo and putting a set of headphones on me, he queued up the Moody Blues Album In Search of the Lost Chord. This might have been the first album specifically.
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