"George wasn't religious. But prayers like that had worked in Vietnam. It'd been that long since he'd needed them. He got out of his truck.When he entered the house through its side entrance he was amazed at how quiet everything was. It was disconcerting. Mary wasn't there, cooking dinner or watching TV. She'd left him, he remembered. Shit.But also, the loud rock music that usually came from his daughter's room upstairs wasn't to be heard, either. Strange.He began to grow nervous again. Maybe she'd left. Maybe his little girl had hiked up to the police station, or was at a neighbor's house. Or maybe, he thought optimistically, she simply ran away. Maybe she was on the streets of the Cleveland ghetto right now, officially becoming the whore he knew she was.Then he saw her little silver purse on the kitchen counter. She hadn't run away. She was still in the house.He knew that he wasn't going to be able to relax until he confirmed this, though. After all, it was too much to ask for. So. Islipped the corset on and started to roll the stockings up my legs. Ipulled the smooth white thong into place after fastening the garters.He walked over to where I was seated at the bed, and opened the shoeboxat my feet. He took out the most beautiful pair of white satin pumps.The slender spike heels and the elegant scalloped shape were designedto present the leg in the most alluring way possible. The soles werebarely worn - worn exactly once, the night I became John's wife.I wanted to protest, to say that they shouldn't be worn again. Thatthey were too special to wear. That maybe we would have a daughter, andthat she'd wear a size thirty-nine-and-a-half, and that she would wearthem on her wedding day.John held one pump out to me and said, "Dearest." I watched my toepoint and felt my foot slip into the shoe. I closed my eyes and pointedmy other foot. As I felt my foot enter the pump, I realized howincredibly horny I had become. I stood up and looked at myself in themirror, and liked.
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