What was said about him, what the females needed to believe about him, was just oral masturbation for mouths that needed to be otherwise occupied.

Because I was, and I remain, utterly and completely and totally…in love with you.

I thought symphaths didn't have a conscience." "I'm half my mother's boy, too. So I have a little." "Aren't you lucky." The Reverend's chin dipped down, and his eyes flashed pure, purple evil for a split second. Then he smiled. "No… all the rest of you are fortunate.

In so many ways, he had wanted this his whole life—or at least ever since he’d survived his transition and had any sexual impulse at all. This moment was the culmination of countless daydreams and innumerable fantasies, his secret desire made manifest.

Stop it. Do not feel safe with him. The Stockholm Syndrome is not your friend.

You sure about this?" he asked in a guttural voice. "I get down on that mattress right now, I'm not stopping until I'm inside of you.

Well...he's back in an exam room. Should I get out a quarter?" Everybody groaned. There was only one He out of the legions of male patients they treated, and coin bingo was typically how the staff decided who had to deal with him.