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Sara's Visit with Angelica is full of surprise.

He lives in California, where he owns quite a few vineyards. We were a client of his. His white wines especially became a featured highlight in our catalogue.

Mr. Garfield hated meeting people.

The two times we visited his lovely mansion, he apologized for not being able to see us. I understand he always does this. So I never came eye to eye with Mr. Garfield.

I did see a few pictures. They were rather vintage, I guess. They also might have been from Errol Flynn or another long-gone Hollywood actor. I looked it up. Gregory Peck, most likely.

Mr. Garfield must be ancient.

So he may not have had a face, but he did have a voice. It was the kind that crawls up to you and slips under your skin. The velvet kind of voice that you disparage when you talk with your friends. "Too schmaltzy," you tell them. "Too smooth an operator." But you never say how it makes your pussy flow.

Mr. Garfield was also a master of the seductive word.

So when I say I didn't have sex with him, I am only legally right. Let's say in the Clinton way. To be true, I had some of the steamiest sex with Mr. Garfield, and I never left my office for it.

Mr. Garfield made me do things. Like taking off my bra and playing with my nipples. Or wriggling out of my panties and touching my itchy clit.

One day he made me sit at my desk completely naked without locking my door.

Another day he told me to hang up the phone and return home. I was to remove all of my underwear and then retrieve my vibrator from the bedroom, take it back to my office, set it for the highest speed and then slip it into my cunt and wait for him to call me.

It might take a while, he said, but I was forbidden to orgasm until he called.

"Do you understand, Anne?"

"Yes, Mr. Garfield. No coming until you call."

"Good girl. Now run." I was a good girl.

He called after I had already been back for half an hour. It was the most excruciating half hour of my life. It took only the first ringing of my phone to make me come like a volcano. I still shuddered with after-spasms when he asked me if it was me he heard screaming.

I understand it was his third time asking.


Things changed from then on.

Not that I fucked less. And not that I violated the Law of Anne concerning the uniqueness of each fuck. Let's just say, I lost my innocence.

Don't laugh. It makes perfect sense.

You see, I never felt guilt after any of my escapades. They were mine and they were hermetically separated from what I felt for George. As a matter of fact, they made me appreciate George even more.

I never allowed there to be bridges between my lovers and my love.

That changed.


It changed the afternoon I flew back in from New York. I had spent a weekend there for business. But it had only been very superficially devoted to that.

His name was Gustav.

He was a Swede in all the exciting ways they make them. Tall, blonde, athletic. We toured Manhattan together. We did some shopping and some drinking. Then we had a long and delightful dinner.

After that we never left his hotel room again until I had to fly back.

When I walked into the arrivals hall — or rather limped into it, feeling very, very sore — George was waiting for me with a wide smile, an endless hug and a toy puppy.

I cried like a baby.

This needs some explaining.

I never told you that George and I can't have children. It's because of George's low sperm count. It was very hard for both of us when we learned of the problem. That was in the second year of our marriage.

I wanted kids very much. I still do. So does George.

We tried everything medically possible. Nothing worked. Even in vitro fertilization (IVF) with donor sperm was not an option — George had insurmountable problems with me carrying another man's baby, even if the father would be anonymous. Just broaching the subject made him impotent for days.

Adoption would have been the only option left, and I didn't want that.

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