It sounded like a car hitting a tree. But I knew what it really was.In a second, my automatic garage door ripped out its track and flew across the str...et. Standing in the middle of my driveway was Becky Finklestein, wearing a field hockey skirt that was laughably inadequate to cover her thighs, and a sleeveless field hockey blouse that couldn’t sufficiently cover any part of her bulging torso. And she looked pissed.“We were supposed to be friends, Mishhhter Parker,” she spat. Her muscles were. I knew just what she needed and gave it to her, the perfect lover.I used to relax with the knowledge of a job well done once she’d dropped me on the bed and lain there, basking in the afterglow. I was the good, the great, and the orgasmic.But not anymore.Now, I don’t know if I’m coming or going. Well I know she is coming, constantly. I’ve had to change the batteries three times this week already and it’s only Thursday. She hasn’t left the house in weeks, my only hope is she’ll run out of. More

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