No way was I going to take my shoes off, with nothing but broken glass and decaying goose-shit to walk on. The muck nearly sucked my shoes off anyway, and it took a few minutes of careful effort before I reached the log. I tested it to make sure that it wasn’t floating, and then stepped gingerly aboard. After some careful mincing along the slimy wood I finally got close to where the dog sat cowering. I offered my hand and he snarled at it. ‘Hey little fella,’ I heard myself say in a ridiculous soft voice, ‘Come on. . .don’t be scared. . .come on. . .’ This seemed to calm it down, so I reached again, offering him my left hand. He tried to bite it, which I expected. Taking a handful of his neck scruff in my right hand, I hoisted him off the log. . . .and completely lost my footing in the process. Ass over teakettle is the expression I believe. Splash I slogged up out of the fetid goo like the Creature from the Black Lagoon, dog held out at arm’s length by its worthless neck, yelping. Instead of having to dash home for dinner after their practice game would she like to have dinner with him at the club on those days? Of course Jill asked what I thought. Certainly, it sounded a very sensible idea to me, why not. So she agreed. She would bring some clothes over to the club so she could change from her golf clothes into something more suitable for dinner. Over the next week Jill stayed and had dinner with Michael after each practice game. On each occasion as he dropped her off outside our house I made sure I would be able to watch them arrive. The first two times there was just the prolonged kiss as she left the car. The third time was different. Again the kiss, but this time the kiss could only be described as passionate. I also saw that Michael had his hand on Jills thigh over her dress and was gently massaging it up and down. She was not stopping him either – in fact she was certainly taking a very active part in Michaels farewell kiss. Michaels seduction was going.
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