Sometimes I would end up masturbating under this tree, either by putting my hands in my shorts or under my skirt, and fantasize how it would be to make love to Amanda. This oak tree was also a special place for Amanda and me. When she would spend the night, my father would setup a tent for us with lights that were strung on the lowest branches to make it our own magical place, where no one could hurt us. As little girls we would play games under this tree, like house or other silly games. It was our little wonderland, our secret spot in the world that only very few people knew about. As we grew up and became women, sometimes we would do the silly girl stuff under this tree, like teaching each new ways to kiss and show each other new thing about our bodies. We would still spend the night out under this tree, sometimes completely naked, enjoying the night air as it washed over our bodies, discovering new sensations and how our bodies reacted to them. One of these nights, when we were. Heathcoate himself was the muscle behind the operation. One glance at the giant press with its central screw and plates and the long rod Master Merle inserted for additional leverage was sufficient to explain his overdeveloped shoulders and arms. Printing was man’s work. Each sheet was impressed separately, but with clever typesetting and layout a sheet could carry eight pages of text. Master Heathcoate passed the printed sheets to be cut and sewn into signatures for binding by a worker in fine leathers at the bindery in the next street.“Yes, Master Heathcoate,” said Amélie.“I do, too, sir,” added Sandrine.“Know your letters, do you? That’s what your father told me. Is that true?”The two women nodded.“You as well, Sandrine?” Heathcoate was not convinced an African woman could read.“Yes, sir,” answered Sandrine. With that she reached behind her to remove a sheet of text drying on a rack. “You mean, like this?” She began to read from the top.His manhood, the flower of his youth, saluted.
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