My breasts, still flat, were warm and sensitive.I sank down to my knees next to the vacuum cleaner which was still whirring away, pinching and stroking. I pulled my pants down and reached inside. My briefs (I was wearing men's briefs) were soaked in the crotch, I stroked my new clitoris gently, gasping at how sensitive it was. I rolled onto the floor, stroking and pinching and then...I orgasmed.In the process, I bumped the vacuum cleaner which teetered over and gently fell on top of me. The orgasm flowed through me, causing every tendon to vibrate. It was wonderful and left me moaning in pleasure.Gradually, the throbbing and tickling abated and I was able to stand up and actually get around to vacuuming the place.But just as soon as it was finished I dove into bed and masturbated again."Thunk, thunk".I now had to use the box three times a day. And each time it was doing stuff to me, pumping things inside of me. What? Julia wouldn't say.My breasts were getting more and more sensitive. They are hungry, or greedy, or stupid, and fear doesn’t have the grip on them that paralyzes other people. Fear is an instinct for self-preservation. I guess the problem is that some people don’t give a fuck if they live or die. I know that I didn’t at the time. Bear and I frequented a liquor store on Conner Ave. This was another lesson learned, never have a pattern for anything. We randomized the houses we would collect from, and the times that we would arrive, but we went to the same liquor store every night after we dropped off the money. We even randomized where we dropped the money. But that fucking liquor store was a blind spot. We parked our car, a 1987 Camaro, and walked through the parking lot. One-Eyed-Charlie was there, as he often was. He was a drunk, and a crackhead, and homeless, but he was a friendly old guy. I walked by him, and pulled a twenty dollar bill out of my pocket, and slipped it into his hand. Bear saw me, and gave me a disapproving look. ‘What?’ I asked as.
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