But it was the branding of the farmer's wife. With the farm's 'logo'. The farmer's wife, who was still lying quite numb on the iron roster above the dung pit. Shaking almost invisibly, her layers of white flesh acting as shock berakers on the cold hard steel. Harry's kinky revenge fantasy - that revived every time he thought about what the farmer's wife had done to him for weeks, without retaliation - was kindled when he looked at her, lying there on a roster. He had taken a bunch of candles from a cupboard in the farmhouse and had turned the farmer's wife on her painful back, with some trouble because of her enormous weight. He had spread her tree-trunk-like legs as wide as possible, had chained her by her ankles to the roster, so that her fleshy thick labia, with their many fishhooks, stared at him as if they invited him. Her enormous boobs seemed to have glued themselves to her upper body, by their sheer gravity. But this was just appearance, he knew. With some hot candle-grease. As expected, Roxbury Crossing was anything but crowded, at the far end of the platform a young couple made out on the bench and an elderly man traced his fingers along the map, no doubt counting the number of stops before his destination. I did the same thing when I first moved here, I’d find the stop I needed and count the stops in between rather than learn the names of the stations; eventually, though, I had memorized their order – thanks in large part to the intercom announcements before and after each stop. As the subway train approached, I stood beside the escalator, planning to board the first car (as always) since it would most likely be empty. Right again. I turned immediately left in the car, at the very front of the trains are two seats and a big empty space meant for commuters who are wheelchair bound; I leaned against the wall, feet outstretched across both seats. Oh yeah! An entire car to myself – no drunks or screaming kids or old Chinese ladies who put their leaky.
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