Cece’s Game – Chapter 1 – Pizza Time
Cecilia Graham got home late that Friday night. Not too terribly late. Just late enough that neither she nor her husband, Martin, had any interest in cooking dinner by the time she got there.
“Pizza okay?” Martin yelled from somewhere upstairs.
“Sure,” Cecilia said. Martin knew she didn’t really like pizza all that much, but both of them knew that neither wanted to go out for anything or even so much as heat up something from the freezer. And the only joint that delivered to this part of town was the Hut. “Pizza would be fine.”
“I’ll call it in,” he replied. “What do you want on it?”
For a moment or two Cece didn’t hear the question. Or to be more precise, she heard it but couldn’t think of a response. Her brain was too busy with the remark that came right before it. The Grahams had a long-standing understanding about the proper ordering of pizza, a bargain that applied to most take-out food as well. Martin had a dislike bordering on hatred bordering on phobia of talking to strangers on the phone. The problem traced back to a time many years before when he spent a month or so working in a phone sales boiler room. Something about the constant rejection must have triggered a deep-seated insecurity about making phone calls to people he didn’t know, even for something as simple as ordering a pizza.
Cece on the other hand didn’t like answering the door to strangers. There was no ur-moment similar to the phone bank trauma lurking behind her reluctance. If anything she just figured that when she was at home she was at home, and that meant not having to have other people in her life.
It made a handy Jack Sprat arrangement. Cece made the call. Martin met the delivery person at the door and paid for the food.
So why the deviation? Martin’s calling it in tonight? What’s he thinking?
“Cee?” he asked from the top of the stairs. “Toppings?”
“Oh, um, sure, toppings. Toppings. Whatever you want. Just get a pepperoni or something.”
“You hate pepperoni. It’s bad enough you’re stuck eating pizza at all. Let’s get something with mushrooms and onions or something like that. Sound good?”
“Yeah, sounds great.”
Martin disappeared back into his office. She heard what sounded like the phone being picked up, followed by what sounded like dialing, followed by what sounded like Martin actually talking to someone. Would wonders never cease?
Upstairs in the bedroom she looked at herself in the mirror. She pulled her blouse out of the waistband of her skirt and slowly began to unbutton. All day today – or at the very least ever since lunch – she’d been aching to do just what she was doing. It had been a long, hard week. The weekend promised nothing but down time, perhaps some minor housework, and with a little luck some hot, drunken sex. She couldn’t wait to get rid of the work week and all its trappings, starting with the uncomfortable uniform of corporate America.
She was down to her underwear – a white cotton bra and panties set with just a hint of lace around the edges, a lot more her than the all-business blouse and grey skirt – when the name Jack Sprat came back to mind. Under normal circumstances the first part of the being-at-home ritual was to shed her office demeanor and return to what she though of as her real self. But was tonight within the realm of “normal circumstances”? He’d broken with the norm by making the call. Would she now be expected to reciprocate by taking over his usual duties at the door?
“You look great tonight,” Martin said from the bedroom doorway, startling his wife just a little.
“Thanks,” she replied. “I’m just happy to be home.”
“Well, I’m happy to have you home. How are you feeling?”
“Good. Tired, but in a good sort of way.”
“How tired?”
“Not excessively. Why?”
“Well, I just thought we might get up to some mischief a little later. Maybe after dinner.”
At least they were of the same mind on that topic. “Sounds great.”
“Tell you what,” he said with a small grin. “Why don’t you go ahead and put on that black lacy number of yours.”
“What, you mean now?”
“No better time than the present.”
“And you want me to sit around dressed like that while we eat pizza?”
“Well, if you’d get cold or embarrassed or something, you could throw a bathrobe on over it.”
Cece though things over for a few seconds.
“Nah. I guess I can take it if you can.”
“Look at it this way. You’ll get more of the pizza if I’m sitting there with my jaw hanging open all through dinner.”
He laughed softly. She joined him. Then she returned to her undressing and he returned to whatever he had been doing in his office.
At least that answers the Jack Sprat question, she thought. She wouldn’t be going anywhere near the door this evening.
The whole Jack Sprat thing took a new twist as she looked at her own naked body in the mirror. The terms of the poem didn’t really precisely apply to the Graham household. She was plumper than her husband, but he wasn’t exactly rail thin. And for her part she didn’t exactly constantly dine on nothing but fat. On the other hand, she definitely wasn’t a skin-and-bones supermodel sort, either. She was a bit on the short side and had large breasts, had them ever since blossoming early in junior high. She ran her hands over her nipples, pale pink and big as oatmeal cookies (yet nicely proportional to her boobs). Always popular with the boys. And a girl or two as well. Throw in a nice, round ass, cream-pale skin and dark, vaguely curly hair, and she kind of had the whole earth goddess thing going. She hated hiding this, her true self, under inhuman business attire.
Still, she had to admit to at least a little insecurity about her body. As she gazed at herself in the mirror, she recalled that when she and Martin first started dating, his father – her future father-in-law, though neither of them knew it at the time – referred to her as “zaftig.” And she supposed she thought the term applied.
It wasn’t as if Martin had ever indicated that he found her anything besides extremely desirable. In fact, just the opposite. Sex had always been great, been downright hot if saying so wasn’t too much of a cliché. It wasn’t how he felt about her. It was how she felt about herself.
The thing they both called “that black lacy number” was case in point. She opened the drawer and dug down to exactly where she knew she’d find it. Slipping into it was a simple task. After all, there wasn’t much to it. A simple teddy made of a combination of black lace and stretchy, transparent black fabric. But there had been a great deal to it to start with, particularly with its purchase.
The catalog arrived in the mail completely unsolicited. Neither of the two Grahams could recall ordering or subscribing to anything that would have naturally put them on the Frederick’s of Hollywood mailing list. Yet here it was. Maybe the good folks at Frederick’s just picked homes at random every once in awhile.
Regardless of what stroke of fate brought it into their home, it had an unpredictable effect on Cece and Martin. They looked through it together one evening. The original intent was to use it as an innocent, humorous bit of foreplay, but a page or two turned out to actually do something for Martin.
At first Cece found herself on the verge of jealousy. Was her husband into looking at other women in sleazy lingerie? But no. As it turned out, he was actually genuinely turned on by the thought of her in sleazy lingerie. They talked for what seemed like forever about what he thought was hot. And in the end they picked out a thing or two that might actually be worth ordering.
And if ordering from the catalog had been what she’d settled for, things might have gone much differently. But it happened to occur to her that at least at one point there had been a Frederick’s store in a nearby mall. Why not just go in and pick it up? she thought. After all, it was right there. That way she could see the items themselves rather than guessing how they’d look based on some airbrushed model in a catalog. It would be faster as well, maybe even quick enough to get the stuff before the coming weekend, which by coincidence happened to be their seventh anniversary.
Going to the mall had seemed such a simple thing. To be sure, she hadn’t been there in several years. It had been quite the commercial hub when she was a k**. Thriving. Packed with stores. They even had a mini maze to keep the k**s busy. And every Christmas the place had a big holiday wonderland complete with animatronic displays and a big (though doubtless made of plywood, her adult voice chimed in) castle for the fake-beard Santa the merchants hired to amuse the k**s and get their parents to shop long, shop well.
She stood outside the store now. It was much as she’d remembered it, still with the vaguely robotic mannequins in the display windows in front, sporting things that might look sexy on an actual woman but just looking like lace and latex and leather stretched around plastic forms that were nowhere nearly human enough to appeal.
Even back then, in her relatively care-free days, the store had been there. Sandwiched between a tux rental place and a gift shop, just down the concourse from the Orange Julius stand. She had known it was there, as had all her friends. But not a one of them would ever have dreamed of going in, not even if way back when they’d been adult enough, sophisticated enough, to have boyfriends who might want them to venture inside and sample the wares.
Because that wasn’t something that good girls did. Indeed no. The only women who would go into a place like Frederick’s were, well, they were prostitutes. One time one of Cece’s friends had told her a story of how she had been shopping in one of the nearby stores and how she’d seen a pimp take one of his girls into the store of ill repute to get some outfits for her to use when she was working the streets.
That was the kind of people who shopped in there. Sluts. Pimps. People who made their livings by providing sex to strangers. Not people like her. Not good girls. No.
Yet here she was. Years later. Years older. Clearly she wasn’t a prostitute. This was just between her and her husband, the way things were supposed to be. Yet that stigma from her adolescence remained. Good girls didn’t shop at Frederick’s. Good girls didn’t even look at this place. Only whores shopped here.
She swallowed. Then she went in.
Twenty minutes or so later she came back out again. The experience hadn’t killed her. She hadn’t been transformed by black magic into a lady of the evening for even daring to set foot in the place. No scarlet “F” on her work-a-day business blazers.
Anything but. The experience had actually been close to pleasant, at least as nice as any other trip to a mall store would have been. The clerk (a large black woman) had been helpful and polite. They had exactly what she was looking for, and they had it in her size. It even turned out to be a clearance item, which Cece liked because it meant the item had proved unpopular (and thus unique and special to her and her husband) and that it was on sale.
Thus she had emerged with “that lacy black number.” Cece left the store with a sense of relief so deep it went almost all the way to well being. But oddly and unfortunately, the feeling had faded by the time she got the teddy home. Looking at herself in the mirror for the first time – not entirely unlike what she was doing right now – had almost been a let-down. The problem was that the experience had been too easy, too much like buying a Grisham novel from Waldenbooks or a bag of Good n Plentys from Mr. Bulky or any other ordinary everyday thing one could get from a shopping mall. And though she was relieved that the experience hadn’t turned out to be a nightmare of sticky floors and leering clerks, deep down she had to admit that she’d been hoping for something … well … dirtier.
As she studied herself the first time she tried to invoke the demons that lived at the Frederick’s of her c***dhood. She tried to picture the woman looking back at her from the mirror as the ultimate “bad girl,” one of the cheap little things that all the boys knew would “put out.” But it didn’t work. This silly little high school version of sexuality wasn’t anywhere near as thrilling now as it had been when she was fifteen. Send a girl away to college, let her experience a few partners for herself as an adult, and suddenly it didn’t seem as dirty as it once had when she first formed her impressions not only of the lingerie store but also of the dirty deeds it represented.
But surely there was some way to recapture that wonderful sense of wrongness that made sex magical when she was first feeling the stirrings. What would be the wicked equivalent now of the dark sorcery she had sensed in Frederick’s all those years ago?
Cecelia thought about it for a minute. The unfortunate truth of the matter was that she wasn’t overflowing with sexual fantasies of late. For awhile she had found herself attracted to the guy who delivered the mail at the office. But then he got transferred to another job, and absence turned out not to make the heart grow fonder.
She also had some pleasant memories of partners before Martin that she sometimes fell back on when sufficiently bored. Her high school experiences had been mostly unsatisfying fumblings, but in college she’d managed a few decent trysts with a handful – a small handful, thank you very much – of guys, and even a woman or two. But for whatever reason none of those faces, once summoned, seemed to fill the bill.
A couple of times in the past few months she and Martin had played a stripper game. She got dressed up in something skimpy, he put some loud music on the CD player, and she danced seductively in front of him while he sat on the edge of the bed and watched. Martin had no genuine interest in strippers. Or if he did he hid it exceptionally well, which wasn’t at all like him. Still, after they played the game he was always extra feisty in bed, almost rough – yet pleasantly so – in his attentions.
For a moment Cece thought about stripping. What might it feel like to do her routine not for her husband – or at least not just for her husband – but for a whole room full of drunken, leering strangers? Of course in real life she’d never dream of actually trying it. For openers, she was nowhere near comfortable enough with her appearance to take the stage fully dressed in an outfit she wouldn’t be expected to take off, let alone stripping. And my god, if one of her co-workers turned up in the audience and the whole thing made it back to the office!
Still, there was something there. Something out of character for her. Something naughty. Something wicked. Something oh so old time Frederick’s.
Now she looked at herself in the mirror once again. Not naked as she had been, but clad in a piece of clothing that instantly meant sex to both her and her husband. Though it had in theory been her size, the lace in the bra part of the garment stretched tight around her boobs. The black lace that barely concealed her nipples under the best of conditions had begun to fray in spots. On the left-hand side, for example, the poor old thing had developed an inconvenient – or all-too-convenient, depending on your perspective – hole right where the tip of her nipple poked through.
She imagined someone else seeing her in the “lacy black number.” She imagined it having the same effect on this faceless stranger as it had on Martin. The man would be stretched out on the bed, stark naked of course, his erection growing with every twist of her hips, every jiggle of her tits. When she joined him in the completely clothing free world, he would be nice and hard. Sticking straight up, towering to an impressive height. She would join him on the bed, ease up to him and …
Just then the front doorbell rang. Pizza time.
As she waited for Martin to get the door, Cece tried to return to the train of thought she’d been working on. What was it? Something about stripping? Oh yes, she’d been imagining taking her clothes off for a stranger, doing a tease in the bedroom. She’d been picturing the mystery man’s cock rock hard for her. She imagined herself in the same outfit she was wearing now. No, wait. The fantasy had progressed to the point where the teddy was lying in a heap in the corner. This was the part where she would walk up to the bed, ease down next to the man, and …
The doorbell rang again.
There was something about ringing bells that drove Cecelia nuts. They meant something that needed doing, a question that demanded an answer. Alarm clocks. Telephones. And especially doorbells, inasmuch as a ringing doorbell meant there was someone at the door, someone outside the front door who wanted at least temporary access to her life. Why couldn’t Martin have gotten the money for the pizza together before the guy showed up? That wasn’t like her husband at all. He was such a compulsive planner, he almost always had everything ready to face any situation, let alone something as simple as a pizza delivery. In fact, the man’s usual practice was not only to have the payment in full plus tip ready in advance but also to watch for the delivery car and meet the guy at the door before he even rang the bell.
Martin was standing in the bedroom doorway.
He smiled at her. “So, are you going to get the door?”
Cece suddenly had no idea what to think. Or to be more precise, she had several thoughts all at once, and absolutely no idea which to go with. Her first thought – oddly enough – was to dig her robe out of the closet and go answer the door. How subservient was that? The power of suggestion from her husband? The simple urgency of the doorbell’s call? Surely her reason wasn’t that far gone.
The second thought, following a mere split second later, was to remind Martin that it was his duty to answer the door. That was their arrangement. She called it in, and he took care of the delivery when it showed up. But that arrangement was all backwards tonight, wasn’t it? He’d called it in. So when he took her role in the game, wouldn’t she have to take his? And oh, so that was it. This was part of some kind of game he was playing. Get her all dressed up in something she’d never dare to have anyone see her in, and then try to get her to show herself to someone.
Well, as the old saying went, two could play.
Cece struck the sexiest pose she could come up with on the spur of the moment. Her chest thrust up and forward, her ass to the side as she shifted her weight onto one foot and extended the opposite leg. Then she put her hand on her hip and ran her tongue over her upper lip.
“Dressed like this?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied. A pause. “Dressed like that.”
So the game was Chicken. The notorious triple dog dare. Would she do it? Or wouldn’t she? If she told him to quit being a dumbass and go get the door, she’d win the game by moving outside its boundaries. But winners never quit and quitters never win, right? Nonsense on an intellectual level, but this was more emotional than that. If she called the game to a halt, that would be a loss rather than a victory.
She supposed she still also had the option to throw on a robe before getting the door. But damn it, that would be chickening out too. In fact, that would be even worse than making him go get the door himself. It would be blinking in the stand-off and also giving in to his order to get the door at the same time. Nothing doing.
That left going downstairs in her underwear and answering the door to a stranger. And not just underwear, either. Underwear that didn’t conceal all that much, especially with the rips and holes. Sex underwear. In many ways, it would be just like going down and answering the door completely nude.
But Martin was not going to win this game. He just wasn’t.
Cece thought of one last stall, more for time than anything else. “I don’t have the money.”
Of course he’d thought of that. Martin thought of everything. Out of his pants pocket came his hand, and in his hand was a small wad of bills. Doubtless the pizza price plus tip, fifteen percent computed precisely and rounded up to the nearest dollar.
Damn.
The doorbell rang again.
Okay. Fine. You want this, Martin. You got it.
Cece crossed the room. Martin stood out of her way as she approached the doorway. He held out the cash. She took it.
And without another word, she headed down the stairs.
The annoying little voice in the back of her head was screaming blue murder. What if the neighbors see? What if she gets to the door and the delivery guy is some creepy old man? Worse, what if the delivery guy isn’t a guy at all? Delivery woman. That would be embarrassing, to have another woman see her standing there in her sex teddy, the scheme gone wrong instantly obvious. But it would be a funny joke on Martin and his nasty trick, wouldn’t it?
Ohmygod, what if the delivery guy was a delivery boy, some u******e teenager? Cece had brief nightmare visions of cops showing up at the house, no doubt with a camera crew from the local news in tow. Why did you decide to expose yourself to a minor, Mrs. Graham? What kind of pervert are you?
There were so many ways that this could go wrong. So many things that Martin couldn’t have anticipated, even though of course he always thought of everything. Uncontrolled variables, she could almost hear him mumbling to himself. Artifacts. Too many artifacts.
Oddly enough, that was sort of reassuring. She was way out of her comfort zone in one way, but so was he. Cece thought she was still getting the short end of the stick, taking the bigger risk and all. But the very fact that Martin came up with something like this revealed an unpredictable side to him.
Exciting.
The final factor was that this was a new side to her as well. Cecelia Graham didn’t expose herself to anyone, let alone pizza delivery drivers. And that, more than anything else, was why she was going to do it. Because she wouldn’t. Martin be damned, she was doing this because it was something she’d never do.
And now here she was, at the bottom of the stairs, standing right next to the door. Money in hand. She sensed that the person on the other side of the door was ready to ring the bell again. He (or she, again wouldn’t that be a good trick on the both of them?) had to be getting impatient. Still, she should check through the security hole, just take a quick peek to be sure she wasn’t getting ready to flash a high school k** and get herself arrested.
But no. The thrill here was in the unexpected, the spontaneous, the sexually dangerous. Peeking through the hole would be smart, but it wouldn’t feed the fantasy.
She opened the door.
The man (yes man thank goodness not boy not woman either but man) didn’t notice her at first. He seemed intent on some detail of the pizza paperwork, perhaps checking to make sure he had the right address after it took the occupants so long to answer the door. The brief moment of inattention gave Cece the chance to check him out before he saw her.
He looked to be a man in his early twenties (extreme late teens wasn’t completely out of the question). Judging by his trendy-tacky crop of facial hair, he was most likely a local college student earning rent money. Clearly not young enough to be i*****l, so that was a relief for her. Not a woman, so that would fit with Martin’s scheme a little better. Also not someone really gross. The guy was clean, not too old, not the sort of guy she’d see on the street and think to herself “wow, I wonder what he’d look like naked” but nonetheless not unattractive.
Her musings over his appearance got no farther than that. Because at that moment, he looked up and saw her standing there.
“Hey there,” he started. “Pizza time. It’ll be …” And then his mind caught up with his mouth, meeting at the point where he saw exactly what he was looking at. Cece knew that she could shut her eyes at this point and practically feel his eyes dropping to her boobs, where they would rest for the rest of the conversation. Normally that would piss her off beyond description, but given the current circumstances she supposed it was to be expected, especially with one of her nipples clearly exposed under the ripped fabric.
“It’ll be …” he started again. But again he seemed tongue-tied, looking at her standing in the doorway. His gaze traveled up and down her body. Or to be more precise, it moved from her tits to her crotch and back again. Never before in her life had she felt more completely naked, even though technically she was still at least partially dressed. It was intensely embarrassing. And though she hated to admit it, even to herself, it was at least a little arousing.
Finally he managed to stammer out the price of the pies.
She had it right there in her hand, cash from Martin for exactly the price plus the tip. She didn’t have to count it to be sure. All she had to do was hand it to him and the show would be over.
But she didn’t.
“Just a minute,” she said instead. “Let me grab it for you.” And with that she turned her back on him. She pretended to fuss with the small table in the entryway for a few seconds, making sure to bend over just long enough to give him a good look at her ass. Bending over that far might also expose the place where the teddy turned to little more than a string between her legs. Cece remembered seeing herself dressed in this very garment in some pictures she let Martin take of her awhile back. Kneeling on the bed on all fours, her ass to the camera, the fabric across her pussy didn’t cover a lot. Pubic hair and more than a little lip visible on both sides, as she recalled. She wondered if the stranger could see her as well as she’d come across in the photos.
When she turned back around, the pizza guy’s eyes looked like they were about to bug right out of his head. Mouth agape, too. Was her ass enough to do that, or had he gotten a good look at something else as well?
She hoped so.
“Here you go,” she smiled at him. “Keep the change.”
“Uh, gee, thanks, uh, wait, let me get your …” He seemed to be having trouble not only finishing a sentence but also getting the pizza out of the warming bag. As she watched him struggle, she eased an arm up under her tits, gently lifting without – she hoped – making it look too much like she was doing it deliberately. This of course only made things worse, as he struggled to complete the task while keeping his eyes constantly on her rather than what he was doing, and at the same time not appear to be staring at her.
Eventually, finally, he managed to free the food from the bag. Setting it down without once removing his gaze from her chest, he grasped the money with one sweaty hand. Mumbling a quick thanks, he beat a hasty retreat out the door.
Cece took a quick look around the great outdoors. No neighbors gaping from their driveways or peering out from behind curtains. Not wanting to stretch her luck any farther than she already had, she closed the door.
Whew. Now that was an experience. Cece took a moment to gather her thoughts. What had she just done? That could have gone wrong in so many ways. Oh but it didn’t, did it? So how did she feel about exposing herself to a random stranger? Embarrassed. A little stunned that she’d actually done it. Before and during, she hadn’t had much time to think about what she was doing. But now that she could take the time to process the experience, it filled her stomach with butterflies. If she’d felt this way on her way down the stairs, she probably wouldn’t have been able to open the door.
But beyond the nerves, or perhaps because of them, she felt something else as well. Something electric running up and down her spine. Something chemical flowing through her blood. Something wet in her palms and under her arms.
Something wet lower down.
“Well?”
Martin looked down at her from the top of the stairs. He was completely naked. And very, very aroused.
Cece looked up at him.
“Well, yourself.”
“Well, what did you think?”
As she slowly climbed the stairs, she thought about what she thought.
“I think …” she started.
“Yes?”
Cece dropped to her knees in front of her husband and took him in her mouth.
The sex that followed was brief and surprising. Not surprising because it was brief. The Grahams had quickies every once in awhile, sometimes in the evening when they were too tired for anything bigger and sometimes in the morning when they both woke up in the mood but needed to get up and get going and thus had no time for anything more elaborate.
The surprise was that Cece came from it. Her body shook with a string of massive orgasms starting almost immediately after Martin bent her over the end of the bed and thrust himself into her. That was completely unlike her. Cece was a legend in her own home for taking her time at sex. She prided herself in her ability to hold off climaxes for extended stretches. And she almost never came from nothing more than penetration. A little oral, digital or mechanical stimulation was usually required to at least get her going. Once or twice she’d gotten off during quickies, but even then the orgasms weren’t much more satisfying than not coming at all. Quickie orgasms were snap n’ pops, not thunderclaps like this.
Clearly Martin felt it as well. In one of the valleys, when she could actually see and hear and think for a second, Cece heard her husband moaning loudly behind her. That too was odd, because usually he was almost completely silent during sex. And when he reached the top he actually yelled. Not long or especially loud, but still way more than usual.
Afterward they had a picnic in their bedroom, spreading the still-warm (wow, that really must have been quick sex, Cece thought) pizza and some sodas out on the bed and watching TV. They chatted off and on as they ate, and for the most part the experience was the same as a hundred other times they’d come home exhausted at the end of the week and dined in the bedroom, talking about nothing in particular until they were both too tired to stay awake another minute.
Indeed, Cece could almost have forgotten that she’d ever done what she just did. But still every once in awhile, her mind kept straying back to the look on the pizza guy’s face, his eyes on her body, her body exposed to his gaze.
Eventually they reached the point where they’d both eaten as much as they were going to. Martin gathered up the leftovers and took them downstairs to the fridge.
When he came back, he stood for a minute in the doorway, leaning against the frame.
“Okay, so seriously,” he said at last. “What did you think?”
“How long have you been planning that?” she asked.
“Actively planning it? To be honest, only a few days. But I’ve been thinking about it, or something like it, for much longer.”
“Let me come right out and ask,” Cece said. “Where did that come from? I mean really, how did you come up with that?”
“I don’t know, really,” he replied. She shot him a skeptical glance. “Really,” he protested.
“Just wanted to spice things up a bit, was that it?”
“Yeah.” A pause. “Well, no. Not exactly. I mean, I think our sex life is plenty spicy. I just thought it might be …”
He paused so long she started to think he wasn’t going to finish his thought. Or worse, that he already had finished his thought.
“Might be what?” she prompted.
“Might be something fun to try. Something we’d never done before. We’ve always been in favor of new experiences, sexual or otherwise. That’s in theory. So I just wanted to know what it would be like to try it in practice.”
For a minute silence hung between them.
Martin broke it. “I guess the real question isn’t what I thought about it. I wasn’t the one doing it. The real question is what you thought about it.”
Again silence. Cece thought long and hard about her answer.
“I don’t know what I thought about it. Let me think about it.”