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Georgerecalled the swish and rustle to this day with the gown's tightness.He could almost see the foundation garment, a strapless long linecorselette, that was supporting Margaret and her sheer black stockingsand when she minced away from him, that deafening swish and hiss ofnylon on nylon coupled with the image of her rounded posterior encasedin satin, had George in fierce arousal. Always keep them guessing what'sbeneath the frock was Margaret's motto but though George might haveknown most of the items he would never have guessed that she had added atrumpet underskirt, in sumptuous pink heavy taffeta with a side zippingat the top, to her undergarments, increasing the rustle as she walked asit strained against the satin lining of her gently swaying mermaidfrock.Poor George. What gorgeous memories but now he had been driven to visitTaffeta Torment, so cruel was her neglect.He hesitated for a second at on the front steps but before he could turnhis back and walk away forever, the door. Was it my imagination? No. Another distant sound saves me from my doubts. I wait, eager for her company. Willing to do anything for a cup of water.I’m too weak to jump when the lights turn on. A heartbeat later the door bangs open. She steps into sight, and squats down so that she can look into my eyes. One hand holding onto my arm for balance. She smiles at me like nothing is wrong.Last time it happened so fast I didn’t really see her. She has short brown hair and brown eyes. I’d consider her a little overweight if it wasn’t solid muscle. Her farmers tan is obviously not from laying in the sun, but from working in it. The hand clasping my arm is calloused and rough. She is dressed in simple blue jeans and a gray t-shirt.I try to beg for water, but my throat is so dry that I can’t even grunt.“Are you thirsty?” she asks.I eagerly nod my head.She gets up and walks out of sight. She returns with a squirt bottle and a washcloth. She squirts some water on the washcloth, then pushes the.
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Less than 10 minutes later, the ambulance was pulling in the driveway and the EMTs were starting to work. The first thing they observed after checking his blood pressure and pulse rate gave me a little bit of comfort. ‘It doesn’t appear that he’s having a heart attack,’ one of them said. ‘But something is going on, so we’ll get a nitro drip going as soon as we get him in the truck and we’ll let the hot-shots take a look at him.’ Ricky seemed to relax once it became clear that we were going to the hospital. He was alert and even a little jovial, although he was still clearly in a fair amount of discomfort. Once they had him secured, they hustled him out to the ambulance while I threw some clothes on, then our 16-year-old daughter and I got in the car and followed them to the emergency room. That began the six-day whirlwind that led me to the ICU and a nearly-comatose husband lying on the bed. It turned out that Ricky had had an angina attack, not quite the same as a full-blown heart.

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