The guilt of it was oozing out of my pores. I shuddered. My wife would know as soon as she saw me, of that I was certain. Women are like that, so fucking perceptive. It was a combination of guilt and terror at being found out that forged into revulsion at myself during the several hours of travel. It was late evening by the time I arrived in my home town and I went to the Office for a few minutes, as I often did, to make notes and complete any jobs requiring my immediate attention. I called Emily at her home. My intent was to apologize, as I believed that she must have been feeling as badly as I. She was purring when she answered, and I knew that I would need some more of her honey the next time I was in the city. I knew most of all that she was ready to give me all that I wished. The affair lasted a little over six months. Each meeting was more intense and fuck filled than the last. Each return home was filled with terror and remorse, soon followed by a phone call to Emily and the. All this seemed abstract compared to the very real injuries she and the other slaves endured on the ship, as they were shackled together, with rats running freely around and on top of her, as the ship lurched and swayed over the ocean waves as it carried her towards what she was now persuaded to believe was the land of free men and free speech. Every horror she could imagine was magnified, as other people on the ship died in the hold, including her parents, and she felt continuously ill and wretched and miserable. She was constantly sea-sick. She caught a fever, which thankfully waned before she might be diagnosed as too sick to carry to the ship's destination and she would be cast into the sea alive like so many other slaves. The only blessing of the dreadful death rate of the journey was that gradually the hold became less crowded, although it became no less fetid and smelt no less disgusting. The only thing that prevented her being continually sick was the emptiness of her stomach.
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