as I noted, the pills the doc gave me don’t work, or at least
I didn’t think they did, and so I kept on increasing the dosage until they did –
moderately, enough to wrap my hands around when I got there.
Since the surgery, I religiously kept to the prescribed
dosage, feeling the tinkling at times, but nothing dramatic. Upping the dosage
did enough to keep me content, even if I had to create the satisfaction for
myself.
Had I been wiser, I might have read the instructions better.
While I did take the pill at the same time every day – a pill
that would allow me to be ready on the unlikely chance I would actually need
it.
What I did not notice was that the effects were cumulative,
safe enough at the recommended dosage, but magnified with each escalation.
Thus was the shock when I saw the pretty young black woman
on the train, a woman who made things worse for me by wearing an amazingly
tight white blouse. Not only could I not stop staring (a repeat of those
uncomfortable horny days at our office years ago), I dared not leave my seat,
having mysteriously grown a third leg.
She noticed me noticing, too, shifting from foot to foot at
the far end of the train car, but never fully away, as if she enjoyed someone admiring
her. When a seat opened after several stops, she sat, but did not turn away
completely, leaving me full view of her blouse, her amazing boobs, and yes,
also amazing legs.
When she got off a stop before my stop, she looked worn out,
as if she’d made love in her brain the whole trip, glancing briefly at me
through the window at where I still sat on the inside of the train.
When my stop came, I still didn’t move, figuring it might
take a few more stops there and back to shrink the leg my excess use of the
pills had provided me with, leaving me more than twinge when I finally got up
and out – a lesson learned the hard way.
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