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Mom agrees to be son's sub, client from party visits Barbie.

She looked down at me, smirking up at her and instantly knew what I'd been staring at. She threw and apple at my head and I dodged it quickly as she laughed and then picked another apple and another, letting them drop to the ground next to her bag. When she had about six, she sat down on the crotch of the tree, demurely, and held out her arms to me. I sat my briefcase down with my jacket and then reached up to grip her waist with my hands and heft her down. She wasn't as light as I'd expected, nor was her figure as soft as one might have imagined. There was a toned firmness to her body that was a bit of a pleasing shock and when her feet touched the ground, she stumbled on purpose into me.

Her hair smelled as if it had been recently washed and I found my lips brushing against the straight strands of it as my own hands ran up from her hips up to her ribcage. Her right leg was pressed into my groin and I felt a slight stiring there as my member began to harden. She shied away then, going over to her backpack, opening it and taking out her English textbook.

"So, Hamlet..." she said, settling down with her legs crossed on the grass.

"What about him?"

"Well, I've been leafing trough it and I'm wondering what it's really all about."

"People have been wondering for 400 years. I guess it's about conflict, the nature of struggle, doing what you can when the world's collapsing around you. Sometimes we can't help complications, but that doesn't mean we should give in to a sea of troubles."

She considered this and then walked once around the tree, circling me and thinking. "Do you like Hamlet?" She asked as she came back around to look me in the eye.

"The play or the character?"

"The play."

"Oh, very much. I played Horatio once."

"Really, I would have cast you as Hamlet, myself?"

"I don't look sad enough. At least that's what the actress playing Ophelia said."

"You and Ophelia, huh?" She smirked. "Maybe she was right, you don't seem the depressed type. I bet you don't even think about death all that much?"

"What's the point in thinking about it?"

"I don't know. Lots of people do, though. Must be important for some reason."
"Lot's of people think about love, too." I settled down on the grass next to her. "Shows you what lots of people know."

"The cynical Mr. Pollock. You don't believe in love?"

"Never had experience of it myself, though a great many friends have told me about it. It sounds quite serious from the inside. However, from the outside, I'd have to say it's always seemed to me to be the greatest unresolved comedy that nobody's ever written."

She stretched out on the grass then, letting the back of her head come to rest in my lap. She smiled up at me. "So you're saying you'll never fall in love, huh?"

"Nope."

"Ophelia do a number on you?"

I scowled down at her. "Do you get all these bits of intuition from the Ether or are you just a really good guesser?"

She shrugged and opened her English book. She cleared her throat and began to read the play aloud, pausing only to take big bites of her apple and to ask me occasional questions about the meanings of things.

"What is a fish-monger?" She'd ask, looking up quizzically.

"One who sells fish. At least, that's the literal translation. What Hamlet's really calling Polonius is a pimp."

"A pimp?"

"One who prostitutes women. You see Polonius has been trying to use Ophelia to get information out of Hamlet to give to the king. Hamlet knows this and is making a veiled insult."

"I don't get it."

"Well you know how sometimes you hear it referred to as a beaver or a clam," I let my hand run over the plain of her abdomen to rest over the particular patch of human female anatomy.

She wriggled a bit as I let my hand rest there a bit. "Yeah, so?"

"Well, in Shakespeare's day they called it a fish."

"No way!"

"Way."

"Shakespeare's making a cutter joke?"

"He makes more of them than I think people realize.

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