Then she lay down on the bed and checked.Yes, the egg was still there, and it would take a determined gynecologist to get it out of her. She couldn’t move it, tucked as it was up at the very end. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to. She shut her eyes at the memory. At the first touch of her fingertip, she’d been brought, gasping, to the brink of orgasm. Lying on the bed curled up seemed the wisest choice, at least until those sensations died away. Right now her legs were likely to collapse if she stood.It was very odd, if delightful, and if they sold these over the Internet, every woman on earth would buy one.At last she crawled out of the bed, pulled on black lace underwear, then a light pink knitted dress. As she tugged the dress down over her head, she spotted the newspaper where she’d tossed it at the end of the bed—the Sunday edition was the only one she bothered with lately. Death and despair seemed the major ingredients of most papers. At least on Sunday they added a bit of cheery stuff.
