My skirt is still rucked up around my waist and, as I squat in front of you, a fresh draft of air wafts under the wooden partition wall and tickles around my pussy. I glance downwards for a second; through the gap of four or five inches between the base of the partition and the tiled floor, I can see that in the cubicle behind you there are two pairs of feet – one those of a black woman wearing smart cream-coloured pumps, the other a pair of red stilettos with leather straps encasing slim white ankles, and I can tell, from the placing of their feet, that the women are grinding their cunts against each other in a pussy-pulverising scissors-fuck.It takes me barely a second to register the sapphic activity next door, and I lift my eyes again to admire your elegant grey linen slacks. Their sheer cut is classically elegant and, seen close up, the fine weave of the fabric is clearly of the highest quality. At first, I run my palms over the outside of your trouser legs, and then across. “And you were with Marguerite every day?” he asked.“Of course, just as you insisted,” she explained. “I was here every day, Marguerite went nowhere, saw no one and had no visitors.”“Something is affecting her,” he said. “I can see it in her eyes.”“Oh, you know,” his mother said, “There was that one day. I’m sure it is nothing.”“What day?” Jean asked, “What happened?”“Well, as I said, I was here every day,” Nicole began, “but there was one day where I had to travel to Saint-Pierre-sur-Dives to attend to a legal matter. I left early and was back by midday. Marguerite seemed fine upon my return. In fact, she appeared giddy that day, more than usual.”“What day was this?”“It was the 18th of January,” Nicole answered.“Why didn’t you insist Marguerite go with you?” he asked.“The poor girl was feeling ill that morning, and I knew it was a short hour or so ride there and another hour ride back. There was no need to make her travel when she felt poorly.”Jean thought hard for a moment. “And what.
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