A window partially rolled down circulates the spring air nicely as I alternately play with her breast and her thigh. She parts her legs for me, and her hand, cool with long fingers slips behind my neck. I love the feel of it when she touches me. Her legs spread wider. I reach for her pussy. My fingers circle there. She bites her lip, breathing heavier.A lovely conversation slips past in the background as music plays softly. My slut’s red hair floats on the air stream. Her hand clutches at my collar as a small orgasm approaches. I reach into her shirt again in traffic and grab a breast roughly. She whimpers and I squeeze and twist the nipple in my palm. “Oh God!” she whines.It is said with a voice that seems to recognize the slight humiliation of being groped in traffic, but wanting it so much; needing it, in fact. She says it with a voice that seems to put a frequency and vibration to the feeling of possession this simple act embodies. Her voice is that of a woman who has given. But there was more, it was all over her body, crusted on her belly and thighs. She touched her hair and felt the stiff, matted tangles of what had been her beautiful auburn tresses. It was the last indignity, and she sat down on the floor and began to sob. While she sat there, feeling defeated and confused, there was a knock at the door. At first she didn’t respond, frightened by what they might be planning for her next and ashamed by the way she knew she must look. She quickly got up and grabbed the sheet that had been covering her on the bed and wrapped it around herself. The knock came again, this time accompanied by a voice. “Hello? Are you there?” It was a woman’s voice, speaking English with a Spanish accent. Therese heard a key in the lock. Then the latch rotated and the door swung open. The young Duchess blinked as the bright Caribbean sunlight streamed in, framing the woman in the doorway. She entered and closed the door behind her. “Buenos dias,” she said, looking at.
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