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He was beaming at me as his hands covered my tits and began to knead them like dough. Such beautiful bazooms,” he said. “I could kiss them!” Well yes, he could, but not in front of the display window where anyone could see. If he was any indication, bakers are very talented with their hands. “I want you to autograph the picture for me,” he said. “Maybe say something like, to Willie, my favorite baker.” “It’s the artist who signs the sketch,” I pointed out. “Oh, the artist—who cares about the artist? The artist would be nothing without the beautiful model.” “You are my favorite baker, though. I adore your cupcakes.” “And you are my favorite customer. Come see where I work.” He took my hand and led me behind the counter and through the door to the kitchen. A couple of young Somali guys, tall and skinny, were cleaning up. “You don’t want to get that pretty dress dirty,” said Willie, grabbing the hem and pulling it over my head. And there I stood, buck naked in his kitchen while he. Last night. It wasn’t a dream. Her mind fumbled to sew patches of memories into coherence. An unfamiliar sensation tickled her brain, and she thumbed the delicate ring on her finger. Ah! Leanne exhaled loudly and rolled to her back, blinking her eyes open. Joe seemed hesitant in the almost-darkness, even as his hand slid across her belly and then up, taking advantage of her new position to cup her breast. ‘Hey there, princess.’ His eyes searched hers. She wasn’t sure what his reservations were all about, but now that she remembered, she herself had none whatsoever. ‘Hey, cowboy.’ She smiled and stretched, pushing her soft flesh more fully into his hand, and wiggled her hips until his morning erection nudged at her side. Her grin widened and she reached for it, wrapping her fingers around him. Joe hissed, and thrust into her loose fist. ‘Argh, God, Leanne…’ She started stroking him lightly, relishing the feel of velvety skin gliding over his rigid shaft. Joe shifted half-over her, his.
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