Tracing a finger down my stomach, to the top of my lace panties.Fingers move down. Over smooth skin, right above my wetness. I can almost smell the musk. I stop momentarily.One hand in my panties, one on the window, face gazing at him. He nods.I let my fingers part my lips, slowly, gently, like a flower. Small movements, making my hips move. More sounds come from my gagged mouth. The tip of my finger pushes.I moan so loudly as I enter myself. The wetness letting me slip in. Letting me feel dirty, slutty, beautiful, powerful and helpless. My other hand clenches into a fist.I move quickly, rubbing, gliding, pushing, moaning and drooling into my gag, forehead on the glass, waves washing over me, pleasure like a restricted force ready to burst.The music ends. I'm still moaning, desire bringing me to a peak, large desire and simple movements, the gag pushing me into subspace, willingness because of giving up, letting it happen, letting someone else happen, letting his will. She fished out a piece of paper. She handed it to me to read. Jeff Collins, a phone number and address in Newport, Rhode Island. Not more than an hour from where we lived.I reached into my back pocket and took out my wallet. I took out a business card with the words ’don’t forget to call me’ handwritten on the back and handed it to mom. She read, Grace Thompson, Realtor, cell phone and fax number, Manchester, New Hampshire. A little more than an hour from where we lived.Mom held my hand in her lap and leaned her head on my shoulder until we touched down at Logan. The limo was on time, and we were home in a little less than an hour. We spent some time unpacking and sorting laundry. There wasn’t much in the fridge, so we ordered out. We chatted about our time on the island as we ate Chinese takeout.We caught the 10 o’clock news, and I decided it was time for bed. I kissed Mom on the cheek. Her eyes were already half-closed, “Come on, Mom, time for bed.” Mom nodded and took my arm as we.
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