’ ‘We ARE on to other things.’ David’s voice was still calm, reassuring, mesmerizing… and infuriating. His hands moved now to her arms, covering them with soapy water and suds. His fingers massaged her muscles. Washing, rinsing, repeating. ‘You’re not Patrick Swayze,’ she spat with less venom than she hoped and with even less resistance. ‘No. I’m here.’ The suds rose in the sink. The steam rose too, condensing on her face and neck. Water droplets formed on her breasts, engorged, merged, then broke free and trickled down her abdomen into her underwear, already soaked with her own feminine wetness. Together, they rocked in silence to the rhythm of the task. The pile of dishes slowly disappeared beneath the green foam. Sheridan closed her eyes and let her hands move by feel alone. The muscles in her legs began to weaken and she was glad his strength was holding her up. Her breathing slowed and it seemed difficult to draw a breath. Then, she opened her eyes and looked down. David was. She was stretched cat-like along the bed, semi-naked in sheer nylons, a corset, and slip. My angel had grown horns and a tail.“Those years of pro-bowl gave you a good physique.” With a riding crop, she deftly opened my shorts and lifted my limp penis. “It will do very nicely.” She slowly sat up, languidly stretching her long balletic legs before stepping delicately into her stilettos. “Have you heard of Otto Dix, Mr. Tarakan?” She stood for a moment, her hands glided lasciviously across her nylons, meticulously checking her straining garters. “I am talking to you?” Her eyes blazed again. I tried the friendly approach. “Call me Toby.” She sighed, “Don’t bother with the pleasantries, Mr. Tarakan. You and your camarilla are scum.” She turned; her tight butt undulated and wiggled as she flowed on pencil-thin stilettos toward the drinks tray.“You are lustful, Mr. Tarakan.” She was inside my mind. She pointed with the riding crop. “From the moment I walked into that dingy bar,.
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