The strained posture does artistic things to the dynamics of her trim, athlet- ic legs, and the raising and centering of her cuffed arms pushes her small breasts together and out.The strained posture does artistic things to the dynamics of her trim, athlet- ic legs, and the raising and centering of her cuffed arms pushes her small breasts together and out. She is wearing panties and a cotton T-shirt; this I have allowed her. I walk over and stand next to her. ``Getting any taller?'' I ask, jokingly. ``No, sir.'' She doesn't like a lot of talk. _I_ like a lot of talk, so a lot of talk is what she gets. She also doesn't really know what I can accomplish with talk. There have been those who have been broken under my casual conversation more profoundly than if I had used a branding iron. But now the time for talking is passed. I lean down and run the backs of my fingers up one calf. The woman shivers slightly, a racing horse in tether. *** I return to the room, dragging a simple wooden director's chair. What I am about to do was actually taught me by a teenage girl, long ago; one of the legion of masturbatory exhibitionists and general-purpose kinks that seem to find me by means of some sexual sonar. I sit down in the chair and study the woman. Her face is in an attractive grimace, eyes slitted, lips pulled back across her large, healthy white teeth. She flicks a sideways glance at me from under her knitted brows. There is still a good deal of defiance in that look. I steeple my hands and ask, ``Would you like to be let down?'' The woman looks at me again, this time warily. ``Y-yes, Sir. Please.'' ``Oh, it pleases. I wouldn't have suggested the possibility if it didn't please me. |