“Drink? My Dad has some Scotch,” Michelle said. “Please, with some ice.”I heard him, though couldn’t see from our hiding place. “There,”...Michelle said, sitting with her Alco pop on the sofa, drinking it through a straw. She let her skirt go north. Tris’s eyes were glued to the white patch between her legs, her panties. He could see the slit of her pussy, a little patch of pubic hair above her young cunt. He imagined how it would taste, feel.“Mr Thomas, are you looking up my skirt?” Michelle. It was a heady and almost seductive sort of thought, to say the least, to think that she had maintained such a sense of modestly about herself despite how open her eyes were to the ugly darkness of the world. ‘Pardon?’ she asked, her voice ringing with the very slightest hint of an accent. I hated it. But, even more than her atrocious accent, I hated having to repeat myself. ‘Cadavers. How are you with them?’ She didn’t look up as she fastened the buckles on her shoes. ‘In what context?’ I. More

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