He pushes the fabric into you, stroking the increasingly wet cloth against your slit. Your hips start to move as you try to increase the pressure and ...ry to get more direct contact but he backs off in response, denying you your growing need to be stroked harder. He strums along your fabric-coated slit, riding up and down your lips, first just the outer ones, then working his way to the inner ones and then between those, touching you everywhere--everywhere but the place you want it the most. The. I raised my hand. It was notmy hand. It was a child's hand, or so it seemed to me. Soft andsmooth but with long dainty fingers. It was not the pudgy liverspotted hands, backed with black hair, that ended the arms of JPMBackhouse.I said nothing. I just looked at the hand. Rotating it. Working thefingers. I could see no other part of me. The covers were up to myneck."I know this is a lot to take in, Virginia," he said.Virginia? Who is he talking to?"Your mother will be here soon," he. More

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