His arms were crossed under his jacket and his hands were free to roam – as the feet under the swan or the lambs to the slaughter. She felt a soft ...urrent of air pass over her chest as he felt her nipples harden in response. Under his jacket his hands were working now, as feet to the swan, as lambs to their ultimate slaughter. She continued to read her paper so he knew he had the pressure just right, enough but not too much so that it could not be explained by normal convection. He had built. It felt deliciously naughty to arrive at work wearing no panties and to slip on a pair of lacy things with “FUCKTOY” written on both sides of them before going inside. Several times during the day, she would slip away to the bathroom in order to stand in front of the mirror and lift up her skirt or pull down her pants to admire them, whispering, “I’m your little whore, Sir,” or “I’m your little cock-slut, Sir,” or whatever was written on them, though her favorite would always be the simple,. More

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