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It’s just that they couldn’t. Not the way she wanted. She’d developed this hunger for young men. Hard asses. Hard stomachs. Harder cocks. But her obsession was becoming stifling. She was resenting more than she was living. Time to get over it. Read a fucking book. Plan a trip somewhere. Go to the fucking museum. There’s more to life than pining for a young Brad Pitt. Mmmmm. A young Brad Pitt. Remember that guy in Paris? Remember those guys in Paris? Wait, what about all the other things you did in Paris? Inspired, Marian laid out clothes for the day. She would turn her day in Boston into a day like she used to spend in Paris in her twenties. Nice lingerie, even though no one will see it. Check. Sexy polka dot button-front dress. Check. Italian sling-backs. Check. Another button undone on that dress. Check. Another one on the bottom, too. Check. Looking good and feeling good. Check and check.She walked up Newbury Street. The air on this bright, clear spring morning was a bit. My left nipple, with that little mole you like to kiss. Can you taste me? Oh, it feels so good. Not as good as you made me feel, but so good. And you look delicious there, open to me. Two fingers inside me now. Can you hear? There is a mark on your thigh. I put it there, didn’t I? Two days ago, with the cane you love and hate so much. It is here beside me. Do you want to feel its caress again? Well, perhaps you shall. It loves your flesh, loves to give you my mark. It marked your bum too, didn’t it? Three strokes were all I gave you but you sobbed and thanked me. Your face was streaked with little tears. I love your tears, I love your sobs. They are your gift to me, just as much as your mouth or your tongue. ‘My pussy is wet, my clitoris is hard. That’s partly because I am fingering myself but mostly because I remember your tears and your little cries. God, I love them.’ More movement and she felt her leg straddled by her Mistress’s legs, the stockings brushing across her skin as she.
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