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Sensing that he has moved to stand just behind her, she turns her eyes to the window, hoping to follow his movements in its reflection. In the deepening gloom, she can just make out a vague amorphous shape over her shoulder, backlit by the dim light from the table lamp at the bedside. With certainty, it has truly begin, no turning back. A wisp of sensation on the nape of her neck, the sound of a zipper moving, as she feels the back of her dress falling away from her shoulders, exposing her to his gaze. The cool air of the room caresses her skin, sending a quiver down the length of her body. Still attempting to discern his reflection, she watches closely as he moves off to the right and circles in front of her, taking a seat in the armchair next to the window. His eyes have not left her for an instant, the intense scrutiny making her desire for motion almost unbearable. But his manner has made it clear that it would be a mistake to do so; she fears even to breathe, unwilling to create. Panic had momentarily seized her when she couldn't work out how to turn the TV on, but after a few minutes of the rain, the quiet, peaceful, gentle rain, she realised that it wasn't worth worrying about - worry was for smart people. She didn't need TV, not when her pussy and her hands provided her more than enough entertainment to get her through the night.Molly's dreams on Sunday night revolved around something other than sex, for the first time since she got her tattoo. She dreamt about how beautiful it was to be stupid, how her new, vacuous outlook on life was perfect; if she was dumb, she didn't have to think about nearly as much. All she had to do was focus on what she was good at - looking good, making men happy, and bringing herself off.And cleening, of course.So when she'd arrived at work on Monday, she was a few hours late. She'd forgotten to set an alarm, she'd gotten lost a few times on the way there, and when she'd eventually remembered the name of her work, she'd spent.
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