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For her, I’m someone. “Randy.” Jasmine wet her lips and began rocking in the seat. “I love you.” The girl stilled beside her. “You don’t have to say it. I know.” She stared at the upcoming city. “But you listen to me. When I tell you, I need you to get the fuck out of the car.”* Randy’s lips popped open. “No.” This wasn’t happening. After everything they’d been through, after she’d finally met the one person she actually loved, there was no way it could end like this. “Yes. Hide. Get to Vegas. Or Mexico. Do it for me.” “No!” Her pixie squeezed her hand and smiled, never letting her eyes off the road. “I’ll get out of it. I already have a fucking record as being crazy as hell. Might as well use it to my advantage. I’ll get in and out. You. You’re too... You can’t be locked up. It’d destroy you.” Images of Jasmine in prisoner’s scrubs flashed through her mind. Then a worse image. Her in a straight jacket, that pale blonde hair just a shade darker. A deadened look in her eyes. . Although not theatrical the lighting was soft and balanced and in keeping with intention of the room. After a initial little trouble with the music, Priscilla made her entrance and began to stride the imagined catwalk up and down across the line in front of the bed. She mounted the steps allowing the rear suspender to pull tight across the skin of her posterior augmenting the curvature of the latter. Slowly, suggestively, immodestly and indecently she began to remove the various items of female attire worn especially for the occasion. Once down to the knickers she began a piece of eroticism for which words are hard to find, but for which the reader will understand the involuntary action of a part of the male body was adequate response. Priscilla lay on the end of the bed brought her legs up together waving them in response to the music until they were absolutely vertical. She then parted them wide keeping them accurately straight in military fashion. Back and two they went in a.
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