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Again she imagined the words the touches were communicating: This is your belly, but really it is mine. This is your hip but now it is mine. This is my breast. This is my thigh. This is my shoulder. This is my mons... And then the finger was stroking a determined line over her wet slit, and it was as if all her nerves ended in wet desire. She had to lock her knees to keep them from buckling, grit her teeth to keep from moaning as the finger pushed back downward and then slightly into her. The moan escaped anyway, but the finger was unceremoniously removed. She was panting again, she realized. "I'm going to put you on your knees now," he said, and his hands were in her armpits holding her firmly as he drew her forward and down. She regained enough composure to bend her knees as he lowered her, felt him temporarily position his leg between hers so that she spread her knees a bit. They came to rest on a soft pillow mysteriously placed there, for which she was grateful. She went to. He brought her hands behind her head and held them there. She was expecting some sort of punishment, either a flat hand slapping or by some remedy he had placed there beforehand. He surprised her. Using his feet, he kept hers apart. “Is there other things you have problems telling apart, bitch?” “It will never Happen again…UH…sir..” Mr Bergman had put a finger up her rear. It made her frown, because she had not expected this from him. “Edouard Manet..” he said, while his finger slowly slid in and out of her ass. She heard herself emit a thin sound. She could not have been in his apartment for more that fire minutes, possibly less than that. The finger slid out of her. “Claude Monet…two fundamentally different things, bitch..” Two other fingers slipped into her pussy. She sucked air in through her teeth. The whole situation and, yes, his rough treatment, had made her dripping wet. He let go of the grip he had on the chain and opened the fridge. Took out what looked like some butter.
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