She had tears in her eyes, her cheeks flushed perhaps with embarrassment, strands of her unkempt hair falling over her face. “I’m fine, no harm do...e. I might have a few scars to remember you by, but it’s cheaper than getting your name tattooed on my arm, right?”“You ... aren’t afraid of me? You don’t want me to leave?”“Hell yeah I was afraid of you, but it’s hard to stay afraid of someone when they’re ... well, I had to reevaluate a few things last night. You might feel better if you talk about. There I was, forty-seven-years old, and I had been stood up for the first time ever. “Flaking out” is the more current term I believe. Yet I felt calm and strangely detached from the situation. Perhaps I was relieved I didn’t have to deal with Miriam in the back of some motel. Maybe I was also oddly proud for having survived that minor debacle.The next day I sent Miriam a message. “I was at the bar last night as we agreed; where were you?” Of course, I never got a reply nor did I ever hear from. For a few moments I felt nothing but the clamps on my cunt lips. Then I felt two sets of hands rolling up and down my flesh. One moment they are pinching my nipples whilst my thighs are stroked, the next they are tickling me slightly, as they touch my belly, or my armpits or my feet. The pair of them seem to take great joy in exploring my body like this. Intimately rubbing me and I am unable to process all the sensations. Moments later I and I am being lapped at and nibbled, on my hip bones,. Her wardrobes were indeed cavernous affairs, framed by full length mirrors and subtly backlit by incandescent lights. They framed her in the most perfect way. A visual monument to her wanton ways. What those reflections had witnessed over the years were truly remarkable. The transformation of a persons sexuality from using these mirrors to decide on which clothes would most accentuate her figure and style to the sheer debauchery of the slut. Of silk blouses and liaisons with lovers. Of a fresh.
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