She tilts her head up to face me.The sun catches the brim of her hat and cascades a tangerine shadow softening her face. A vivid and telling look that...captivates me, but only for a moment before she turns to venture deeper into the vines. Warm waves of her brown tresses foam luxuriously down her back, swaying with each bounce as she steps.She trails her fingers over the leaves and dances barefoot through the sodden clay. Her tan legs are tall and thin, like the wooded-over stalks that twist up. Despite such queen like features, the lover had two essential differences from a female: no pronounced breasts (even the kind the driver had built of highly developed pecs: he preferred a flat, undeveloped chest) and a spear of flesh dangling and hardening for his pleasure where a vagina would be.This continued up to and after the wedding. Our weekly trysts gone, my longing for Bess strengthened. We managed one more night together before the wedding and a few quickies after, but the danger. It’s not against my rules to let sociopaths think I want to sleep with them if it will help my mission. I certainly had no problem flirting with Christine L. Holliston earlier today. We ran into each other at Copley Mall and had dinner together. Like the female sociopath par excellence, she was sexy and charming. Not to mention sexually adventurous. I love meeting women like that. It’s too bad that so many of them got no conscience whatsoever. Kind of puts a damper on my plans to go any further. We slipped out and headed to a massage room. I lit an incense stick as my redheaded lover stretched out on her belly on the table, her rump wiggling back and forth. Her toes flexed and curled. Her head vanished into the oval cutout at the top of the massage table, padded to provide comfort for her.“I’m going to rub all over your body, Daughter,” Mrs. Armstrong purred as she pulled out the massage oil. “I’m going to relax you.”“Good,” she said. “I’m super preggers. I need it.”“You’re not super.
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