His breathing quickened and I felt his balls tighten… I squeezed his shaft near the top between my thumb and forefinger, not hard, but enough that h...s breathing slowed and his shoulders came back down. A little cum spurted an inch out of his dick and several drops leaked from the end.“Why’d you stop, mom?” he asked.“Just wait a second, honey,” I said, rubbing his balls. “Just wait.”Maybe fifteen seconds later his cock had become halfway soft. I leaned over the tub, rinsed the soap off his cock. Waiting for the scars across my torn fingerprints to close and fade into one of the many lines that say so much without speaking. He worked his way into my fingerprints. Fingerprints do change. They are lives. You can read a fortune upon them and, if you follow the curves, distinguish individual pain. Fingerprints burn and cry and bleed longer, harder than eyes ever could. I wash them daily, my scars and fingerprints. Caress them. Sometimes I see him. Just long enough that he can thrust. .” Gail asked, leaning in a little closer across the table, “what if it could apply?”“I don’t understand,” Dana said, then thought she did. “You want me to do it with your husband?”“God no!” Gail said, a bit too loudly, causing two of the patrons at the counter to turn in their direction, then lowering her tone added, “You are far too pretty a girl to waste on the likes of him.”“I don’t understand,” Dana repeated.“Let’s just say that despite your sterling recommendation of him, I really don’t. The recording light came on. Brad let it record me for perhaps a minute. Cold sweat soaked my upraised armpits. ‘You know, don’t you?’ ‘I think so.’ ‘Do you want me to stop? There is still time.’ When I did not speak or move, he came around the camera and pulled the wig from my head, then retreated, letting the camera record me unadorned. The necklace was, of course, always clearly in view. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘I’m yours.’ And he pounced, grabbing the neckline of my dress, ripping, tearing.