Then, *she* started to get embarrased by what she had just said. “Well, uh, not like a *pro* like what you usually think of by the word ‘pro’,�... she fumbled.Sharmila’s face seemed to relax, and she let out the breath she had been holding. She smiled slightly, leaned in toward my wife, giggled, and said, “We probably shouldn’t be talking about this out in our front yards! Do you want to come in and have a cup of coffee with me? Manish won’t be home for several more hours.”My wife looked back at. He was very, very rich.’ ‘Come here and sit on my lap?’ She did and we kissed. This wasn’t exactly what I ontemplated. ‘You want to be my sex slave?’ ‘Yes Master.’ ‘That means that you will have to do whatever I tell you and with whomever I tell you.’ ‘Yes, Master.’ I knew that Emily was still in a trance. I also knew that talking to what I call, the back of the brain, gets you the absolute truth. I had a knock down carbon copy of Sharon Stone telling me that she wanted to be my sex slave.. Actually, he calls it my "ero-genius" zone. Still seduces me that way, touching my neck. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then cast a glance at her. She's looking at me again. The artist. I swear she can see my nipples trying to betray me through my lacy bra, through my red blouse. The washable silk my husband bought because he loves to touch me through it. I resist the temptation to cover my breasts with my hands or by crossing my arms over them, as I have to do all day at work.. Yeah, that’s my question.”“You’ll get a lot of input actually. You have your own life and a job that you’re wonderful at and enjoy. I wouldn’t take that from you. By slavery, I suppose I should say more accurately you would be a submissive that occasionally indulges my fancies of having you serve me like a maid.” He kissed the back of my head, gently, and I realized that his gentleness left me somewhat breathless. It wasn’t like other people’s gentleness because it was hard to earn it and he.