I whispered “Good girl” into her pussy as I gently licked up every drop. I focused in on her clit and with only a few strokes of my tongue she was...gushing cum and screaming into one of the couch pillows. I took my finger and pushed it against her opening.She grabbed my hand and pushed it away. “NO I want your cock to be the first thing in there”.I stood up, she sat forward and grabbed my pjs pulling them to my ankles. She looked up at me with her eyes glossed over. She wrapped her tiny hand. The question came back to haunt her all through the morning, and she wondered distantly whether something was wrong. This was her job, her life. She came to work at five-thirty in the morning, waited tables, collected her tips, and went home to her tiny apartment at two-thirty in the afternoon. There she showered, changed clothes and watched television until it was time to go to bed.On Tuesdays, she washed her clothes, shopped for a few groceries and other necessities of life, and watched. She addressed Dr. Seymour again."I know he's trying to keep things ... calm ... after what happened. I know I was the one who messed up, I just haven't been able to explain..."Tears were flowing again now, but Dr. Seymour was not watching the wife. Surreptitiously, while taking notes, she was watching the husband.He's playing the strong, silent type, but his body language gives him away. There's a lot of emotion underneath that exterior. He doesn't like to see her suffering, but he's suffering. Villefort did not need the help of either Valentine or the domestic in order to carry on with his father the strange conversation which he was about to begin. As we have said, he perfectly understood the old man's vocabulary, and if he did not use it more often, it was only indifference and ennui which prevented him from so doing. He therefore allowed Valentine to go into the garden, sent away Barrois, and after having seated himself at his father's right hand, while Madame de Villefort placed.