She's there, of course.She tells you how proud she is of you, how luscious you look to her,and how she'd like to eat you, right then and there. But ...f course shedoesn't. She couldn't in front of all these people. Could she? Youwonder if you'd let her if she demanded it. She pushes you into a corner where no one can see, worksher hand down the front of your slacks, and slides her middle fingerinto your sopping pussy. You want her to keep it there, to take youin her arms and masturbate you. Anyway, there was a long shot, getting all the bruises. Then there were detail shots from ankle to ankle. That scene was three nights ago and you can still count the stripes.Tuesday, I said that Mistress Cynthia did not draw blood, but that wasn't quite true. I should have said the skin never parted. Some of the welts had oozed blood through the skin, particularly behind the knee. You couldn't see much around the pussy. It was the lighting I think. Pity. All you could see was the stripe up to. "There’s not really anything to talk about," she muttered."What?" I asked gently."The whole thing is stupid," she answered. "I see a hot guy and my insides get all mushy and I just want to touch him. I don't even know why I get all hot and bothered when the whole thing is so disgusting anyways." Disgusting?" I asked. I would like to point out that it was really late and I had just woken up."Maybe not for guys," she groused, "but, yeah, you know, disgusting." Uh," I answered. After a moment, I. Rummaging through her pitiful excuse for a handbag for her flat key, she noticed a large amount of broken glass on the step in front of her. Thinking nothing of it ("the alchies always break their bottles around here") she pulled her key from her bag and slid it into the lock.The stiff lock took some effort to unlock, but soon budged, easing the door open and revealing the depressingly dark stairway beyond. Up another flight of stairs to reach her destination. Sighing heavily, she headed up the.