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”“Until we leave here, or I say otherwise, the place you now stand is front and center. Stand there facing me, do not look behind you, and remove your clothes.”“Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.”There was fire in ... Sex Slave’s eyes and bits and pieces of what would have been a grin if she were not obviously clamping down on her expression. She slipped off her sandals, dropped her skirt down her legs, stepped out of the skirt, then removed her top. Her nipples were as large as I’ve ever seen them, probably due to the combination of excitement and the chill created by the rain. She stood in front of Dad, her back and ass toward the road.“Help me move the pad, Sex Slave.”“Oh, yes, Master.”The two of them gathered the unwieldy “pad” and he led her back to the table at which we were sitting. They coordinated in opening and laying it on the tabletop. I began getting very turned on. I didn’t know what was going to happen, except that I knew there would be sex here in our pavilion in the. And that was sad, because every day I grew more and more in love with her. Her music was complicated, marvelously mathematical and precise, but edgy and unpredictable at the same time, much like she was. I wrote lyrics to many of her old pieces, and it was the best stuff I’d ever done. I was in awe of her talent as a composer, and as a performer. Her voice and stage persona were electrifying. And beyond all that, she was a smart conversationalist, and could give an opinion on any subject. She was brash and shy, smart about the world and dumb about herself, she was a concert of contradictions. Pure jazz. My Jazzy Girl. And for four vibrant (though passionless) days we were inseparable. Then Bonnie called. Bonnie! Whom I had wildly fucked that first night I met Julie. Bonnie, who also craved public sex. Whose body was a river of erotic wetness. Funny, crazy, lovely Bonnie! I thought I’d never hear from her again. Not after what I did to her sweet little bottom, in her apartment, with.
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