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I imagined that they were a kind of secret lesbian group.I imagined that I'd go round on Saturday afternoon when they were meeting and offer to waitress for her again like I needed some pocket money and she'd ask me what I was prepared to do, and I'd say whatever she wanted. But I'd be in t-shirt and jeans, not in waitress gear, and she'd be all strict and say she couldn't have a waitress in jeans, this is in front of all the ladies.So in front of them all, I'd have to take my jeans off, and I'd enjoy it; the attention, the wrongness, the embarrassment, and they’d all be able to tell because they were experienced women.I’d have to serve them tea in just my t-shirt and underwear; no outdoor shoes on Brenda’s carpet. I’d find this very exciting, and they’d know, and Brenda would ask me why I'm breathing so fast, and I'd be embarrassed. But I’d find that I liked even that, too.The other ladies would start commenting, talking about me, saying, "She's enjoying not wearing any jeans," and,. They laid her down on the floor, on her belly. Her back and thighs, shredded by the cat, looked like hamburger in stark contrast to her, white and untouched, voluptuous white ass. Jane lightly touched her upper back with the tip of her finger; even that lightest touch elicited a moan of pain from the prostrate girl. Brett returned pushing a small cot on wheels. It resembled a stretcher, of the kind you might find in a public clinic, in one of our inner cities. Its surface was lightly padded and it had, as its only modification, at the head and foot, leather wrist and ankle restraints. Between Brett, Olga and Jane, they lifted the inert and barely conscious girl on to the cot. Brett pulled out a white bottle from the cabinet that was under the cot and poured some of the liquid on Lynette's lacerated back.The effect was instantaneous. With a bloodcurdling scream, Lynette jumped off the bed, her eyes wide open, and ran around the stage. She caught sight of me, and began to run in my.
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