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I closed my eyes, letting my mind drift. Recalling images of the previous morning. In my mind I saw her with her nametag, vigilantly boasting of her two years of valued service and loyalty to her boss. She smiled, and her eyes shone. Poor Lydia. Poor sweet Lydia with her nametag and pot of coffee. I prayed she was all right. An exercise in futility, I’m sure. But I hated to think otherwise. I attempted to imagine the explosion. I envisioned the little diner, peaceful and serene one moment, a raging inferno the next. A white-hot ball of fire engulfing everything in its reach. I saw the smoldering ashes and smelled cordite. I watched as officers on the scene removed the remains of what was once an expensive briefcase. The same briefcase that Glen “forgot” beneath our table. I glimpsed the weeping families of the victims, and I wanted to apologize. To say I was sorry, I was just doing my job. And I saw a melted gold plastic nametag. Lydia, it said, two years of service. My mind reeled.. We watched a film together on the sofa, she was at one end with her feet up towards me and I was at the other end, leaning over with my head at her knees and my feet on the ground. She had been texting Martin all night long about work matters and I jokingly asked if they were flirting, she said no and I said I’ll get you a glass of wine then. I knew then that I would have said the same if she had said yes. When the film ended, I felt inside her thighs with my hand and worked my fingers up and back down the other inner thigh and back again, stopping to rub her clit with my thumb on the way across. As my thumb rubbed hert, I noticed her pants go really dark and wet. I went to lick her out, but she said no, just fuck me. I moved up, pushed her pants aside and gently inserted a finger. Her vagina juices were so hot and warm and silky that I was taken aback. I’d never seen her that turned on in years, I took my finger out and teased her lips with the head of my cock moving it up and down.
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