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My tongue taste of iron, my lungs ache and my head is bursting with purpose. This is it, two inches of fir and paint between me and my saving grace. Or my desperate hope that she will be. A shaking hand fumbles with the key, a shaking head tries to blow the hurricane out of my coordination centre, a shaking fist finally gives up and hammers on the thin doorframe. Movement, thumping sounds and a lock that rattles. She is there, her face now not a seductive wink, but a worried fluster, her frame no less wonderful, standing in the doorway with a speech halfway up her throat when she stops. The city, the cardboard tourists, the old bricks and new inhabitants, all fade away into nothingness. She is my key, I know that now, my guide back to a safe foothold. The look on her face… A frown? A smile? Somewhere in between? She wears every nuance of her heart on the outside. A joyful loving laughter back on the balcony, and endless care and concern in the doorway. Yes, that fragment fits the. He walked slowly around me several times, observing the pose he put me in and looking at his model. Then he slowly approached me from the front and with his brush, started running the bristles up my leg. The feeling of the sable hair bristles as it smoothly touch my inner thigh almost made me faint right away. I gulped out loud and stiffened up to meet the sensation of it all. I had that funny feeling come back to my private area. He removed the brush from my leg and laid it on the other one. He smoothly brushed from the knee backward toward my crotch as I shivered slightly. He stopped just inches away from making contact with it and then removed it once again. He then ran it over my arm that was next to my crotch, being careful to make contact with only my arm. He proceeded on to the other arm and touched the bristles onto my skin. He never said a word but just slowly brushed the skin in my sensitive areas. Stand up and remove the dress, he barked. What was that he said, take off.
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