She occupied a small sofa, a little apart, a ruddy-complexioned gentleman some years her senior beside her, and glanced about with an air of considerable unease. And she did not merely affect to be driven—she felt driven. But one must disguise oneself. “Dear John,” she whispered. She moaned as his hands explored her body, fingers crushing against her panties under her skirt. While he was thus employed, his nerves underwent a severe shock. There was a loose button on that coat, and I want to sew it on. She did not resist him, she could not. “Please go and see that—nothing happens,” she pleaded.
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