She had been but the last of many such women who paid for his attention with the insurance premiums of hard-working husbands. Paid-for passion, that's...what he offered. The envied escort, a charming companion, a sympathetic ear in the night... the night, the dreaded darkness when he paid for the daylight luxuries with whispered lies, reluctant hands upon dissipated bodies, and the drugs which whipped his rebellious penis into shape for the plunge into the soft soggy depths of their ancient. The gun metal full skirt that spread around her thighs on the seat. The pale blue silk blouse, open slightly more than it would have been when she was at work. The barely black stockings that she knew were held up with suspenders and above them the thin silk thong that cupped her treasure and disappeared between her buttocks. She could just see the lace edge of her white blouse. Her shoes, strappy and expensive, lay abandoned on the rich carpet. She had watched her dress this morning and knew. ”“Please Mistress Jamie, Please FUCK ME. Please fuck my ass with your COCK, MISTRESS JAMIE! I’m your bitch. I’m your greedy hungry little cocksucking whore, Mistress Jamie. PLEASE!” He was not acting. He was not ‘obeying’ his Mistress’ commands. Mark wanted her to fuck him so bad now. She knew that too. She knew he wasn’t performing for her. She had been knowing he was a bitch who needed to serve her, a bitch who needed to be fucked by her. She was reveling in his realization of it. She was. Well, he was right, many of the new troops had internet buddies back aboard the ships, and they gave their friends a glowing report on what we were trying to do and invited them to join us. Two days later a CH-46 Sea Knight ("Phrog") landed in the parade ground with the entire complement of maintenance men and their portable tools from the helicopter carrier lying offshore. Now, all we needed were spare parts, but the word was that we should relax, that would be taken care of shortly.It was.
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