My crotch was about face height with her and she appeared to survey the hard, uncomfortable protrusion in my jeans with some satisfaction. “I suppos... I was” she said in a faraway voice, “it was right at the end of the eighties. I was, shall we say, being kept in an apartment, close to Bordeaux. I was involved with an American heir. He was rich, arrogant, crazy. But I would do anything for him… and did. I was one of a handful of whores he kept stowed around places he frequented and I was keen to. Some of the guests were dancing in bare feet on the fluffy white carpet to the slow music from the corner and he suspected it was just an excuse to "get the lay of the land" with the spouses of other men. Everyone seemed to be having a happy experience and he tried to lose his unseemly attitude of pending doom. Two servants brought forward a silly device that looked much like the antique "stocks" found in museums and tourist centers for castles and long-closed jails. It was modernistic with. More

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