Mrs Spencer was running late.

It had been a long day of evaluating hopeful dancers at the Parson’s Arts Academy where she had interviewed thirty-five students, looking for the best of the best, for her studio in Virginia. Only six dancers would be chosen for an intense year of tutelage in her master class.

And for an up and coming dancer, having Mrs Spencer’s name on your card guaranteed a spot in a Broadway production and the beginning of a very successful career.

Mrs Spencer checked her watch. It was after ten and the parking lot was dank and foreboding so she hurried along, her heels clicking on the damp pavement. The dark van was parked just off to her right but what caused her to hesitate and reach into her purse was the wide-open side door.

With no one standing by the van’s door or sitting in the driver’s seat, Mrs Spencer immediately sensed trouble and placed her fingers on the Alarm Transmitter in the unique pocket stitched inside her handbag. She pressed the button.

The Safe House was a block away and she knew the response by the Secret Service Detail would be just moments in arriving.

“Gotcha,” the man’s voice came from behind and she was pushed toward the open van. “Don’t make a fuss Missus Spencer or you won’t live to see morning.”

The guy was formidable. He easily propelled her forward, an arm wrapped around her neck. “Hey, she’s kinda nice.” And Mrs Spencer, taking halting steps, felt his opposite hand close about her left breast.

“Don’t,” Mrs Spencer managed as he squeezed and lifted. He sought out her nipple and tugged before sliding his hand down across the swell of her abdomen and digging fingers between her legs.

“Christ. Enough of the juvenile schoolyard antics,” it was a woman’s voice, “just give her the shot and get her into the van. Let’s get back to the club.”

“No.” Mrs Spencer tried to twist away. But he held her firmly with one arm and she felt him fumble in a pocket, then the prick at the side of her neck just below the jaw. A moment later she was sagging into his arms.

His hands were on her breasts again. She was being lifted. Her skirt was thrust aside and a hand was in the apex of her thighs, squeezing the mound. A woman was shouting. And then the big black SUV bounced across the sidewalk, crashed through the fence and screeched to a stop. Darkness closed in from the corners and Mrs Spencer felt herself falling.

Mrs Spencer, propped on pillows, was distracted from her copy of Dance America by a movement in the doorway of her hospital room. She looked up and bubbled with delight. “Taz. Oh my god. So this is what it takes ... a trip to the hospital to get a response outta you?”

Tzivia Azaria shrugged, pushed off the door frame and stepped toward the bed. “I came as soon as I got the call from Spenser. Here. For you.” And she held out a fistful of daises that looked to have been plucked from the flowerbed out front.

Mrs Spencer looked skeptical. “Stick ‘em in the water pitcher. Before they drop petals all over the damned place. So Spencer called you?”

Taz stuffed the flowers into water. “Yes. I was in Vermont.”

“So I can assume this is business. Not pleasure.”

Confusion puzzled Taz but she brushed it aside. “How are you feeling?”

“As bored as hell. And certainly well enough to talk to you.”

Taz eyed the guest chair but didn’t sit. “What do you remember?”

“Not much. It was dark and it happened so quickly. I noticed the open van. Figured it spelled trouble and set off the alarm. There was a woman, Taz– a man and a woman.”

“Just the two?”

“I can’t be sure but I think so. Yes.”

“Description ... White? Black? Distinguishing marks or scares? Accents?”

“White. The woman talked bluntly, sounding maybe East European. The man was from here; New York. And like I said, it was dark.”

“What was the relationship? Did you get a sense they were a couple, or working as a team?”

Mrs Spencer closed her eyes briefly, trying to relive the moment through a drug-induced haze. “The woman was in charge. I remember her tone of voice. She was strict. Giving orders. She was incensed when the guy wasted time– to feel me up.”

Taz looked, her gaze narrow. “You were sexually assaulted?”

“He grabbed me about the breasts. And he got my skirt up.”

“Could it have been a random attack? You are attractive ... tall ... a blonde. Could they have picked you out? Decided to hold you in the van. Sexually abuse you then dump you somewhere?”

“He called me Missus Spencer.”

Taz finally sank into the guest chair. “Damn. So they knew going in that you are the wife of the Director of CIA Operations. And that by abducting you it would give them undue influence over Spencer.”

“I guess. And they got away?”

Taz nodded. “You had the misfortune of being dumped right in front of the Secret Service vehicle. The agents had to get out and move you to one side before they could attempt to apprehend the van. It took time and the perpetrators had an escape route mapped out.”

“Plates?” Mrs Spencer asked.

“Yes. They were reported missing six months ago by a woman living in Durum. We are assuming the van was stolen as well. It’s beginning to sound like a professional heist.”

“So if the guy hadn’t stopped to cop a feel, things might have ended differently. They would have taken me to their club.”

“Club?”

“Yeah. The woman was pissed that the guy was taking time to fuck with me. Just before I passed out, I heard the woman say she wanted to get back to the club.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“Don’t think so. If you can avoid telling Spencer I was man-handled, I’d appreciate it.”

Taz nodded and got to her feet. “I will protect your privacy as best I can. I do not see a reason for Spencer to know.”

Mrs Spencer leaned forward and gave Taz a coy smile. “And what about you, Taz? How does knowing a stranger put his hands on me– invaded my private spaces, make you feel?”

“Me?”

“There was a time, Taz, in Europe when you kissed me. I can’t remember what city, but you forced me into your hotel bed.”

Taz turned to go. “Brussels ... it was in Brussels.”

“Ah, Brussels. Where I learned how, from a woman. Did you ever mention it to Spencer? I mean while you were together with him ... in my bed?”

Taz exhaled slowly. “Spencer had more important things on his mind.”

“Ah yes. Fucking my Tour Co-coordinator. That would tend to focus one’s attention, I’m sure...” Mrs Spencer dropped back on her pillows.

Taz glanced away. She wasn’t proud of the fact but she owed her life to Spencer and allowing him access to her body had seemed, at the time, a reasonable trade.

“And one last thing,” Mrs Spencer broke into her thoughts, “ ... the guy smelled of stale beer and cigarette smoke.

“What?”

“The guy who finger-fucked me. He reeked of stale beer but I didn’t detect any of it on his breath when he stuck his tongue into my mouth.”

Taz walked into Tommy’s cubical at the Fourteenth Precinct and stared, bug-eyed. She saw lavender blue paint.

“Taz, you scrawny bird.” Tomasina Vencenzi looked up from the guest chair where she had her old ThinkPad balanced on a knee. “I heard you were living in some tar-paper shack on the side of a god-damned mountain. Vermont wasn’t it?”

“Love your paint ... and yes, Vermont. But I got a case. So now I am here. Why are you not behind your desk?”

“We’ve got a girlie-girl working here now,” Tommy sneered. “And that’s not a desk. It’s a giant boomerang and the chair is made of some sort of metal mesh and you’re supposed to bend your feet around underneath, up off the floor. The computer has a flat screen and the keyboard is in two halves, each pointed in a different direction. At least the guest chair is an actual piece of fuckin’ furniture.”

“You need to water your tulips.”

“You kidding me? If I put water in they might live. Sheesh.”

“Yes ... well...”

“Have you seen Sharon yet?”

“No. She will just want to hug me.”

Tommy chuckled. “Yeah, our Sharon’s a bit of a gusher. Hey. How ‘bout we go across to Bandits for a beer?”

Taz shook her head.

“I guess coffee’s out too...”

“Tastes like dirt.”

“Yeah but a shot of rum helps.” Taz shook her head. “Well then,” Tommy continued, “they got bottled water in the cafeteria. And I’m buying.”

“Deal.”

Down on the first level they found a window seat overlooking West 30^th and sat opposite each other across the chipped arborite. Tommy sipped from a mug of murky, industrial-strength, Nescafé. “So you got a reason to drop by the Fourteenth and see your old buddies?”

Taz twisted the cap off the water. “Yes. You still make the rounds of the local strip joints?”

“Yeah. I guess I’m the designated vice squad around here. I keep an eye on the less savory titty bars, massage joints, cat houses. Christ, I know every hooker in Midtown South by their real name. Why? You lookin’ for a girl?”

“Uh-uh. I need to know if there is a place called The Club?”

“Nope. But I know exactly the place you mean. It’s actually called the Kat & Mouse. But locally, everyone just refers to it as The Club.”

“And it is a strip joint...”

Tommy took a small bottle of rum from her pocket and swirled an ounce into her brew. “No. Far from it. It is a club. A private club and from what I understand, you need an upper six-figure income before even thinking about seeking a sponsorship. Very exclusive. The girls are called Kittens.”

“And you have been?”

“Seen it from the outside. But they’ve got a strict policy of Members Only. We looked into it a few years back but the investigation was shutdown. I guess too many politicians and big-time CEO’s belong and when they found out what we were up to, they freaked.

“So nothing came of it?”

“I can tell you this much. It’s owned and run by a Belgium and his American wife. The reason for the investigation was sex trafficking. At the time, we had it on good authority they were bringing in Kittens from Europe with the promise of green cards, but on the condition the girls work at the Kat & Mouse for a year. It’s an old story– fuck, and you too can become an American.”

“And that is as far as it went?”

“Afraid so. We were going to step on many sensitive toes if we proceeded.”

Taz thought a moment. “And you never tried to get on the inside.”

“Nope. I’m too well known in the Precinct. They would have spotted me hulking around a block away. So this is CIA business?”

“Mmm. There was an abduction attempt. The wife of one of our highest echelon, but she managed to escape. It was a well orchestrated operation and I sense a foreign influence.”

“Huh. Sounds like a choice assignment. Better than the crap I get handed.”

“So nothing interesting?”

“I got a 9-1-1 this morning. Dock worker spotted an oily slick and bubbles still streaming up from the bottom. Divers went down and found a van on its side.”

“A van...”

“Yeah. With bodies inside. So I’ve called in Frank Reed. The Pathologist. You remember Frank ... He’s the one with a tar-paper shack on the side of a mountain. In Vermont, if I remember right.”

Taz looked up. Flushed hot, then cold.

Tommy turned to look out the window. “Christ. He’s old enough to be your grandfather, Taz. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“He is nice to me.”

“Yeah. I’m sure. Look dammit, I like Frank ... and I like you, Taz. But it’s hard for me to get my head around the image of you two exchanging bodily fluids.”

“We are not exactly in bed together.”

“You are sharing a one-room shack. And you’re not sleeping with Frank?”

Taz ran a hand across a moist forehead. “I was taking my bath, in the stream, like every morning. And he came down to fish. He saw me without my clothes on.”

“He caught you swimming ... naked...”

“Yes. And well, he liked it. And I kinda liked it too. So now, to please him, I let him see. He never touches me. Just watches me move about the cabin. And it makes me feel all queer inside, to know his eyes are on me. Is that so bad?”

Tommy exhaled noisily. “Christ. I don’t know. You’re both adults.”

“Okay.” Taz moved on from Tommy’s concerns. “This van. I want to know more about the van.”

“Van? Oh yes ... It went into the East River sometime in the early hours, before sunup. It’s on its side in twenty feet of water. I’m waiting on a crane operator to bring it up before I go for a look. The divers tell me they spotted two occupants through the glass, a man and a woman, both very deceased. In an effort to ID the couple, the divers called in with the van’s tag number but the plates were reported missing six months ago by a woman living in Durum. I’m assuming the van is stolen as well.”

Taz sat motionless, her bottle of water halfway to her lips.

Feeling the void, Tommy looked up. “What?”

Taz cleared her throat. “I think we are working on the same case.”

“I want you to make me beautiful.” Taz stood at the front door of Ricky Valentine’s studio on the upper floor of a modest walk-up in the East Village.

“Sugar,” Ricky’s face lit up, “it’s only been about a couple of years. You’ve finally gotten around to picking up your bust?”

“I thought you would need the time to finish.”

“Ha. She’s finished, mounted, on display and she’s mine. Too late. I’m in love and you can’t have her.”

Ricky led Taz into his artist’s studio. It was an open space, a loft and the old brick walls had been sandblasted and were covered with performance posters and press photographs of many of the Broadway stars that Ricky had transformed from likable characters into ghouls, villains and freaks.

Taz turned to Ricky and was not surprised to see he was studying her face, a line of intensity creeping across his forehead. He had a way of making Taz feel like an empty canvas, awaiting his brushes and paints.

She knew he had once transformed a woman into a mermaid, complete with bubbling gill slits and made the whole thing work underwater. After that, his success grew and his makeup artistry was much sought-after by New York directors and producers alike.

Ricky was in his mid-thirty’s now but hadn’t lost the casual, straw-chewing, country-look that she remembered. The blond kid-next-door quality must have broken girlish hearts all across the City when his romantic pursuers found he was gay.

“Would you like to see her?” Ricky asked.

“Who?”

Ricky laughed. “You, Sugar. Your bust from two years ago. I had it packed up, ready to go, but you never came to pick it up. So I kept her for myself.”

“Oh. I guess. How did I turn out?”

“Come look.”

Ricky took Taz into a corner alcove and pressed a switch mounted on the wall. A soft glow filled the room, emanating from within a likeness of a revolving woman’s torso.

Taz stared, mystified. “She is me. In white glass.”

“Porcelain, Sugar. It’s a translucent porcelain that I had made especially for the casting. The light is mounted in the base, shining up through. Like it?”

Taz took a step closer. “Yes ... of course. I am a little overwhelmed, actually.” Taz was looking at a glowing, exact likeness of her own nude body, slowly turning. Her eyes were angry, the hair wild and fervid, her slim shoulders supported two fine, upturn breasts and her torso narrowed, then tapered into the cone of her sex.

“I’m quite proud of her,” Ricky added. “Everyone who sees her is quite taken. I’ve had a lot of offers.”

Taz flushed. “You show her ... show me ... to other people?”

Ricky grinned when he saw the implications flash in her eyes. “Sure,” he chuckled, “every chance I get.” He flipped off the switch and taking her by the hand, led the way back into the studio.

“Now what’s this about wanting to be beautiful? You saw the porcelain. You are beautiful.” And he took her chin in his hand and plucked away the string that held her hair, tousled her, and swept the bangs from her eyes.

“So much character,” he exhaled under his breath and turned her face up toward the skylight. His fingers ghosted down to stroke her cheek and a static charge seemed to burnish her skin and it sent a tingling sensation crackling along her spine. “You have amazing eyes, the color I mean.”

“I never much notice.”

“That’s because you don’t bother with makeup. You don’t stare at your face each morning as you struggle with massacre and eyebrow pencil.” He was still touching, like his fingertips were the receptors he employed to invade her soul, gathering and getting to know all of her intimacies. Her nipples twisted.

“I do not need character,” Taz replied. “I need men to want me.”

His other hand came up to join the one cupping her face, thumbs insistent, caressing, exploring like the sightless do. “You want a man? But Sugar, you are a gay woman...”

A gay woman? Taz had never thought of herself as a gay woman, or any kind of woman. She had been trained from an early age to do one thing. And do it well. That was to kill. Without pity or remorse ... seek out the enemy and exterminate.

Taz blew unruly hair from her eyes. “Never mind that. I need you to fix me up, like before.”

Ricky stood back. “Hair? Makeup?”

“What ever it takes.”

“Who’s the guy?” Ricky asked, leading her to a reclining chair. “We’ll start by brushing your hair out and getting rid of those frightful bangs. Sit.”

“I do not know yet.”

“You don’t know the guy? Mmm ... okay-y...” Ricky was turning her head from side to side as if looking for a plausible entry point. He fussed a bit, pulling this way and that, lifting handfuls of hair and pushing the unruly fringe back to study her face.

He combed her bangs down and started working out tangles. The stroke of the comb, the feel of it grazing her scalp, was mesmerizing.

Ricky stepped behind, the comb still gliding. Taz luxuriated in the closeness. She was dully aware that Ricky’s hand had slipped to the flush of her throat, his thumb stroking the softness, and she found herself drifting behind closed eyes.

The comb faltered and Ricky exhaled close by her ear as he followed a collar bone to the notch of her throat. Taz seized a breath as she wondered what she would do if his hand dropped lower. She was aware of the yawing emptiness opening up inside and she fought the turmoil. The quiver that compressed the back of her neck caused her chin to rise. The pressure abruptly lifted and the comb was moving again. But the invitation had been delivered.

When Ricky stepped ‘round to the counter, her nipples were aching-hard, forcing the front of her shirt. Ricky picked up scissors. “Let me see what I can do,” he murmured. “Sit still now.”

There was the gentle stroke of the comb against her forehead. And the penetrating snip of the scissors. Stroking and snipping.

Taz surrendered herself to the sound and the sensations– the tingling along her spine and the slackness in her loins. She never wanted those feelings to end ... not ever.

He shifted behind and start trimming the back; the comb lightly tugging, followed by the satisfying crisp sound of the cut.

Ricky worked his way along, slowly and methodically, and finally straightened. The combing continued but he was using his fingers now, firm and shamelessly forthright, massaging– following the contours of her skull, the arch of her neck, her shoulders...

“I’ll use an airbrush to apply foundation. I would be best if you could remove your shirt.”

“But I’m not wearing underthings.”

“Well, if you don’t mind the laundry...”

Taz looked up. Her upper lip twitched. “I hate laundry.”

Ricky nodded and pursed his lips. “Let me help you, then.” And running his fingers inside the front of her shirt, he twisted buttons.

Taz opened her shirt to him. She didn’t know why, except that she wanted to. She had never willingly undressed for a man in her life. So why now, with this gay man? A man who had once opened her vagina and had made a lasting impression of it.

Taz pulled her shirt back and dropped the denim from her shoulders.

“Ahh, look ... You have the most amazing breasts,” he breathed, his eyes lowered.

“Are they big enough?” Taz asked. “For the rest of me?”

“You’re a C?”

Taz shook her head. “B+”

“Yes ... it’s not the size but the shape. The swoop and lift.”

“The what?”

Ricky moved behind, reached for Taz– reached around and fit the curve of her spine into his chest and pulled her back until her head was cradled into his shoulder. “You’re so full here...” and a hand lifted to heft the weight of her right breast, “but dished here.” His opposite hand came up and with a finger, he traced the upper, concave slope of her left breast, his fingertip coming to rest on the nosey, upturned nipple.

Her knees tuned to jello and Taz leaned heavily into his arms. “How come the best sex I have ever had was with a gay man?”

“Me?”

“Mmm...”

“Well I’m flattered, all to hell. But it wasn’t me, Taz. It was the situation. Remember? You were laying there, naked in the chair, covered in plaster. And if you moved, you’d have ruined the mold. And, well, I had twenty-five minutes to kill before the plaster dried...”

Taz cut him off. “You bugger...” she twisted her way out of his arms and turned on him. “so to pass the time, you shoved my knees open and fucked me.” Taz glared. “And I could not do a damned thing about it.”

Ricky’s face split into a wide grin. “I don’t remember you struggling.”

“I was soaking, covered in fuckin’ wet goop.”

Ricky broke out into a laugh. Taz gawked, but couldn’t help herself. A moment later, like an ass, she was grinning back at him. “It was the best sex, ever.”

Ricky took her by the arm and steered her into the chair. “C’mon. I got paying customers waitSing.”

Ricky filled a pencil-like appliance from a bottle. “I’m going to apply foundation. Close your eyes.” There was the quiet hum of an electric motor and Taz felt a cool spray on her cheeks and neck. “God, your skin is so dry.”

“I was born in a desert. Everything is dry.”

“Well from now on, we apply moisturizer every night, before bedtime. Understand?”

The soft, sweeping strokes of the mist Ricky applied to her cheeks left Taz feeling spacey and she floated as he lightly powdered her with a soft puff.

Ricky blended concealer into the corners of her eyes and around the bridge of her nose, then once again, taking Taz by the chin, Ricky used a delicate sweep to brush blush downward from her ears to her jaw. It was like the passage of feathery wings and left Taz feeling a little delirious.

Ricky spent the rest of the time on her eyes.

“What color will you be wearing?”

“Emerald-green spandex.”

“Mmm ... sounds hot.” And he held Taz by the chin, lightly stroking her eyelids with shadowy green glimmer.

“Lovely,” Ricky sighed to himself as he pressed a pencil to an eyebrow. He added mascara and finished by shaping and filling Taz’s lips with color. “Okay, wanna see?”

Taz hardly recognized the woman who stared back from the glass. Her eyes were huge, all dreamy in dark shadows. Her face seemed more sculptured with hollows below raised cheekbones. And her glistening lips were lush and full. Her bangs were swept back giving her an air of sophistication. Maybe even superiority. A cold sort of beauty, scary and unapproachable.

“Damn,” she said. “That will make an impression.”

“I’m sure,” Ricky held her shirt for her. He took a last look at her breasts as she buttoned up. “I’d love to make another casting, sometime. If you will allow me.”

“Another one?” Taz turned toward his door. “Whatever for?”

Ricky shrugged. “I’m just imagining you down on all fours. Your breasts swaying, hanging like bells.”

“And my ass in the air?” Taz asked. She reached and patted him on the cheek. “You just keep on imagining things, my love. I know you gay guys have a thing for back-doors.”

She was just moving into the hallway when Ricky called out to her. “Here,” he said and tossed a bottle across.

Taz snatched it out of the air. “What is it?”

“Moisturizer,” he shot back.

“Humph...”

The woman looked up from the reception counter. “My gosh. Have the Academy Awards come to town?”

Taz stood, bound in an emerald-green, spandex bodysuit and eyed the woman without smiling. She shifted her weight on five-inch heels.

“I’m Mrs Peal,” the woman slipped from behind the counter, and while Taz had some moves, she realized this woman could out-slither all of them, “and I own the Kat & Mouse,” the woman continued. “Are you meeting someone this evening?”

Mrs Peal wore a midnight black, floor length gown with a neckline that nosedived between generous, unhaltered breasts. The dress was as black as her hair and thick nipples distorted the lay of the thin fabric.

Taz dropped her chin and shook her head.

The woman tiched. “I’m afraid you’ve wandered into a private club, my love– members only.”

Taz kept her eyes on the carpet. “I h-heard you might be hiring.”

“Ah-h...” Mrs Peal moved closer and cocked her head to look, “not really. But we’re always on the prowl for ... shall I say ... unusual girls. Girls of good breeding who might be of interest to our members. Are you a girl ... who likes to be breed?”

“Maybe I should go...” Taz retraced a step.

“Some of our girls make a thousand a night.” Taz sensed a shift in the conversation and finally met the woman’s gaze with unwavering eyes. “You have a name?” Mrs Peal asked.

“Tzivia.”

“Hum-m. Tz-ivia...” She tasted the syllables on her tongue before letting them hang heavy in the air between them. “A name as exotic as the girl who shuns her undergarments.”

Taz half turned away. “I have gone too far...”

“No. Not at all. You have a very slick body. Your breasts are quite proud and your vag looks like two halves of a crescent roll. I admire your chutzpah. Not many girls could pull it off– wear an outfit like that and come into a gentleman’s club like this with their chin up and all the while, keeping their composure. So you want to work for us?”

“I was hoping...”

“The final decision will rest with my business partner and husband, Mr Peal. But first you have to prove to me that you are not a police officer.”

Taz’s head came up so fast, her vision jumbled. “Police?”

“Yes. We had some anxious moments a couple of years back,” Mrs Peal said dismissively. “This big, aggressive lady-cop took it upon herself to investigate us. A personal vendetta that failed. A few phone calls to the right people put her in her place. But we’ve been extra careful ever since. You understand my position, don’t you?”

“I am not a cop.”

“Well, I’m sure ... but even so...”

Mrs Peal returned to her counter and picked up the phone. “Riley. Please come ‘round to the front desk.”

Mrs Peal dropped the phone into the receiver and turned. “It’s a bit of a test. I’m going to ask you to do something no regular female police officer would stand for.”

The was a movement behind and a young woman stepped into the reception area. “Yes, Mrs Peal?”

Riley was a shocking redhead whose voice held a trace of Irish brogue. She was a leggy, porcelain skinned creature who stood, shifting her weight from one high-heel to the other, hips swaying and her skinny thighs brushing together like an expectant lover’s.

She reached to kiss Mrs Peal on the cheek then turned to Taz. Riley’s satin blouse was unbuttoned to the waist and her slender hips were bound in a narrow band of sequenced fabric that exposed lean narrow muscle below and was so short, it was next to impossible for Riley to move without exposing the Vee of her pretty lace panties.

“This is Tzivia,” Mrs Peal pointed with her chin.

“Taz, if it is easier.”

Riley looked up. “Taz ... I’m delighted. The men like tall women.” She had guessed the reason for Taz, wearing a slick bodysuit, to be standing in the Club’s reception area. “Just stay away from my customers, okay?”

Taz nodded.

Mrs Peal stepped in. “There’s just the question as to whether or not Taz is working undercover. You understand dear?”

Riley nodded. “Yes. Of course, Mrs Peal. Here?” she asked.

“If you wouldn’t mind. Slip behind the counter in case someone comes in.”

Taz swallowed hard as she watched Riley skinny her little dress up about her waist. She placed a thumb beneath the elastic below each hip and dragged the scrap of white lace down slim legs and off over her heels. She balled her panties into her left hand and, slipping behind the counter, got comfortable on Mrs Peal’s stool.