Daciana smoothed her skirts and tucked her hair under a simple starched cap. She shouldered the basket and went up to the dark house. She had to knock...four times before someone answered, and then she was greeted by the barrel of a pistol pushed through a narrow crack in the door. “Who is it?” said a voice.Daciana smiled. “A friend.”“A friend to whom?”She smiled again and sang, very lightly:“Il pleut, il pleut, bergère,rentre tes blancs moutons.”It was Fabre's famous composition. The pistol. Her butt hurt very bad still, but she could feel her vagina getting very wet and her clit was throbbing fast begging to be touched.Greg savored the feel of her tiny body begging as a woman would to be touched. He could feel her trembling, her desire growing quickly into a demanding need. He could feel his own body tense with a need of its own, but wanted to take his time. He didn't know if he would ever have a moment like this again.He traced the length of her leg down to her ankle and slowly. More

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