He said, “Now stand up.” I stood up still covering my private parts. And then he said, “turn around and lean over the table then reach back and ...pread your cheeks.”I said, “You have got to be k**ding. This is stupid. I don’t have to put up with this.”He said, “You’re right Mr. T. We can just let the police handle it all. Go ahead and get dressed since you are not going to cooperate.”I almost asked the bastard if he was enjoying this but I figured I better not anger him. I turned towards the. A gas fire, with a soft white rug laid in front of it. A bookcase, full of well-used paperbacks, amongst which Stephen King was well represented, as was Patricia Cornwell.He heard Martine singing softly to herself and tried to identify the tune, but couldn't. It was, he supposed, something way too modern for him to have heard on Radio Two.She took her time, and despite his efforts to calm down, the combination of memory and anticipation kept him uncomfortably hard. He needed to adjust the angle. More

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