"Mr. Stones," I moan out, blushing at the pleasurable ache on my breast. He takes the opportunity to slide my tight black skirt up over my waist. All ...f a sudden I feel the straps of my undershirt being taken down and then the shirt itself dragging off my chest, laying on my stomach along with my skirt. "Please stop," I breathe out, unable to keep the longing off my voice. "I'll do anything else but please stop. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what I did. I didn't mean to. I―I'm sorry," I start to. It seems to sell things that aren't strictly antiques, either ?stuff you might find in your parents' basement, or at a garage sale in arun-down suburb. I call it the junkshop.I'm in love with the junkshop girl. She's not the owner, so strictly speakingshe's not the junkshop girl, either. Sometimes I'll go by and I'll see theowner there, a squat older woman from some Southeast Asian country, and I'llpass by, avoiding her forbidding scowl.But other times I'll be about to pass by the window of the. More

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