"Christine got fucked, yes?" – I ask, sitting down next to her and putting my hand on her white round knee. She tries to press deeper into the couch... shutting her eyes as if willing the whole situation to disappear. I slide my hand up her thigh, feeling how soft and pliable her skin is. She whimpers, but remains still as my fingers travel up her leg and grab a generous fold of her lower belly. "You answer when Mustafa talk to you, yes?" – I ask her, squeezing her belly fold firmly between my. It was nothing like the British women's. She had CURVES, real ones that needed no help from illusory dresses and corsets, girdles and other shaping garments. Calypso was Calypso; Calypso was a goddess and therefore desirable above any mortal—and knew she was to him."This chiton needs removin'," she said, blue-stained lips curled into a smile and eyes twinkling with mischief."Would you like me t—?" I will rid myself of it," she purred against his neck, tongue flicking out against his pressure. More

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