But I can’t stop myself from wanting it. He sits there leaning forward towards me, as if ready to gather me in if I start to crumble, and all I want him to do is take out his stiff c**k and order me to guzzle upon it. I want him to put me on all fours and spit me upon it, in whichever hole he chooses.
“Can you tell me about this last message?” he says, still quietly.
“No, no – it is too rude!” says me in my catsuit.
“I can find who is doing it but I need your help.”
I know who is doing it. That horrible handyman/gardener/henchman who spies on me at night whilst I have my fantasies is doing it. I could tell all if not for the fact that the accused could simply point at the trench he is digging outside and tell them to have a proper look in it.
“I can’t help,” I say, truthfully.
Fo
