“Hey, I’m not asking for your blood type or Social Security number,” Charity says with a knowing smile. “Just something to call you that’s better than, ‘Hey, you there.’”
As she talks, she steps past some shelves stacked with boxes and moves to a thin cupboard wedged in the corner. She opens it up and starts pulling out normal clothes. One set for her. One for me.
Then she removes the coat, revealing the full extent of her outfit.
She’s wearing a bra that leaves little to the imagination. Her body is lean and tight, but very curvy. The panties she’s wearing are black lace. When she turns, I realize it’s a thong.
As I watch, still too traumatized to move on my own accord, Charity pulls a pair of jeans up over the thong but discards the black bra for a more modest one before shrugging a
