He found himself running across the intersection like the Juice through an airport. He leapt a ditch dug by the city of Joliet six months before (with...no indication it would ever get filled in), through the traffic barriers and then almost was totaled by a red Toyota truck turning right. The bastard had actually turned when there was a pedestrian waiting to cross! Crap! Something inside him felt sure the bus would disappear on him before he could reach it, just like every potential friendship. He ran his hand between her thighs and touched her sex. She was wet; very, very wet. “Why am I punishing you?” He asked her. “Because I am a dirty little slut.” She responded. He stroked her sex, “You are a slut aren’t you?” “Yes.” She replied. “How many lashes of the belt do you deserve, slut?” “I deserve lots.” “Sir,” he told her, “call me Sir, you filthy little slut.” He told her. “Yes, Sir,” she responded. The words had hardly left her lips when he struck. The doubled leather. More

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