Did I mention my legs? Sometimes I think my legs have a life of their own. Sometimes I eat a lot of cake to see if they’ll notice me. It doesn’t w...rk. My legs go on doing their own beautifully defined thing. I beat the dress down with my hands. “I like your shoes,” he admired. “You like my shoes?” I asked, bewildered. “That’s it? My shoes?” I tell you, that’s the first man who’s ever liked me for my shoes. And they weren’t expensive shoes—they weren’t Manolo Blanhik or Prada. I bought them at a. When I went to lift my head, he shoved a hand against my neck, my cheek flat against the ream of yellow, leaving a flesh-colored make-up stain, my lipstick smearing on the paper as I twisted and whimpered, painting my own sexual artwork.“Oh god.” He let my hands go and used both of his to grab my hips and drive himself home. My arms ached from being pulled behind my back and I pressed my hands flat against the wall behind the table to keep my head from hitting it as he pounding his cock into my. More

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