Lassie Timmy's In The Well Novels & Stories

According to Lydia, his black, chrome-heeled boots were "pure filth." "Believe me," she’d told him while he laced them up. "Those aren't coming off. They’ll want those heels digging into their shoulders while they take turns." The memory made Timothy’s face go hot, even now. Lydia just watched him, that Blackwell streak of cruelty and lust shining in her eyes. A heavy, rhythmic thud at the door snapped his focus away from the glass. "It's time." Timothy’s stomach dropped through the floor.

Jill giggled. “Or unless your mouth, pussy and ass can’t take it,” Tim said. “My ass? Who said anything about my ass?” “I love your ass.” “Oh my god. My ass. I know we’re not going to get any sleep.”

Moore and warm to me. Mrs. Moore glowered, and Timmy's eyes bounced around the room, his shoulders slouched as he hid his hands beneath the table. I cleared my throat, and I recounted everything as I consciously stifled the nausea that hung in my throat. Alex turned to Timmy. “Let me see the designs.” Opening Timmy’s laptop, he clicked and began checking the slides. After a while, his head snapped up. “This is Sophie’s work—the theme, the arrangement.” He let out a chuckle.