HIS MINNIE MOUSE
“Sir… I’d like to be on my way…”
“You’re not going anywhere,” he says, looking at my hair, which I know is a frigid, humid disaster.
And then his eyes drift down to my wet translucent blouse that clings to my lacy red underwear.
I gulp.
“You must be really cold,” he continues, still looking. “Your nipples are hard. I hear it can get like that when the weather is gloomy.”
Fucking hell.
“Except there’s another reason why, Minnie Mouse,” he mutters, tucking a strand of wet hair behind my ear.
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