Nature was teasing us with a delightful Indian summer during which the leaves fell by the millions. I was determined to get in one last outing before ...he ground froze and nature became less hospitable to those of us with wrinkled skin and creaky joints.I had located an old abandoned farm. The pole barn that had served the farmer as a machine shed was still standing and relatively sound. I navigated through the ditch and around the rocks blocking off access to park my little truck inside the. Morgan,” I said, reaching for a handshake, “Wonderful to see you again.” “You have exquisite taste,” he said, leading me to the back of the van. “She is a fighter, Sir. But you will break her. Of this, I have no doubt.” He unlatched the rear of his truck and threw up the hatch. A woman stood strapped to the rear wall, naked but for a black hood. She was bound so tightly to the wall by a thin nylon strap that she bled from each point of contact. This was mostly for her safety. Mr. Morgan lost. As his hand slipped into my jeans I moved to give him more access, my legs spread wider, one resting over his. Wanton was never a word I used to describe myself until today. His fingers began to circle my clit and I melted. My right hand was gripping my desk keeping me anchored in the reality of the moment. My left hand roamed his chest. Without direction his fingertips knew exactly where to go. He began to rub and circle my clit in a way that made me believe he could read my mind. He asked. But it was also how witches got themselves killed, according to Jacob, and Lovecraft.“So, am I being zen then, right now? To be able to talk to you?”“No. Like I said, you got my attention. Or, maybe it’s better to say, you’re ... relatable.”“Uh, I’m sorry, can you repeat that? Cause it sounds like you just said I was relatable, me, and you’re, uh, something I’m guessing is the equivalent of a goddess.”“Close enough.” Chuckling, the old woman reached into her cloak with her free, wrinkly hand,.
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