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I refocused on Margot as she sank into a sitting position against a brick wall, her breasts and pussy still displayed to the night. It took several moments for me to realize that she was sobbing.At that moment, I crossed a line. A better man would have turned away, shamed by his weakness, deleted the video file, and gone home. I suppose an even better man would have maybe offered chaste aid to the visibly drunk and distraught victim of such abuse. I realized, at that point, that I wasn’t a good man at all.I approached her alright, phone still recording, but not with any thought of compassion or pity. I wanted to capture her degradation up close. She looked like shit. Her hands were cupped over her eyes as she cried, stubby red nails black in the dimness. Her hair and perky little tits bounced in time with her sobs. The dress was bunched up above her waist. Her pussy lips gaped. It and her thighs were sperm-spattered. As she heard my feet grating on the alley’s grit, she jerked her. David's mom wrote the short message. After Dell read the few sentences she put on the paper to him, David printed his name at the bottom. The brief little letter read:"Dear Miss Richards,I listen to your radio show every day. When you tell stories and share poems I am sitting in my rocker, real close to the speaker. You have a very pleasant voice and I like the way you sing to us. I play the games you teach us when you are on the air, and I play them afterwards too. I live in your neighborhood; I would be very pleased to meet you. Maybe someday we might meet while walking along the street.Very truly yours,David Springer"Now, Dell watched her son sitting in the rocker pulled close to the radio, listening to Miss Richards, waiting to see if his letter might be read on air today. She hoped the picture she had taken of the boy in the rocker came out nice. The rocker had been in the family for three generations now. David's grandma had used it when she was little; then his father and now.
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