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My warm hand sliding underneath the fabrics. Middle finger caressing her clit. Her legs started squirming to escape the intense pleasure, but would only cause her to open her legs wider then close my hand between her legs making that attempt a failure. The sensation seemed to became more intense when she felt the restraint from the handcuffs. She couldn’t escape. She couldn’t contain her reaction. I had her at my mercy. There was nothing she could do to stop herself from those dramatic reactions. From moaning. She tried to hold her breath, but her need for air would not only force her to take a breath but cause her to moan even louder. she liked it. she felt free. Because there was nothing she could do to keep from being noticed, it forced her to just let go and except whatever the outcome was. By accepting the outcome she seemed to feel a sense of sexual freedom. She didn’t care if the city of New York could hear her because she was too busy basking in her freedom. A freedom. That was Santee. Two exits, one stop light and three or four stop signs. The big news was the 7-11 they were building down the hill from us. We were in one of two housing tracts, little starter homes, twenty five or thirty miles from San Diego, out where the people who couldn't afford a real house or didn't want to live in the big city bought.Mom and Dad had met in Oklahoma where they both went to school. They must have met early on in life because my dad decided he didn't like high school after trying it for part of a semester. They got married soon after she graduated, maybe because of me, maybe not. I know I came along real quick after the wedding.Mom and Dad were like night and day, Mutt and Jeff, Laurel and Hardy. Dad had a real belly on him. Not so much from beer, though he did like a couple while watching the Padres on the tube. He always had a cigarette going, the red pack of Pall Malls visible in the pocket of just about any shirt he wore. Dad drove a truck for a local.
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