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en his hand wandered towards
my breast after wiping me. It's hard to make wiping someone
erotic, but he manage quite well, thank you -- I was tempted to
head back to bed.
I didn't, though; I wanted to satisfy hungers of another sort
first. "Breakfast?" I asked.
He responded by putting a leash around my neck and leading me to
the kitchen. He was considerate about it, though; when we came
to a door or a turn, where I might stub a toe, he took my arm and
guided me around the obstacle. Along the way, he ran his fingers
up my spine, in just the way -- and in just the musical rhythm --
that Roger would do. Was this Roger? I was beginning to think
it was.
Breakfast was already prepared; if it wasn't Roger, he'd been
well-briefed, because everything was just as I liked it. He fed
me, of course, even holding up the coffee cup whenever I asked
for it. I decided to try a test. "Can I have some yogurt?" I
asked. There were two containers, a large open carton of blue-
berry that Roger had brought last weekend, and some vanilla. I
despise blueberry, but would a stranger know that? I rarely eat
yogurt for breakfast, but maybe that wasn't in the briefing. No
such luck -- a moment or t
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