She sighed and cinched up her robe. It was supposed to be a lazy Sunday morning. He was grinning back at her. Even with his strong fingers plying her bottom, she was determined to finish the job she had started. He was straining, she could tell. When she was done, she stepped back and breathed deeply; she actually felt a bit worn out. Yet, four more times he came to her door unannounced holding that stupid piece of paper and four more times she let him in without a fuss. Probing fingers crawled their way along her bottom, slid between her moist cheeks, and then fingered her anus. Starting from his sandal covered feet, he wore a pair of navy-striped sleep pants over his tall legs, and a stretched out tank-top undershirt which did nothing to hide his broad and muscular shoulders and tattooed arms. “Tee-kit,” he said. The next few swipes of the blade were just as precise.
