The witch stumbled. He was behind her before her momentum balanced. Without warning, her neck was wrapped in the leather embrace of his leash. Gina crouched closer, trying to be sure. But no, the witch didn’t look scared at all. Her hands rose to the man’s biceps and caressed. Her head tilted. She spoke something Gina would have died then and there to hear.For the next thirty minutes their dance continued in that tiny room, Gina the only witness to their deeds. Who was really in control was anyone’s guess. Maybe neither were, both lost to some carnal practice that had long departed their society. Witches were always in control. Witches were always the dominant participant. If they weren’t, men without magic would abuse their positions. But this—this was something else, and so from that day forward it was a dance to her.Gina laid for a moment, tired and unsatisfied. It had to be close to noon, but the fantasy just wasn’t cutting it anymore. Her fingers had already cramped once—the. As soon as the door closed behind me, he turned the sign to say CLOSED. I looked around and, indeed, the sketch of me was hanging on the wall behind the cash register, right alongside a framed picture of a dollar bill. Anyone who bought anything in the bakery would see it. He was beaming at me as his hands covered my tits and began to knead them like dough. Such beautiful bazooms,” he said. “I could kiss them!” Well yes, he could, but not in front of the display window where anyone could see. If he was any indication, bakers are very talented with their hands. “I want you to autograph the picture for me,” he said. “Maybe say something like, to Willie, my favorite baker.” “It’s the artist who signs the sketch,” I pointed out. “Oh, the artist—who cares about the artist? The artist would be nothing without the beautiful model.” “You are my favorite baker, though. I adore your cupcakes.” “And you are my favorite customer. Come see where I work.” He took my hand and led me behind the.
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