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Show 53 The feel of his hand. She placed her own hand on the same breast and firmly squeezed it. Roger's hand was larger, more powerful. She squeezed harder. And harder. Until she seemed to merge into the water flowing over her. The bulge in his pants as he fondled her, the hotness of it against her leg. Even through the material of the girdle-insistent, almost as if it had a life of its own. She dropped her hand down between her legs, into her own soft warmness. But that unfeeling hardness, that empty hollowness, swept over her. She fought it. She gave herself fully to fighting it. The heavy irritation, the deadness of it. It held fast to her. It would not let her go. She fought harder, throwing her whole body into the movement against it. It was dividing her from herself. Holding her away from herself. She hated it. Again and again she fought it. Again and again she threw herself against it. Her whole body against it. Until she knew fully the frustrating irritability of it. And then it began to give. To grow softer. To merge with her. There was a low moan escaping from her. It surprised her. She could not remember when she had ever been so powerful in her own body. Trembling, she dried herself. With every quiver, with every breath, that heavy hardness lifted from her. It dissipated from her. Until she was calm once again, until it was all gone. |