I walked into Raylene’s room, still rubbing my hair with her wet towel. She still wasn’t back. I imagined how long it would take a girl, walking carefully, to walk to the back of the church next door, possibly staring down some disapproving parishioners, cut two bamboos and walk back. I frowned.
She wasn’t late yet. Another ten minutes and I’d be her search party. I’d carry her robe and claim she’d been sleep-walking. But that left me ten minutes to get things ready. The first question was when I’d take that t-shirt off her. If we were on our own, I’d make her take her it off the moment she was through the door. She had a lovely body, and watching her would be a pleasure.
I don’t know everyone feels this, but now we’d had a lot of sex and spent a night together my assessment of her hotness and beauty had shot up. I’d thought her breasts were good; now they were wonderful. I’d managed to become even fonder of her ass. And her face, when I’d seen it a pillow away, with muscles relaxed, her mouth open and drooling and her hair blue in her eyes and mouth, was glorious as the sun, a puffy, wonderful sun the colour of a smacked arse.
So she’d be naked, if my pleasure was the only consideration.
But Bellie had decided she had to be here as well, and it was possible that Lynette would turn up too. Lynette would come “reluctantly” and with a good reason prepared, I was sure.
So Raylene would be most exhilaratingly humiliated if she first had to endure the first six strokes bending over with the t-shirt’s ridge about coccyx level, but the t-shirt providing cover for her breasts and her tattoo. And then to have to stand up and take it off, facing the company, while they watched her.
It was possible the first six cane strokes would make it a teary apology. Then she’d have to strip the t-shirt off. That sounded like fun. And hot.
I nodded, satisfied. Also my cock had hardened. With determination, no doubt. I was finding it hard to wait. Where was that bloody girl?