" He pulled his shoulders back and sat up straight. "They put their feet to the side, still keeping their knees together, when they sit. Don't they?" John slid his feet about six inches to the right. "If you're sitting in the type of chair that's open underneath you can put them back and cross your ankles. Now, what do girls do with their hands when they sit?" John crossed his hands in front of him and looked up at Connie and smiled. "Cute, you imp." Connie hadn't seen much of a sense of humor in him until now. It was a good sign. He unfolded his arms and put his hands in his lap. "Better, what else?" He clasped his hands over his stockinged knees. "Good, what else?" He crossed his legs at the knee. It felt funny, different, nice, when his smooth stockinged legs rubbed together. "Good, but pull your skirt down a little." Connie said smiling. "It will always tend to ride up a little when you cross your legs. John tugged at the hem, getting it as far down as he could. "Much better.". He merely held her, rocking her gently. An hour later, she had finally managed to stop crying, and began to talk. She explained how that bastard had called her into his office, then locked the door. Being an executive, she did not question the action. To defy the executives was to ask for death. Barrow listened intently, angry that anyone would harm her that way. He vowed to himself to find out who this bastard was. He was already planning how he would kill him (a slow, painful death, where he would force the mother fucker to eat his own testicles. Barrow would then gut him, and strangle what life was left in the victim with his own intestines until he was quite dead. Then, he would… well, you get the idea…), when Sara kissed him. She kissed him passionately, fiercely, needing him. Barrow did not object, and returned her kiss, holding her body to his. She tore off her robe, and began to undress him. ‘Fuck me Barrow, please,’ she said. He obliged, and reminded her to be careful of.
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