An hour and a half later I heard the door open and the girls came backin. They were holding a pizza box and laughing. They sat down in theliving room surrounding me. Tracy stood over me and looked down at me. Iwas so emotionally wound up from feeling of helplessness that I begancrying. From the angle I was lying I could see Tracy's face peering at mefrom just beyond her breasts. I saw her make a little fist and I shrunkreflexively from her. "Do you see how she's scared of me," Tracy saidproudly to the girls. She was like a lion standing over the gazelle thatshe had run down and killed on the Serengeti.I had reached a psychological state of morbid fear of what Tracy might donext. "The thing about bitches," Tracy said to the girls, "is that theydo whatever you want them to do. You can use them anyway you want. Youown them psychologically, if not literally, because they're too cravenlyworshipful of you to have a mind of their own. Do you worship me, Greg?" Yes, Tracy, of course, you know. We locked eyes, but he didn’t look away. Safely behind the glass, so high above, he stared with a sheepish grin.I was alone in the car and the windshield was the only window not tinted. I made a choice. So I grinned back, just as sheepishly. Stepping out of my shorts, I locked the doors and slowed my pace.Then I laid the seat back a little and pulled it forward a bit to give him a better view. I delicately grabbed my shirt and shimmied out of it. Sitting now in my underclothes, just a plain white bra and white boy shorts, I put my hands on my stomach, arched my back, straightening my legs.I ran my hands all the way to my inner thighs.I rubbed my hands up and down till my boy shorts looked like bikinis. Then I slid one hand inside my underwear, moving it around and around. I pushed the other hand inside too and pushed those underwear down slowly. I stepped out of them, the dashboard blocking his sight of that.I pulled my hands up my body, raising my now nude hips toward him, then.
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