1. Trust


    Date: 7/17/2015, Categories: BDSM, Shemales, Author: klammer, Rating: 100, Source: xHamster

    the side of the car, staring at the hand that was holding the handle. I shrugged internally, and told it to go ahead, go on with it, but the signals kept going astray. Instead of opening the door, my legs twitched occasionally. My knees felt oddly weak. I closed my eyes. Click. They popped open. The click wasn't my eyes, it was the door of the car. Had I opened it? Or had she leaned across to do it? No, I saw, she was sitting there with her hands in her lap, turned slightly to face me, and watching compassionately. I gulped -- it must have been the last of my pride I was swallowing; it tasted pretty bitter -- and slid in. My eyes fastened on her dashboard clock. It said 7:47. She didn't give me time to feel embarrassed that I'd taken s*******n minutes to cross a smallish lawn. She leaned close, kissed me warmly, and said, &#034Hi, sissy!&#034 The Committee took off to race around the block, gibbering and arguing with one another, and then came and caught up with the car when she stopped at the corner. &#034Umm, hi,&#034 I responded. &#034S-sorry I'm late,&#034 I offered. She gave me a funny look, then cracked, &#034That's the girl's prerogative.&#034 That was my line. I used to use it whenever she was late because she stopped to make herself pretty, and it used to always be good for an exasperated glare. I couldn't think of anything to say in response, though, so I reached for a cigarette. Oops. Must have left them on the table. I let out a breath. A safe topic of ...
    conversation. &#034Umm, I forgot my cigarettes. Could we stop somewhere?&#034 She looked at me, frowning. &#034Are you carrying money?&#034 she asked. That struck me a little odd. I did, but even if I hadn't, she wasn't going to be driven broke on a pack of cigarettes. I frowned back and nodded. &#034Don't, from now on,&#034 she said, turning her attention back to traffic. &#034Put a dime in your shoe if you're worried about being left somewhere, but you don't bring money on a date. Put your wallet in my purse.&#034 I started to object, then bit my lip, catching sight of how she was watching me in the mirror. *We* had never worked that way. We'd gone dutch, as often as not. She was testing me. I should have realized that from her comment about the dime; phone calls hadn't cost a dime since both of us were teenagers. So she must be telling me something her mother told her. It sounded like something I'd heard my mother tell my s****r, although as I remembered, my mother had just recommended she keep a dime for the phone in her shoe, not that she not carry money. I pulled out my wallet, and discovered that I was extremely reluctant to part with it. It was a sort of symbol of me, of my masculinity, or something. No, of my independence, I realized, forcing my fingers to release it, and watching it drop in with her things. We pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store, and I started to get out, then paused, puzzled. I looked at Nancy, whose eyes were laughing. &#034I'll get them, ...
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