Pressed Chest

Francesca took the basket. Her slender white hands. Nails painted blush. Her eyes, fierce.

Aimee bowed, brief eye contact. Francesca examined the grapes. She bit into one.

“Every one of these grapes are like you…” Francesca said, “To be consumed…”

Aimee trembled. She saw the silver gun on a cushion. Francesca noticed.

“You like my gun?” Francesca said, leaning forward.

“No ma’am…” Aimee said.

Francesca picked it up. Pressed it up against Aimee’s chest. The cold metal. Hard.

“My gun likes you… Maybe it will choose you,” Francesca said.

Diego entered. Francesca’s eyes diverted to her handsome servant.

“Go,” Francesca said to Aimee. And she left.

Diego knelt by his lady’s side. His manly hands massaging her thick white thighs. Eyes on eyes. They began to kiss. Tender but then she pulled him in.