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Taking the Blame

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Her thoughts were racing on adrenalin and disorientation and turned onto themselves in knots of recrimination because, of course, she blamed herself.

What is the worst that can happen, was what she had thought to when she let him buy her a drink, that pretty boy, prettier than any boy that had ever offered to buy her a drink before, his eyes so green and his body so lean and his legs so long, and she had hoped, just hoped that he might see her. Not just the plain, dull shell of her but the truth of her clever mind and her warm heart and her real bea-

The gurgling scream that bubbled up acrid bile from her stomach, already sore from so much screaming, nearly drowned her. She so wished it would.

“Now, now,” he tutted, his gentle, affectionate voice matched by the tender way he cleaned her mouth, “we are so close to being finished, so none of that.”

He carefully set back to work and as she felt the next strip of her flesh peel away in a thick curl, leaving smooth planes of muscle, all a brilliant red, she at least had the comfort of being right, that he HAD seen the beauty within her and was now doing all he could to reveal it.