Cheyenne turned him, this time starting with his legs and working up to his midsection. She pressed her ear to the cool wood, straining for any hint of movement inside. His breath caught in his throat as he watched her, the curve of her back as she bent forward, the sway of her hips unconsciously seductive even in the act of carrying clothes. And Larry, he too seemed to be subtly shifting. The absence of Larry’s voice, typically booming and gruff in greeting, sent a tremor of worry through her sun-kissed frame. She decided to check on Larry. His hair, once neatly trimmed, now hung in greasy clumps around his face, obscuring the eyes that used to hold warmth and laughter. And with every visit Cheyenne made, the transformation became more pronounced—the pile of discarded memories shrinking, the gleam of polished surfaces growing. This time when she took his cock and balls into her small hands, he took notice! “Look at me, Larry,” she said softly, the strength in her voice belying the tenderness in her eyes. Her gaze cut through the gloom, searching for any sign of the man who was once the neighborhood’s anchor.
