Larry’s memories were a cruel paradox. “Okay, let’s get you cleaned up,” she said softly to Larry, who stood shakily beside her, his gaze unfocused. Larry stirred, turning his face, a low groan escaping his parched lips. 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. Before him was this beautiful woman, he had known since her family moved in and she was twelve years old. She tied him to the bed, lying on his back, his feet were tied to his hands, ass in the air. Cheyenne stands back for a moment, her heart swelling with gratitude for these women who stand beside her, their empathy wrapping around her like a warm embrace. And with every visit Cheyenne made, the transformation became more pronounced—the pile of discarded memories shrinking, the gleam of polished surfaces growing. Cheyenne turned him, this time starting with his legs and working up to his midsection. Her laughter rang out, clear as a bell, followed by her warm presence, enveloping him. “I bet you have stories about every piece here.”
Larry’s response came slowly, his voice a low rumble struggling against the tide of emotions.
