Ron watched her stroking her body, watched the dew of arousal gather in the fine tendrils of her pussy hair, there at the pink line that marked her untouched vagina. It was obviously a naturally very wet pussy that peeped out between the puffy and sparsely-furred lips. He watched her as she closed her eyes and and slid a trembling middle finger into the slit. Wolter felt sorry for her, here in the mountains amid all this power and wealth, virginal yet wanting, excited yet afraid. Diane's and Cleophas' exhibition last night had stirred her in a way she had probably never been stirred before.

He saw Cherie give her shoulders a shake and the perfect grapefruits of her huge breasts jiggled with the motion as she drew her naughty finger from her needing, pink cunt. She gave out with a sigh that was more of a sob and turned and flopped down on the bed. From the stand at the side she took a large volume of the plays of Shakespeare and, propping herself up on her elbow, began to read. Wolter knew something of her history. She had passed up a full scholarship at a good university to go straight to work to take care of her sick mother. He knew she had graduated top of her high school class and showed great potential for success as a medical student, if she ever got there. But her mother was constantly hovering on the verge of death and the doctor bills had to be paid, which a scholarship would not do.

So the beautiful, intelligent, unselfish – add to that naive – young beauty had had to go to work. And again she had shown her worth. Her typing was flawless, the shorthand fluent, her computer skills beyond those of the other girls in the pool. She was not vain, nor did she need to be. No rouge was needed on cheeks that retained the rosy flush of health and her pink lips would have been defiled with red lipstick if she had ever used it.

Ron Wolter watched her until she fell asleep on her side by the big book. Thirty minutes later her alarm clock woke her and she dressed again to go down for the afternoon's work.