Cherie looked around to see if anyone else was watching from the other open windows – perhaps she wanted to see if there anyone could see her watching those down below – and when she concluded that she was alone in her curious voyeurism, she kneeled on the soft, wide couch that backed up to her window, and settled down to watch. She knew it was wrong to be so curious, so interested in this illicit act, but in her innocence and inexperience she was so strongly attracted to what was going on, perhaps because of her unhealthy interest in Ron Wolter, that she couldn't help herself. She began to fantasize that she was doing this very thing with the handsome young man and her fingers strayed across the chiffon covering her belly to her smooth, warm thighs and thence to the tender, damp spot between them where she found the center of her own pleasure, just as she had on several other occasions when the heat in her own healthy body became too much to bear. She really couldn't imagine herself doing the thing that Diane was doing down there, not with any man before marriage, and especially not with a black man, which she found repellent, but she could fantasize as long as it was someone else down there.

So when her body had shaken in one of her rare self-induced orgasms and the juices had flowed from her tingling, pink pussy down her fingers, Cherie had burned with shame before lying back on her bed and finished the night with a deep and well-deserved sleep.

The next day was more of the same in the conference room, with Diane Layne sitting nowhere near Cleophas nor acknowledging any kind of attachment to him as indicated by their activities of the night before. It seemed incredible to Cherie that two people could do what they had done and act so cold and aloof the next day.