Shit, I'll bet old Sandor never poked his prick in there, Roger mused to himself.

He massaged her nakedly sensitive flesh in slow concentric circles as his hand eased back along the smoothness of her back until he reached the stretched fabric of her dress, pulled taut now over her shoulders. Pausing first to unsnap the tiny three hooks of her bra, he then eased the shoulders of her dress down along her arms until the dress hung limply over her whitely firm breasts.

He stopped his smooth seductive motions and looked Margaret over again, eyeing hungrily the rich, womanly full swells and hollows of her well-formed body. Yes sir, she was quite a nice looking woman, all right.

Again with his right hand, Roger tumbled the fabric of Margaret's dress and the sheer tissue of her bra over the bulging mounds of her breasts, exposing the twin half-dollars of her fully erect nipples, all pinkish and excited at being exposed to the air and to his eyes. They swelled even more rigidly as a sudden chill breeze caressed them, sending a burst of rippling electricity through her breasts and down into her man-hungry belly, fanning the embers of a long-dormant fire that once burned there.

Yes, God help her, she had been so long without a man, so long she had nearly forgotten the magic of a real man's touch, the thrilling ecstasy of being looked at and caressed this way.

His outstretched fingertips brushed lightly over the soft, warmly beckoning bulge of her tits, first one, then the other, before finally clamping tightly over the ripely mature mound, squeezing the delicate ivory-white flesh between his clenched fingers.

Margaret could stand no more; she had kept silent as long as she could. "Oh, you are a sweet man, Roger. Oh, it feel so good."