I started to cry again.Owen returned with my panties in his hand, a knife, a jug of orange juice, two cups, and the bag of bagels. "Why are you crying...again?" he asked."I feel like shit," I said, drying my eyes on the back of my hand. "You seem like such a nice guy, and I'm such a whore." You're not a whore," he said sweetly. "You got drunk, and we fucked."I am a whore!" I cried. "I act all prim and proper, but the truth is, I'm just a whore!" If you were a whore, you'd be downstairs in the. She was wearing a dress that came to just below mid thigh, and suntan pantyhose. She had an incredible body, with nicely developed breasts, and the right curves for her age. She had that bag she seemed to carry all the time, which she had shown us at the school that carried all of her investigative stuff. I had to think on the fly. I had never killed someone close to home, much less in the house, so I decided to go on instinct. I opened the door, and she introduced herself. I said that I. More

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