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I own and operate a shop I call "Asides". I named it that because I never have been able to decide exactly what my stock is going to be. I buy and sell African and Lesbian art. A lot of what I buy I never sell, the items going instead into the private collection I keep in my apartment, which covers the entire second floor of my shop. I make and sell scented candles. These go well with the oils, perfumes and lotions I carry. I also dabble in metal sculpture. My workroom sprawls over more than half of the store.I'm not rich, but I'm well off enough to do what I want. My store is in an upscale restored area of the city. I get a lot of tourists, as well as the well-off with extra money searching for that unusual gift to be a conversation topper at some party. Mostly those types bore me, even the attractive women among them. They're all lofty remarks and condescending explanations of those remarks because they assume I can't comprehend two syllable words. I don't know it it's my skin. It was gentle as if he was asking her permission to continue but his left hand was holding her possessively and moved upward. “Keep playing,” he whispered. Lisa felt Jonathan’s left hand approaching her breast from underneath, capping it. His right hand traveled down her ass, further down, found the hem of her skirt, and started lifting it while moving up her hip. She kept playing sensing her blouse being unbuttoned and feeling the warmth of Jonathan’s palm reaching the sweet spot of her naked thigh between panties and stockings. The left hand was gently caressing the top of her breasts not covered by the bra while making occasional excursions inside. Those fingers, long, nervous and precise in their movement, here probing her nipples and there undertaking a sideway expedition under her panties gently familiarizing themselves with her pussy. Lisa's breathing shortened, the violin paused. “You should be playing me, why do I need this three-hundred-year-old thing,” she whispered..
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