“I’m sorry, I should have waited outside until you were ready. Please, don’t tell Mister Winfield, I really need this job.” Iris said, panting as she stirred at her own welling need. She was both Greta and herself, then, because Iris had nothing if not Kedrick to please. Mr. Winfield had burned as many nymph branches as he had terminated employees. They were a service company, and one which charged a premium. If customers found it distasteful to dispose of their nymphs themselves, Mr. Winfield was happy enough to do it for them. These were details Iris did not know, but felt in her own sense of dire foreboding. If her master turned her away, she had nothing. It was as good as any death Mr. Winfield would tidy up with.<br/><br/>It all translated to a delightful desperation in Greta’s wide and glassy brown eyes. The woman had such a compellingly severe expression in her natural state. It was mystifying, the expressions Iris could draw for her. Her auburn hair was growing wild as she pushed against the back of the car seat. She gasped and slid when he tugged her toward him, a ruddy flush welling on her cheeks. How strange, that she’d been so brash for him before and had a sense of modesty now. Iris’s lips parted, her own breath hot on her tongue. His gaze raised a fire in the low of her belly and sent a shiver down her spine. When he directed her, she responded with all of herself. She hit herself again, adding to the rose of her cheeks, and withdrew her fingers to torture her own clit. It made her sex twitch, swollen and pink as her soft mounds glistened in her own slathered heat.<br/><br/>She was a dedicated creature, pressing herself that way. If he paid her close mind, he’d find a frantic and hitching ebb and flow to her dutiful care. He had given no evidence that he wished to see her relieved, and so she denied herself the building climax and extended her own torture in the most eloquent way her fingers could provide. Iris was aching when he groped her, and made such a pretty arch of her spine that she slipped low to nearly the flat of her back, tangled in the seat belt straps. “Please, do what you like, just don’t tell Mister Winfield.” She was whimpering beneath him, a plea that lost itself in a moan.