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on task this time, despite the picture presented of her wrinkled dress pulling up her lovely thighs as she bent over that misused table. Hair smoothed and ink dry and in place, they set out together into the night. Truth be told, Harvard did a lousy job inking Leslies legs, and the girls made unkind reference to it, but only because they were jealous of her lovely beau.

Leslie Gourd was poor, and couldnt afford stockings. It was a balmy city night, the lights were lit and the jazz joints were swinging, and her black sheath dress showed the backs of her naked knees, but she would not be a star until she had those stocking lines gashing downwards from her thighs to her ankles from under her dress, solid black lines to declare "You may grab and squeeze my leggy flesh but my soft skin? Oh, what a secret!" She had to have those lines. So the evening found her in a newspaper printing place. She was looking for the ink. Harvard van Jorgen had found that ink. He, being also poor, was sitting on a clean bit of confoundedly complicated machinery with his white shirt off, his tie having been dipped in the black ink already. It was drying around his neck and against his goose bumped chest, so that should it become stiff, it would already be tied in a lovely windsor knot, and it was just a matter of manuevering the shirt in under it. He saw Leslie before she saw him. Embarrassed, he hid. It felt silly to be looking around the dark, deserted old warehouse so that no one could see her cheating, but the jubilant music bouncing down the street to strain in through the windows spurred her on. Oh, the girls would be jealous to see her legs so proper, so elegant. She climbed up some steps and found a basin of fresh ink, still and black in its tub. Her heels were high enough to allow her to prop a leg up on a flat yard of pipe leading out one part of the big print machine and in another, and lack of balance led to her legs being somewhat splayed as well as scissored. The length of her naked thigh and a patch of lilac underwear made themselves as noticeable as a billboard to Harvard. The beauty of Leslies face, the movement of her bobbed hair, the whiteness of her skin were forgotten; Harvard felt as if he might weld to the back of the desk he hid under, or at least weld to his own leg. His rush of desire was painful, and his common sense was overruled. He must dance with this girl, who was dipping a little half-chewed pencil in that helpful ink. It became only a question of when, of how not to frighten her. The cool ink itched in a pleasurable, final way in its path up Leslies thigh, and she admired the instant class of it in the


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harsh moonlight stabbing inward from the window. She pulled her leg downward, gave it a reviving shake, and lifted the other one up, her tongue peeking out of her red mouth with eagerness and satisfaction. Then she heard a noise. She froze, but the "ahem" was gentlemanly enough not to send her into a fit of screaming. Indeed, if it were a janitor of some sort, then it would be her that was in the wrong, and therefore a bit silly to commence screaming. And it was rather a funny sight than a frightening one that crawled out from under the desk. The man had no shirt, but a very black tie, and his fit of body was lovely, slim muscle and trim waist. His hair was pale, as were his eyes, and Leslie could feel mortification creeping in, until she realized that the blackness of the tie had left a black tie outline on his chiseled chest. However, who was she to laugh, with a line and a half on her legs. He offered to help, as they were in the same boat, and each would keep the secret. He offered his name, and she offered hers. They were outlaws together now, stealing oil and lying about their financial status together. They smiled shyly. And oh, but he smelled like cigars of honeyed tobacco, of black tea and orange, and how his muscle didnt give to her scrubbing fingers as she mopped at the ink outline with her hanky. She looked upon his down-turned neck, breathing so hard that she was sure her breast would reach right out and nudge him in invitation, as he drew a teasingly delicate line slowly up the back of her firm leg. And oh, the musk and the lily scent of her, the maddening way her small, perky breasts brushed at his upper earlobe. His hand was on the small of her back to steady himself, his fingers crying in exultation at the smoothness of her sheathe, while his other hand trembled yet kept mostly steady the pencil that left that garish line on her skin, her skin, which he fingers did indulge themselves with. Then she made the mistake of shifting her delicate weight, to battle the heat of the moment. When the flesh under Harvards hand tensed, she stood up abruptly. Leslie smiled as guiltily as her distracted mind would let her, ready for the light scolding of perhaps having messed up the line from moving. Instead, Harvards pale eyes glittering, he flung the pencil away over his shoulder and took to a rough, manic handling of her dress and its contents. Leslie awoke somehow to it, mimicking her favorite film stars, eyes wide and mouth slack and face too available. Harvards kiss came down upon her neck with a will that extracted a small cry from her, and the pretty sounds did not stop from that point on. Harvard was less than mindful of her dress, and he had managed to get it tight around