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Leaning forward on the rear seat of the taxicab, the tall statuesque blonde woman kneaded her handbag with nervous fingers and stared out at the familiar and yet strange streets and buildings of Westridge–a town in which she had been born thirty–six years before, and which she had not seen in five years.
Her name was Bette Clark, and she was a beautiful poised woman with the ripe figure of a young girl: her breasts high and proud and perfectly rounded, showed no sign of sagging, and her thighs, visible where the hem of her short, ice-blue dress hiked up, were firm and tanned, tapering into dimpled knees and slender ankles. Her hips, small and boyish and yet curved provocatively, moved involuntarily on the seat in her agitated state, and she kept moistening full, naturally pink lips with the tip of her small, wet tongue. Her face was soft and lovely, free of age lines, and yet it contained a certain gaunt quality, a haunted quality that was mirrored by her large, expressive blue eyes; once filled with laughter and gaiety, those eyes now contained a hidden pain and torment that was deeply rooted.
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.