“Oh, and Heather?” Lucky calls. Heather glances back at Lucky as she reaches the door. He dimples sweetly, looking up at her hair. “You call my boyfriend a middle-aged washout again, and your hair won’t be blue. It will be gone.” She leans back, smiling back just as sweetly. Her hair really is fucked. “You touch my hair again, and I’ll snip off the end of every flogger, break every cane, and burn every rope in your smutty little cock cave.” Heather finger waves at Lucky’s horrified stare, then drags me out.
