"Mine? But slaves do not own anything of their own? I do not put this into words but merely do as I am told. It's creepy. These are precisely the same... make and size of running shoes I wear at home. Even the socks are the same. As if they know every detail about me. As if I am completely transparent to them. My history. My hopes. My fears. My likes. My dislikes. All open for inspection. All laid bare to their gaze. Or perhaps it's my other life which was merely a dream and – really – I have. A flush crept up her neck to take over her face, and both hands shook as she held my wrist, unable to let me go.In times of serious stress, I find it is always a good preventive measure to help my women find some sort of balance. To help Summer over that hump I kissed her hard enough to make my point. She sat stock still throughout the kiss and then grabbed me by the shoulders, pulled me in and kissed me hard enough to cause me to forget my phone number.When I was certain I actually had her. Then I went to my hotel in the morning of Saturday. I had called up Shweta and told her to reach the hotel.After some time, I reached my hotel room, got into a towel and was about to go for a shower and the doorbell rang. I expected her to be there and opened the door. There she was, in a perfect figure of 34-30-36 (I like healthy women) in a black top and cream coloured trousers. She was surprised to see me in a towel and was like “Ooo la la”.We hugged and the hug was tight, I could feel her. ”“Okay, am I going to find your DNA on it?” she asked.“Almost guaranteed,” I said. “Unless I’m mistaken, it won’t mean shit.”“Jailhouse lawyer?” she asked.“Finest kind,” I replied.“Any idea where he left the body,” she asked.“I’m not at all sure there is a body or a victim. Most likely an Alabama argument,” I suggested. “But you are welcome to waste your time and money.”“What’s an Alabama argument?” she asked.“One where somebody makes his point with a shank,” I said.“Do you have a knife?” she.