“It’s not what it looks like!” he screamed.
She looked down at her leg. Across the thigh of her jeans was a growing bloodstain, soaking in like blotting paper.
“I think it is,” she said. “Such a shame. My friend recommended you and she passed first time; said you were so professional”.
She went on: “I was born with just one leg. You’ve probably guessed that by now. I was never as quick as my friends in games, so I’ve had to adopt different strategies in life. You might think now that I am disabled, but you didn’t know that when we first met”.
“I didn’t feel a thing last week when you so discreetly ran your hand up my leg. You were assuming I was a soft touch. I have never been easy prey”.
“Now, you’ve made me ruin a pair of good jeans, because you tried it on again this week and the evidence is there to see”.
Mike looked ashen as he stared, terrified into her eyes. He’d been nonchalant in the lesson, bragging about his driving talent, full of sexual innuendo and bravado. With the passenger window down, he let his arm swing in the warm summer air. At the traffic lights she seemed focused on the red, when she’d reached down into her bag, produced a knife and in one quick swoop, pinned his other hand onto the thigh of her prosthetic leg, whilst simultaneously winding the passenger window back up as his gaze fixed on the source of pain and surprise. So now he found his left arm jammed out of the window and his right hand fixed to her leg.
Using her phone, she took a photograph of the two of them. “Incriminating evidence wouldn’t you say? I’ll show my friend; your wife.”
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