The drawing was her, the same woman she saw in her bedroom mirror every morning. Her back, her waist, her hips, it was almost a photograph in black an... white. The design was captivating and beautiful. Delicate vines wove themselves into a complicated knot just above the little dimple at the top of her hips. At the edges of the knot, other slender, leafed tendrils wound their way over her skin, up her flanks, and down to curl around the hollow of each hip. Above the knot was a delicately. There were vehicles, but they were sparse, and sparser still were the people in this area of the city. The feeling of exposure was rattling enough that she was actually relieved to be inside the vehicle instead of outside in her birthday suit. Perhaps it was a grace that no one came within her view, for the temptation to run for help was definitely present. The moment she was sat in the backseat, knees tucked tight to her chest and ankles crossed, she felt a pang of regret for having not tried. More

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