A cuff stuck on one wrist. She turned the button and flicked her arm, and the shirt landed on top of her shorts.She leaned back against the counter, m...ved her feet out, separating them beyond shoulder’s width. She stared at my eyes like she was hypnotized. Her hands slid up her tummy, cupped her tits. She rolled her nipples between her fingers. She bent her legs, sliding down on the counter a little, and slid a hand down her tummy until it disappeared in the red triangle. I watched her finger. Her lifestyle had changed drastically after her wimpy husband gave in to his boss's depraved demands but in all honesty she was not overly upset at her new duties.Her house was sparkling clean now and she had stripped down to her birthday suit and stood in the mist of the relaxing shower that washed away her sins of wanton pleasures and let the young man's spunk run down the drain like yesterday's daydreams. For a moment, she stood standing with her fingers buried deep inside her slit thinking. ’ God, I could never tell Sydney I said that to him – EVER! When I finally looked up, he was looking at me. His chocolate brown eyes warm and caring. His brow furrowed, he looked like he wanted to say something, but not sure about it. ‘What is it, is something wrong?’ I asked carefully. He smiled, his lips parting slightly. ‘Nothing wrong at all, just…’ ‘What?’ ‘I’m afraid of…offending you again. I didn’t mean to, I swear.’ Then a pause. ‘What, you’re looking at me weird.’ ‘You’re…English.’ It. It was taken from outside Emma's building on Park Avenue. It was four in the fucking morning, and the families were standing around waiting for the limo to arrive. Emma's hair was thrown into a bun, she was wearing her Hardtail pants, and a Yale tee that clung to her bulimic body perfectly. An Autumn Cashmere sweater and her down vest was over it. God it was freezing outside. Her Pucci scarf was wound around her neck, her feet in New Balance sneakers, and her Coach hobo bag hanging on her arm,.
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