Indian Couple Sex In Bathroom

There it was. On my front entry rug a postcard in soft pink, with a deeper blush color around the edges. It looked lurid and out of place in my beige home. I bent to pick it up, pushing Sally away from it, as she was doing her usual dance of excitement around the front door. The card had an embossed heart and a texture that I had not felt since picking out our wedding invitations. I rubbed it between my fingers. In flowing cursive script it said ‘Sweetest Dreams Photography -Portraits-Special Moments-Boudoir- Valentines Day packages starting at $200 Phone for an appointment’ and the number. I threw it on the entry hall table to transfer to the trash later and prepared myself and Sally for the frigid weather. I snapped the leash on Sally’s collar. The colors in the card still caught my eye. I walked Sally, the card tugging at my brain, and the word boudoir. Mike had teased about buying an Instamatic so he could take some racy photos of me. After all, what photo shop would develop. Her eyes widened as I told her briefly about the twins. ‘The daughters of that pompous Marjoribanks man from the American bank?’ she whispered. (When the tie-in had been agreed George and some of his colleagues had visited our office for an excruciating ‘getting-to-know-you’ day during which he had been at his condescending worst.) ‘James, darling, that fluence of yours is going to get you into such trouble one day.’ ‘You don’t know the half of it,’ I told her, truthfully enough since in the fierce rush of events I had not had time to tell her about the garden party. I had meant to brief her when I went round the evening before but somehow the fucking had seemed more urgent. ‘I’ll bring you up to date tonight.’ When I arrived at the flat that evening, letting myself in with Fran’s keys (which I had forgotten to return), I found Fran and Connie, who as usual had left work about half an hour before me, talking to the entirely nude Vicky and Simone. At least, Vicky and Simone were.
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