Bollywood Babe Cleansing Herself

The first was an antique leather-bound journal with a worn strap holding its covers shut, the second was a heavy envelope with my name, Melissa Gordon, written on it in neat (if old-fashioned) cursive hand. The letter inside was typed on expensive heavy-weight paper that had the company watermark in the center of the page. The letter explained that the law firm had been retained by a small, independent museum to find and return the accompanying diary to the nearest living heir of the doner. According to the note, the museum found the contents of the journal inappropriate for either display or academic study.The letter ended with a brief but firm postscript that the museum in question wanted to avoid any notoriety that might come with the publication of this journal. Furthermore, with their delivery of the package to its rightful owner, the firm's obligation to any involved party was now ended.The letter raised far more questions than it answered. Who wrote the diary and when? Who. Debbie was fine with both Carly and I calling her by her first name, which I kinda liked. I also liked her outfit she was wearing, a plain blue t-shirt that ended just above her stomach of her stomach and tight fitting jeans. Her brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and her blue eyes are warm and welcoming. My heart flutters a little and I could feel a slight tingling in my pussy. As I walk in after Deb, I'm surprised not see Carly, who thanks to a boundless energy, is usually always the first to the door. "Where's Car at? The way she sounded on the phone, I thought she was dying,” I laugh. "A friend of hers from cheerleading called," Debbie laughs in turn. "But Carly should be back in about an hour or so. Go get comfy on the couch, I'll bring you some iced tea." "Okay," I reply, secretly glad I get to spend some alone time with Debbie. As I sit down, Debbie comes out of the kitchen with two glasses of iced tea, placing one in front of me. We start talking, our conversation.
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