Flash Indian Maid

”A bright jazz trumpet distracted me. I glanced at the screen, in a bridal shop with a different woman and the honey-blonde and more fucking. She took it from behind and it blurred as we watched the raven-haired stranger riding her lover, her husband, whoever. Released from her grasp, Anne-Pierre reached forward. The roaming caress of her hand weighed on the woman’s eyes. Nodding her head, Anne-Pierre caressed the woman’s breast. Lost in the moment, my mouth dry, the jackhammer in my chest threatened to burst through. I would not tear my eyes away, paralysed by the intensity of the vision before me.Squeezing my girth, Anne-Pierre slouched in her seat, thighs apart. We became exhibitionists, breasts, and smooth sex exposed, she eased two fingers inside. A simpering pout, Anne-Pierre placed her thighs to the armrests, a brazen act for the black-haired woman to enjoy. Reaching over, she caressed Anne-Pierre’s knee. Upwards slowly, maybe tentatively, it crept along her milky. Going into the bathroom and looking around he noted a bottle of purple fingernail polish. He examined his face in the mirror and smiled. 4 McKay was wearing a gray sharkskin suit, black tie and a blue shirt. He was leaning against a filing cabinet idly watching his partner, Pol Andersen, who was standing next to the late Julian Blakemore, a prominent defense attorney, studying the bullet holes. Blakemore was slouched down in a swivel chair behind his desk, his head thrown back, face toward the ceiling. The right side of his face and shoulder was covered with dried blood. A dime-sized spot of blood stood out in the middle of his chest. “Took one in the temple up close, flash burns. Muzzle must’ve been almost touching. .38 maybe. The one in the chest, near the heart, was farther away, six or seven feet.” Andersen, a big, broad-shouldered Swede, was chewing on a toothpick as he moved around to the front of the desk. He turned to face the corpse holding his hand up as if it were a gun.
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