Indian Fingering
I looked at Julie.“Julie, you are a fucking artist! And a gorgeous one. People would want to take your picture and interview you eventually. You can’t ‘get a design studio off the ground’ AND ‘stay out of the public eye’ at the same time! These have always been mutually-exclusive goals!”I turned to look at Helen.“Helen, Julie is an artist, and you are a fucking PATRON OF THE ARTS! Go out there and fucking patronize her!”As Helen processed the idea, Julie turned on the news, which was showing a picture of our house with the caption “Con-Hel in Secret Love Nest?” (I don’t need Helen to explain that phrasing it like a question not only implied the answer but was probably a legally safe way to attack her, because a question doesn’t have to be supported with evidence; so, whatever bullshit “question” you “ask,” you put them in the position of “answering to you” or “hiding something.”)Helen looked out into the living room, to see Mander putting on the Julie wig she’d left on our coffee. Deniece had also donned her special black Cuban thigh high hose, the seam down the back of those curvaceous legs was not ignored by me as she walked towards her play room. I had decided to wear a light pink dress, simple, elegant and sissy, easy to get out of when the time came. My panties were white; a pretty red rose sat just above my sweet spot. It was funny; normally Deniece is a person who loves to chat about her panties, tonight not one word. Maybe I was just to excited to notice, or even care. I had that wonderfully special feeling I always get when I'm around Deniece so it just didn't matter. I figured I'd find out what was down there soon enough.Cinnamon arrived as expected, wearing a tastefully white full-length velvet pantsuit. It was easy to see why she chose that garment, it's full length zipper was made for easy removal and it's tight body hugging design showed everyone what had been intended when the female form was invented. A deliciously yummy sight, a pleasure to.
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