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Instantly my mind was filled with fantasies of Radha. She warmly welcomed me into their large house which looked totally empty. Their big hall had a dimly lit romantic atmosphere. She gave me a gorgeous naughty smile. But I had to remind myself that I had come on a professional basis and I am much below her standard of class. I kept a straight face trying not to show any attraction towards her erotic appeal. Radha dropped the pallu and asked me to measure her. Just when I was measuring her from all sides she raised her arms high up stretching her upper fully. I couldn’t stop myself from sweating heavily from the forehead and all other places. She noticed me sweating. She was quietly admiring my young dynamic appearance. After taking the measurements I went back to my shop. Throughout that night I couldn’t stop fantasizing about Radha’s sexy body, her unavoidable deep cleavage between the voluptuous balls. Next time I went to her I showed her the blouse stitched by me. She didn’t look. I placed one palm on the door tohold it shut. "Sheri, stop. Shouldn't we make sure no one's around?What if someone sees me?" Don't be silly girl. So what if they do? They're going to see yousooner or later. Besides, they probably wouldn't recognize you anyway."She brushed my hand away from the door and pulled it open for me to stepout onto the porch. I'm outside! In broad daylight! Oh fuck!Sherri stepped out, closed the door behind her and locked it. I wasstill frozen, like a deer in headlights. Sherri giggled and nudged myribcage with her elbow. "Better get going, Barbie, before someone seesyou, eh? I think you'd better let me drive."Oh crap. Now I have to walk all the way around to the other side of thecar, to boot. Which I did. Thank God I've spent so much time in heels.I was so nervous; I was surprised that I didn't fall down. But myexperience prevailed and my signature strut held up. I sashayed to theother side of the car, my right arm dangling loosely, not.
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I’m far from home and far from rich. Nobody here knows me, and it looks like nobody wants to.”“You’re gloomy tonight. There’s a girl for you ... Tell me. Do you think you could fake being a virgin?”“I’m sure.” He wasn’t about to tell Hank that it would be no fake.“I’ll try to introduce you to Mrs. Powell.” He succeeded. The name, which sounded like a matron chaperoning the dance, turned out to belong to a woman who danced every dance. She must be in her thirties or even older, but she was good looking for her age. She dressed younger and smoked with the men.“So, soldier,” she asked while they were dancing, “where are you from?”“Grand Junction.”“And where’s that?”“Colorado, western Colorado.”“So, you a cowboy?”“No ma’am.” He was thinking how to explain to her about mountains and men who worked on the railroad, when she spoke again.“Bridget. Call me Bridget. You make me feel old.”She was, of course, old -- nearly twice his age. But he had been raised too polite to say so. And dancing.

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