“A toast,” he said, “To the three ring circus arm of the Brass Ring Plooka Band. I mean, Polka, ” he quickly emended. Isolde giggled as they c...inked glasses. “Plooka, huh? And just whose ass are you thinking about plooking?” she asked. “Not mine!” Terry said quickly. “Gee,” George said, “I’ve never had a French maid before.” Isolde thought she heard a little edge creeping in beneath their thinly veiled banter, and cut it off, saying, “Stop it, you two, or I’m going to feel left out.” “Your left. It was a little over a month ago and it was not with her husband, but with her son's friend. The boy had visited for a short time over the summer and Mrs. Jensen had enjoyed him well. The last time having been in the bathroom of the train station where her family had seen the young man and her son off.She remember being bent over the sink, her jeans shoved around her knees, her panties stretched between her thighs, and the boy's firm grip on her naked hips. Holding onto the sink for dear life. More

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