Sandi seated herself rather gingerly on the low-slung chair, self-consciously tugging her miniscule navy blue skirt as far down over her flaring thighs as possible. Then she crossed her slim ankles in the prim and proper way her mother had often insisted upon, nervously ran her tongue over her dry lips, and waited for Mr. Fletcher to turn around and break the silence. Much to her embarrassment, he merely continued doing whatever it was he was doing, whistling to himself as though he'd been all alone in the studio.

Feeling more ill at ease then ever, the nineteen year old wife made a deliberate effort to stare at the pictures on the walls rather than at the rippling muscles of the photographer's golden-tanned torso, which somehow reminded her of Larry Johnson.

Don't be ridiculous! she scolded herself. They don't look the least bit alike, aside from both having dark hair, and besides I'm not going to let myself think about last night. I'm not!

The guilt-tortured young housewife had been resolving to block out the sinful, obscenely vivid memory pictures from the moment she'd woken up to find herself nakedly draped over the living room chair, her lurid apricot-lace nightgown crumpled on the floor below. Now, hours later, she couldn't hold back a shudder as she recalled how filthy she'd felt and how she'd detected a scent of Larry Johnson's masculine odor on her own body. There had been a dull pounding in the back of her temples, and a disgusting stale whiskey taste in her mouth, but as she'd hurried into the bathroom, she'd scarcely noticed her physical discomfort in her struggle to erase the shameful images that swam before her tear-swollen eyes.

As she'd scrubbed her traitorous body, carefully avoiding applying any pressure to her ultra-sensitive breasts and soaping her hair-fringed vagina over and over to destroy any trace of her husband's friend's perverted oral assault, she'd thought she'd succeeded in driving the obscene pictures from her mind.