I sat at the hotel bar, sipping my ridiculously expensive vanilla daiquiri and watching the barman and the handful of fellow bar patrons blatantly undressing me with their hungry eyes.
Not that it would have taken much effort to actually undress me, for all I was wearing was a small, black mini dress that was cut low to show off a great deal of my full, bountiful breasts and incredibly short to expose my long, lean legs all the way up to my smooth, tanned thighs as I perched precariously on the bar stool. Oh yes, I was also wearing shoes – the expensive brand with the red soles that were all straps and bare ankles and toes; my darling husband, Jeremy, always referred to them as my f**k me shoes.
And of course I was not wearing a scrap of underwear – not even a miniscule thong to cover my
