He looked upon the smooth faces of his daughters, and growled. Sandra was his eldest daughter at 24. She had inherited her mothers looks with her dark...red hair and blazing green eyes. In the photo, the straps to her tank top had fallen off of her shoulders. She had a mischievous smile on her milky face. Her figure reminded him of her mother's. She looked like a belly dancer with her curvy hips and tapered waist. He smiled briefly, but then remembered that doped-up longed haired hippie loser. I just had to dangle my futa-cock before the concierge and she would—A man walked out of the back room, a smile crossing his dusky features. “Can I help you, miss?” he asked, his accent cultured and British, the refined tones of someone from the Indian Subcontinent who had an education. “Is there something wrong?”“No, no,” I groaned. “You wouldn't be able to tell me which room Rosemary Ramsey is staying in.”“Ah, no,” he said. “She asked for her privacy. You must be... Becky.”I swallowed.. More

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