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The window has four panes, dividing the bedroom into quarters. She is naked, fresh from the shower, with her hair wrapped in a pink turban and cheeks flushed.

Nice legs, nice tits, nice body- the full package with all the accessories. Man could have a lot of fun playing with a woman like that.

Unwrapping the towel, she bends forward, letting her dark hair drape over her face and her breasts swing. She dries the damp locks and tosses her head back.

Next she raises each foot in turn, drying between her toes. Then comes moisturiser, massaged into her skin, starting at her ankles and moving up. This is better than porn. Come on, baby, a little higher… show me what you got…

Something makes her turn towards the window. Her eyes are staring directly into mine, but she cannot see me. Instead she studies her reflection, turning one way and then the other, running her hands over her stomach, her buttocks and her thighs, looking for stretch marks or signs of age.

Sitting at a mirrored vanity with her back to me, she uses a hairdryer and some contraption to straighten her hair. I can see her reflection. She pulls faces and studies every line and crease on her face, stretching, plucking and poking. More creams and serums are applied.

Watching a woman dress is far sexier than seeing her undress. It’s a dance without the music; a bedroom ballet, with every movement so practised and easy. This isn’t some poxy whore stripping in a seedy bar or sex club. She’s a real woman with a real figure. A pair of knickers slides up her legs, over her thighs. White. Maybe they’ve got a blue trim. I can’t tell from here. Her arms slide into the straps of a matching bra, lifting and separating her breasts. She adjusts the under-wire, making it comfortable.

What will she wear? She holds a dress against her body… a second… a third. It’s decided. She sits on the bed and rolls tights over her right foot and ankle and up her leg. She leans back on the bed and pulls the opaque black fabric over her thighs and her buttocks.

Standing again, she shimmies into the dress, letting the fabric fall to just below her knees. She’s almost ready. A turn to the left, checking out her reflection in the window, then a turn to the right.

Her watch is sitting on the windowsill. She picks it up and slips it onto her wrist, checking out the time. Then she glances out the window at the fading light. The first star is out. Make a wish, my angel. Don’t tell anyone what you wish for.

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