On one occasion, Drinkwater arrived home from the office to find his wife spread-eagle on the breakfast table with the dark-haired girl’s head between her legs. Ondine turned to him, her chin glistening with Imelda’s juice. A familiar sensation ran through his groin as the ballerina said, “Will you not join us, monsieur Drinkwater?”
The sight was the stuff of fantasies: his buxom blonde wife lying naked but for a red kimono on the table at which they drank their morning tea, having her pussy licked by a gorgeous femme. Drinkwater's cock surged inside his trousers. For weeks he’d hoped for precisely this sort of invitation.