A catch. A peach. A woman you would brag to your friends about. One you might take home to the folks, too, so long as they didn't inquire about where ...ou two lovebirds met. "What do you make of it, Detective?"I turned to the voice beside me, shrewish, slightly balding man with a pencil-thin mustache that went well with his sallow,rat-like face. He could have been 42 or 62 - men like him always seemed a caricature of middle-age - and he looked worn out from a life spent catering to the debauched. Stan took the soap laden sponge from her hand and washed her. If he seemed to pay special attention to her breasts, Denise didn't mind. He moved the sponge lower, washing her abdomen, gliding it over her small belly roll. He moved lower still, soaping up her red-bronze pubic hair. Denise sighed, closing her eyes for a moment, but she told him, "Not this morning, Stan. Just wash me, please."Stan smiled, leaned forward and kissed her, lovingly. He said, "Certainly, my princess. Anything you. More

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