Indian Wife Scissor Fucked
Out.”“‘Out?’ Out with who?”“I don’t know. I don’t think she knows,” I said, “I think she was looking to pick up a guy.”“What the fu...” I glared at her, “What the heck do you mean, ‘pick up a guy?’ She’s your wife, married women don’t go out picking up guys!”“Maybe you can explain that to her, she certainly didn’t understand me when I tried to tell her.”“What are you going to do, Dad? You have to stop her!”“I tried, Sweetie, I tried, she simply wouldn’t listen to me. She’s got her head full of some New Age feminist mumbo-jumbo about some things that a father shouldn’t be talking to his daughter about...”“You mean sex,” she said with a grin, and I nodded.“Dad, I’m 18; I know all about the ‘birds and the bees’!”“I know, but there are still conversations that I shouldn’t be having with you.”“Okay, Dad, I’ll let you off the hook for now, but what are you going to do?”“For now, I’m moving into the guest room. Longer term, I just don’t know. I suppose I can forgive tonight if that’s all. I'd ordered some cases of beer and wine for an upcoming party, and, after leaving work later than usual, I pulled into the car park, hunting for a space. The place was busy, and I finally found a spot at the far end of the site, up against a high wall. I blipped the alarm and walked into the store. The collection point was near the front of the store, a male worker took my details and I showed him the order number on my phone- they even text the details to you so it's more or less paperless. I smiled to myself at the efficiency of it all. He thanked me, telling me someone would bring the goods out shortly from the packing area at the rear of the store. As I waited I watched the shop-workers, busy and industrious. Their uniform consisted of an olive green dress, or jacket and trousers, with an orange check tabard over the top. Most of the female staff wore knee length or just short of the knee dresses. My eye was taken by a young girl working in an aisle nearby. She was tall, must be.
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