" The White House Hotel is no longer in operation," she informed me.I almost asked if she was sure, but I knew damn well that she was. So what message...was Martin trying to send me, and why. The why was simple spies never said anything that was the simple truth. Okay so was Martin sending me a message, one he thought I would understand. I started with the assumption that Biloxi really meant Biloxi. So where the fuck was he and his merry men.Eve had called the place the White House Hotel, so I. I walked slowly around the room feeling circulation returning, in some places painfully. But it was a good cleansing pain. Walking was hard work, even at a snail's pace. But by the time I sat down I almost felt half human. There was only one place to sit, on the bed. For the first time I noticed how large it was, a full size king. I suppose, as long as no one was tied out spread eagle there was plenty of space for three. With their help I got myself up on the bed and laid down in the. The treadmill becoming the focus of my torture and my feet hitting the belt, each strike relieving the stress of the commute and waking me up. I love running in my jock and shorts – feeling the soft cloth of the shorts as they move against my butt. Once again, in my own little world – thinking about the minor indiscretion in the changing rooms and left wondering about the words of the poor bloke who’d stood there. He was older, late forties / early fifties and from the brief encounter he was. In these conversations sex never appeared. About one week went like this. On one day he told me about a girl who came to his shop for stitching a churidar. When mentioning about this he said that her boobs were extraordinarily big and when describing about its size he compared it to coconuts and he was laughing.Then I told him that as a tailor he would be knowing the size of it and asked him to tell about the size in measurements. H said it will be 40. I really don't know the mass of the boobs.