I took it into a changing room and put it on. The slight bagginess had gone: the tuxedo fitted like a glove. Cayenne smiled when I emerged; she obviou...ly approved of the way the tuxedo looked on me.The manager fussed around me, thoroughly checking the fitting. And yes, he did check the fit at my crotch. I wondered whether he too was gay like his nephew. “Everything seems to be satisfactory,” he said. “Does it feel alright?”“Yes. Your tailor has done an amazing job,” I replied.I changed back. After twenty minutes of warm-up, he moved her to the free weights. She lay prone on the bench, her thighs parted, feet planted on the floor. The spandex shorts carved her lower lips into a prominent camel toe. The sports bra held her mounds in a nice cleavage. She handled the light weights well in butterfly, her biceps compressing her boobs into deeper cleavage at the top of each lift. Syd imagined the pressed flesh cuddling his cock. After uncounted lifts, he posed her with one knee on the. . . yeah. Come inside.?She stepped back and let me enter. One thing I noticed, as I always did when I came over, her house smelled homey. The smell of cooked food lingered in the air as did the scent of a pine floor cleanser. I suspected one of my kids was responsible for that.?I?ve put them down for naps. Let me go get them.? She started towards the bedroom then turned back to me. ?Have you had dinner yet???I . . . ah . . .? My stomach growled loudly and suddenly I realized how hungry I was. I. Trace saw her at least twice a week. They spoke on the phone between times. Pam was French and wore the plain high hemmed black dresses I imagined all French waitresses wore. Even passing fifty her legs suited them. The temptation to see what I might see each time she sat was almost irresistible. One time she locked herself out of her place. She rang our place. Trace was out but I drove over to help her. I could remove the louvers from her laundry window but was too big to get through. I.