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Flushed from their ballet lesson, they collapse across the canopy bed. "I want mine darker," Bronwen says wistfully. Her alabaster breasts have cherry blossom aureoles. "Don't be crazy," Gwyneth says reprovingly; "I want mine lighter." She lifts her camisole to reveal richly pigmented apricot blossoms. "Well, mine have to change or I will kill myself," Annaliese retorts. She is a pear, barely distinguishable except by texture.
In the next room, Charlotte (my best friend and Annaliese's mother) and I bite our lips to keep from bursting into laughter. "Should I?" I mouth to Charlotte. She nods back. I walk into the room with three lithe statues.
"Did you know," I say nonchalantly, "that there is a special rouge you can purchase for your nipples? This rouge stays put, through hours of lovemaking. Between the colour selection along with the flavours and scents, you and your lover can have whatever suits your fancy." As I leave the three blushing ballerinas, they whisper amongst themselves.
Finally, Annaliese musters the courage to ask, "Could you tell us of a boutique that would carry this?"
in the mirror
breasts full yet firm–