The greatest thrill I had, at that time, was putting on and parading about my attic domain dressed in lace trimmed, silk French knickers with a matching, lace trimmed silk camisole, silk stockings held up by garters [not a suspender-belt! Real broad banded, frilly, lacy, elastic garters that fitted around my thighs holding my stocking-tops in place with a surprisingly firm grip], with my face made-up, a string of beads around my neck, a silk scarf headband, and 'button over' shoes, in as exact a copy as I could contrive of an illustration I found tucked into a pocket in the side of the 'underwear' trunk - apparently featuring the very similar silk lingerie to that which I was wearing. Again, the Polaroid camera came into play, and I still have laminated pictures of myself so dressed with my erection sticking out stiffly, lifting my loose knicker leg, the lace hem of which rests across the solid shaft of my cock, part the way along, like a fringe.I came back to that costume time and. Lev suppressed a smile. “Tak,” he said. “So.” Lev pressed the button, then set out a mismatched teacup, this one with a country scene, part of a set Polina Abramovna bought during their tour of duty in England, early 1960s. While the elevator wheezed up the five flights, he surveyed the table, with teacups, tea bags, lumps of sugar, sliced pickles, neatly arrayed. Something, however, seemed missing. “Polina, tell me, please, you were good with the guests,” he thought. “What must be done?” He looked at their wedding picture on the wall, slight smiles on their lips, the radiant future in front of them, not behind. Lev closed his eyes and, sure enough, her voice drifted into his mind again. Just as Lev pulled two neatly creased napkins from the sideboard, a confident knocking at the door echoed through the apartment. “Odny minutuchku,” he called, carefully laying the napkins beside the teacups. “One moment.” He unsnapped the three locks, then shifted the iron bar that leaned against.
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