Trouble was, Betty Watson thought her tits were even better and her dress was even more revealing than mine. There was only one way to settle it."Who ...hinks my tits are the nicest?" I called out drunkenly."Yeah," came a collected cry.I stared at Betty with a smirk on my face."What? Those floppy things?" she yelled back.She climbed up onto the drinks table and pulled her top tight to emphasise her own assets."Anything a guy can't get into his hand is a waste," she shouted.Shit, I could't let her. The man came into the bedroom, looked down at her and smiled. She had never seen this man before. He was probably in his late thirties, clean shaven, and smelled of cologne. He was looking at the top of the dresser, where her Master had assembled a nasty assortment of items. There were clamps and dildos and plugs. There were riding crops and canes, and a wicked looking, multi-tailed whip. There was lubricant and condoms. A small box contained needles and alcohol. Without a word, he stepped. More

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