He slowly kissed his way down her body stopping here and there to linger on a spot, his rough hands caressing her as he went. She found her hands in ...is hair as he went down to his knees, his facial hair rough against her thighs...his breath so warm... his hands upon her waist... he teased her with circles of his tongue...her thighs...her hips...her stomach she couldn't hold back... she pulled him to her...his tongue found that place... that place that made her shudder from within, his endless. Thus adorned we arrived at the party. It was, as Donna said, ‘dead posh.’ She looked utterly gorgeous and I was as proud as Catherine Zeta-Jones’s mum was when the Welsh tart won an Oscar. Nellie was, well, Nellie. She looked like one of Prince Andrew’s daughters, what we call the ‘slapper Princesses.’ It was a great night although some of the speeches were a little overdone. One speaker, the rugby player’s manager, gave a long dissertation on the merits of the sport which Donna described as. More

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