“Cor, that Belinda,” said Gary, taking off his trousers and wincing theatrically as he squeezed his scrotum. “She may have a fanny like the road...end of a traffic cone, but she bangs like a Glasgow shit-house door in a hurricane.” “I’ve noticed,” said Kevin, grinning despite himself at Gary’s colourful idiom, which seemed to be based largely on an encyclopaedic knowledge of “Roger’s Profanisaurus”. “You should have a go at Emma,” Gary went on, pulling up his black-and-white cow legs. “I reckon. I gently caress your inner thighs and your cheeks bare from the blue G string. My tongue probes your ear and the nape of your neck.I slowly undo your blouse and, as it falls apart, we can see the black lace bra in the mirror. My hands slowly run the blouse down off your shoulders and dance over the exposed skin as I gently nibble your neck and shoulders. I stand behind you, unclip your bra and it falls forward, exposing your orbs. I cup your breasts with my hands, feeling their weight. I. More

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