Donna and Nellies Indiscretion the Hat and Donna turns heterosexual
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Donna and Nellie’s Indiscretion
I arrived late one evening at the pub which we always refer to as the Jill and Whistle. I was rather taken aback when I saw Nellie standing beside Donna. This would not normally arouse my indignation but on this occasion I was surprised because Nellie was holding the front of her skirt raised above her waist and Donna was staring intently at the revealed parts. I could not share the view because Nellie had her back to me. Nellie’s skirts are so short that lifting them could only be to disclose the otherwise barely concealed delights thereunder.
I approached stealthily and asked in a sterner voice that I had intended, ‘What precisely is occurring may I ask?’
Nellie turned with a horrified look on her face but Donna was slow to raise her mismatched eyes to me in a languid, unconcerned manner. Nellie started to make some explanation but Donna stayed her with a touch of her hand. Nellie dropped her skirt and walked back to the bar hastily.
‘Evening, College, fancy a drink?’
‘Is that all you have to say?’
I absolutely trusted Donna by this time and anyway, since we were in a very public place, there was no question of any hanky panky on their parts but it never hurts now and again to stamp one’s mark on things. I had, of course, reckoned without Donna’s quick wit.
‘Take a seat and I will let you into a secret.’
I sat. She motioned to Nellie to bring me a glass and then said, ‘You are not equipped to dissemble, College. Me and Cassandra imbibed dissimulation with our mother’s milk, she being as bent as an MPs expense claims. We learned at her feet the art of lying through our teeth. You on the other hand had the misfortune to be born middle class and with honest, if not altogether perfect, parents, your Dad excepted of course.’ By this time I could scarcely contain my urge to giggle. ‘See, you can hardly stop yourself smiling. How was your day?’
I gave up the unequal struggle and sipped my wine, happy in her company as always. She then revealed how Cassandra was having to appear at the local Magistrates Court in a few days time.
‘I do not know if you are aware that Cassandra recently worked in the local supermarket?’ I had not known this about her sister. ‘It was a brief flirtation with gainful employment other than her normal calling as an adult entertainer. Cassandra, as I have told you before, has a libido that is the nearest thing to perpetual motion on the planet. Working of course militates against her natural urges and so she decided to combine the two and entered into what might be described as an inappropriate relationship with her supervisor at the shop. Sadly for Cassandra, said supervisor’s spouse also works there and she entered a side room to find Cassandra with a mouth full of something that by rights should either be contained in a pair of gentleman’s briefs or assisting his wife to scale the heights of joy. With me so far?’
I was, by now almost as hysterical as I had been when I saw the piece about Raggit the gerbil that caused severe damage to one of its owners when it was, quite literally, blown out of the other owner’s bottom (Google it if you don’t believe me). I nodded despite my hilarity.
She continued, ‘Now, Mrs Supervisor takes a rather unfairly dim view of her discovery and, using her advantage of being on her feet whereas Cassandra was, as you may appreciate, on her knees, launched a kick which surprised Cassandra and the subject of her tender attention.’
By this stage I am almost crying with laughter.
‘The blow she received caused Cassandra, fortunately for Mr Supervisor, to open her mouth to yell rather than to close it which might have had serious consequences. This is not the first time Cassandra has been involved in combat and she, unlike the Supervisor’s wife, was quick to recover. She then attacked the wife and in the melee managed to break the Supervisor’s nose and the wife’s glasses.’
The scene was vivid in my mind’s eye.
‘So, she got sacked?’
‘She was indeed dismissed but not before Mr Plod had been called, hence her appearance before the beak.’
Later that night we were in bed. We were lying like spoons in a drawer with Donna behind me, her arm over me and still cupping a well-loved breast. We were happily post coital (if that is the correct term for what we get up to). I murmured in that delicious languor that follows such passion, ‘What exactly was Nellie revealing to you?’
‘Like a dog with a bone you are, College. Remember her bloke, the footballer?’ I corrected her, reminding her he was a rugby player. ‘I lie corrected. Well, in honour of his position in the team she has had a number eight tattooed just above her, well, this.’ Her hand moved down and cupped a rather damp part of my anatomy.
‘My God. And she showed you?’
‘She did indeed, so proud of it is she. I felt rather privileged. Nice puss too.’
I fell asleep, wrapped in Donna.
Donna and the Hat
You may remember that Nellie was getting seen to by the rugby player. Well, it transpired that their relationship was founded on firm ground and as Donna and I sipped a cooling glass of some unpronounceable Czech beer on Sunday afternoon Nellie announced that he had proposed to her.
Donna enquired as to the nature of the proposal and Nellie, somewhat miffed, said, ‘To marry me, you nitwit.’ She had apparently been overwhelmed. He had taken her to the club bar after the game the previous day, dropped to one knee in front of his peers. Nellie had hissed, ‘Not here, not with everyone watching!’ but had misinterpreted his intentions. He had proffered a ring, which Nellie proudly displayed to us and made his offer. It was, apparently, whoops all round, lots of laddish behaviour and a good time was had by all.
‘We used to call Cassandra the “good time that was had by all,”’ said Donna sardonically. I kicked her under the table and rose to hug my congratulations to Nellie who, inexplicably, started to cry.
A few weeks later there was a party to celebrate the engagement. There is a posh hotel in Queens Square which was the venue and it was evening dress and bubbles. Now, it has to be said that in our household evening dress was a rather complex affair. As I believe I have revealed hitherto, Donna is a deliciously androgynous woman, by no means butch, perhaps in the manner of Noomi Rapace, when she played The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Donna favoured trousers over frocks for herself but was not sure it would be suitable for the occasion. My choice was naturally simpler. A quick flit with Donna to the charity shop, a long, gunmetal grey silk number with a crimson slash across the boobs, straps like spaghetti over the shoulders and a fullish skirt did the trick and only £60. We dallied happily in the shops to find something for Donna and eventually settled on a long split skirt, a sort of Jane Austen riding skirt in the darkest blue, with a white silk shirt and red tie.
‘I look like the fucking Union Jack,’ she complained but I think my reaction to her appearance gave her the assurance that she looked fabulous. I won’t go into detail about my reaction, suffice to say we were a bit sweaty afterwards. Her outfit was completed with a jacket which matched the tie and a pair of beautiful soft boots with faux spur straps. I wore heels and, to top it all off, a veiled hat. I will go into some detail here.
The hat, another charity shop purchase, had been in the back of my wardrobe for some time. Donna had discovered it one evening while searching for her vibrator. She had returned to bed with both items, plonked said hat on me, assumed a lustful, wolfish countenance, pronounced it the ‘fucking hat’ and had proceeded to do precisely that. If I felt initially silly wearing a hat and nothing else, I soon forgot it as Donna gently eased the ‘buzzcock,’ as she called it, into a certain haven and kissed me with her hunger aroused. It was Donna who dictated I should wear the hat and, of course, required the stockings as per usual.
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 ‘colonic intellect.’ When I enquired as to her meaning, she replied, ‘He’s got his head up his arse.’
Her head, whilst not quite so located, was pretty close around 3 am the next morning, approximately half an hour after we had returned home. She was still wearing the shirt, but the rest had disappeared quite rapidly. You may guess that I was still adorned with the TFH (The Fucking Hat) as it had become known and the stockings. Since my knees were raised and splayed I could see that the seams were still straight, which is, I think, a mark of a lady. The moment arrived, I clung to it and to Donna’s hair, my torso lifted off the bed as the wave of pleasure made me spasm. I subsided back onto the pillow and felt that delicious calm that always ensues. I felt her chin rest on my mons and raised my head to gaze down at those lovely, mismatched eyes.
‘Have you ever considered marriage, College?’
‘I rather thought we are married.’
She smiled. ‘Good answer,’ and crawled up my person, raised TFH’s veil, kissed me and straddled my leg. As she lifted herself a little to make the perfect connection between nylon and minge she said, as she rocked, ‘With sex like this, who needs a contract?’ Who could argue with that?
Donna turns heterosexual
It was another party. One of Nellie’s rugby playing friends was celebrating his thirtieth and we were invited to join the throng. This was no posh do, it was a typical rugby club piss up. Despite this Donna and I made an effort to look good for each other. This naturally led to a little ‘puss and pull’ before we were finally ready to stroll hand in hand to the venue. Nellie had pulled out all the stops and looked like a cross between Dolly Parton and a Christmas Fairy. Her chest was proudly displayed and her fiancé was clearly a tit man – he barely left her side all evening. Donna and I mingled, sometimes together, sometimes separately and were enjoying ourselves. I may have mentioned that I am incompetent dancer. Donna is not. She has a feline grace that sometimes seems as though her skeleton is not linked by normal ligaments but by soft elastic. Her hips develop a sway that, to be blunt, makes me as wet as hell. It obviously worked for others too, a queue of rugby players formed to take her onto the floor. I watched her with enormous affection. After one particularly boisterous dance she returned to me sweating slightly, or ‘glowing’ as we are supposed to say of ladies.
‘Gawd, College, I haven’t hurled myself around like that for years. Sure you won’t take me on?’ I demurred. Indicating I’d wait for what she calls a ‘swayer’ and she sipped her cold beer to slake her thirst. We enjoyed a quick snog in the ladies toilet, not, as she pointed out, the most romantic of trysting places but, well, we just needed to then she headed off to find another dance partner to exhaust. A little later she joined me where I was chatting to Nellie and her man.
‘I’ve just been propositioned,’ she told us mischievously. ‘He is, apparently, the ‘blind side assassin’ whatever that means.’ Nellie, who now had become something of an expert on the game, explained.
‘Whatever,’ said Donna. ‘He thinks all lesbians are merely concealing their deep desire for men because of their deep attraction to their own fathers and the profound repugnance that causes due to society’s reviling of incest. Apparently, College, it is common currency amongst the players that you and I are dykes and that, given a following wind, they could give us a Damascene revelation that would put an end to all that pent up desire. He kindly offered to whizz me back to his studio flat and undertake the cure.’
At this point, said player arrived looking more than a little the worse for his exertions on the dance floor. I suspected the true cause of his perspiration was more likely to be the effort of marshalling such a deliciously risible argument.
‘College, meet David.’ I shook his hand which he held longer than strictly necessary. Donna noticed this and I watched as she was clearly hatching some sort of plan.
‘I never asked you before, College, but have you ever had a boyfriend?’ I told her that I had had two, the first at the age of 8 and the second at the age of 16, this latter being for the sake of trying to see if I was normal. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘but you are normal. Did you love your dad?’ I indicated that I had loved him very much. I had a feeling I knew where this was heading so played along as her smile grew broader, realising I was following her lead. ‘This tends to support your theory, David.’ She placed a hand casually on his shoulder and I saw in his eyes the nascent light of conquest.
‘Do you think that your love for your father has made you a lesbian?’ I replied that it had never occurred to me but I too could see there might be some merit in the idea. But, I pointed out, Donna had never had that opportunity and so perhaps that demonstrated a flaw in the theory.
‘As ever, College, you slice through the morass of detail and home in on the crux of the issue. Would you object if I were to test the theory?’
Nellie’s eyes widened, sensing an imminent dispute between two lovers. ‘Donna!’ she exclaimed.
I patted Nellie’s hand. ‘Naturally the decision is yours.’
There was a clearly visible bulge in the player’s trousers by this time and Donna had been leaning gently on him as the conversation developed. She suddenly let his side and took me in her arms and kissed me very fully on the lips.
‘Know what, College, I think we’ll have one last dance since they seem to be playing something more to your liking, and then we’ll go home and engage in some of our more disgusting practices.’ She turned her head to David, her arms still around me. ‘Sorry, Dave. Great dancing but crap psychology.’ With that she led me giggling to the dance floor.
Back home we showered together to rid ourselves of the sweat and I dropped to my knees for two reasons. The first is that it makes it easier for Donna to wash my hair. The second is that in that position I can have a lovely conversation with the lips that never answer back. I rose a few moments later and we held each other and kissed.
‘You’ll have to get quicker at that. Our hot water bill will be enormous.’
‘Have you ever had a boyfriend?’
‘Well, I think I had one for about seven minutes tonight. It didn’t last. I was rather taken with a certain pair of nipples that were waiting for me.’ She squeezed one of them quite hard and kissed my mouth. ‘Time to make a trib-ute to Sappho.’ And so to bed.
I arrived late one evening at the pub which we always refer to as the Jill and Whistle. I was rather taken aback when I saw Nellie standing beside Donna. This would not normally arouse my indignation but on this occasion I was surprised because Nellie was holding the front of her skirt raised above her waist and Donna was staring intently at the revealed parts. I could not share the view because Nellie had her back to me. Nellie’s skirts are so short that lifting them could only be to disclose the otherwise barely concealed delights thereunder.
I approached stealthily and asked in a sterner voice that I had intended, ‘What precisely is occurring may I ask?’
Nellie turned with a horrified look on her face but Donna was slow to raise her mismatched eyes to me in a languid, unconcerned manner. Nellie started to make some explanation but Donna stayed her with a touch of her hand. Nellie dropped her skirt and walked back to the bar hastily.
‘Evening, College, fancy a drink?’
‘Is that all you have to say?’
I absolutely trusted Donna by this time and anyway, since we were in a very public place, there was no question of any hanky panky on their parts but it never hurts now and again to stamp one’s mark on things. I had, of course, reckoned without Donna’s quick wit.
‘Take a seat and I will let you into a secret.’
I sat. She motioned to Nellie to bring me a glass and then said, ‘You are not equipped to dissemble, College. Me and Cassandra imbibed dissimulation with our mother’s milk, she being as bent as an MPs expense claims. We learned at her feet the art of lying through our teeth. You on the other hand had the misfortune to be born middle class and with honest, if not altogether perfect, parents, your Dad excepted of course.’ By this time I could scarcely contain my urge to giggle. ‘See, you can hardly stop yourself smiling. How was your day?’
I gave up the unequal struggle and sipped my wine, happy in her company as always. She then revealed how Cassandra was having to appear at the local Magistrates Court in a few days time.
‘I do not know if you are aware that Cassandra recently worked in the local supermarket?’ I had not known this about her sister. ‘It was a brief flirtation with gainful employment other than her normal calling as an adult entertainer. Cassandra, as I have told you before, has a libido that is the nearest thing to perpetual motion on the planet. Working of course militates against her natural urges and so she decided to combine the two and entered into what might be described as an inappropriate relationship with her supervisor at the shop. Sadly for Cassandra, said supervisor’s spouse also works there and she entered a side room to find Cassandra with a mouth full of something that by rights should either be contained in a pair of gentleman’s briefs or assisting his wife to scale the heights of joy. With me so far?’
I was, by now almost as hysterical as I had been when I saw the piece about Raggit the gerbil that caused severe damage to one of its owners when it was, quite literally, blown out of the other owner’s bottom (Google it if you don’t believe me). I nodded despite my hilarity.
She continued, ‘Now, Mrs Supervisor takes a rather unfairly dim view of her discovery and, using her advantage of being on her feet whereas Cassandra was, as you may appreciate, on her knees, launched a kick which surprised Cassandra and the subject of her tender attention.’
By this stage I am almost crying with laughter.
‘The blow she received caused Cassandra, fortunately for Mr Supervisor, to open her mouth to yell rather than to close it which might have had serious consequences. This is not the first time Cassandra has been involved in combat and she, unlike the Supervisor’s wife, was quick to recover. She then attacked the wife and in the melee managed to break the Supervisor’s nose and the wife’s glasses.’
The scene was vivid in my mind’s eye.
‘So, she got sacked?’
‘She was indeed dismissed but not before Mr Plod had been called, hence her appearance before the beak.’
Later that night we were in bed. We were lying like spoons in a drawer with Donna behind me, her arm over me and still cupping a well-loved breast. We were happily post coital (if that is the correct term for what we get up to). I murmured in that delicious languor that follows such passion, ‘What exactly was Nellie revealing to you?’
‘Like a dog with a bone you are, College. Remember her bloke, the footballer?’ I corrected her, reminding her he was a rugby player. ‘I lie corrected. Well, in honour of his position in the team she has had a number eight tattooed just above her, well, this.’ Her hand moved down and cupped a rather damp part of my anatomy.
‘My God. And she showed you?’
‘She did indeed, so proud of it is she. I felt rather privileged. Nice puss too.’
I fell asleep, wrapped in Donna.
Donna and the Hat
You may remember that Nellie was getting seen to by the rugby player. Well, it transpired that their relationship was founded on firm ground and as Donna and I sipped a cooling glass of some unpronounceable Czech beer on Sunday afternoon Nellie announced that he had proposed to her.
Donna enquired as to the nature of the proposal and Nellie, somewhat miffed, said, ‘To marry me, you nitwit.’ She had apparently been overwhelmed. He had taken her to the club bar after the game the previous day, dropped to one knee in front of his peers. Nellie had hissed, ‘Not here, not with everyone watching!’ but had misinterpreted his intentions. He had proffered a ring, which Nellie proudly displayed to us and made his offer. It was, apparently, whoops all round, lots of laddish behaviour and a good time was had by all.
‘We used to call Cassandra the “good time that was had by all,”’ said Donna sardonically. I kicked her under the table and rose to hug my congratulations to Nellie who, inexplicably, started to cry.
A few weeks later there was a party to celebrate the engagement. There is a posh hotel in Queens Square which was the venue and it was evening dress and bubbles. Now, it has to be said that in our household evening dress was a rather complex affair. As I believe I have revealed hitherto, Donna is a deliciously androgynous woman, by no means butch, perhaps in the manner of Noomi Rapace, when she played The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Donna favoured trousers over frocks for herself but was not sure it would be suitable for the occasion. My choice was naturally simpler. A quick flit with Donna to the charity shop, a long, gunmetal grey silk number with a crimson slash across the boobs, straps like spaghetti over the shoulders and a fullish skirt did the trick and only £60. We dallied happily in the shops to find something for Donna and eventually settled on a long split skirt, a sort of Jane Austen riding skirt in the darkest blue, with a white silk shirt and red tie.
‘I look like the fucking Union Jack,’ she complained but I think my reaction to her appearance gave her the assurance that she looked fabulous. I won’t go into detail about my reaction, suffice to say we were a bit sweaty afterwards. Her outfit was completed with a jacket which matched the tie and a pair of beautiful soft boots with faux spur straps. I wore heels and, to top it all off, a veiled hat. I will go into some detail here.
The hat, another charity shop purchase, had been in the back of my wardrobe for some time. Donna had discovered it one evening while searching for her vibrator. She had returned to bed with both items, plonked said hat on me, assumed a lustful, wolfish countenance, pronounced it the ‘fucking hat’ and had proceeded to do precisely that. If I felt initially silly wearing a hat and nothing else, I soon forgot it as Donna gently eased the ‘buzzcock,’ as she called it, into a certain haven and kissed me with her hunger aroused. It was Donna who dictated I should wear the hat and, of course, required the stockings as per usual.
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 ‘colonic intellect.’ When I enquired as to her meaning, she replied, ‘He’s got his head up his arse.’
Her head, whilst not quite so located, was pretty close around 3 am the next morning, approximately half an hour after we had returned home. She was still wearing the shirt, but the rest had disappeared quite rapidly. You may guess that I was still adorned with the TFH (The Fucking Hat) as it had become known and the stockings. Since my knees were raised and splayed I could see that the seams were still straight, which is, I think, a mark of a lady. The moment arrived, I clung to it and to Donna’s hair, my torso lifted off the bed as the wave of pleasure made me spasm. I subsided back onto the pillow and felt that delicious calm that always ensues. I felt her chin rest on my mons and raised my head to gaze down at those lovely, mismatched eyes.
‘Have you ever considered marriage, College?’
‘I rather thought we are married.’
She smiled. ‘Good answer,’ and crawled up my person, raised TFH’s veil, kissed me and straddled my leg. As she lifted herself a little to make the perfect connection between nylon and minge she said, as she rocked, ‘With sex like this, who needs a contract?’ Who could argue with that?
Donna turns heterosexual
It was another party. One of Nellie’s rugby playing friends was celebrating his thirtieth and we were invited to join the throng. This was no posh do, it was a typical rugby club piss up. Despite this Donna and I made an effort to look good for each other. This naturally led to a little ‘puss and pull’ before we were finally ready to stroll hand in hand to the venue. Nellie had pulled out all the stops and looked like a cross between Dolly Parton and a Christmas Fairy. Her chest was proudly displayed and her fiancé was clearly a tit man – he barely left her side all evening. Donna and I mingled, sometimes together, sometimes separately and were enjoying ourselves. I may have mentioned that I am incompetent dancer. Donna is not. She has a feline grace that sometimes seems as though her skeleton is not linked by normal ligaments but by soft elastic. Her hips develop a sway that, to be blunt, makes me as wet as hell. It obviously worked for others too, a queue of rugby players formed to take her onto the floor. I watched her with enormous affection. After one particularly boisterous dance she returned to me sweating slightly, or ‘glowing’ as we are supposed to say of ladies.
‘Gawd, College, I haven’t hurled myself around like that for years. Sure you won’t take me on?’ I demurred. Indicating I’d wait for what she calls a ‘swayer’ and she sipped her cold beer to slake her thirst. We enjoyed a quick snog in the ladies toilet, not, as she pointed out, the most romantic of trysting places but, well, we just needed to then she headed off to find another dance partner to exhaust. A little later she joined me where I was chatting to Nellie and her man.
‘I’ve just been propositioned,’ she told us mischievously. ‘He is, apparently, the ‘blind side assassin’ whatever that means.’ Nellie, who now had become something of an expert on the game, explained.
‘Whatever,’ said Donna. ‘He thinks all lesbians are merely concealing their deep desire for men because of their deep attraction to their own fathers and the profound repugnance that causes due to society’s reviling of incest. Apparently, College, it is common currency amongst the players that you and I are dykes and that, given a following wind, they could give us a Damascene revelation that would put an end to all that pent up desire. He kindly offered to whizz me back to his studio flat and undertake the cure.’
At this point, said player arrived looking more than a little the worse for his exertions on the dance floor. I suspected the true cause of his perspiration was more likely to be the effort of marshalling such a deliciously risible argument.
‘College, meet David.’ I shook his hand which he held longer than strictly necessary. Donna noticed this and I watched as she was clearly hatching some sort of plan.
‘I never asked you before, College, but have you ever had a boyfriend?’ I told her that I had had two, the first at the age of 8 and the second at the age of 16, this latter being for the sake of trying to see if I was normal. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘but you are normal. Did you love your dad?’ I indicated that I had loved him very much. I had a feeling I knew where this was heading so played along as her smile grew broader, realising I was following her lead. ‘This tends to support your theory, David.’ She placed a hand casually on his shoulder and I saw in his eyes the nascent light of conquest.
‘Do you think that your love for your father has made you a lesbian?’ I replied that it had never occurred to me but I too could see there might be some merit in the idea. But, I pointed out, Donna had never had that opportunity and so perhaps that demonstrated a flaw in the theory.
‘As ever, College, you slice through the morass of detail and home in on the crux of the issue. Would you object if I were to test the theory?’
Nellie’s eyes widened, sensing an imminent dispute between two lovers. ‘Donna!’ she exclaimed.
I patted Nellie’s hand. ‘Naturally the decision is yours.’
There was a clearly visible bulge in the player’s trousers by this time and Donna had been leaning gently on him as the conversation developed. She suddenly let his side and took me in her arms and kissed me very fully on the lips.
‘Know what, College, I think we’ll have one last dance since they seem to be playing something more to your liking, and then we’ll go home and engage in some of our more disgusting practices.’ She turned her head to David, her arms still around me. ‘Sorry, Dave. Great dancing but crap psychology.’ With that she led me giggling to the dance floor.
Back home we showered together to rid ourselves of the sweat and I dropped to my knees for two reasons. The first is that it makes it easier for Donna to wash my hair. The second is that in that position I can have a lovely conversation with the lips that never answer back. I rose a few moments later and we held each other and kissed.
‘You’ll have to get quicker at that. Our hot water bill will be enormous.’
‘Have you ever had a boyfriend?’
‘Well, I think I had one for about seven minutes tonight. It didn’t last. I was rather taken with a certain pair of nipples that were waiting for me.’ She squeezed one of them quite hard and kissed my mouth. ‘Time to make a trib-ute to Sappho.’ And so to bed.
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