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Sandra Swarts was accompanied by her two teen aged daughters, Elizabeth and Tanya Pong, offspring of her first marriage, a marriage that left her, at the age of twenty-one years, sexually dissatisfied. She mentally prepared for the weekend as she drove to her mother’s party to be held at Roodeplaat Dam while her two daughters aged thirteen and eleven sat in the backseat of the Honda.

Her mother, of course, would want to know why her companion for the past five months, had not come to the party with her. She expected him, as usual, much as she disapproved of her daughter’s latest lover. Johanna Swarts would be satisfied by nothing less than the attendance of her entire family at the party, but Sandra and her partner had reached the point of breaking up after their five-month long affair and she didn’t want her mother to know about this latest mess until it was necessary.

Only a dermatologist could have come close to guessing Sandra’s age, and only in a bright light. She knew, without vanity, that she looked as if she were in her early twenties. But if she were seen next to her daughters? The difference between being far and away the prettiest thirty-one-year-old woman in Eersterust and being a normally pretty fifteen-year-old girl is encompassed in just one word: youth. And youth, authentic, heartbreaking, flushed youth, was the only thing she could no longer attain.

Sandra had always been a great beauty – but as far as men and women were concerned, and her concerns had always begun and ended with both sexes – being beautiful was what made them approach her.

Sandra had been at her teen aged prime in the mid-1970s and she had kept a seventies look stubbornly and instinctively, without any of the thoughtful premeditation with which Charmaine, Mary-Ann and Nelly, her sisters, approached their appearances.

She was five feet nine and her black hair hung long and straight to her shoulders. Shorter strands of hair were encouraged to fall over one eye or even into her mouth, to be casually puffed away in charming impatience. Her eyes, bright and brown, were always heavily fringed in frank layers of black mascara; her small, fine nose and tiny, delicate nostrils had the charm of a child’s. Her mouth was dainty yet deeply curved and it pouted in an enchantingly infantile way above her well-formed chin. Her skin was so perfectly pink and white that it gave her the quality of a very expensive doll who had been dressed as a hippie by accident rather than design.

Sandra always wore tight, low-slung jeans or the shortest of mini-skirts with close-fitting vests that were cut to deliberately reveal the exquisitely feminine curve of her belly and the dimple of her belly button. She had dozens of pairs of pointy-toed Western boots in every kind of leather, a closet full of lavishly decorated cowgirl jackets, and pounds of silver and turquoise jewelry.

Rounded, appetizing, tiny-waisted, a lush little tidbit of a female with delectable breasts and bottom, Sandra could still display every inch of her slender and rigorously trained body. Her midriff, her inner thighs and her upper arms, those places where skin texture first changes as the tightness of youth is lost, were still in splendid shape. She had worked for that body, taking everything nature had given her and maintaining it with daily exercise classes and a strict diet, as vigilant as an obsessive curator of rare manuscripts.

She knew, for Sandra was shrewd, that she dressed right on the borderline of bad taste. She produced herself in the wild thing spirit of the girls in the ads for Guess?, except that she didn’t reveal glimpses of her lingerie since she never wore any.

When she checked herself out in her full-length mirror she made sure that she looked like a biker’s wet dream, yet Sandra Swarts could never be mistaken for a slut. Headwaiters, doormen and salespeople knew instantly that they were confronted with the kind of woman for whom they reserved their best service. Only a supremely assured thirty-one-year-old, who looked, in all essentials, like a kid, could get away with that stunt.
It would, of course, have been simplicity itself to slide gracefully into a way of dressing that was fashionable, suitable and yet youthful, but youthful wasn’t young. Young was Sandra’s operative word. Young meant men and women, constantly available men and women, light-hearted men and women too young to have ever considered that one-day they might find themselves on the verge of middle-age. Everything she put on her back, every hair on her head, every flesh coat of mascara, was intended to signal to these men and women that she was fuckable.

Sandra was ruled by the pursuit of sex. A few centimeters of flesh between her legs explained her actions, her motives, her directions, her past and her future.

Her earliest memory was of her first orgasm, self-induced when she was supposed to be taking an afternoon nap. She could tell, from remembering the cot and the very colour and texture of the blanket, that she had been less than three years old at the time, yet as soon as the wondrous surprise faded she had realized, with the kind of absolute knowledge that is inborn, that no-one must find out what she had just discovered.

As a child she had shared a room with Charmaine, Mary-Ann and Nelly, and her biggest problem had been to find excuses to lock herself securely in the bathroom so that she could give herself up to the slow process of bringing herself to the peak of pleasure, for an orgasm was never quick with her, but required long, gentle, well-lubricated, carefully heightened, deliberately quickening strokes of her finger-tips, and if she was distracted by footsteps in the hallway outside she had to begin all over again. Worst of all, she often had to give up entirely because either Charmaine, Mary-Ann or Nelly, impatient, would demand to use the bathroom.

After the death of their father, the four girls were sent to a strict, Anglican all-girls boarding school, with roommates and no locks on the doors. There Sandra discovered the safe retreat of the reading room of the school library. She staked out a deep, comfortable chair in a half-hidden corner. She would grab a book, throw a raincoat or a polo coat over her lap, let the book fall open on the arm of the chair, close her eyes as if she’d gone to sleep and, undisturbed, spend hours surreptitiously bringing herself to an orgasm. She would pretend her fingers belonged to a man, a faceless, nameless man, a man who was her absolute and adoring slave, a man who wanted nothing for himself, who existed only to bring her bliss. No-one watching her could have guessed what she was doing because she had so mastered the art of concealment that when she finally reached the ultimate moment only her lips tightened as she held her breath.

Sandra’s clandestine activity in the reading room was the focus of her days. She did her studying in the dorm, after dinner, with enormous concentration, so that her late afternoons were always free. She had little spare time to make friends with her classmates. During those heady years of change in the seventies that even reached their secluded cam-pus, at meals she half-listened to girls debate issues that seemed utterly unimportant to her.

Only sexual gratification interested her deeply, but she never betrayed herself. Her need to hide, born in infancy, had been reinforced year after year by her mother’s demeanor. Sandra had been deeply marked by the emotional atmosphere in which her mother moved: cool and reserved except when she spoke so bitterly about their father. Charmaine, Mary-Ann and Nelly, in many ways imitations of their mother, only made things worse. Vacations and summers at home had certainly not led her to confide in her mother, and year by year an un-reasoning fear of her grew, for, more than anyone else in the family, Sandra had the feeling that her mother could somehow sense her one preoccupation.

A week after graduation from boarding school, Sandra met her first husband, a Mr. Pong, who had been incredulous when he realized that this ravishing morsel of an eighteen-year-old had never had a serious boyfriend. Such girls, in his experience, weren’t supposed to exist in this era. He proposed marriage immediately, before anyone else found out about her.

On their honeymoon Pong began to wonder if his fantasy of awakening an ignorant virgin had been foolish. He used every technique that had ever worked with other women, he was as gentle and tender with Sandra as possible, but soon, intoxicated by her body, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from entering her and, aroused by a half hour of foreplay, coming quickly. Once he’d reached his own climax he’d try to satisfy Sandra with his fingers and his mouth, but she always pulled away. It doesn’t matter, darling, she’d say, it’s just not that important, I don’t care, honestly.

When Sandra became pregnant with their first child, Pong put the problem on hold. Perhaps the hormones of motherhood would provide the answer to her lack of arousal. Was she always going to be frigid, Pong asked himself wearily after their first daughter was born?

Their second daughter was born in 1979, when Sandra was twenty and by that time he had almost stopped caring. She was utterly faithful as far as he knew, she was always pliantly available when he wanted her, but she couldn’t respond beyond a certain point and there was nothing more he could do about it.

Other men lived with the same situation, with wives less adorable than Sandra. He never knew that after he’d made love to his wife and had fallen soundly asleep, she left their bed and made her way to her bathroom-dressing room, where she gave herself the slow, gradual, practiced, stealthy orgasm that she couldn’t have with him.

If only, Sandra would think, oh, if only she didn’t know each time her husband started making love that no matter what he did to her, his aim was to come inside. If only she weren’t conscious of that need beating away under every caress, inspiring his every touch, if only she weren’t so aware of his attempts to hide his impatience, if only she weren’t perfectly aware that he was wondering when he could decently allow himself to enter her. If only he didn’t rush so. He honestly thought he gave her plenty of time, more than enough, but he never, ever did and she really couldn’t expect him to, not the way men were. No matter how hard he tried, she could never count on him, as she could count on the faceless, nameless, selfless, slave in her fantasy.

When he died in a car accident in 1980, leaving Sandra nothing, Pong hadn’t worried about her sexual inadequacy in years. He had other girls who responded lustily to his advances, and toward Sandra he felt only faint resentment, and the love of a man for a sweet child.

Briefly Sandra had mourned him; or rather she had mourned their two-year marriage, not one day of which had fulfilled her. Then, free and twenty-one, she set forth on a quest to find the right man for her needs. A young man, a man who could last and last forever. Somewhere there had to be a man who would make her have the orgasm she’d never had except by herself.

Why had she actually married any man, Sandra asked herself now, on the way to her mother’s party, as she turned the car radio to one of the music stations and synthesized harpsichord music filled the car.

Dozens of young lovers in the last ten years – it wasn’t the life her mother had brought her up to have, but each time she went to bed with a new man some constantly renewed spring of optimism, or perhaps mere desperation, made her hope that this time it was going to be right, going to work, going to be magic.

All her lovers had all been younger than she when she met them. Each of them had been so entranced by her exquisitely sexy prettiness that they had been capable of miracles. At first each one had made love to her three or four times a night. Always, that last time, they were slow to arousal, almost lazy, almost not caring, without the fatal urgency that chilled her, and sometimes she experienced a small, brief spasm that was – almost – an orgasm. Perhaps it was actually a real orgasm, she wondered, the kind other women had with men, but there was no way to know. Certainly it didn’t come close to what she could do to herself.

Soon, oh much too soon, each of her lovers – like every damn man in the world – wanted to make love less frequently. Some she simply dropped. But with others she found herself faced by the need to pretend to have an orgasm or else deal with an utterly predictable discussion that reminded her of the unbearable tedium of her first marriage. Sooner or later, when she couldn’t endure faking orgasms anymore, break-up became inevitable.

Thirty-one, Sandra thought, and still chasing an experience she had to have. Thirty-one and still feeling that heavy, tormenting, almost crampy fullness, like a bowl of warm water carried between her legs, whenever she thought about a man who could last long enough in bed.
Thirty-one was a sickening age, the worst age she could imagine. One day, not so long from now, she’d wake up to find she was thirty-eight, thirty-nine, even forty. One day she wouldn’t be able to pass for a pretty girl no matter how well she took care of herself. And only a very, very rich woman could hope to attract young men after a certain age.

She hadn’t reached that age yet, not yet, oh no, not nearly yet, that fearful juncture of time and gravity was still far away. As they turned into the Roodeplaat Dam resort and the car began to crawl the road that led to her mother’s bungalow hired for the party, Sandra Swarts sighed.

I fancy myself madly tonight, Sandra thought euphorically, as she moved through the crowd after dancing with her brother, stopping to greet everybody, for not one guest was unknown to her.

‘Oh, Sandra,’ Nelly said, turning to her and putting a proprietary hand on her eldest son’s arm. ‘Do you remember my son, Milano?’ He looked up and noticed her for the first time since she’d sat down.

‘Yes,’ Sandra threw him a gratuitously wanton smile, a shameless, thoroughly naughty smile she reserved for special occasions, just to keep in practice. It was a pity to waste one speck of gold dust on her sisters.

‘How are you?’ Sandra purred, leaning forward so that the luscious half-moon of her almost uncovered breast nudged the back of his hand.
‘I’m… okay,’ the boy stammered.

I’d better rescue the poor slob, Elizabeth decided. Nobody deserved her mother trying to impress him. No matter what he’d done.
‘Milano,’ she said imperiously, standing up and tossing her hair so that for an instant she scattered a gossamer cloud of black dust on her shoulders. ‘Dance?’

‘Yes!’ he said fervently.

Sandra dug her nails into her palm in annoyance at finding herself so unceremoniously deprived of her nephew. He was difficult to talk to, but a man as clearly masculine as Milano Swarts was worth working on. It was only a question of finding out what plucked his banjo, catching his full attention, and then watching him fall. Obviously he felt that he had to watch his step with his mother’s sister, or he wouldn’t have been able to conceal some reaction when she allowed her breast to touch his hand.

Milano had potential, enormous potential, Sandra reflected, as she watched him dance with her daughter, Elizabeth. He moved well, with an aggressive grace. But he was dancing with her eldest daughter who looked determined to keep him all to herself, Elizabeth who had eighteen precious years of youth more than she had, Elizabeth who committed the unforgivable sin of becoming as beautiful as her mother, Sandra thought broodingly, her infantile mouth compressed into a thin pink line, her rosy pink skin going white with a wave of envy.

Restlessly, trying to shake off her darkening mood, Sandra looked around the room. Every man seemed to be linked to one of her family members, or a kid who belonged to her family. She sighed and resigned herself to a dutiful-daughter evening, although how she could be dutiful when her daughters were dancing away, absorbed by their young partners, she couldn’t imagine.

‘Excuse me, Auntie Sandra,’ a man’s voice said, ‘would you mind if I sat down?’

Sandra looked up to see Milano standing beside her.

‘Come on, do sit down, Milano.’ As he sat down next to her, Sandra continued, ‘I can’t believe how you’ve grown! How old are you any way? I’m all confused. I haven’t seen you in so long.’

‘I’m almost seventeen, Auntie Sandra. Nobody else can believe it either. I’ve been growing about a foot a year, I guess, and I haven’t seen you in almost a year. I was just a kid then.’

‘Indeed you were,’ Sandra murmured. Milano Swarts, the son of her elder sister, was a pudgy brat when she last saw him. He was one of those teenagers who age as you look at them, Sandra realized.

Sandra looked him up and down. Milano must be six feet tall. His rapid growth had left his frame appealingly gangly. He was a few years older than her daughter, Elizabeth, yet in every other way in the last year he had moved from the last border of childhood to the beginning of manhood, while Elizabeth was still firmly a baby. Milano’s deep voice, the strong structure of his face, the determined set of his lips, the intense definition of his features, all set him apart from other kids of his age. True, he was shy. But that was to be expected.

‘Is your mother still here, Milano?’

‘Yes, I’ll be driving her home later on. I’ve had my license for almost a year,’ he said, pride showing on his face.

‘Milano, listen, I have to go back home to get a jacket – it’s so damp here. Could you drive me back in your car – I don’t like the road at night.’
‘Sure thing, Auntie Sandra.’

Sandra led the way to Nelly’s Ford Granada, and soon they were back at Sandra’s deserted house in Lester Crescent.

‘I’ll wait out here for you, Auntie Sandra,’ Milano said.

‘Oh, please come on in, Milano’ Sandra replied. ‘I don’t like going into an empty house by myself. It’s silly, but I always worry that there might be somebody hiding there.’

He got from the car and followed her into the house to her bedroom, where one lamp was lit, standing outside as she entered. Sandra opened the closet and fumbled around, searching for her jacket. ‘Damn, I can’t find it – Milano, come here and look for my red jacket, will you? There’s not enough light in this room and, believe it or not, I’m colour blind.’

As soon as Milano busied himself in the closet, Sandra snatched a towel from her bathroom and threw it on the bed. She quickly and quietly locked the door of her room. Then she went to the closet and touched the boy on his elbow.

‘Never mind my jacket, Milano. I don’t really want it.’

‘Huh?’

‘I just wanted to get away from that crowd and be alone with you; didn’t you realize that, Milano?’

‘You’re kidding!’ He stood still, half in, half out of the closet, too amazed to move.

‘Yes, alone like this,’ Sandra said, and reached up and put her arms around his neck. Her pink tongue peeked out and tasted her pout-ing upper lip, as she looked up at him with anticipation in her wayward brown eyes. A mischievous half-smile lit her face as she savoured the novel idea that had brought her to her room.

‘I never thought… you wouldn’t want…’ The boy backed away, with an expression of alarm in his young eyes.

‘Milano, stop. You might as well relax. Now sit right down here on this bed. I want to talk to you.’ Sandra employed the commanding tone of voice she used with her children, and he responded to her authority, lowering himself awkwardly onto the quilt that covered her bed. She sank down six inches away from him.

‘Now, Milano,’ Sandra continued, in a lowered voice that no longer held any maternal note, a voice designed to forge a joking bond between them, a smiling, conspirator’s voice, ‘do you believe that I don’t know that before you came over to the table tonight you’d spotted me sitting there by myself? Didn’t it cross your mind at that moment that you’d like to – oh – I don’t know – kiss me maybe? Touch me? Even… do certain things you’ve probably never done to any woman. Certainly not to a lady. Didn’t you have those thoughts earlier, Milano? Tell me the truth, on your honour.’

‘Damn! You’re teasing me, aren’t you? You only remember me as a brat. You don’t realize I’m grown up now. You think it’s funny to play this game with me, right, and then you’re going to tell my mother that I had dirty thoughts about you, aren’t you?’

‘Neither one of us is going to say one single word to your mother. Ever. And I don’t play games with tall, grown-up guys like you. Did you have thoughts like that, Milano? You still haven’t answered me.’

‘Well… maybe something about dancing with you, that’s all,’ he mumbled.

‘That’s better, Milano. Much, much better.’

‘I don’t get it,’ he muttered, but he did not rise from the edge of the bed. He sat up straight, his feet squarely on the floor, one hand flat on each thigh, looking straight ahead.

Sandra made no attempt to touch him again, although he looked adorable and sulky and frightened, the lamplight reflected on his young skin, his young lips, and the nape of his young neck. She lowered her eyes while she spoke so that she could watch the effect of her words on him. Her voice had become very soft and she was careful not to move, to preserve the distance between them.

‘Hasn’t it ever occurred to you, Milano that a woman like me might find something very… interesting… about a young man of your age? When you’re still as young as you are, Milano, you have… powers that older men don’t have. But you don’t have the opportunities; do you, especially in school? It doesn’t seem fair to me. All that power going to waste.’

She paused for a minute and caressingly repeated, ‘All that power.’ She watched the boy tremble and grip his thighs with his hands as hard as he could. Such big hands, she thought, the hands of a full-grown man.

‘Tell me something,’ Sandra asked, drawing out every word cajol-ingly, whispering as if she were begging him to tell her secrets. ‘Have you ever had a woman, Milano? On your honour? Have you ever had a naked woman in your bed, a woman who would let you do anything to her? Hmmm? I think I know something private about you, Milano. I think that night after night, you get into bed and then you can’t fall asleep for the longest time because you get hard, Milano, your cock gets so terribly hard, so terribly big, because you need a woman so much, and the more you think about it the bigger and harder you get, so very hard that you think you’re going to die if you don’t have a woman… isn’t that true, Milano?’

‘Stop,’ he groaned, ‘please stop.’ His legs were still firmly planted on the floor, but Sandra could see that under the taut crotch of his jeans a heavy ridge of flesh was lengthening up flat against his stomach more than halfway to his belt. Milano sat completely immobile except for his hands punishing his thighs, afraid to make a move in her direction, too embarrassed to look at Sandra but terribly aware of the uncontrollable excitement that her whispered words were causing. He still looked straight ahead into the dimness of the bedroom but he knew that his penis was jerking against the fabric of his jeans in a way that nobody could miss. Sandra Swarts had dominated his sexual fantasies for years, but he was so shy that it had taken the greatest effort to speak to her tonight. Now he was terrified that he’d come in his pants if she kept on speaking to him like that.

‘Do you know what I think, Milano?’ Sandra said in her teasing, little-girl, secret-telling voice. ‘I think that in bed at night, you imagine a woman, a woman who’s only wearing a tiny pair of panties, so transparent that you can almost see through them, almost but not quite, but you can see that there’s a darkness between her legs. And then you let yourself imagine that this woman is pushing her panties down, very slowly but very deliberately, so that you can get a really good look at the wonderful hair, black hair like mine, so soft and secret between her legs, and then you get harder and harder and you can’t stop yourself from putting your hand on your own cock and rubbing yourself, just a little at first, and then more and more, and then you let yourself imagine that the woman pushes her panties all the way down and kicks them off so that they don’t hold her legs together.

She’s completely naked now but she doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t make a sound, she just lies there with her legs spread a little bit apart and she’s moving her ass around on the bed, she can’t help it, Milano, because she’s so hot knowing that you’re looking at her and seeing that you’re getting more and more ready for her, oh, so hard, Milano, so ready and then you finally can’t help it either, you imagine yourself reaching over and putting your fingers on her pussy and the woman still doesn’t say anything but she can’t stop squirming, trying to lift herself up towards you, and then she puts her own hands on her pussy, right over your fingers, and ever so slowly she opens her legs so that you can see what the hair is hiding and you know that now, now you can stick it inside her – oh, my goodness… Milano, I’m going to have to take that big cock of yours out of your pants or you’ll be in trouble, won’t you?’ Sandra whispered.

She leaned over quickly, deftly unzipped his fly, and took out his straining, painfully tumescent penis. ‘Oh, it’s so big, so beautiful and big,’ she said and held it in her palms, not moving her fingers. As she spoke the boy, goaded beyond any restraint, reared backwards and fell on to the bed, biting his lips together to stifle his cries. He flooded imme-diately into her cupped hands in quick huge spurts and with each spurt he bit his lips harder so that no sound escaped him. Finally his penis lay heavily in Sandra’s palms. She let it fall forward on to the quilt while she leaned over to the towel on the bed, and wiped her hands dry. The boy pushed himself back on to the bed, clutching his trousers, his eyes still firmly closed, panting in relief. Sandra bent over him and realized from his expression that he still didn’t dare look at her, that he was embar-rassed by the quickness of his spasms.

‘Oh, Milano, you did just what I wanted, exactly what I wanted you to do,’ Sandra assured him. ‘You’re going to come again and again, until you think you can’t come anymore. I’m going to milk you dry.’

‘I don’t get it,’ he said breathlessly, almost sobbing. He opened his eyes and looked at her. ‘Why did you do that to me? You made me come so fast, those things you said you knew I would, I couldn’t help it. You treated me like a toy.’

‘Listen, Milano,’ Sandra said, in a low but relentlessly carnal tone, ‘I’ll let you do and see all sorts of things you’ve dreamed of and some you haven’t – and if that’s not good enough, you can leave. We’re just begin-ning, that was just a sample. You don’t want to leave now, do you? Wouldn’t you rather stay here with me, Milano?’ While she was talking to him she was unfastening her halter and unzipping her jeans so that they slid to the floor. She stood totally naked in front of him and he rose up on his elbows, gaping in astonishment, too stunned to say a word.

‘Now, Milano, just watch, don’t you dare move,’ she warned him as she let her hands wander down her body, lifting and cupping her marvel-ous breasts and squeezing them enticingly together, and then smoothing herself caressingly over her slightly rounded belly and her delicately full hips until she brushed her hands enticingly over her pubic hair, her thighs parted a few inches. ‘Ah… yes… I knew I couldn’t trust you,’ Sandra said, even as she displayed the softness and shape of her body, fingering herself shamelessly. ‘You’re getting hard again, Milano.’

She had no intention of letting the boy touch her until he was so spent that he’d be ready to take her directions. She licked her fingers and teased her nipples until they stood up hard and firm and pale brown on her rosy, lush breasts. The boy began to breathe with difficulty. ‘Take your clothes off but don’t get off the bed,’ Sandra told him. She watched him as he struggled quickly out of his clothes, her hands never leaving her tense nipples, breathing deeply as he revealed his lanky but powerful naked body. ‘Now lie back on the pillows and say, “I’m your slave,” say it out loud.’

‘No!’ he protested.

‘If you don’t say it I’ll leave. Say it and play with your cock while you say it. Rub yourself the way you do when you’re all alone, show me how you do it.

‘No!’

‘Say it!’

‘I’m your slave, I’ll do anything, just let me put it in you.’

‘Oh no, no, not yet. You still have to do what I want, Milano. Don’t worry about it, just look at me, watch what I’m doing, and keep playing with your cock. I want to watch you do it. Don’t stop, don’t stop and don’t try to touch me no matter what I do.’

Sandra stood close to him as he lay on the bed, so that at eye level he could see her sucking the middle finger of one hand and putting it between her legs. She rubbed it back and forth, returned her finger to her mouth, sucked on it and then put it back on the fattening, succulent bit of flesh.

‘What are you, Milano?’

‘I’m your slave,’ he moaned through dry lips, feeling his penis fill and rise under his rapidly moving fingers.

‘What am I doing, Milano?’

‘Touching… yourself. Oh, Auntie Sandra, let me stick it in you, please, just once,’ he implored.

‘I’m all wet inside, Milano – but you can’t put it in me, you can’t touch, you can look but you can’t touch. Keep playing with yourself.’

‘No,’ he said unsteadily. ‘I won’t. I’m not a baby.’

‘Then I’ll have to do it for you,’ Sandra said ruthlessly, leaning down so that her hair brushed his testicles