Pam clenched her undercarriage as Jim furiously fracked her seam. He was drilling for liquid pleasure, and Pam’s minehead was about to blow.
“Good job, keep up the good work, excellent stuff” Pam enthused, breathily. Jim winced. Pam was talking too much and it was putting him off his stroke. And then, suddenly, in the rushed, tremulous voice of someone saying that they’re going to be sick moments before being sick, Jim yelped “gobble my nutnog”.
In a flash he traversed Pam’s poles like a mad, sex-enflamed Ranulph Fiennes. Going from south to north like this – a cheeky erotic gambit for any gentleman to spring – was known as the ‘dirty switchboard’; so named by Betty Sweetmeat, a retired telephonist who ran most of the subterranean frottage oubliettes beneath the titty bars of Soho. The same seedy jerk joints where Pam danced the podiums, for self-esteem reasons and cash.
Lips pursued, panting like a birthing women, Jim roared “excelsis” as he reconnected this particular sex call to 69 Ecstasy Avenue.
Five minutes later, after the cleanup and some impromptu tippie-toe basin washing, Pam said “thank you” through the blue effluvia of an apres-le-rut fag.
“You’re more than welcome” replied Jim.
“Cigarrette?” returned Pam.
“Thank you” said Jim.
“You’re more than welcome” replied Pam with a smile, acknowledging the rather feeble halfjoke of having just said to Jim what Jim had said to her back to Jim.
Over the following 48 hours Jim and Pam rutted a further 19 times, until chaffing, exhaustion and frankly boredom knocked it on the head.