Silk sheath

‘Fix me a bourbon’ Pam barked. She ran her hands down her hips, like she was miming climbing out of a chimney.

Jim went over to the antique oak drinks globe and poured her a measure. He felt his hand trembling with the anticipation of the evening. With growing member squashed in his trousers and balls writhing like a nest of newborn mice, he handed her the glass.

‘Give me four fingers, goddamit man’. Jim quickly poured her more bourbon. He liked her stern tone. It was powerful, dominating, chiding. He felt excited and frightened, like a naughty boy at a nude firework display. He glanced back to see Pam slip out of her custard yellow dress to reveal strawberry jelly neglige. Pink and diaphanous, like a see-through twat.

img_0183‘Ever done it in a hotel, Jim?’.

‘Never’.

‘I have. I’ve been entered in every Ibis in London. Come to think of it, I lost my prison purse virginity in a Benfleet Travel Lodge’.

Pam necked her drink like a stressed cop in an American movie, in the bar scene following the bit about his domestic chaos, just as the narrative arc is taking him to his nadir.

‘She’s hungry, Jim’ she growled, looking down at her midrif. ‘What’s on the menu?’.

Jim almost reached for the room service leaflet next to the phone, but checked himself and grinned broadly.

‘A big pork banger for main’.

‘And for pudding?’ Pam whispered.

‘Bollock yoghurt’.

img_0185Jim dropped his cream cords and kicked them across the room. One flailing leg knocked a cup of tea onto his Exchange and Mart. Jim made a mental note to request a hairdryer from reception later. Advancing towards Pam, he whipped off her bra to reveal enormous nipples, two mighty rivets holding together steel-hard breasts. They were amazing, two beautifully engineeed pleasure domes straight out of a Kingdom Brunel wet dream.

Kissing every square inch of her body, Jim struggled to control his obsessive compulsive disorder. ‘I want your chod rod to prod and sod my love pod’ sang Pam, to the tune of the Dad’s Army theme.

Feeling impish, Jim waggled his bloated phallus.

‘You filthy fuck metronome’ gushed Pam, licking her lips, her facial lips.

‘I only go one speed, Pam’ said Jim. ‘Allegro’.

‘I like it low and dirty, Mr composer, lots going on down the bottom end’.

img_0184‘Get ready for the bassoon solo. I call this next piece, Flight of the Bumhole Bee’.

Jim and Pam locked soft parts for about an hour. Afterwards Pam watched a fascinating edition of How It’s Made all about the manufacture of moulded pulp containers. Jim dried his car magazine with a small hairdryer and did a couple of sodokus.

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