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I spotted a large group of women hanging around an ambulance. I
led the girls over to see if we could interest them in booking an
Ann Summers party. As we crossed the street, the women murmured hasty
farewells to one another and scattered. We found ourselves alone
with the paramedic.
His name was Paul. He was well-built and tanned, and his hair was
shaved to a soft brown haze on a gleaming scalp. He had very wideset,
very piercing grey-green eyes and an infectious one-sided grin. Dee,
as our ‘nurse’, scrounged a stethoscope off him, He spent
some time listening to our heartbeats.
Our conversation, if such it can be called, turned to the subject
of tattoos. Dee told Paul about my new piercing, and it became a
case of ‘I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.’ He
showed me his nipple piercing. I raised my skirt and, in the middle
of town and in full view of countless CCTV cameras, flashed my newly
adorned clit. |
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Occasionally, whilst we are munching our corn-flakes, running in
sexual neutral and concerned with nothing more than the coming working
day, we are made privy to the gabbling of lovers or those in sexual
overdrive. It is, or it appears to be, mere infantile drivel (it
notably happened to the Prince of Wales when he expressed the entirely
natural desire to be his mistress’s tampon), but then, at such
times our speech is just background noise. It is other parts of us,
far more eloquent but their output less readily transcribed, which
do the talking.
I was drunk anyhow, and sniffing the air of the wilderness after
years in confinement. Add to that the fact that sex was now a banknote
in my back pocket which I might actually spend rather than Toytown
currency with no redemption value, and it is small wonder that I
was gibbering like a loon.
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