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Just me. And I was shivering a bit. But I promised myself not to put on a stitch of clothing till Sam and Bill came back. Not that there's anyone to check on me, if I did. This cottage is miles from anywhere. It's a wonder it's even got electricity. There are a few sheep, I suppose. But sheep aren't my scene. And even Bill, who's tried everything, now, I think, would draw the line at sheep. Anyway he'll be back tomorrow.I tried writing a bit of poetry. Of course, I'm not a proper poet like Bill or Sam. They're going to be fucking famous when they're discovered.Anyway, here it is:'Twas on a groovy vase's side, Where psychedelic art had dyedThe fucking flowers that blow;Demurest of the tabby kind, The huffish Dylan reclined, Gazed on the lake below.Of course, it's not finished yet. But it's about our cat, Dylan, who died last year back in Reigate. And Bill said you've always got to get the word 'fuck' into a poem somehow. That way people know you're serious about your art.Tuesday,. The dress further skimmed her wide womanly hips and her beautiful, rounded butt and ended right above the knee, exposing the shapely legs of a runner. “I don’t run,” she said, when he commented on the muscularness of her legs. “I walk everywhere I go, so my legs have always been really toned and firm.” As she spoke all he could imagine were those strong, firm legs wrapped around his hips as she enthusiastically received his hard, pounding thrusts. He was being made uncomfortable by the direction his thoughts were taking, so he proceeded to take her into his car and head to dinner as planned. If they had stayed at her place, the only dinner that would have been served was she on a silver platter! They arrived at the restaurant quickly, and the conversation between them flowed naturally and easily. One would have thought that they had known each other for many years, not just a few days. Halfway through the meal, she excuses herself to use the restroom. On her way out, she leans.
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