I suspect she's covered in moles.  I can see one on her neck and she never wears anything revealing.  It now extends beyond idle curiousity. 

So when I find out she's moving to Bedfordshire in a fortnight, I go out of my way to fuck her before she leaves. 

There are a few more moles, but not as many as I'd imagined.  There’s a small one on her back and what you might unkindly describe as a matching twin set, just below what they refer to as the bikini line.  Or just above her cunt, if you're me. 

The act itself is a waste of time.  Her flat's cold and she's got a hamster, or something else small and furry in a cage and you can hear it scratting.  The radio gets left on and it isn't my kind of music, or my kind of presenter, but then none of them are. 

She's dry and grimy and her tits don't look anything like as good without back up.  Even though there are no moles on them. 

The bedroom is full of odd-sized boxes and the carpet’s stained.  They're not the stains of other people though.  No way.

Martin C.