Tuesday, 5 February 2008

THE DAILY MALE - continues...4/2/08

As CC shuts his bedroom door behind me and draws me close again, I feel the beginnings of a vibration deep in my cleavage. I pull away from him suddenly, talking loudly to divert his attention.

‘Gosh, your room’s tidy for a bloke!’ I shout, disturbing the romantic vibe between us. He looks slightly puzzled as well he might. Knowing that my phone is set to repeat at one minute intervals, I dive back in for a quick clinch then pull away again just before my tits go off for the second time.

This hokey cokey is hardly conducive to connubial continuation but I’m pretty sure he hasn’t noticed. Feigning a girlish modesty, I say I must go, give him a quick hug, peck him affectionately on both cheeks and reach for the door knob. He stands there like a starving man who’s happened across the only restaurant in town only to be told the kitchen is closed.

I feel very sorry and rather guilty, but tonight I am driven by unfinished business with a bad news bastard who’s had more women that Winner’s had dinners and for some reason, he is my choice du soir.

I hare off to my room to touch up my make-up and when I emerge, I bump headlong into CC who is walking past my door on his way back upstairs. We both stop dead in our tracks and blurt out our excuses at the same time.

‘I need to get some water,’ he explains.

‘I’m going to use the loo down the corridor cos I don’t want to disturb CBF…’ I fluff, and though my heart’s pounding, I silently compliment myself on my quick thinking.

We wiggle a wave at each other and go our separate ways. Close call…

I dive into the stairwell and leg it up to the fourth floor. Hot Frog’s door is ajar and I slide in quietly. He is sitting on his sofa resplendent in all his Gallic glory, deliciously decked out in an open-necked black shirt and gabardine trousers, his hair slicked back but long and curling at the nape.

He pours me my fruit juice and I flop down on the sofa and we chat about the day, then all at once he’s in my face again with his big, wet kiss. Do I dare tell a Frenchman how to perform the most basic sexual act? Needs must.

‘Can I show how I really love to be kissed?’ I breathe seductively, and not waiting for an answer, I close his mouth gently with my thumb and forefinger.

‘Ferme ta bouche…’ I command, ‘…and do exactly as I do.’

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