I have just been left in such a state of complete sexual exhaustion that even Jude Law and Brad Pitt couldn't arouse my interest, never mind anything more substantial. Indeed, such is my repletion, that I fear I may never again be able to grip a Romeo y Julietta half-corona between my thighs.
But I am rushing ahead; you are no doubt agog to know how my husband drove me to such a pitch of sensory fulfillment and why I am typing this wearing only a rather torn and excessively moist, black lace thong covered in suspicious looking, green stains?
It all began prosaically enough when I was popping some undies into the tumble dryer and debating whether or not to sit on top and think of England. The tumble-drier that is, not the undies. I am proud to say that lust won over maidenly modesty, and hitching up my black mini-skirt halfway up my beautifully tanned, silken thighs, I parked my adorably pert bottom on the tumble dryer and waited for a becoming moistness to gather around my hardening love button. No sooner had the first tremours which always presage these moving experiences for me, begun to ripple through my thighs, than I heard the familiar tones of my husband over the pleasing hum of Germany's finest vibrating domestic appliance. "Darling