I imagined I could feel steam building, condensing, dripping across the girth of the ever-growing erection threatening to leap out of my pants. I wasn...��t imagining. She was wet. “I’m… a little drunk.” She whispered. “Yeah,” I managed, “me too.” Words were no longer necessary. Our bodies became fluid, and in one motion she got up, I shed my pants, and she sat back down. Our lips met first, then our tongues, and my dick slid back and forth between her labia. I could feel my head tickling her. Such a girl had been Samira when she had served drinks to the ?Big important man? from London. Yet here he was -both metaphorically and in real terms- prone before those pretty little feet with their long painted toes and arched insteps. The lower extremities, with all their symbolic inferences, that occupied so much of his thinking lately. Now, in the heavily accented but surprisingly fluent English taught her by a former employer with the British Consulate for whom she had skivvied; it was. More

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