Well that's what she calls it, although there is not much examination and a lot of fondling. It's so strange to be feeling her up on the inside, so ho... and so... well more than sexy, intimate. It's not meat, not cold or dead. This is her hot, moving, breathing slippery insides I have my hand in, and she can feel every touch. If I put my shoulder right up between her legs I can reach between her lungs and stroke her heart. Yes, her living beating heart. Somehow it seems so... her centre... her. Tuesday night, as the week before, my husband asked me if it was ok for him to go and have a few beers with his pals, John and Peter, I told him it was ok, that I'd call over to my friend and have a glass of wine or two, he had a shower and dolled himself up, he smelled like a fucking perfume factory when he came out of the shower, this was no few beers with the boys I thought to myself, but said nothing, off he went, and I phoned my friend to come collect me in her car, we were like to private. More

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