Parosan
The hummock at her crotch stuck out boldly, firm to her fingers as she parted the bright gold curls of pubic hair to let it be seen by her in the starkly illuminating mirror. Posing coltishly the while, shifting from one leg to the other, raising a knee to show off to herself the excellent, fashionably slender length of her legs, thrusting her pink-tipped, well-separated and high-hanging breasts out toward her mirror-image as if she hoped that other might reach out and fondle them, Maryon shook her long blonde hair free from its hasty knot and, reaching for a rubber band, put it into a ponytail. Caught by some memory of a Roman siren, seen on the TV, she sought around until she found a length of thin white cord and with it bound the hair nearest her scalp into a seven-inch-long whip stock from which the rest of her shining silk flaunted yellowly down in a true tail that flicked her well-pronounced milky mounds of ass each time she shook her head.For a while she disported herself by. He showed me his hands, and they were the hands of a real working class man. Scarred, rough, but nimble and clever, made to twist knobs, match gears, or hold spanners. That's when I wondered how his cold, uneven fingers would feel on my skin."I'm Charles Owen, and I'm a union man. I'm a worker, just like you are, and I've known tough. I've been beaten and jailed by the coppers and I am still fighting." A union? We don't hold with your bolshie lot hereabouts!" said Harry, my gangmate."Says who?" I asked. "Doesn't look to me like the pay is fair. We've been slaving for weeks and what do we get? The same shit wage while the bosses send their pretty daughters to that posh school in Scotland. Maybe's time to hold with the bolshies." I stood up, introduced myself, and shook his hand. It felt substantial on mine, strong and reliable. A hand of a man you could trust.He told me all about union power while we downed a few pints. I knew I was going to regret it tomorrow and the Missus wasn't.
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