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“Sort of,” I said meekly, and I was very quiet on our way home.A month later I sat in the Eurostar, on my way to London, with butterflies in my tummy. It had taken me some days and restless nights to work up the courage to mail Gabrielle. She replied sweetly that she had certainly not forgotten our meeting, that her flatmates also loved my photos on Flickr and that Irene was still welcome to come over to London. She would pick me up on Thursday the 25th, at St. Pancras station at 7pm, after work.Flatmates? What the … ?I travelled lightly as Gabrielle has written, “Don’t bring too many clothes, I’ll take care of everything.” I arrived on schedule in London. Gabrielle was waiting on the platform, wearing a cute girly summer dress with biker boots, her red hair in a ponytail. She looked very pretty and bubbly and she was happy to see me. We kissed and she looked me in the eyes.“Nervous?”“No, not at all,” I bluffed with a coy smile which betrayed that this was actually the scariest. Of course he was by far the best lover she had ever had. Even on their honeymoon, Randy hadn't even come close to creating the desire and passion within her that Trent could almost instantly. A few seconds in the presence of the boy and she was his to do with as he pleased. She was helpless to resist him.Even though Randy had acknowledged her adultery with Trent and allowed, no encouraged, her to continue, she still felt an intense shame and guilt even as she lowered herself onto Trent's lance and gasped as he filled her.She rode him hard, at times almost bouncing off of his shaft then plunging downward to take it far into her."Whose whore are you, Marsha?" he asked, increasing the tempo and driving her into further mindless carnal desire."Yours, Trent! I'm your whore!" she breathed as her nipples turned to stone and the first of several more climaxes consumed her.Later after both had caught their breath, Marsha popped some popcorn and they watched TV together on the sofa. Trent lay.
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