And I was shivering a bit. But I promised myself not to put on a stitch of clothing till Sam and Bill came back. Not that there's anyone to check on me, if I did. This cottage is miles from anywhere. It's a wonder it's even got electricity. There are a few sheep, I suppose. But sheep aren't my scene. And even Bill, who's tried everything, now, I think, would draw the line at sheep. Anyway he'll be back tomorrow.I tried writing a bit of poetry. Of course, I'm not a proper poet like Bill or Sam. They're going to be fucking famous when they're discovered.Anyway, here it is:'Twas on a groovy vase's side, Where psychedelic art had dyedThe fucking flowers that blow;Demurest of the tabby kind, The huffish Dylan reclined, Gazed on the lake below.Of course, it's not finished yet. But it's about our cat, Dylan, who died last year back in Reigate. And Bill said you've always got to get the word 'fuck' into a poem somehow. That way people know you're serious about your art.Tuesday, August 29Bill. “Not bad. You’ve still got it, girl,” I said to encourage myself.I walked in on their little group and their eyes just about popped out. The conversation stopped in mid-sentence. They all just stared in silence, mouths hanging open. Glenn was absolutely speechless. He’d rarely seen me dressed like this, and never around his friends.“Would you like anything to drink?” I asked, smiling at their stunned expressions. “Eddie, will you help me in the kitchen.” Eddie, Glenn’s best friend since First Grade moved like a zombie, standing and moving toward the kitchen without his eyes ever leaving my body. I could see his hard-on bulging out the front of his jeans. My outfit certainly had an effect of him. “You know where the glasses are,” I said as we entered the kitchen. As Eddie reached up into the cabinet for the glasses, I walked up behind him, rubbing my breasts against his back.He turned and stared into my eyes. He was trapped between my body and the tiled counter to his back. I rubbed.
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