Panting, not at what I'm doing, yet, but at the shadows and echos of the outside world and your 'real life', in your head. The moronic letch who make... obvious comments about your private life. The treacherous 'married' who, adored by most, sidles up to you and would 'accidentally' brush his grey-slacked penis against your arse in the coffee queue, if only his gut didn't obscure it. The tedious spinsters who whisper behind their own cunt-stained fingers at the only girl in the office who's. After the filming with Greg she'd decided against looking for a fuck tonight. She had merely planned to grab one or two drinks, then go home for a good night's sleep. Shit, tomorrow night she'd get all that gorgeous prick the boy had shown her tonight. Her pussy was glowing just thinking about it."Hey!" the man beside her at the bar gasped. "Aren't you Charlene Brower?"The brunette acknowledged her name, trying to remember the vaguely familiar man. She knew she had fucked him, but she couldn't. More

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