She’s looking out of the window. One mile to start of dual carriageway. Hand moves from gear stick to nylon thigh, rubs, strokes. “I hope you’re...not expecting anything more, you pervert.” “My car, my rules.” “Are you?” “That’s for me to know.” Silence, save for the splash of rubber on watery road and the swishing of windscreen wipers. A car overtakes. My fingers squeeze, hold the nylon thigh tighter. Desire grows, throbs, an urge that will not be quenched. Dual carriageway commences. “Stop. I grabbed a bare ten minutes of stretching, then went to meet everyone at the garage. Since we were going into the bowels of Manhattan, we had two cars and two drivers. Sean had driven himself to work in his prize muscle car. George and the Mercedes were driving Siobhan and Francine. Russell was driving Christine and I in my Volvo. I apologized to Siobhan before we left. That was the last I saw of them for four hours. Julian has a standard procedure for all his business. For my session, he. More

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