Larry was a drunk, a relic from the unreconstructed past of journalism, a once-great investigative journalist brought low by a libel case and whisky. ...e, now, out of our editor’s rarely exposed sympathy for him, or for anyone else, come to that, did a column in our Saturday edition on farming, about which he knew as much as my bicycle does. I absolutely adored him. On his day, he was funny and amazingly good company. He called me his Tess of the D’urbervilles.Larry was a man you spoke to in. So I agreed.We drank at the hotel bar for an hour or so, making small talk. With each drink, I could feel the sexual tension between us intensifying, and it wasn’t long before he invited me up to his hotel room. Honestly, I didn’t even think about my husband then, even though his cum had been dripping down from inside my pussy and arse all day, seeping into my knickers.I don’t even remember the Scotsman’s name, but we got to his room and, rather tipsily, I stripped myself off and sank backwards. Ten minutes later I had the tent cleaned out, the stakes pulled and the entire thing stored in its own bag which fit nicely inside the backpack on top of the pad, leaving room alongside it for the sleeping bag, once it was rolled up. Except for that, the backpack was ready to go. I went over and brushed off the flannel side of the sleeping bag, turned it over on the table and did the same to the outside. I turned it again, making another check to make sure nothing had been picked up from the. And shower—there's still hot water in the tank enough for at least one shower..." ... If we share," I said, completing the thought.We scrambled out of bed, let the shower warm up, and lathered and cleaned every inch of one another. We almost made each other come right there, but held off: "like saving dessert for last," she said.Then the phone rang, and she walked naked to the den to answer it. "Morning, dear," she said to it. "I'm glad you didn't try driving through the snow last night..
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