So we sit chat and all relax with a few drinks going to break the ice, so i find myself in the middle of this couple in there early forties none of us...are oil paintings. They look at each other and smile sort of knowing what's going to happen, she looks at me pulls my face to hers and we kiss that sort kiss that you have before sex, slow sensual with tongues flicking each other wet lips mashing together. He in the mean time has been rubbing my cock through my jeans he decides that now he wants. During the morning and afternoon rush hours, the trains were horrible. Always packed to capacity, plus extra people. The subways were so over-worked and over-packed, that they hired 'packers'. During rush hours, these people showed up in uniforms, with little white pith helmets on their heads and did their jobs on the subway platforms. Their jobs? Train packing. When everyone had squeezed into a car, and it was obvious that no one else could fit, it was there job to force another two or three. Perhaps in time I’d be pelted with snails swimming in garlic butter, but so what. Garlic, I assumed, had to be better than Tabasco. That’s how life goes when you jump out of your routine and into the fire. How do we get used to choosing between bad and the unknown. And how do we grow comfortable with such lousy points of view. Well, enough philosophy. No, let’s talk physics for a moment. Yes, Physics. You remember, of course, that heat rises? Well, odors don’t rise, as a rule, they sink like a. He started taking full-frontal pictures of Tabatha for records, taking pictures at every forty-five degrees. Baxter walked round to her rear. Two ‘T’s for ‘Traitor’ were branded beautifully on each butt cheek. She was visibly shaking. When the photographer finished, he signalled to the guards holding her. They fastened her hands in front of her then fastened that bind to a chain which raised her hands above her head so her tip toes were only just on the ground. She was now very frightened..