Mr. Franklin had driven her to this state in seconds, a state she had rarely been to herself, even after 20 minutes of touching herself.She felt it bu...lding and building, the biggest orgasm she had ever had the pleasure to anticipate. She tensed up, her hands spastically shooting out, reaching for anything to hold on to, finally reaching back behind Mr. Franklin’s head. She grabbed his hair and began to let out a harsh moan.“I know. I’ve got you.” Even in the chaos, he had her. He repositioned. Wine bottle half empty. Sound at the door. Head swimming from sherry, wine and frustration. There she was, leaving a couple of paper bags next to the sofa and completely oblivious of what this had meant to him, as usual. ‘Hi roomy. You wouldn’t believe what day I had. First this bloody bitch from purchasing hadn’t followed up the order we have been waiting for, although I must have told her a hundred times. Now we are really stuck. And whom are they going to blame? Me. As usual. Then I had to. The motion of the train gently rocking us back and forth and before too long we drifted off to sleep, my hand between her legs lightly touching the silky smooth skin between her thighs and our heads leaning against one another. I woke and glanced down to my right, and all I could see was Vi's deliciously soft, tanned cleavage shaking and vibrating as the train pulled into the sidings at Central. I squeezed my right hand on her left inner thigh and moved it slightly higher, Vi spreading her. That took almost three years.Simon and I met up rarely during that time, but we corresponded regularly, and I caught the sense of him growing into his new role. And he was loving being kept so busy. I was even more pleased with the way he was able to joke about it.“I have this crazed slave driver keeps pushing me,” he wrote once, “and then has a craving for my body.”Just as I got the happy news of the publication of my second book, Simon, with a bubbly Helen alongside him, told me that.