We don’t have to tell him anything. Fuck Jimmy,” she said, fumbling nervously with a packet of cigarettes. “We both know he’s nothing but a fu...king arsehole,” she added, nibbling on a finger nail and handing him another cigarette, all the time staring into his eyes to gauge his reaction. “What… I... I don’t understand... What will I say?” he stuttered, choking back a lump in his throat, his eyes seeking reassurance. “What will I say when he eventually opens the car boot to let me out?” Sandra. "Acting Totally Like A Non-Thinking A-hole," Al said with a laugh.Brock joined him."I guess I've been suffering from ATLANTA syndrome for the past couple of months then," he replied with a head shake."Ha!" Al said. "You caught it early. So it's curable. A couple of months is no problem."He gestured around the clubhouse."Some of these clowns have been suffering from it for two or three decades," he said. "Mine lasted six months before Esmi got fed up with it and broke me of it."Brock was. You said, as we got to the car and you opened the passenger door for me.As I got into the car, I saw your eyes, those deep, dark eyes. You gave up your life in Germany for me, moved away from your family, and worked so hard to secure your future within the company, and our future, now we were married.You knew I couldn't resist you. It didn't matter what you wanted, I always gave it to you, always."Just get in the car S......, we really should be getting home".You walked around to the drivers. But the girl he wanted to turn on and impress the most with his firm muscular body was that hottie that slept and lived in the room right next to his -- his hot lover, Samantha. Wearing only those briefs, Pete slipped out of his room and down to where he could see that Samantha's door was pushed shut but not totally closed. Pete wasn't sure but he thought Samantha was telling him that she wanted to play the "striptease" game that she and Pete often enjoyed with each other. In their nearly three.