Last Tuesday I came home mid-afternoon after attending a business meeting in London. The house was very quiet – no music or TV on – but then I heard a rhythmic sound which was familiar but which it took me a few seconds to properly recognise, a sort of ‘clack, clack, clack’. Then I realised it was the sound of my wife’s hand, pumping up and down. The lounge door was open and with a bit of careful positioning and craning my neck I could see her on her knees. She was wearing her pink “Miss Massage” outfit with seamed black stockings and some lovely stiletto court shoes and a diamante angle br… Read more