Of course, only her parents were from India – her accent could be from nowhere other than North London.I followed her, wondering where she was takin... me, and admiring the sway of her long, silky black hair as she moved. Her milk chocolate skin was offset by a tight white t-shirtt hat, together with her short black skirt, emphasised her shapely form. The outfit was completed with black high heels and what appeared to be white tights – well it looked good to a eighteen-year-old boy like me,. She suddenly stopped and pushed me away saying “We can’t do this, well not here anyway”. This made me think she was up for some serious sex. She asked if I was busy on a Saturday morning because George always went to town and met a couple of old pals for a lunchtime drink, then home for a sleep in the chair. Regular as clockwork.I told her that after I had delivered the milk I was free.” Good” she said.” Come round when George’s car isn’t here. Don’t knock. Just come in. The door will be open. More

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