But as the wine kicked in she eventually ignored a sagging strap. As Donna reached down to toss a new log on the fire, a chocolate brown areola peaked...out at me from beneath her flimsy camisole, and as she leaned over to refill my glass with wine I could look all the way down its hanging neckline past her small breasts to the crotch of her blue bikini panties. I know this sounds pretty romantic, me alone in a desert canyon getting drunk on wine with two female rangers in their early twenties. With the men scarce and likely to be at it with someone other than their wife even when they were at home, the women would eat each other out, just to fill that sexual void. It sounded quite civilised in an odd way. I didn’t see Dorothy the rest of the week, but on Sunday afternoon the sun was out and I was lying on a sunlounger on the lawn when she appeared, carrying a jug of something pink and two plastic glasses. “It’s a cocktail. I found the recipe online,” she said proudly. “Watermelon ,. More

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