Breaking & Entering
– A Sally West Misadventure

Police officers are often bored, waiting for something to happen. Intelligent and conscientious ones get bored quite frequently. This was precisely the condition of PCs Sally West and Yasmin Khan on a fateful, rainy, quiet late September night in the more prosperous end of Queen’s Bush. The two young women had driven their patrol car around aimlessly, had followed and stopped a car being driven inconsistently only to find the driver was an ancient vicar with no hint of alcohol on his breath at all, had hung around the most troublesome pub till closing time hoping for trouble but getting only a well-dressed businessman with spectacles who had approached the car, asked

“Are you two working girls? How much, then?” and been lectured on female emancipation and sexual exploitation till he cried for mercy.

They had resumed their patrolling until Yasmin pointed out that they were using up petrol and contributing to global warming to no good purpose. They had then stopped their car near a now gloomy small park and waited till something happened – which was a shabby man lurching up, colliding with the car, swearing, getting out his c*ck and pissing on the bonnet. This time they could at least arrest him, which they did, only slightly disconcerted by his cries of

“Ooooooh, girls! I do like dominant women! I bet you wear thigh-length black booties, I mean boats, shushpenshers and tiny black shnickers!”

Delivering him to the cells and dissatisfied to find he had managed to piss in the patrol car, they resumed their night of service. They were looking for even the slightest thing they could possibly pretend might conceivably indicate that something was awry.

They were cruising very slowly down a quiet residential street, the hour being 1:27, when a light went on upstairs in one of the houses. It was enough for them to stop the car. They saw a shadowy figure at the window. It appeared to peek briefly through the curtains and then was gone. The light stayed on.

“Let’s have a look at that place,” Yasmin suggested. They got out. Sally shone her torch on the door and the nearest windows.

“Nothing,” she said, disappointed.

“No, Sal! Look!” cried her excited colleague. A window next to the door had been broken, not entirely, but so as to leave a neat hole in the middle. Upstairs, the light went out. Sally tried the door, but it would not budge.

“The window’s already broken,” Yasmin pointed out. So Sally reached carefully inside; but she could not quite reach the door catch. Instead, she took off her hat and used it as protection for her fist as she broke the rest of the window. It should be just wide enough for them to clamber in.

Sally bravely went first. The only problem was that the window was not, in fact, quite wide enough for her ample hips and she got stuck, her arse and legs projecting from the aperture. Giggling despite herself, Yasmin pushed her hard until finally she popped through. Sally waited for her smaller-bottomed friend to follow – and then they crept forward, using their torches as little as possible and stopping at the foot of some stairs to listen.

Upstairs, a few heavy footfalls sounded – and then the sound of a woman screaming. Delaying no more, Yasmin felt for and turned on the light and the two heroic officers charged up the stairs. As they neared the top the scream sounded again, telling them what room to enter. Sally tried the door, found it opened inwards, pushed it violently open and raced into the darkened room. Almost immediately she tripped on something and fell heavily. Another human body landed on top of her. A man was sitting on the small of her back. No matter – Yasmin was behind her. She heard a scuffle; a suppressed cry of male pain; a THUCK noise of something hard landing in something softer; a kind of sigh, and a moment’s silence. Then she heard a loud THUMP and a calm voice saying,

“Got the second one! Easy!” This was followed by the sound of a brief renewed struggle and the words, “No, I use the cuffs, stupid girl – like this!” and a click. Sally tried to struggle, but in vain. At first her captor did not react at all, but then he patted her squirming bottom as a parent might pat a bothered child.

The light came on. Sally could not see Yasmin, but it was now clear that the room was a bedroom. A woman, dressed only in a nightdress that had been pulled up over her head, was spreadeagled face down on the bed, her four limbs tied. Sally’s own wrists were yanked behind her and she felt the humiliation of being cuffed by her own handcuffs. Two men in full masks were staring at their three captives. The masks left only slits for eyes and mouth and both men wore gloves, but the observant officer could see that both men were black. One was quite tall and heavily-built, but the other was small and slim. These were important details to note.

The big man lifted Sally like a sack of potatoes and dumped her on the bed. Twisting her head till it hurt, she saw Yasmin also thrown on the bed, bouncing off the tied woman before coming to rest.

“Whaddawe gonna do with these two pigs?” the tall man asked the small one, “Fuck ‘em?”

“Yeah, but no hurry. The white trash has a good ass and maybe the brown one’s hiding something good too. We’ll thrash ‘em first.” This did not sound good, but Sally continued to observe and analyse: the small man seemed to be the leader.

“Maybe we should line ‘em up,” the tall man suggested – and it was done. Sally and Yasmin found themselves bent over the end of the bed, bottoms high, faces plunged into the rumpled bedclothes, necks secured by nooses connected to the opposite end of the bed, legs apart and tied to the rear legs of the bed, with the unknown woman similarly positioned in between them.

“Looks great, d…Dave,” said the big man.

“The other one’s called Dave!” thought Sally. “They’re giving things away!”

“Yeah,” the small man replied, “this is the right way to meet a pig girl. Pleased to meet you, ma’am!” So saying, he slapped Yasmin’s pert uniformed bottom hard.

“Do we rip their trousers off now?” the big man asked.

“No, s…Simon. First things first. There is a tide in the affairs of men. Handwhack ‘em on their nice tight trousers first. Then strip ‘em.”

Sally, though not looking forward to the whacking, was triumphant. The other man was called Simon – and Dave was an educated man who could quote Jane Austen!

SPLACK! Iaaaaaaaaaaaaoooow! Sally’s analysis was cut short. Her dear friend Yasmin had just received a most cruel and powerful swat on her bottom. The sounds were repeated no less than fifteen times (Sally had not intended to count, but found herself doing so). Then a brief interlude, the sound of Yasmin sobbing unwhacked and a shuffle of approaching trainers could only mean one thing. It was her turn.

But first she had to endure the shock and humiliation of the small man groping her buttocks, pinching, stroking, behaving like a farmer or butcher testing livestock before buying. When this treatment ended, though, she shivered with the knowledge of what was coming next.

The ruthless invasion, the sudden impact, came first; then the horrendously loud sound; and then the pain growing and spreading as her bottom caught fire. Someone was screaming, wailing, a primal death-scream, an ultimate expression of prolonged agony. She realised it was her. That realisation came seconds before the second whack. They were incredibly powerful and cunning. They seemed to be attaining superhuman strength, fuelled by their hatred of policewomen as represented by their bottoms. Sally’s bottom had received attention many times, but never had a spanking not on the bare hurt so terribly.

The torture stopped. Sally’s moans and wails gradually dropped in volume, her convulsive breathing slowed and her nightmare state began to return to normal fear and pain. Then one of her torturers delivered three vicious whacks in quick succession. It was a long time before her burbling sobs stopped.

That was the signal for the men to move to the next stage.

“No hurry – let’s rip the pants off this one and then move on to the skinny Paki,” the smaller man suggested.

“Suits me,” replied the big man. Something in his voice seemed familiar to Sally. She could not pin it down, though – perhaps a criminal she had briefly exchanged words with? She would have to stay calm and observant, do her duty and listen for more clues.

Her belt dropped on the floor with handcuffs and CS gas. She waited for them to undo her trousers, but instead, the small man produced a pair of sharp scissors he had no doubt found in the bedside drawers. He began cutting down the line of Sally’s arsecrack.

“Whoah! Nice!” said the big man. Her trousers had been peeled apart like the skin of a fruit and she knew what they were leering at – her bottom in those nice ever-so-pale blue knickers with little dark blue flowers, a new pair she had bought for her boyfriend’s enjoyment, not the lust of these awful men. But they did not care about her feelings. The scissors pushed into the top of her bottom crack and neatly snipped down the crack till they were actually pressing into her c*nt. Her knickers, like her trousers, had been cut apart, but they were not peeled back. Rough hands grabbed them and tugged them out from under her.

“Key question,” said the big man called Simon, “whose trainer do we use – yours or mine? Mine’s whippier.”

“Yeah,” replied the small man called Dave, “but yours are old and pretty flat underneath. Mine’ll leave nice lines on her arse from the ridges.”

“Hmm…hard choice. We could use both.”

“Done!” Dave concluded.

A brief intermission and slight sounds indicated to Sally that one man – if not both – was slipping off one of his trainers.

She heard the WHOOSH in the air just before the trainer made vicious contact with her unprotected bottom cheek. A cry of anguish escaped her.

“Be brave, Sally!” cried Yasmin. “Don’t let them IAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOW!” Then she was silent and offered her friend no more advice. As more cruel whacks landed on Sally’s arse, she deduced that the well-ridged trainer was being used first. Her bottom was burning, and in her tortured mind it seemed huge, even bigger than it really was, dwarfing the rest of her body. Then they switched to the smoother, more worn, whippier trainer. Whoever was wielding it had considerable skill, for he was cruelly caressing her soft undercheeks.

“No, please, don’t! Please SPLACK! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Ur, hur, hur, hur, hur, SPLACK! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Ur, hur, hur, no, please, ur, hur, SPLACK! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” were the varied and fascinating sounds which entranced the burglars as they made a symphony on her arse. Simon, evidently entranced by the view, remarked,

“Wow! Look at that now! The west is red! East is red, I mean.”

Finally they left her to sob and quiver, and moved on to the smaller, tighter bottom on the leggier, duskier officer. It took them little time to remove Yasmin’s pointless defences; and then Sally had to listen to the relentless thrashing of her dear friend and to her descent from stoic defiance to helpless, abandoned, childish moaning and weeping.

“Always had a fondness for classical music,” said Simon.

“Why don’t you do something?” Sally hissed to the unknown woman.

“Do what?” the woman replied with a hint of contempt. “As long as these louts are concentrating on you and your Keystone cop pal, they’re leaving me alone!”

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! No, please, please, WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” said Yasmin.

“What exactly is going on here?” asked a new male voice. There was a pregnant silence. Then Simon said,

“I wouldn’t use that thing, mate. It’s illegal. Even if we push past you. It’s only legal in self-defence, and you’d have to be reasonable in fear of your life. And as we’re peaceful people who wouldn’t hurt a fly (well, we hurt policewomen, but not flies) your fear wouldn’t be reasonable.”

This must be the man of the house, this woman’s partner – and he must have a gun,” Sally thought.

“Anyway, that thing’s a water pistol,” said Dave.

“Oh, well, worth a try,” said the man. “Anyway, what ARE you doing with my wife – and what are these two naked girls doing in my house?”

“Well, we captured and stripped your wife and we were about to spank her and screw her when these two strippograms came to the wrong address – unless your wife had called them?” Dave replied calmly.

“I see!” said the man. “Well, if she did, she has better taste than I realised. I must say I’m grateful to you two gentlemen. I’ve been thinking for months that Vanessa deserved to be thrashed, but I never could persuade her, and I know it sounds silly, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to seize her and thrash her against her will.”

“I know the feeling,” Simon replied. “It hasn’t stopped me, but I do know the feeling.”

“So did you come to my house in order to thrash and service my wife, or did you have some other purpose?” the man asked.

“Your wife was an extra. We’re burglars,” Dave explained.

“Ah. I thought as much for some reason. Would a deal interest you – you don’t take any of our property, but you can make free with my wife? And with these delightful prostitutes, of course.”

Dave and Simon briefly conferred.

“We could just belt you one,” Simon pointed out.

“And I am a fourth Dan. The deal is on the table.”

“Done,” said Dave.

“Excellent! Do continue.”

“Who were the first three Dans?” Simon whispered to Dave.

So the burglars gave Yasmin five more, perhaps to please the householder; and then they moved to his lady.

The lady was tall, leggy, queenly, with small breasts and a pert, round bottom which instead of emerging from her hips seemed to pop out as if stuck on. Her long, smooth hair curved round her shoulder-blades and breasts. She suddenly found her voice:

“Jonathan! What does this mean? You useless man! Why aren’t you rescuing me, or at least calling the police who are less useless than you?” It was an icy upper-class voice. “Mmmmmmmm, nnggg, ng!” it added. Dave had gagged her with her own nightdress.

“To answer your questions, dear – I’m not rescuing you because you richly deserve what you’re about to get. In fact it’s long gone time for this,” her husband responded. “as for the police, two of them are alongside you and don’t seem to have much idea what to do. On the other hand, they both have very nice arses and quims, and one of them is decidedly superior to you in the arse department.” He tapped Sally’s bottom with the water pistol.

“Ready?” asked Dave politely. A moment later the trainer descended on the posh woman’s bottom.

Despite her plight, Sally could not help thinking there was something quite amusing about this punishment. The woman seemed dreadfully offended, and something of this found its way into the quality of her shrieks. After eight or nine swats, though, she was just screaming and sobbing like any punished girl. Social distinctions did not stand against a spanking.

“I do have a cane. Would you like me to get it?” said Jonathan.

“Thanks a lot. Do, please,” Dave replied.

“Da…Darren – I mean Dave,” Simon protested, “how do you know he isn’t going to call the police? They might send proper coppers!”

“I’m a good judge of character. I trust this gentleman,” the older man replied.

Jonathan returned with a cane. Sally could not see properly what was happening, but the sounds were quite instructive. The woman clearly did not like being caned, and it appeared that she had got it from each of the three men. Sally began to feel slightly sorry for her.

“Can I make a suggestion, gentlemen?” Jonathan said. “It would be excellent fun to cane the big-arsed policewoman next.”

“Good idea!” said Simon fervently. “You first, sir.”

“Stop this! I’m a police officer!” cried Sally.

“Yes, and I’ve always dreamed about thrashing one, but I’ve never had the chance before,” Jonathan replied. “Well, I tell a lie. There’s this lovely little plump blonde piece patrols regularly round the local playing-fields and one day I chanced on her all alone behind this hut and I thought, ‘wouldn’t it be beautiful to grab her and overpower her and strip her and thrash her and, well, make love to her,’ but I just said ‘Hello, what a nice day!’ and she smiled at me so nicely I felt really bad for not taking my chance to do all that to her. But now you and your dusky friend have come along! I’m so grateful! What’s more, I do believe I’ll now have confidence to do the right thing next time I meet that juicy little blonde round the playing-fields.”

“Jonathan, you are waffling. If you want to cane the wretched slut, get on with it! YEAAAAAAAAAAA!” said his wife. Then, after a few moans and sobs, she added, “that was meant as a constructive suggestion!”

“Darling, I think our relationship is making progress!” said Jonathan smugly. “Hmmm, PC Thingy, you do have a very thrashable arse.” To underline this, he pinched and patted her bottom. His next contact with it was less mild. The cane bit into her right cheek like a superheated sabre. Sally screamed. Jonathan cut another mark below the first.

As he punctiliously continued to stripe her right buttock, avoiding the left, it became evident to Sally that he was no expert. His aim was uncertain, but he was certainly enthusiastic. Little “aaaaaah!”s after each stroke showed he was enjoying it, up until the moment when he handed over to Dave. Sally used the brief intermission to cry a lot. Her friend Yasmin, though, used it to protest.

“Leave her alone, you devils! Can’t you hear you’re hurting her? We’re police officers and we’ll IAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!” Sally could not see what they had done to her, but she did not interfere again.

Dave coughed politely as though attracting Sally’s attention. Then he sliced her left buttock. It was obvious that he was an expert, a master, his aim immaculate and the fiery retribution enhanced by a sly little flick of the wrist. When he had finished, a sobbing Sally had a row of precise angry red lines throbbing on her left cheek.

Simon made play of not knowing where to cane her next, before cutting a few red weals into her upper thighs and finishing with two clever strokes diagonally across those on each buttock, leaving it looking like a five-barred gate.

“Miss Brownie next,” Dave pointed out. “’Dja like to go first, Simon?” Simon would, and Yasmin was soon wailing after each ominous WHOOSH and cruel CRACK! When he handed over to Jonathan, he had a few words of advice:

“Jonathan, mate, I notice your aim isn’t brilliant. I’ve striped her on both buns, but with nice big spaces. Now see if you can cut her between my marks.”

“I’ll try,” said the householder uncertainly, and began his work.

“Well done, mate!” said Simon at the end. It was left for Dave to target a couple on the most sensitive part of her undercheeks and stripe her long legs.

“Well, gentlemen, that was really an education!” Jonathan enthused. “Darling, I think I might just untie you now, if these gentlemen are happy with that.”

“Go ahead,” said Dave. When Jonathan’s woman was free, she sidled up to him and Sally heard her whispering in his ear.

“Why, certainly, dear!” Jonathan replied, sounding surprised. “I didn’t know you cared! Which one of them do you want to thrash?”

There was a long silence.

“I’d really like to thrash both the little tarts…”

“Of course you can!”

“But the fat-bottomed one first.”

Sally knew that could only mean her.

“Your wife is quite a lady!” said Dave appreciatively.

“There isn’t much room left on her,” said Simon more doubtfully.

“You could do her calves. Maybe the nice little pocket at the back of her knees – and her tits haven’t had any action,” Dave pointed out helpfully.

“Excellent! All of them then!” the woman pronounced.

And so poor Sally had to submit to her slender calves being striped, vicious and cunning blows snaking into the point between the backs of her thighs and her calves – and then being pulled upright in Simon’s strong arms for the cruel, vindictive thrashing of her tender tits. The woman finished with two successive slices on to Sally’s left nipple. There was nothing left of Sally’s pride and professionalism but a moaning, tear-drenched slave; but Yasmin’s final abasement was yet to come.

Sally was so defeated that the sounds of anguish, of offended dignity, of steady defeat, from her friend and comrade caused her little further pain, but only relief that it was not her being punished. By the end, Yasmin was reduced as Sally had been.

“There is, of course, one more act tradition and natural justice demand,” Dave intoned.

Sally was experienced enough in these matters to have a pretty good idea of what he meant; but she had not anticipated the details of delivery, with Simon’s huge cock filling her mouth and jamming down her throat, filling her with his essence as though she was to be stuffed; Jonathan forcing himself roughly into her arsehole and Dave mastering her cunt, all at the same time before changing round. Again there was that odd little voice saying that something about Simon, or rather about his cock, was familiar. No, it must have been some dark fantasy from her dreams, the ones she dared not tell her boyfriend Nigel.

It still bothered her a little, though, as the threesome moved on to Yasmin for the same combination. As usual, the Asian officer was somewhat more vocal in her protests:

“NO! Leave off! You CAN’T do that! I’m a police officer! You can’t URGH! Mmmmmm…GLUG, GLUG, GLUG…”

“No gratitude, these people!” the woman of the house commented.

“Don’t you get above yourself, woman, or I may have to thrash you again!” her husband warned.

“Promises, promises!” she replied coquettishly. “Actually, darling, I think you’re quite tired out. You should go to bed. I’ll entertain this nice young man here!” and with that, she motioned meaningfully to Simon. The pair of them moved round right in front of Sally. Then, very suddenly, the woman tore the mask from Simon’s face.

“Oooooh, handsome boy!” she cooed. But the impression the face made on her was nothing to the impression it made on Sally. It was her beloved boyfriend Nigel.

“Nigel! How COULD you?” she wailed. He did seem a little embarrassed.

“Oh, hello, Sal,” he mumbled.

“HELLO? You’ve just done all these horrible things to me AND TO YASMIN right in front of other people! And what are you doing with this burglar?”

“Burgling. He’s my dad. You have met.”

“Hello, Miss Sweetass,” said the older man. Sally had not finished.

“Nigel! Why turn to crime? You’ve got a good job! You’re a plumber!”

“No I’m not, Sal. I was a burglar all along. Amazing you never guessed it. When I told my friends they couldn’t stop laughing – especially the bit about what happened in old Professor East’s basement.”

What?”

“When you chased after me and got stuck in that wooden demon and I came along and spanked you and screwed you.”

“BUT YOU RESCUED ME!”

“So I did. I didn’t want you left there forever, it’d have been a waste. I just switched accents. But I must say, Sal, however many times I’ve had you up the arse, it’s never been quite so good as that first time. Forbidden fruit, like.”

“You CHEAT! You BEAST!” Nigel immediately looked hurt. Sally hated seeing him like that and hastened to apologise.

“Nigel, I’m sorry! I suppose you couldn’t really help it, it was your upbringing or something…” He looked hurt and angry this time.

“This here is my dad, I’ll have you know,” he said, pointing to the burglar previously known as Dave. “He’s been a very good dad to me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Nige,” Sally replied, “but after all this, you do realise I can’t see you again. Our thing is over.”

“Shit!” said Nigel, “that’s a pity. Still, we can be good friends and all that. And if you’re at a loss for a fuck, I can always oblige.”

“Oh, why do you have to say things like that?” sobbed Sally. “You sound AWFUL, and I still love you even though you’ve been awful to me.”

“I don’t want to interrupt,” said Nigel’s father, “but is she going to split on us as soon as she gets free?” This did not seem to have occurred to Nigel, who looked uncertain and turned to Sally.

“Well, are you?” he asked. For reply, Sally’s tears flooded out so she could not speak for a minute.

“No, Nige, I can’t because I love you,” she responded. “I should because I’m a police officer, but I just can’t. But please promise to me you’ll try to go straight.”

“I promise to try to go straight,” said Nigel.

“Then I’ll keep my promise,” said Sally.

“What about the other porker?” asked Nigel’s father.

“Yeah, darling, you didn’t see my face or hear anything about who I am, did you?” Nigel asked of Yasmin. There was a meaningful note in his voice, almost a threatening one, but Yasmin was strong-willed and idealistic.

“You must be joking,” she replied. “I’m a police officer and you two have committed a series of serious crimes. I do know just who you are and I’m going to see you go to prison.”

Sally was horrified, both for Nigel and because she could see Yasmin might be talking herself into trouble.

“Yas, PLEASE! We’re really good friends! For me, please, change your mind and just say they kept their masks on.” Yasmin in turn was horrified.

“Sal! You’re asking me to LIE! I’m a police officer and I took an oath! It’s my duty! I’m sorry about you and your boyfriend, but I can’t fail to do my duty!”

“We’ve got a problem,” said Nigel to his father.

“Son,” he replied, “there are no problems, only challenges. If this little piggy won’t keep quiet on her own, we’ll have to make her quiet for good – no mess, no squeaks, no trouble.”

“Dad, you don’t mean…” began Nigel apprehensively.

“I mean I’m going to phone Winston.”

Sally knew, as Yasmin did not, that Winston was Nigel’s older brother. Since Nigel had referred to him as the white sheep of the family, if Nigel was a burglar who enjoyed exploiting bound women, Winston must be worse.

“Before I ring him we’ll need a description,” the older man added. “Mr Jonathan – do you by any chance have a tape measure?”

“Well, yes, actually, I do – for D.I.Y., you know?”

“Completely unused,” his wife commented.

“I’ll deal with you later,” he replied, and she was silent.

The two burglars busied themselves making a series of measurements of Yasmin, some quite predictable (waist, bust, hips, legs) and some more unusual and intimate. The older man repeatedly entered the results into some electronic gadget, remarking that stealing it on that job in Gerrard’s Cross had really been a good move. Finally he was satisfied and used his mobile phone. He did not have long to wait.

The trussed policewomen could hear only his side of the conversation:

“Hello, Winston? It’s your dad.”

“Yes, keeping it up. Indeed I am!”

“Look, son, I’ve got a policewoman who’s being a bit of a nuisance, and I wondered…”

“Yes, she sure is.”

“Brown. Indian or something.”

“Yes, with a uniform, slightly damaged unfortunately, plus I.D., baton, all that stuff.”

“Yes, we’ve got a description. Here goes…”

And later:

“Excellent! Wonderful! And you’re offering?”

“Hmmm…I’d thought maybe…”

“Good boy. It’s a deal. So where…”

“Bhagarem? Never heard of the place…”

“Oh, Arab.”

“The camel team? You don’t say! Well, you’re a good boy, a fine boy. The goods are in the post.”

Sally had convinced herself that this conversation was an elaborate charade, a sort of black humour (no, not black. That was racist). When duffel bags were placed over Yasmin’s head and hers, and the strings tightened, she was not unduly disturbed. Nigel might be a burglar, but he was a nice boy at heart and would not hurt a fly (well, he had hurt her bottom, but that was different, she told herself).

An hour or so later a large package was delivered to the all-night Hard Place Café marked for the manager’s attention. Inside was Sally, unharmed except for the thrashing. Of Yasmin there was no sign.

Sally was torn between her duty to her friend and her love for Nigel. She was still trying to make up her mind when she had to give an account of the night and merely said she had last seen Yasmin when they had both been hooded.

Four months later she got a postcard from Calais. It said:

“Love you still, darling. Went to see Yasmin. She’s getting on like a house on fire, a camel rather. She sends her best wishes and says you make a better strippogram than copper.”

That finally decided Sally. Love for Nigel came first.

12.05.11