A frisson of pleasure on board the No19 bus heading up Piccadilly. Frantic sexting with Mr Text. Doubtless there are some who'd say this is all wrong (wrong, wrong), given all the other messy stuff that is going on in my life at the moment - but I don't care. I love it. I am sooooo frustrated.

So, the woman you see - the one demurely holding a copy of The Times, wearing pearl earrings frantically tapping away at her Blackberry - don't just assume it's all work, work, work.

I am thinking about you.
What are you thinking?
Nice thoughts. Lazy, sleepy sex with you slowly screwing me from behind.
I like how deep I can get from behind, especially when your arse is pushed right back and your cunt really juiced up. I've barely got my eyes open and already you've made me really hard. This bodes well for Wednesday.
I'm grinding my hips against you in slow, circular motions. Can't you feel it?
That's better! At least I too have a smile now. No time for more though, tragically.

Shame.