Our first round of sex this morning was more about getting each other off using tongues and fingers. The second time, after lunch, was a little too ur...gent to be classed as only making love even though it wasn’t frantic enough to be what I’d call straight-out fucking. This time, though, was tender and sweet and romantic in such a way that I almost wished it would never end.It did have to end sometime, though, because it’s difficult to keep the arousal from taking over and seeking release. I. The four days leading up to the dinner date were hard for them both. Neither said a word, but neither could look the other in the eye for too long, either. It was a toss-up who was more anxious the evening of, Rachel or Michael."How do I look?" Rachel asked, nervously smoothing the bottom of her knit top against her hips. Michael thought she looked just incredible; 9-year-old Effie gave her a more jaundiced opinion."It makes you look fat, Mom. I liked the other outfit better."Michael could have. Fogg, Passepartout had been carefully observing him. He appeared to be a man about forty years of age, with fine, handsome features, and a tall, well-shaped figure, his hair and whiskers were light, his forehead compact and unwrinkled, his face rather pale, his teeth magnificent. His countenance possessed in the highest degree what physiognomists call ‘repose in action,’ a quality of those who act rather than talk. Calm and phlegmatic, with a clear eye, Mr. Fogg seemed a perfect type of that. You earned yours,” the statement trails into silence and I understand that I am dismissed. I leave the demob centre in a spluttering ancient transport of welded steel and olive green, driving deep into the night, disgorging our human cargo as we go. We rumble and clank through the slumbering shires and fringes of towns whose lights pick out distant spectres of vast docking plinths and colossal hulls, silhouetted against the starry sky. Mostly, we travel in silence. Excitement, trepidation and.