Craig Smalls is an annoying little shit. I thought I’d get that out of the way at the start. He is the kind of irritating maggot that really ought to be incarcerated for a very long time, with frequent and violent attacks upon his spotty, malignant person by both his fellow inmates and the authorities. There is little to commend him to anybody except his mother. He is, perhaps, a good demonstration that nature rather than nurture is the cause of what we are.

That brings its own problems: if it is nature, then it isn’t his fault that he is a slimy, thieving toe-rag; if it is nurture, then you could argue that it wasn’t his fault either. He’d probably blame his father, if he had enough brain power to think of that as a defence for being an obnoxious git. His father left his mother when she was 8 months gone with this bastard (not literal bastard, they were married. That makes it worse in my book – he’d offered all the usual promises and then buggers off to Spain when the fuzz – the rozzers, the police, surely you knew that, my friend? - got close to pinning a set of robberies on him). Maybe Craig has inherited his father’s bad genes. So why am I defending this spiteful little pile of crap?

I was deep in the papers of the Manley Murder case. Mrs Manley was my client. She stood to come into shed loads of cash if I could get her off; trouble was, she was found standing over the body of her husband with a knife dripping with his blood. She was covered in blood, and her lover was dead upstairs. She had not one injury, not even a broken nail! Mr Manley had increased his life insurance not three weeks previous. Ian Jacobs (upstairs) was younger, better looking, and allegedly hung like a horse – though when he was found, that particular appendage was missing and never found. Fiona Manley was stunningly good looking, wore very tight dresses and no bra, and had put a deposit down on an apartment in Lanzarote. Open and shut case? Well, she claimed not to remember anything. She claimed that she found the knife on the floor and picked it up (but if she could remember that then why couldn’t she remember anything else?). I’m her defence counsel; an advocate solicitor. I shouldn’t really defend such a big case, but she wanted someone local, and I wanted to up my game and profile. But I was struggling to find a chink in the prosecution case.

Of course I believed her. It’s unethical to defend someone if you don’t believe them; so we lawyers find we can swallow remarkably large porky-pies with ease (I’ll let you work out the rhyming slang there).

It was five o clock. I was sifting through these papers, as I say, when Brandy Wine, receptionist, secretary and possessor of the stupidest name in history put her head round the door and says “Are you busy?” She is lovely to look at, can type very well, but isn’t blessed with more than a below average number of brain cells. Of course I was fucking busy! I wanted to shout. But when the other senior partner had shouted at her once, she’d burst into tears. Not a good look for the receptionist to have streaky makeup. Scares the punters, the customers, I mean our esteemed clients, of course. I smiled and was about to suggest that I was, indeed a little snowed under, when I saw Mandy Smalls. Instead I asked what the problem was and suggested that Mrs Smalls came in.

She was wearing a tight jumper, tucked into her jeans. It looked at once casual, and fantastic. She wasn’t huge up top, but the ensemble made the most of her assets. Her jeans were also tight, there was just enough flesh to give her shape, and not enough to hide her narrow waist. I’m a sucker, I know that.

“Mr Timms, I’ll be honest. I’ve got little money. I’ve tried the other two law firms and they both said I couldn’t afford them. But my Craig needs a lawyer, he’s innocent. He deserves proper representation.” I offered that if they couldn’t pay, then the courts would appoint a lawyer under legal aid. “They have proposed Dennis Sentiloviski. He’s, well, English isn’t his first language.” You’ll think she was a racist, so would I if I hadn’t met Mr Sentiloviski. You really don’t want to be defended by someone who advocates capital punishment for parking offences (I think he meant corporal punishment, a short sharp shock rather than a short sharp drop with a rope round your neck, for parking on a double yellow. I could be wrong.) He lives in the neighbouring town and made his money defending petty thieves, usually unsuccessfully. The police loved him. I let her explain the case.

“I’m just off, if that’s okay.” Brandy shouted, and slammed the door shut before I could say either way. I can’t say I blame her. Who wants to work late on a Friday?

There had been a small spate of burglaries of old women locally. Nothing really valuable was taken, money, some jewellery perhaps; but these women were often devastated by the invasion. Terrified that they might be murdered in their beds. They had assumed that they were safe, and now they knew that they weren’t and they were too frail to do anything about it. Two victims had seen the burglar, who had told them to stay in the bedroom or he’d “fucking rip their eyes out, you fucking old cunt” one said that he said. I had spoken to a DC Smythe not long after – about something else – he told me that he was sure the old lady got a lot of pleasure out of using such disgusting language; she found it liberating after years of being a mauve haired, lacy old lady. Anyway, he was shortish, young, with a shaved head except for a top knot. ‘Uncouth’ one of the old ladies said. That, of course, described most of the teenagers in our town, male or female. Craig was caught with a bag containing: a silver vase (belonging to Mrs Edith Caverly), a gold bracelet (Miss Braithwaite, actually only gold plate), a pair of Victorian hat pins (that had originally belonged to Mrs O’Grady’s grandmother), a silver photo frame (containing the only photo Mrs Bouseneve had of her father in uniform before he died at Dunkirk, she never met him and valued that picture more than anything, she said), and bag of five sovereigns (owner yet to be discovered). He also had a large hammer. He claimed he found the bag, and the hammer was to fix ‘something at home’. He looked guilty as sin. He claimed he was totally innocent. His past history did not include burglary, it’s true. He had smashed fifteen windows at his local school (“yeah, what ever”, ) he had kicked a Pakistani (“I was provoked, he looked at me”), attempted Twoc (taking – a car – without consent. He failed, having broken the window, he’d seen too many American films where the protagonist just reaches under the steering wheel, yanks out a load of wires and touches two together. He set the alarm off and the owner, a fitness fanatic caught him half a mile away after Craig couldn’t run anymore). He was known to the police, and claimed that they were trying to fit him up. Half of me thought that I could understand it if they were. He was a malevolent scrote who deserved some rough justice.

But his mother was good looking and swore that he was innocent. I was tempted, just because she looked good. I also liked a challenge. And finally, I actually do think that even the dregs of society, the dregs of the dregs, deserve the same justice as some fragrant middle aged Milf accused of insurance fraud.

“I can’t pay much.” his mother said. “But I’d do anything to help get him off.” My ears pricked up. She worked in Asda four days a week, she worked as a cleaner in two local schools. She had three jobs; all of them paid peanuts. I worked long hours too; but then I was able to afford a two good holidays a year, a Jaguar F Type and a five bedroomed house; so there were some compensations. Officially I was happily married, but she (the wife) was, again officially, looking after her ageing father. Mr Eric Standfast – the senior, managing partner of Standfast, Gentle, Logan. Mr Gentle had died in 1950 with nobody to take over his partnership place. Mr Logan had graciously resigned from the partnership before he was charged with putting undue pressure on the stream of enthusiastic female apprentice legal assistants to allow him access to more than legal briefs. That left Mr Standfast with a good practice and a need for some assistance. I joined and proved myself good at the job. I married his daughter to get the senior partnership I deserved. The other senior Partner – Miss Eleanor Tout – was appointed to show we were a modern practice; it was a smart move that made it acceptable for the council to use us sometimes.

I never really loved Ursula, and she never really loved me. She wanted sex. Then she discovered that she didn’t, and I was left high and dry (literally). When mummy died, it was a good reason to go back and look after a man who thinks that making a cup of tea is a complicated culinary experience. He’s rubbish at cooking, I think it’s deliberate. He also never kept a cleaning lady for more than six weeks – too exacting, without actually wanting to pay for enough hours for her to have time to clean under the sofa, polish the silver, wash the windows, wash up, dry up, etc etc. I’ve had the occasional one-nighter, I’m still good looking and I have plenty of free cash to splash around, and I am a professional. Surprising how many women still find that attractive. I haven’t had to make use of the night workers at all, even the ones we both defend as pro-bono work. It looks good on the CV. I even defended the tom and her customer in back-to-back cases once. Got them both off. I’m quite good. The police are occasionally annoyed with me, but they know it’s all part of the game. And I admit I didn’t try too hard to defend the policewoman rapist two years ago. He claimed he was innocent – the DNA was pretty damning. The police were pleased I didn’t suggest that PC Fiona Richmond had asked him to beat her up and make her suck his cock. She was clear and factual in the witness box and I let her have her say. I pleaded first offence for my client. He got 20 years. Twenty years of arse fucking in the showers from a load of sex-desperate hard cases. Serves him right. Still, he said he wasn’t guilty and I suspended disbelief just enough to defend him.

Mrs Smalls talked and I listened. I suggested that her son might want to plead guilty and shop the fence he was using to move the stuff on. “But he swears he’s innocent, or not guilty, anyway. He’s not an angel. I know that, but he didn’t do it. Please, what can I do?”

I should have told her to sling her hook, take the appointed defender and hope for the best. But is that what our justice is? If you can pay, you get the good stuff, otherwise you get the crap no-one else wants. Yes, I know I’m saying I’m the best. In our town, I am. And I also know that she’d been to the others first. Her luck that they rejected her. Because I had an idea.

Four days ago, I suggested to my cleaner that the house was cleaner before she turned up than when she left. She actually left a coffee cup unwashed in the sink the last time she came – her own coffee cup! She was not a worker. She was lazy, fat and lazy, fat, ugly and lazy. Okay, she was just lazy. She was a little over weight. She wasn’t ugly. That’s probably why I hadn’t sacked her. Anyway, I came back from the office and the house wasn’t clean and I said what I said, and she stormed out and that was that.

So Mandy Smalls offered ‘anything’ and I picked cleaning. She looked a little surprised. I think she had been hit on before.”Could you come on Saturdays? It is a fairly big house, you don’t have to do it all. In return, I’ll look at young Craig’s case. No promises now! But as long as I’m working on it -”

“I’ll clean for you. Oh that is so kind of you. I thought, well, I kind of expected a different proposal. Not that I would have minded. I meant what I said. Truly.”

Two days later, the obnoxious shithead came in to the office, five minutes late for his appointment. He didn’t apologise. We talked, I suggested various options; he rejected them all. I remember kids like him at school, ones who are caught sitting on another, beating the crap out of them, and then they just deny it and think they are hard done by to be caned – well, not caned anymore, obviously. I think a caning would have done Mr Smalls a lot of good. Would have cheered me up, anyway.

Still it was a challenge. No-one would expect me to win (except his mum, who seemed to think I was God), so no loss to my reputation. It would be a welcome distraction from the Fiona Manley case.

Like a cryptic crossword, I do like intellectually stimulating challenges. Didn’t stop me from clipping him round the ear for saying “Cor, I’d give her one” within the hearing of Miss Wine. The thing was, so would I. She wore unfeasibly short skirts and, when she came in and sat opposite me on the chair for dictation, her skirt’s lack of length frequently revealed the colour of her undewear beneath. It was a good job that I had a modesty screen to my desk. I could hardly reach down and pull my erection vertical when she was watching for my next words of wisdom. So I would sit there with a boner below and a sight of her pale blue knickers under her pocket handkerchief of a skirt, and concentrate on delivering something that made sense (since a simple letter to a client cost them thirty quid, it seemed fair that it should make sense). Anyway, Craig looked affronted when I cuffed him. I told him he would be polite to my staff. When she had gone, I explained that I was his last chance against going to some place where the bigger boys would use his arse for their relief. I think he understood that he had to try and cooperate, he understood as much as a thick kid educated at the local comprehensive would.

I was right, the distraction gave me some ideas on the Manley case.

I went home to the only company I needed – a thirty year old Laphroaig and a steak and kidney pudding.

Mandy Smalls started coming round, she cleaned, polished, washed and swept up. She was brilliant. She tried so hard. I even found myself making her coffee to get her to slow down. I would spend the Saturday on my two favourite cases – how to get my two defendants off who had both been apparently caught in flagrante delicto, so to speak.

There was something strange about Mrs Manley. The dripping knife, and her bloody clothes seems to have none of Ian Jacobs’ blood on them. Where was the knife that killed him then? The police hadn’t found a second knife. But still ... I began to contemplate suggesting that her husband had killed her lover and then attacked her and she had killed him in self-defence. It was flimsy, but then she claimed to remember nothing. The trauma had wiped it from her mind. It was all so horrible.

There are often spare jurors in a case like this, fifteen instead of twelve so that if some drop out, the spares have heard all the evidence and can step in. I started to work on them. I noted a couple of the jurors looked a little sensitive, so I asked them to study the photos of blood spatter in detail, and got the forensic pathologist to spell out what those blood spatter shapes meant. Juror number nine suddenly vomited over the jurors in front of her. Case postponed for the rest of the day, juror excused for being too sensitive to the gory details. A spare juror was let go as he had a heart condition and some of this evidence might trigger too much stress. Two down. Juror seven I found in a pub – a private investigator did, anyway. He plied her with drinks, and then got a reporter to listen in as she rabbited on about the case. The news report did for her. The judge was very severe. Now there were only twelve. No margin for error. When Juror three had a bereavement (God moves in mysterious ways), I thought I’d gained a miss-trial; but no, the judge has the option to continue the game with fewer players (traditionally ten is the minimum). Justice Obsine did not stop the case.

Terence McCann – the PI – came up trumps. He found that the murdered lover was a cousin of the judge. Didn’t mean the judge even knew him, but didn’t mean he didn’t either. I called another cousin to testify as to the mental state of the murdered man. When he saw his own relation in the dock, giving evidence, Justice Obsine realised the game was up. He decided to declare an interest, previously not clear to him, stopped the trial and ordered a new one.

Why was this important? Well I knew what the prosecution case was now. I could prepare ways to refute it. A small step forward, but a worthwhile one. Two Saturdays went past, the dates for both trials were set, Mandy arrived all dolled up. “I’m off to the theatre this afternoon. Ooo I’m so looking forward to it.” she was really excited, she felt that she was some kind of sophisticate. I didn’t rain on her parade. She was going to see Seven Brides for Seven Brothers by the local am-dram soc. I mean, it’s not Wagner is it? Still, she was happy. “I suppose I should have brought these to change into, I didn’t think. I’ll get them dirty.”

“You could always take them off.” I joked, intending to then suggest that she could miss a weekend. She worked hard enough to deserve that.

To my surprise, she immediately responded “You wouldn’t mind?” My mouth went dry and I indicated that no, I wouldn’t mind. She pulled off her little black dress, carefully put her heels to one side (thank goodness, they’d have ruined the parquet floor) and got the vacuum cleaner out in just her bra and pants. To say I was gob-smacked would be an underestimate. I mean I was surprised that she did that, but then I don’t get visitors often, so it wasn’t like she’d be seen, but also I was gob-smacked because, well, undressed she looked even better than when she’d worn that tight sweater. I had to carefully look away if she was leaning towards me somewhere in the room; but she must have realised I was watching her when she bent over looking away. Her thinly veiled bottom, taut and tight and round and lovely, was a major distraction to working on Craig’s case. How can such a devil incarnate be born from an angel in human form?

She worked as usual, just moving from room to room in her bra and pants. I tried not to watch. I made lunch. “You didn’t have to, honest.” she said. But I pointed out that if she was going straight to the theatre, she’d need to eat something first. She sat down in her bra and pants in the kitchen. The window cleaner arrived, and she scuttled to the downstairs cloakroom to hide. Did he see? Well he gave me a big wink, which isn’t the usual approach of a window cleaner to his client, so I guess he did. When he was gone, she came back and said perhaps she should dress.

“Not on my account, and anyway, you might get the tomato soup on your nice clothes.” I replied. Which was a good suggestion, since she did drip a big red drop onto her bra. I couldn’t help looking, she saw me looking, then saw the stain, and rushed to dab it with a cloth. She was rubbing her left breast with a wet cloth; it was wobbling nicely. I tried not to watch. “Can I help?” I offered, but she said it was fine, she’d got it out, mostly, and then added:

“You were right. Imagine if I’d got a spot on my dress. She turned, and I realised that the wet cloth had made her bra semi-transparent. There was another red spot shining through. I forced myself to smile and look away.

“You have to let it dry a little. Look, if you are going out again, just bring your clothes here, you can easily change in the bathroom.”

“Thank you. I’ll bear it in mind.” Why had I made that suggestion? I’d quite enjoyed watching her walk around in her bra and knickers. No, I’d hugely enjoyed it. When she left, I closed the books and went to bed for an hour. I tried not to leave too much of a stain on the sheet.

The break helped, I saw a chink in the evidence.

The following Saturday, she arrived as normal “So, how was the show?”

“Oh, it was great, have you seen it? It was really good, oh, you should have gone. Do you like musicals?” I mentioned that I liked opera “Oh, right, so they are musicals too really aren’t they?” I tried not to feel too superior. That’s like saying that her Ford Fiesta and my F Type were the same because they were both cars.

“Maybe you should try light opera – Gilbert and Sullivan? The tunes and songs are really good. I’ll look out for one and take you if you like.” Going to opera is fine, alone; going to G&S then surely you need someone with you. I found myself humming “I am the monarch of the sea” for an hour after.

The court date got closer, I was beginning to look forward to it. DS Jones was arresting officer. He was an idiot. He hated blacks, queers, lesbians, teenagers, liberals, hippies, religious nuts, and more and more. He was the most intolerant policeman in Britain, he gave the England First fanatics a bad name for being too liberal. I was looking forward to the case; because he was also somewhat inefficient. A clutz in fact.

Mandy arrived to clean and asked how things were going with the case. “I have some ideas, but we will need a lot of luck too.” I told her, honestly. She was carrying a bowl of water to the sink having washed the kitchen floor. She was looking at me rather than where she was going. Her foot caught the stool, which tumbled over, and she tumbled over that.

I rushed to help her up. Her clothes were soaked with the dirty water. “Are you okay? Is your ankle alright? Here, sit down.” She was wanting to start clearing up “No, sit. Oh, look you’re soaked. We’ll need to wash them. I’ll find you a robe.”

“You’ve seen me in my pants before Mr Timms.” She just undressed, there and then. Which was fine, except that her bra and pants were soaked too. “They’re fine, they’ll dry.”

“No, no, the water was filthy. Wait.” I went off and found her a very respectable towelling robe. I wasn’t trying anything on. She took off her bra, and I got a flash of beautiful, bountiful, boob. I had a horrible flash of that little scrote, Craig, sucking on one of them. I hated him for spoiling my view. Then the robe was on, and her pants came off (with her back to me), she put all the clothes into the washer. The robe fell open up and down to the tie. It gave her an impressive cleavage, I would like to say I saw to her groin, but she pulled it shut just in time.

The washing machine began its work, and she started clearing up the mess. Damn! Seeing a woman on her hands and knees, that I knew was naked under that robe; it was all too much. I left her to it before I did something I’d regret.

It meant that she stayed longer, as the machine washed and then her underclothes were dried, and her outer clothes were draped over a radiator (heating switched on to dry them quicker). She pulled out the bra, pants and socks, opened the robe and put on the bra, then pulled the pants up under it. I was back, drinking a tea after lunch with her. She bent to put on her socks, once again there was that fantastic view as her breasts flopped forward.

“Your jeans are still damp. Stay for dinner. Then they’ll be dry. Or do you have to get back to Craig?”

“Oh, well, no. He’ll be out for a while yet. But I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I’m really sorry...” she started trying to apologise again. I waved it away. It was nobody’s fault.

After a scratch meal of oven fish and oven chips, she was gone. The following week, the first hearing started for Craig. He had been granted bail, and I was terrified for Mandy (not for Craig) that he would do a runner, but he was waiting at the court like a good little boy. He had even been persuaded to make some effort with his appearance; so he looked like a scruffy herbert rather than an evil, guilty little shit who should do time because he looked like he should. Juries and magistrates are funny, they don’t like people who have made no effort, and they distrust people who have made lots of effort. The secret is to look like you always dress in a collar and tie and you haven’t just put one on for the first time in your life. If you looked like a half-dressed chimp, the effect is spoiled rather. Similarly, if you look like you are dressed in a £500 suit and your shoes aren’t imitation crocodile, but the real thing, well they’ll hate you for the stuck up posh twat that you are and find you guilty just out of spite.

“Sooo, you found Mr Smalls with the bag? Then what did you do?”

“We took him and the bag to the station.”

“He has no recollection of you reading him his rights, but your statement says you did, so I’m sure that he has just forgotten, in the excitement. Then?”

“Then we charged him.”

“Did you find finger prints on the goods in the bag?”

“No.”

“Oh, I suppose the culprit wore gloves, silly me.”

“Was that a question?”

“I was wondering why no finger prints were found. Perhaps they were all wiped off?”

Said quietly “We didn’t check for prints.”

“For the hard of hearing, I wonder if you would speak up?”

“We didn’t check for finger prints. There was no need.”

“Ah, so you assumed my client – Craig Smalls – was guilty, so his story was a lie, so there was no need to investigate for the truth?”

“He had the stolen goods, he had the means to break in.”

“I went to B&Q on Saturday and bought a new hammer. Perhaps I am the guilty party? You just picked an innocent young boy off the street, discounted his story, and fitted him up -”

“OBJECTION”

“I withdraw that statement. You found it easier to disbelieve him rather than try and disprove his story.”

“Well, er...”

“Nevermind, nevermind. Let me do the job for you. I don’t recall seeing any phone records passed to the defence.”

“Phone records?”

“Yes. My client claimed to be some way away from at least one of the robberies you are fitting – I’m sorry – alleging that he committed. Did you attempt to corroborate his story? No? If you had taken the trouble, you would have found a text, sent from neighbouring Watley at the precise time that one of the robberies was supposed to have taken place. How do you account for that?”

“He gave his phone to friend, it’s a common ploy.”

“It’s also very common to send texts to your friends when out on a pleasant jaunt to Watley. You may not think it a tourist resort [titters from the observers], but it isn’t up to us to judge where a boy may visit, is it?”

The case proceeded for another hour of sparring. Slowly I was able to make Detective Sergeant Jones out to be precisely what he was in fact. Useless. Still, the evidence was pretty damning even with an idiot policeman presenting it.

We adjourned for the day, it was a Friday. The judge apologised to defendant and jury for them having to return on Monday. He released Craig on bail again.

Over the weekend, two things happened.

On Saturday night, an old lady of ninety-two was sleeping in her bed. She heard a noise and toddled to the door of her ground floor bedroom (she couldn’t manage the stairs anymore). “Fucking go back in there and stay fucking quiet,” a man half way down the stairs said. To his surprise, she replied:

“Young man, I was in Singapore when the Japs came. I was in Kenya when the MauMau tried to take our farm. I was in South Africa when the ANC bombed our house. No jumped up black kid is going to scare me!” Now, ignore the fact that she was a racist (and in the dark assumed he was black); ignore the fact she and her husband seemed to go from one empire trouble spot to another giving the locals what-for; ignore all that, and you have to agree, she had spirit. She picked up a samurai sword – a genuine one which her husband had taken from a Japanese officer when they were liberated; one which had actually been used to execute some prisoners of war, but he didn’t think about that – and waved it at the man, who fled empty handed. I called her as a late witness – she would swear it was a black boy. The prosecution would find it hard to demolish her without seeming to be cruel and heartless to an old lady.

On Monday I asked him before we went into court “Craig, before I call her as a witness, I have to ask. Was it you in her house.”

“No, Mr Timms, it weren’t, honest.” He had learnt a little politeness, though he (and I) still followed Miss Wine around the room in the hope that she would bend over and reveal that barely covered backside.

The other thing that happened was much more interesting. “Oh, Mr Timms! You are a genius! You are wonderful!” followed by a big hug, pulling me against her delightful chest. “Sorry, I know you are a professional and I shouldn’t, only -mmmmm” The rest of what she was saying was drowned by me kissing her. She had arrived, elated at my small success on Friday; her hug had brought me too close to her personal space and, feeling the breasts pressing against me, I lost control. She didn’t resist in the slightest degree, else I would have stopped. I’ve prosecuted, and defended, enough cases of sexual harassment to know how thin the line can be.

After a long, increasingly open-mouthed and tongue entwined embrace, we separated, looked at each other and in a moment I actually picked her up and carried her upstairs. It’s a good job I stay fit, she was no 7 stone waif, she was curvy and soft to the touch. But I coped. I put her on the bed, and she simply reached down and unzipped her jeans. I pulled them off and her pants came too. I have no idea where her shoes went. I pulled off my clothes until I stood naked and erect. “Oooo, you are well-endowed. Look, I haven’t had ... relations for sometime. I ... you” I thought she was going to say ‘be gentle’ “You should just go ahead.” I was pushing her top up and off as she said this. To be honest, I wasn’t thinking of her pleasure at all, at that moment. She got the hint and removed her bra. Naked, and really very well-preserved. She had a lovely triangular bush. I never asked if she trimmed it – seems a very personal question. She had large nipples surrounded by small red discs. I’ve never been turned on by large red blobs on tits, I like everything in proportion. The large nipples, on the other hand, gave me something to tease, squeeze, suck and twist. She let me do whatever I wanted. At that precise moment, what I wanted was to ram deep into her, hard. As I said, it wasn’t that I’d had no sex since Ursula had left, but it had been intermittent. She was, just, damp. I think the delight at seeing her little boy get a chance at freedom had helped to revive her slightly. She was neither wet, nor open. She was tight and lovely to ram into.