I have just left my lover in a state of complete exhaustion that even a troop of Essex' sexiest teen sluts wearing nothing more than split-crotch panties could arouse him from. Indeed, such was his repletion, that when I tiptoed from the boudoir to type this record of our amours, his smile was so wide that I fear he may never again be able to grip a Romeo y Julietta half-corona between his teeth.

But I am rushing ahead; you are no doubt agog to know how my beloved came to reach such a pitch of sensory fulfillment and why I am typing this wearing nothing but a rather torn and excessively moist, black lace thong covered in suspicious looking, green stains?

It all began prosaically enough when I was popping some undies into the tumble dryer and debating whether or not to sit on top and think of England. The tumble-drier that is, not the undies. I am proud to say that lust won over maidenly modesty, and hitching up my black Kevin Stein mini-skirt halfway up my beautifully tanned, silken thighs, I parked my adorably pert bottom on the tumble dryer and waited for a becoming moistness to gather around my hardening love button. No sooner had the first tremours which always presage these moving experiences for me, begun to ripple through my thighs, than I heard the familiar tones of my lover over the pleasing hum of Germany's finest vibrating domestic appliance.
"Darling—are you there?" was more urgently repeated as a long, drawn out moan escaped my parted lips.
"Just coming," I replied with considerably more accuracy than usual.

Unfortunately I did not come—or 'cum'—as you hopelessly verbally challenged young people insist on spelling the word which falls so frequently from your lips, but I suspect is not at all well understood, as my little tale will shortly reveal.
"But I thought you weren't coming back until Saturday?" I exclaimed as my grinning beau planted an affectionate kiss on my upturned lips.
"I thought I'd surprise you, darling," he replied sweetly, and added solicitously: "I couldn't bear the thought of you all alone with only that awful American Harold Robbins to amuse you."
I should add at this juncture that Michael is an old-fashioned sort of chap, who whilst he has nothing against mindless American pulp fiction, finds Mr Robbins' bodice-ripping descriptions of female arousal rather unimaginative, or as he once put it to me: "That man is obviously a few prophylactics short of the full pack or he would not continually dwell upon the size of his heroine's chests. The chap is simply not aware of any erogenous zone other than his own, 'fun-sized' excuse for a todger."

But I digress. You want to know what we did together after Michael found me in the high state of sexual arousal which his precipitate entrance abruptly arrested. Well, you shall, my darlings, you shall. My lover had brought some delicious smoked fish with him from Germany which sadly will not be something that most of you have ever eaten. Suffice it to say that those who have, know it to be a delicacy of surpassing excellence not to be compared with the awful muck my readers shovel down their necks in the 'burger bars' they frequent. I therefore proposed Michael whip up a light salad while I uncorked a bottle or three of a particularly light and fruity Californian Zinfandel.

Ten minutes later we sat down to a delightful repast whilst Michael regaled me with an amusing anecdote about a Spanish waiter whom he had encountered on his trip to Berlin. It appeared that this dim-witted Latino had developed an insatiable crush for a rather large and loud American woman who was staying at the Hotel Michael had booked into. Suffice it to say that the waiter bit off rather more than he could chew and was, quite literally caught by the manager, with his pants down in the lift!

By the time we had finished eating and were well into our second bottle of plonk, Michael had managed to divest me of my blouse and bra and was diligently employed in renewing his sinuous tongue's long familiarity with my breasts. So assiduous was he in paying equal attention to both nipples (so as not to cause the slightest jealously) that his fingers' exploration of my knickers was a somewhat hit and miss affair. Those of you who have caressed a woman's nipples with your tongue whilst simultaneously fingering her love button in a sufficiently expert manner to arouse her ardour and poured wine with your other hand at the same time, will know how difficult it is to give equal concentration to all these tasks while the woman has her hand around your giggle stick.

Naturally, Michael failed, but he failed heroically and we women appreciate a man who gives his all in the pursuit of the satisfaction of his beloved.
Moments later we tumbled, as one does, onto the sheepskin rug in the lounge, that Michael had thoughtfully made more comfortable by the artful addition of several cushions placed at strategic points in anticipation of the reckless abandonment into which we now plunged.
I was about to remove his trousers to free his pacing steed when he grasped my wrist and told me to close my eyes. Obedient as I am in all things conjugal (take note, you liberated girls) I immediately reclined on the cushions and breathlessly awaited developments in the expectation of something quite unusual.

I did not have long to wait, nor was I disappointed. The first sensation was something round, hard, yet silky smooth, being gently pressed between my parted thighs. I reached down to touch the mysterious intruder only to have my hand peremptorily slapped away. Slowly the object, which I now perceived was a small ball, was pushed under my increasingly wet knickers. Another soon followed it and another. The most indescribably exquisite sensations flooded through me as my lover's dexterous tongue proceeded to induce the mysterious spheroids to commence a languorous dance around the engorged entrance to my love tunnel.
I sensed, rather than felt his teeth bite into soft flesh. Cool juice ran down my thighs and a spicy, fragrant aroma smote my quivering nostrils.
This was followed by the first of many shattering orgasms, as what I now realised was some small, fragrant fruit, was crushed against my erect clitoris.

I was trembling in every limb and had all but swooned away when the odiferous fruit was suddenly transferred to my startled lips. Its honeyed liquor was mingled with the sweet wine of my own copious love juices and I licked my lips in grateful ecstasy.
"My goodness!" I ejaculated (pun fully intended), "it's a greengage!"
Any further discussion was stifled as more of the ambrosial fruits were gently transferred to my quivering lips, hot from their slippery sojourn between my burning thighs.

For those of you who have never tasted an English greengage fresh from the tree in your own garden, let me attempt to describe the experience to you. The fruit is round and about an inch and a quarter in diameter. When fully ripe, it is a golden, transparent green—flushed with pink and purple highlights. The skin resembles nothing so much as a beautiful woman's bottom, silky smooth, and wonderfully soft and giving to the touch. Pass the fruit before you nose and you are at once rewarded with the most wonderful perfume; redolent of languid summer days, heady like a peach, spicy like a freshly cut apple, yet more complex than either and overlaid with all the luxuriance of the finest attar of Rose. If Chanel could mix such a scent, women would kill for it.

And then you delicately take it between your softly parted lips, (or in my case, my labia) and bite into the flesh. Ah! The sweetness is beyond description. So intensely honeyed it almost burns your mouth with its sweetness, yet like all Nature's fruits, never sickly in the way that man-made sweets are. But wait... there is another surprise, for as the flesh melts in your mouth and the sticky juices thrill your tongue, you encounter a delicious sharpness; a tang of apple-like crispness as you chew the skin and slowly dislodge the remaining flesh from the little stone inside.

Of course, by this time I was on my third or fourth orgasm and eagerly opened my legs to admit the author of my bliss into my dripping sanctuary. I shall, of course, draw a discreet veil over what occurred thereafter, but suffice it to say that Michael was as inventive and inexhaustible in his exploration of my love tunnel as he had been in his consummately original foreplay.

I shall no doubt continue to glow for some considerable time and I do not think I shall be needing to sit on the tumble dryer or in the jacuzzi until we have run out of greengages which Michael assures me will last out the week—even allowing for my excessive demands!

Neither will I take these knickers off. In fact I think I shall wrap them up with a couple of greengages and post them to one of you young, teenage girls.
Then again, would a mere slip of an eighteen-year old know what to do with them? I leave you all to ponder that while I rest from my labours.