'Two minutes,' he cries with false astonishment after three minutes thirty-eight have elapsed.
More foot artistry and the blood is draining from other vital organs. Marc stops smiling and starts to concentrate. You remember guiltily that you should be biting your lip and realize that it must be part of this convoluted plan. If only Marc can get to four minutes he will save face and blame the Concorde flight for his under-performance. You can see Marc's concentration, but with gibbon dexterity, Astrid's foot unzips Marc's fly, finds little resistance from tight, thonged briefs and . . . enters the forbidden domain. Marc lets out a whimper of precious air.
The Patek Philipe registers five minutes.
'Three minutes, ladies and gentlemen, three minutes.'
Marc's erection is sucking away his life. Astrid's foot continues to knead, it's everywhere, and teasingly, nowhere. Like a she-panther on heat, she sits and gnaws her lip. And then . . . she stands.
But someone still kneads.