My hands automatically reached for his shoulders to brace myself as I settled into his saddle and felt the bulge of his erection pushing through his j...ans against my aching pussy. We looked at each other, smiling as he groped my ass and ran his hand up my back while I wiggled and ground on his lap. Then he leaned his head forward and nibbled on my hard nipples poking through my bikini top.It was plain and simple now, he was hungry for me, not my tuna salad. I imagined it was only a matter of. But it would be Prince Charles, not the Queen. Bit of a letdown, really.At the end of January 1972 came a horrible event I couldn’t stop: Bloody Sunday. The foreknowledge made me sick. Similarly the car-bomb that would follow in February as retribution, but for different reasons. The latter I could have stopped with an anonymous phone call to Crimestoppers. But if I had, the Official IRA might have planned another bomb, perhaps bigger, and perhaps jeopardising the permanent ceasefire that would. More

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