“Go on, touch it, or you can walk.” “Fucking pervert!” But her fingers clench. She’s holding me now, fingertips pressing against my swollen ...lesh. My fingers dig into her thigh. “Are you expecting me to jerk you off?” Exit road to lay-by immediate. I indicate, give a slight turn of the steering wheel. Her fingers shift slightly. Mine dig into her thigh. Lay-by deserted, in darkness save for sweep of headlamps. Foot on brake. Engine off. Hand moves from thigh to press button, undoing her. It always seemed incongruous but I knew what it was about.About half a mile down that track was a former farm building that was the base for a small mail-order company that sold protective wear, mainly for women. They imported and distributed hotel wear, café uniforms, care assistants dresses etc.They had been producing illustrated catalogues once a quarter that they sent out to their customers. When they changed from using line drawings to photographs back in the 1960s they needed models to. More

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