Basically Donna was a nightmare. “Donna’s tits sell records and just now she doesn’t have any,” I explained, “You on the other hand,” she hit me, just a slap, but it set me thinking, “We could say we swapped and you are Donna.”
“No way am I parading naked around an Arab slave market!” she insisted. “He wants a man slave he’s a poofter!” the girl said, the minder looked blank, “Shirt lifter,” she explained and bent forward pointing to her bum. Oh I’m not a performer, I’m part of her security team, John Bond, “The name’s Bond, John Bond,” It’s Frank Hunt really, Francis if you want to be pedantic, from Wigan, and Hunt rhymes with ah, well you know, which is half the reason I changed my name. “Oi wise guy,” the next girl along hissed, in a vaguely south east come cockney twang, “A word in your shell like.” she was short, could use a diet, big saggy tits and huge elephant ears on her cunt, a pretty ordinary Essex girl really except the yellow
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