Laid on the sward next to his beloved, Peter also let his mind wander, settling upon one of his favourite visual memories. Heidi on her daily jog, making repeated circuits around the lake until notching up the requisite 5k, before settling down for a repast which would inevitably include those damn bread rolls. They get bloody everywhere in these stories, don’t they? Anyway, I digress.
In his fertile fevered imagination, as she got into her stride over the uneven ground, her tight crop top, notwithstanding its undoubted supportive qualities, brought to mind a pair of teacup dogs, struggling to free themselves from the grasp of a boa constrictor, and also failed to disguise the inevitability of the early morning chill.
Her shorts displayed her toned thighs, a little flushed as her circulation acclimatised to the conditions, and thanks to their cut and weave, presented her peachy buttocks at their very best. Oh, how he dreamed of licking the sweat from the small of her back.
Ignoring the obvious question as to why a world where stale bread rolls played such a significant role (sorry for the pun), serving as both sustenance and a crude currency; bartered for favours and promises, he reached down casually and to his dismay his hand found … nothing. Not even the slightest response to this usually reliable snippet from his ‘w**k bank’. He was clearly still refractory after his ‘double first’ with Heidi. Sighing, he just gazed at the clouds rolling by, wondering how long he’d have to wait. After all, there wasn’t much else to do when goat herding.