You look upon the allocated costume, utterly - totally aghast. Your jaw drops with a jarring crack and you crank it up slowly and painfully to grit your teeth with a vengeance. Talking right now, is possibly dangerous. Your head whips up to exchange the outfit for the Charity Events Co-ordinator as the target of heated glaring, and she gives you a mock-apologetic smile, spreading her hands.

"Well... it's all that's left, and if you WILL be late..."

"I wasn't late. You told me a different time," you spit and she takes an exaggerated step back, holding her palms up at you in infuriatingly 'innocent' defence.

"Don't give me that, mate - it's not my fault all the other costumes have gone! Look - you're losing time. Get out there with your bucket and stickers and get some money together please. Hmmmmmmm?"

It's the matronly over-understanding sound effect that nearly drives you to murder, and you can feel your nails digging into your palms to contain your temper. Slowly, you release your pent breath through your nose, and snatch up the uniform. The only reason you are going to wear this horrendous get-up rather than force it violently up her undersized arse, is because Matt is watching. You have dignity. Pride. You are THE best collector and the best way of winning this situation is to do well even when decked out in something deliberately humiliating.

However, as you pass - you stop and shove your face within a few inches of her long thin nose and startled eyes. "Listen. When I'm done, we're going for a drink, and you can tell me what your fucking problem is - and that's not an offer - it's an alternative to stalking - get that?"

"Gol-ly!" she splutters in a pseudo-mocking surprised tone but you can hear just beneath the surface that you might just have hit home. "Fine, we'll have a beer, you don't need to be so-"

"Yes I do," you bark, and head off for the changing rooms. You can feel Matt's gaze upon your retreating back, and manage to give some display of holding your head up high just before you close the door of the ladies behind you. Immediately prior to the clicking of the weighted hinge, the dialogue floats through the gap: "What's up with her, do you know?"

"Oh God knows! Just in one of her moods-" 

Oh great. Just great. To make her wrong now - not only do you have to wear the damn costume, but do it with a happy smile to repudiate the 'mood' claim. God, you could just kill her. After a couple of swift kicks to the wall, you lay the outfit down and wonder how the smeg you're going to get yourself into it.

Okay - so this costume is not only designed to humiliate - it is also bloody lethal. You nearly dislocate your arms trying to zip the thing up at the back... shoving it up half way between your shoulder blades, then lunging down with your other arm to pick up the zipper and yank it to the top. Of course, you catch your hair in the zip, the mask on the costume is really tight, and the eyeholes are midget and impractical. And let's not forget the sticker-peeling-banning paws that you have to wear, and the socking great bloody flippers. And you have to collect money from a bloody RUGBY CROWD dressed like this!!!!!!!

You quickly learn that the only way to walk in order to prevent the tips of the fins peeling under and pinging you flat on your face, is to adopt a duck walk - bandy legged and on the outside of your feet, while sticking your bottom out. Oh, and you've somehow got to balance with your collecting bucket too. NOT LIKELY. Thankfully - your face is almost entirely covered with the headgear on this costume and Abigail doesn't have the satisfaction of seeing the burn of humiliation worn like slaps on either cheek as you waddle awkwardly from the changing rooms in the stadium.

The afternoon passes in an impossibly slow-moving ordeal of tripping over, being sworn at for blocking the view, being laughed at, insulted and occasionally - and worse of all - being slapped hard on the necessarily out-stuck bum. By the time you've worked your way up your designated stadium section and had rugby supporters up to your back teeth, you're shaking, sniffling, cold, wretched and closer to tears than for years. No more stickers to give out, bucket only half-heavy, head properly totally heavy. You need a bloody stiff drink.

A security guard comes out of a door at the top of a few steps behind you, and sniggers derisively at you as he swaggers past. Leaving the door open. It is the work of a waddle for you to dash into the warm gloom and quietly shut the door after you. You blink and adjust your eyes in the gloom, squinting at points just past the areas of light until the lights no longer blind you. Hesitantly, you step forwards to examine where you've ended up.

It's a dim-lit bar - the walls of deep blue, with a salmon pink trimming, with a multitude of sofas pointing outwards towards a huge glass window that overlooks the stadium. While wincing at the décor, you look appreciatively towards the bar and strike out determinedly, then halt with a highly vocal expletive as you recall that your only money is in the bucket, and that belongs to the NSPCC. The expletive draws the attention of a man in a suit who looks peculiarly like a maitre 'D - who slowly approaches you as if you're a bomb. He does not find your outfit amusing. This would be refreshing, except that his expression leads you to believe that you are actually of the species in which you are dressed - your rubbery tail thwapping the floor, your bill protruding unattractively..... it occurs to you that you can't actually drink anything in this costume anyway. Gathering all his snoot into one place, he sneeeers at you and inclines his head in excess politeness with a glacial smile to freeze entire forests.

"Can I help you?"

"Ah... no, thanks. That's okay."

"Riiiiiiight." 

The headgear masks your flushing face as a few guys from the sofa area look round at you and promptly burst out laughing. Even with your limited vision you quickly spot a few famous faces, and give a quick mental squeak. You've wandered into the VIP lounge. Little wonder this high-strung employee is looking at you like something that's just crawled out from under a rock - or a muddy river - in your case.

"OOOkay." He ponders this, as you're obviously not leaving. "Sooooo..."

What is it with bloody patronising people and their bloody elongated vowels? Okay - you need an excuse to stay. No way in hell are you going back to Abigail with a near-empty bucket. No way. Since he's unable to pick his words, you decide to mingle with the rugby fans in the bar, which might not only earn you a free drink if they get a laugh, but also.... Possibly...... sizeable donations?

"Soooooo long!" you mimic petulantly - sick of him, and waddle as fast as you can towards the sofas where the celebrities are hanging out. The Maitre 'D heads for the bar and motions at a couple of thickset suits at the far exit. Okay - think ...... think.

Somewhat limited by your costume, you try and appeal to the affectionate gland in some of these guys, one of whom is standing up by his place on the sofa, looking down at the grounds and watching Australia get thrashed by the Lions. His face is long and gloomy. You just about see the back of his jaw and ear, then the long line of his neck as he throws the beer down his throat in one long swig. A man in need of a hug, surely?

"'Scuse me, but I'm a hug merchant. Ten quid gets you the best hug going and it's for a good cause. So how about it?" You beam up at him whether or not he can see the smile. Smiles are audible, you know that. Your collection bucket moves between you to make your legitimate point, and he turns around in confusion, trying to compute this introduction.

"Pardon me? - FUCK ME!" he blasts, jumps, and drops his beer. This is not an unreasonable reaction, considering you are entirely clad out as a duck-billed platypus of immense proportions - and one demanding money to boot. His eyes widen, and he recovers himself with a broad grin which swiftly turns into a trembling chuckle, then a full-bellied laugh.

You panic - the suits are advancing. You put the bucket down and look up at him in entreaty. Please...please respond. PLEASE! "I have a big portfolio of hugs. I am the best in my field. I should consult on it. Name your hug and you shall have it."

His response is to grip the side of the sofa, wheezing and guffawing, crying with laughter. You roll your eyes, and almost resign yourself to getting chucked out when a bass voice from behind cajoles: "C'mon mate - give the kid a break." A tenner is folded up and slotted into your bucket. You smile up at the donor gratefully as several of the other men contribute in kind. The suits hover... you're in danger of 'belonging', much to their snobbish disgust. They long to throw you out on the back of your neck for being indulgent, a pest, impudent even - but they can do nothing until they receive a formal complaint from someone... still... they draw in like hyenas around still-living steak..

You look up gratefully at the donor who led the flood of donations, and he can obviously see the desperation in your eyes, because he winks, turns you round in the direction of the man who's still cackling away, leaning on the arm of the sofa.

"Russell..." he warns, and his friend acquiesces, holding his arms out slightly in a half-hearted invite. 

"Which hug?" you splutter, and he shrugs. 

"Surprise me."

Now..... you don't mean to take this quite so literally, but those suits are getting awfully close and don't like the idea of you making physical contact with these A-listers. This seems as good a time as any for your 100mph hug. You rush into the open arms of this well-built man, expecting him to take your weight and then it happens - your treacherous black rubber flipper curls under itself and launches you violently against his body. His expression runs a speedy gamut of expressions from hilarity to alarm to pain as you cannon straight into his torso, sending him flying backwards over the arm of the couch, then toppling sideways to crash to the floor beside it. Oh please... ground - do that swallowing thing. You are as the San Andreas Fault... you open up and engulf... it doesn't work. You're still purple-faced yet standing in horror at the scene of the crime.

Mortified, you shuffle over to try and help him up - which involves even more protracted bottom-protruding and painstaking waddling. The uproarious laughter filling the VIP lounge actually hurts. It causes an itchy pain in your sinuses that has tears streaking your cheeks, hidden by the outfit. You bend over and offer a hand, your tail promptly knocks about four beers from the table by the sofa. More laughing, more hysterical than before.

By now, this guy's eased himself up to lean on the sofa cushions, flapping one arm at you as if to beg "Please don't kill me!!" while the other clutches his abdominals to rub and stimulate air back into his winded lungs. You grab your bucket to ensure that if they DO throw you out, it doesn't get left behind. And right on cue, you feel fingers like pincers digging into your furry brown right biceps.

"Ow!" you protest, and look up at the face of the chief of security, whose eyes are trying to hang, draw and quarter you all at the same time. His fingers tighten while he selects the right words for the spelling of your immediate expulsion and death. "OW!" you repeat, and try and yank your arm away. You can't - it's a grip King Kong would be proud of (and a nose too, incidentally)...

"I think you've done quite enough, young lady." A sharp pull on your arm actually pulls you over. The flippers don't allow your feet to follow your upper body quick enough, and to your relief, there's a disapproving ripple of 'hey!' from around the lounge. "Are you all right, Mr Crowe?"

Oh....... Bollocks. The penny drops like a cymbal on a binlid. You recognised those eyes..... but he's clean shaven. Has a long floppy fringe and his hair has grown quite substantially at the back. He may look 5 years younger than his Spanish alter ego, but it is the incontrovertible truth. You've just crunched 'Maximus'.

To your surprise, even as beefy suit is wrenching you firmly to your feet in disgust, he ignores suit and smiles wanly at you. "Th...That wasn't very good value for money. You got any more.... Relaxing hugs in your p-'COUGH ' portfolio?"

You nod bashfully. "That went wrong. I don't normally trip"

"So, what else have you got in your collection?" he addresses the question to you, but regards the suit blandly, raising his eyebrows at the continued grip on your upper arm. "I think you can afford to relax a bit there, mate. Let go - in fact." The guard lets go with a huffy wrench and slinks back into the crowd of under-worked waiters and security guys like a leopard retreating into the undergrowth.

"Got lots of hugs", you offer hastily - trying to think of a few different ones in a panic. "Well, there's the Koala, and the ..... snug hug, and the smughug, and the rubhug and-"

"Whoa!" he laughs, and stills your ramblings with a gentle stroking of the upper arm that the paw of the suit has just vacated. "cool - no worries. Just pick one." You can't help wincing. He's gentle but has a heavy hand and your arm is so bruised. He creases his brow. "You alright?"

"Fine!" you squeak, in the chirp of a chick who is containing tears. This always happens when you're feeling fragile, and someone's nice. Particularly someone this sexy. Particularly someone this .... Hugshaped...

He transfers his grip to your shoulders, and pulls you in towards him. Considering you've just winded him - a snughug would be cheeky - so you adopt the 'koala' posture. You rest your cheek lightly against his collarbone, and wrap your arms behind his back, nestling them between his shoulder-blades. Your hold isn't too tight, but it's designed to be cosy, clingy and companionable. Quite intentionally, the fingertips of your right hand lightly tickle the base of his neck while the left tips stroke delicately between the shoulder-blades. He's so warm. And he smells wonderful. None of the usual bar whiffs seem to be clinging to him at all... his own personal musk drowns all that out.

"Ah... that's nice. That's good." He's murmuring into your ear and you wonder if he actually knows that he's talking out loud here. His hand strokes the back of your neck in kind, not with the fingertips - he can't - through that sodding suit - but makes the join of his forefinger and thumb tease up and down deliciously - even through the thick material. He giggles. "Can't you get that thing off?"

"Not wearing much underneath. No room..." - you confess as quietly as possible, and he wraps his arms around you thoroughly as he cackles over your shoulder. Reluctantly relinquishing your hold on his hot, sturdy torso, you gradually pull away.

"What's a snughug?"

"Ah - that's where you encase me in your arms, but really - that's a bit of a one way hug, and you're supposed to be the huggee... not the hugger."

"Encasing is good."

"You're the client!" you admit cheerfully, tuck your forearms up against him as he enfolds you, and rest your face on his chest. It really is like a duvet. His warmth against your front, the strength in those arms. This is how babies must feel in a front carrier. You murmur appreciatively and wriggle against him in contentment.

"This is nice too..." he mutters. "Got much longer to go on your collecting shift?"

"I'm done." Oh shit. This reminds you. With an irritable sigh you pull away from the world's nicest human pillow, and confess that you have to deliver your bucket downstairs. He whistles over a waiter, and hands him the bucket.

"Take this to the charity collection point which is......" he looks down at you expectantly. 

"3rd tier, locker rooms."

"Got any bags that need picking up?"

"Yeah - red sports. All my clothes are in it."

"Go fetch!" Russell commands laughingly, and gives the waiter a hefty tip to carry it through. You're a bit worried about this - what if the tosser 'loses' the money - or your bag? Nah - nah. Paranoia. He couldn't get away with that after so many witnesses to Russell's request. The waiter scuttles off, and Russell looks down at you through the mask peephole, giggling helplessly all over again. "I'm sorry-" he splutters - "But how the hell did you get yourself talked into wearing that?"

"Long story. I'd rather be hugging."

This tickles him for some reason, and he pulls you gently down onto the sofa next to him, having had first-hand experience of the dangers of those flippers. "Pull those off before you kill yourself, or me."

"Okay". With a savage tug, they're off. You sit upright timidly on the sofa, then slowly allow yourself to lean into him as his arm drops round your shoulders. And he's off guffawing again as the fabric tickles the apparently sensitive skin of his forearms.

"Look - this is bloody ridiculous. I'd really like to see the hug merchant inside that outfit."

You just about manage to stop yourself from confessing that you'd really like to see the Australian beneath the tee-shirt and nod towards the bar manager who comes over with a cordless phone, and stabs it in your direction. "Some girl called Abigail. Throwing a hissy fit about where you've got to." You shake your head violently and refuse to take the phone. The bar manager slaps the cordless into your hand and crosses his arms expectantly. Sighing, you run the gauntlet.

"Yep, In the VIP lounge, that's right. Yeah, I know you told me not to. Well I was cold! It was a stupid bloody outfit and I should have just strangled you with it rather than let my pride rule. Pride? Yeah - remember that? I DO have some....... Well, the 'pride' in that decision was purely me saying that I could still collect as well as anyone with or without your bloody sabotage. Yes, that's me quitting. Toodle-fuckin'-pip."

You hang up. The hell with Abigail, collecting, costumes and yes - to hell with Matt, too. You hand the cordless back to the bar manager, and gradually become aware of the ripple of applause that is resounding round the room - you'd not realised that the whole bunch of them had been listening. You're inordinately pleased about this, and Russell is giving you a proud grin like he's known you for years, and this is the first time you've ever stood up for yourself. Well, er - actually it is, but he doesn't have to know that. Funny how light you feel when a year of resentment is suddenly lifted from your shoulders. Without the faintest smidgen of permission, you swivel round so that your head is on Russell's lap, and your legs hanging over the side of the sofa. The others are taking this new bonding as pretty much par-for-the-course when it comes to their mate, so they just chuckle, roll eyes, and return to watch the game.

Russell doesn't move to join them. He gives you a friendly smile and loops his arm lightly over your stomach, evidently no longer fazed by your daft outfit. "And what would this hug be called?"

"This is the smughug!" you report laughingly, and he chuckles right along with you, until you're both suffused with giggles that don't even stop when the errand waiter snottily drops your sportsbag by your feet. Eventually you get your breath, and sit up. "I'm getting out of this bloody thing. Then I'm setting it on fire."

Grabbing your bag, you head for the ladies' rest room and wrestle once again with the zip from hell. You yank. You haul, rip and heave until your arms ache and it's made absolutely sod all impact on the zip whatsoever. You can't get a bloody GRIP on the damn thing!! By the time you've moved it a half inch, you're sweating, swearing and red-faced and on the verge of a heart attack. No fuckin' way are you spending the rest of your life dressed as a duck-billed platypus. Leaving the claustrophobia of the cubicle, you venture out into the main area of the ladies, and stand in front of the cold air blower, trying to get a little chill ventilating inside the stupid suit.

"You 'right?"

"EEEEEEEEK!"

"SHIT!" he leaps back a step.

You spin to face him and don't know who's more alarmed - you by his entrance, or him by your reaction. Recovering yourself, you timidly report that you're stuck, and thankfully without laughing, he walks up, turns you round, and rips the zip from top to bottom. This allows you to pull the loosened head section off, and you turn to face him, holding the material of the suit in front of you, and fall headlong into a dark chute of longing, the entrance of which begins in the pupils of his soft long-lashed eyes. He in turn seems to find a great deal to admire about you, and says nothing for a moment, just tugging nervously on his earlobe. Then he inclines his head slightly at you. You haven't thrown him out yet, even now his unzipping duty is done...

Delicately, he strokes your cheek with folded knuckles. "I think you look a lot nicer not-as-a-duck." He points out sagely, and you grin bashfully. "Okay- ah - slap me if I'm rude but... how do those hugs feel with bare skin?"

"Slap," you reply good-humouredly, then openly gawp as he crosses his arms, grips the bottom of his tee-shirt and peels it up and over his head. He reveals a broad-shouldered, well-built tanned torso with a flat fleshy stomach and lively muscle tone. His nips are light pink set into gently defined pecs - his entire chest dusted lightly with downy pale hair that thins out to a slender line down his stomach. The soft yellow light of the lantern-style lamps in the restroom casts his upper body into varied degrees of shadow - a glorious landscape of tone and shape which dries your mouth out. Without even thinking about it, you tentatively reach your hand out to touch. He takes your hand, presses it against his chest. The pulse you find there is thick and steady, unlike the awkward tumble of your own heart as you tremble involuntarily. Your other hand is still holding the costume.

He pulls you towards him, wraps an arm around your back, leans into your ear. "Lose the flaming platypus, will ya?"

You drop the silly outfit completely, and step into his arms which wrap themselves round you so completely that you're hot, immediately - your face pressed to his chest, your back tingling from the barest tickling of his forearm hair. He gets playful, tickling the back of your neck, stroking down the dip of your spine with his fingertips until you're shivering in his hold, then he brings your face within reach of his by tipping up your chin, bending slightly to brush lips with you.

"Never been much into hugs," he murmurs. "I think I'm coming round to it though."

Your heart is hammering insanely now. The pressure of his lips on yours is delicate yet insistent. Your arms are pinned hard against him. You open your lips with the smallest of timid invitations, and his nudging tongue slips in slowly, stroking back along your tongue, earnestly joining your mouth with his. You moan into his mouth. He's so damn smooth - leading the tango. His kiss causes a surprised 'o!' to flex about two feet further down, between your legs. He shifts one arm's grip to cradle your head in his hand, searching through your hair with his fingers. Suddenly your mouth is full of warm, wet Russell.

His tongue explores the roof of your mouth in slow motion. He nuzzles your face with his chin and jawline as he proceeds to probe with his playful taster, you are ridiculously excited by the contrast between the soft bristles of his face with those miraculously pliable, mobile, satin lips. You sway against him. Eventually he pulls away and you are actually breathless. You've NEVER been kissed like that before. You rest against his chest again, stunned.

"That," he murmurs, "was my snoghug. You like?"

You just nod in something of a frenzy. Your mouth doesn't quite work, yet. "You mentioned a rubhug. How does that work? Sounds... interesting.."

"I inhols aching ha heens off" you explain into his shoulder socket, meekly.

You're pulled away from his bareness for a second as he chuckles. 

"And again, in English?"

"It involves taking your jeans off" you repeat - if possible - more meekly than before. He steps back - grins, shrugs - rips his button fly loose, then his zipper free, and you watch hypnotised as the dark denim reveals those long muscular thighs and neat calves that they encase. He kicks the jeans away, and he's down to his boxers and socks. Your head swims slightly, but you recover enough to guide him up against the wall for balance.

He yelps at the cold tiling then moans softly as you press your body against his, chest to chest, stomach to stomach. You stroke his sides with your palms, go up on tiptoe and lick the little tendon from collarbone to ear with decadent slowness - a tongue bath that makes him twitch and shiver, much to your glee. All the while, you're still sliding your hip gently up and down his groin. His breath quickens in your ear.

"Sure this counts as a... ah... hug?"

"No," you confess briefly between licks of his neck. Something mystical is happening here... the moment he whipped his tee-shirt off and kissed you - and after the stars in your eyes had faded a little - shyness transmogrified into urgency and you feel utterly weightless. You could feel this man up all day - it's not just the feel of firm elastic muscle beneath velvet that turns you on ... it's his responsiveness. Your right hand sneaks between your bodies, caressing his left pec, drawing cheeky patterns on the smooth buff skin in ever decreasing circles towards his rapidly erecting nipple. The sounds he makes into your ear merge into a long stumbling sigh with peaks of lust, as you push ever harder against the straining oblong hammering for attention in his boxers.

You look at that nip - pink and perfect - and you want to play with it. You've got the green flag but .... best make sure... you reach for his lips, miss - and get his cleft chin. It's slightly fuzzy. Cute. Batting your eyelids at him innocently, you undermine the perception of naivety with a grin.

"Niphug?"

He chuckles weakly, Lil' Russ throwing a stiff little tantrum in his shorts, screaming for action as you continue to tease it through his shorts with the gentle undulations of your body. Gasping, he slides down against the wall until he is on his butt on the floor, and his hand grapples for his jeans - NO!!!

Fumbles in a back pocket, retrieves a condom from a wallet. 

YAY!!

"I'm rigid, mate..." he splutters.... "From what I've had of your hands so far... a niphug has to lead onto a knobhug or I'll have blue balls for the rest of the night and-"

"In here? Are you serious?" You don't want to put him off, but neither do you want to get interrupted. 

"Shit - Ah - Hang on - you're the only woman on the VIP floor, no-one else is gon-"

You both freeze as you hear the squeak of the outer restroom door, hear footsteps..... which retreat into the Gents. Thank God...You laugh your mutual relief off, then you seize the moment while he's in a relaxed position. Your mouth closes over his left nip.

The pleasure is apparently un-utterable. He slides from the wall to the floor with a weak groan, flops his arms above his head languidly as you torment his peaked rubbery little surfaces with kittenish licks, and firm lip massages. His hands launch themselves from the carpet, as he once again buries his fingers in your hair, trying to control the pace of his nipple ravishment from one to the other. You slide your hand into his boxers and find the warm, solid meat in there - and purely the sensation of your fingertips along the length of his raging erection is enough to make him splutter as he bucks his hips. About three seconds later, he's gently tugged your head away and literally ripped his boxers off. You blink at the tattered undergarments lying pathetically between butt and carpet. That's an expensive display of lust,  that is....

The expression of wanton craving in his eyes fuels you with confidence. He's collapsed backwards, as you trail your fingers through that bush of chestnut hair from which Lil' Russ waves wildly at you. If Lil' Russ had fists, he'd be hammering them against Russell's navel in protest. You don't care if you're interrupted now, and evidently, neither does he, tipping his head back in abandon, giving himself up to receiving his pleasure. Right - KNOBHUG!

But let's have a bit of a build-up first...

You dive between his legs, and lick up the length of his inner thigh, making him quake and moan, his hands scrabbling for a grip on the tight-knit carpet. Your tongue bath continues over his swollen nuts and up the shaft of Lil' Russ, who seems to be trying to disappear into the seam of Russell's left hip to evade this exquisite torture. You lift the tip towards your mouth, tickling with the tip of your tongue along the underside of his glans, where his sensitivity is demonstrated by Russell's roaring, and knocking a bin over with a flailing arm. He is twisting so much beneath you you actually have to sit on his legs.

For the finale..... you wrap your lips gently round the head of his dick and suck delicately, while stroking the lower half of his dick, evoking soft cries of pleasure from the beast trapped below. He writhes madly and you get thrown off your rodeo position on his thighs. He rolls over abruptly, wrapping his arms around you and locking your mouth with his in an urgent war of tongues, reaming your mouth out desperately as his fingers fiddle with your bra strap.

He tears the garment off you - you don't care. He could snip it into tiny pieces if he REALLY wanted to and you wouldn't care... Lil' Russ vibrates furiously between your bodies to remind you both that there's a third party here that's being forgotten about amidst the snogging. Breathing hard, Russ reaches for that condom, rolls it on with difficulty - his co-ordination having buggered off at about the same time as his sense of decorum.

And you're flipped over, your back to his front. 

"Your turn," he rumbles, rests your head on his lower bicep as he wraps his left arm around you, cupping your right breast gently, teasing your nipple with his thumb, making your eyes stream. You can feel Lil' Russ nudging his way between your legs, edging and squirming towards the entrance to your sex, which is as wet as it can possibly be by now... Russell teases you a moment just by sawing his latexed length between your legs from behind, stroking your soaking undercarriage. As his tip swipes past your hypersensitive little nub, you gasp in shock - "Aha..."

Ever so gently, his big left hand works its way down your front, over your navel, locates your clitoris in an effortlessly short search. He taps it just slightly and you gulp as you actually feel it swell. The sweat is flowing by now, you try and lower yourself down onto him, but he's having none of it, just nudging Lil' Russ against you, bringing blended bliss and aggravation to that little flaming circle of nerves just inside the entrance to your sex. "Please..."

"You like hugs - We'll do this as a hug," he mutters, and bounces his hips into you, making you whimper as the first inch or so of Lil' Russ slides into you. "Why rush, eh?" he continues, retracting by an inch, hovering at your entrance. All the time carrying out the most delicate rhythmic stroking of your clit, pinning your body against his. There's really nothing you can do but give into it, melt into him, let him take you, and Christ, do you want it...

He keeps his tip bouncing in and out in tiny motions for several moments, still stroking, still fondling your nip and his breathing his quickened with yours - you're harmonising your gasps by now, almost.

"Ahhhhhhh!" you blurt, surprised and delirious as he delivers his full length to you in one smooth, impossibly deep long slow stroke. He keeps this up, real slow... crawling in, quick out. Sloooow in, fast out. Then switches over to fast in, slow out. The heat between your legs is growing uncontrollably, your orgasm in his hands, his dick stroking you gently but on double time, his grunts in your ear, his arms tightening around you all the time. You're amazed at his stamina... and desperately hope that you come before he does. You lay a desperate layer of kisses up and down his arms, since your head is just about the only part of your body you can actually move.

Up to triple time, your clit is beginning to undergo seizures under his index finger, and you're swept away in a tidal wave of muscle-clenching heat, your sex slamming round Lil' Russ, making him cry out with the pleasure as he begins to thrust in earnest...

Your legs tremble wildly as he turns his hold on you into a bearhug, squeezing the breath from you, still rubbing away frenetically on your electrified little nub, and you can't see... can barely hear, your head filled with a distant roaring as you cry out, throwing your head back as he plunges his trembling dick into you irreversibly...

The orgasm seems to continue and multiply as he continues to thrust, desperate to get there himself, and you tighten up accordingly, massaging him, milking him even as you're flowing your release. His own orgasm arrives with a furious slam of his hips into yours, almost knocking the wind out of you, his mouth closes over the back of your neck and he muffles his stuttered orgasmic gasp into your body. He shakes so hard behind you that you barely register your own trembling....

You lie still awhile, entwined, melted together, and you rather enjoy feeling him soften within, Lil' Russ coughing the last of his joy into the bottom of the condom. Reluctantly, Russell withdraws with a whiny groan, and flips you over again, this time to face him. You hold one another, sharing the trembling, enjoying it. Eventually, he lands a soft kiss on your lips and stands up, reaching for his jeans. He sighs at his destroyed boxers, appearing to decide that that wasn't such a great idea, but you're getting hot all over again at the idea of him having to 'go commando'.

He helps you to your feet, and you get dressed in silence. Well what the hell DO you say? "Best be going now?" Your eyes lock as he fiddles with a set of keys in his pocket. You're hoping......

6 DAYS LATER

You wake up with a hangover and fetch the milk. Mysteriously there are about 40 photographers and journalists outside your front door. All male. And as the flashbulbs die down, all hideously ugly. After a quick word with them, you slam the door.

NEXT DAY.......

The phone rings and you snatch at it irritably. YES, you've seen the fucking headlines. NO you have no further comment. See ya. You hang up. The phone rings again. You pick up again, with your spiel on the tip of your lips.

"It's ME!" a strong 'Strine accent barks - "Would ya stop it with the fucking hanging up?"

"Sorry, Russell. I've had quite a morning of it, as you might imagine."

"For once, I haven't...." chuckles Russell - and this takes you by surprise. You'd expected a bollocking big time for opening your mouth at all. "Have you ever read anything so bloody fucking daft in ALL your life?"

You look at the headlines of Mirror, Mail, a couple of Yankee journals that your friends have been kind enough to 'mail' to you, and sigh. "No," you admit, then have to laugh. If he can, you can. For you - shagging Russell Crowe is Kudos. For him - ammunition for a million under-worked reporters. A prevalent headline reads:

GLADIATOR CROWE HAS SEX WITH PLATYPUS

Heartthrob Crowe gets 'easy 'pus-y' out of a young lady collecting for a Charity as she wanders into the VIP lounge...

You start giggling.. actually - no, you never have read anything so ridiculous.

"It's INSANE!" you laugh... and a mutual fit of giggles bonds you over the continents.  After a while, he settles down. "Hey - thanks, by the way. For your little 'on-dit'"  

"You sure? I was on the spot. Didn't quite know what to say."                                             

What I had actually told them wasn't nearly so nice.

Evasive and rude, the young lady refused to divulge any details of the sordid menage a deux, replying: "Actually, I don't screw and tell. But if I did, I would say that no wonder he gets loads of sex, and you horrible lot don't...."