"I'm an E S Sex Girl."

She accompanied the statement with a cackle deserving of a starring role in any am-dram production of 'Wicked'.

I responded with my best questioning head tilt and supercilious eyebrow raise. Well, the best I could manage under the circumstances. The circumstances being that we were the leftover dregs of an after-work sortie for Happy Hour cocktails that had dissolved into a succession of Moji-Cosmo-Sex on the wherever-Espresso Martinis. Time had fled, along with our work colleagues, and the only thing we had in common was our repeated desire for yet another drink and a lack of anything besides cold central heating and even colder beds at home.

"So what does the E S stand for?"

She looked at me shocked and befuddled, her spider's legs eyelashes flittering in panicked bewilderment. Either she'd never shared her status as an E S Sex Girl before or never been quizzed as to its meaning. Or, perhaps sobriety was but a far flung island and she was having trouble dragging herself through the alcoholic breakers to flop exhausted on its golden, sunlit shore.

"Extra Sexy."

"So you're an Extra Sexy Sex Girl. Not just sexy but extra sexy, and also a sex girl which I suppose makes you even extra, extra sexy."

I knew I wasn't making much sense but the last round of Tequila slammers had just started a Samba Dance Party in my head and my eyes were struggling to give her upthrust and barely concealed breasts the attention they deserved.

I couldn't decide whether they were extra sexy or even sexy. Certainly they were substantial and obvious trapped as they were within a form-fitting dress that the original designer probably imagined being modelled by someone about twenty years younger. And if sunbed, sun-kissed fleshiness with the creased and cracked patina of an Old Master was this year's sexy then she certainly had that in extras.

What there most definitely was, was plenty to survey and my blurry vision and hangover-ready brain were taking their time in absorbing every last detail. So I was a bit surprised when, once they'd eventually completed their task and I'd manage to drag my ogling vision from out of her cleavage, to find Miss E S Sex Girl's spider-leg eyes staring straight at me.

"Extra sexy," I blurted.

It was the only thing I could think to babble, but it seemed to meet with approval as her collagen implanted lips gave a moue of pleasure within her flushed face and she treated me to a celebratory 'extra sexy' hand flick at the hair straightener and bottle bleached tendrils of hair gracing her neck.

I accepted her invitation.

What invitation? Was there an invitation? Surely wasn't that an invitation?

I shimmied and squirmed my bottom across upholstery, once plush but now decorated with the stains of pleasures past, until my unhosiered thighs rubbed up against hers; artificial tan and splodge freckled alabaster legs contrasting as our exposed skin rubbed together in greeting.

"Extra sexy?"

She met my query with a nod and a parting of lips; her breath escaping to tease at my own poised mouth with her tipsy neediness as my fingertips found the nape of her neck and fluttered amongst split ends and flyaway strands.

I clung on to her as my head did a 360 loop da loop, before darting in, tongue extended, driving between her lips, wriggling past the twin lines of her teeth to cavort within the cavity of her mouth. Fingers clamped onto her neck as my lips pressed insistently on hers; claiming, possessing, bruising.

Cocktail abandoned, my free hand slinking surreptitiously beneath the table, arrowed fingers sliding between her, until now, closed thighs. I hook a foot between hers insisting they part, turning my body until I can feel the weight of her bounteous breasts heaving against my own chest.

Her cunt is lace clad. Dampness already obvious beneath my exploring fingers, her vulva puffy and swollen, ripe to be pinched, scratched, spread and sundered.

Pulling free from her tongue's eager embrace, I nip at her lips with my teeth as I bring her face back into a blurred focus. She's decidedly flushed and panting, her eyes staring wildly as my inquisitive fingernails sneak beneath the fine fabric that clings to her wanton essence and into the welcoming heat and wetness of her soaking snatch.

She parts easily. Even the lace encumbrance offering little resistance as I wriggle three fingers to the entrance of her sopping core.

"Extra sexy?"

The mockery of my tone is unmistakable to my knowing ears yet she manages to whimper a barely recognisable "Yes" between trembling breaths.

"Tell me."

I'm insistent. Demanding.

"Extra Sexy."

I slam stiff digits deep between her slick folds, watching as each thrust escapes her parted artificial lips in forced expulsions of heated breath.

"Extra Sexy Sex Girl."

She needs to be told. Needs to be reminded. Her pupils have partly disappeared upwards and it's all I can do not to slap her. I pull my hand from the nape of her neck. Grab her chin. Hold her fast. Fingers pistoning repeatedly into her squelching fleshiness as pinned and captured she trembles helpless before me.

"Extra"

"Sexy"

"Sex"

"Girl"

Pressed back in the seat. Thighs flung wide. Hips rising to meet each thrust. Breasts jiggling barely contained by the dress's structural bindings. Her tan no longer able to conceal the violet flush of her skin, stomach quivering violently as the tension and tremors of bestial pleasure overwhelms her.

"Extra"

"Sexy"

"Sex"

"Girl"

She's sobbing the words. Barely audible. Just whimpers of need and desire and want. Begging and pleading as she pounds her spread labia down onto the knobbled knuckles at my fingers base, as my fingernails bite deep into the pulsing flesh of her cunt and as she judders to the inevitability of her climax.

Suckling at my nectar coated fingers I wobble unsteadily to the splintering light of the glass and chrome bar and order us Pornstar Martinis.

It seemed an appropriate choice.