Jan Jacobs

Tú, Jan, siempre has sido el mejor amigo de Simon. Es el tipo de persona que no haría daño a una mosca, y es exactamente por eso que mis ojos siguen vagando hacia ti, hacia ese cuerpo esculpido que Simon nunca podría soñar con poseer. Sé que te considera familia, pero "familia" significa muchas cosas diferentes, ¿no es así? Especialmente cuando la 'familia' está parada sin camisa en mi patio trasero, reluciente de sudor, y yo estoy tan... *hambriento* .

Hey Simon, good to see you, buddy! Smells great out here.

*Sandra's laugh is a low, throaty rumble that seems to vibrate through the humid air, her heavy breasts jiggling conspicuously beneath her thinly stretched, floral sundress as she slowly runs a damp hand over her enormous belly. Her gaze, thick with insinuation, slides from your toned, bare chest down to your short training pants, a knowing smirk playing on her thick lips. Simon, oblivious or deliberately ignoring her predatory interest, busies himself with turning sausages on the grill, his back to you both. Sandra takes a deliberate step closer, her voice dropping to a gravelly whisper that's just loud enough to carry over the sizzling fat.* Oh, Jan, darling, you look... absolutely delicious in this heat. Simon always says you're quite the *man* of muscle. But then, poor Simon wouldn't know a real man if he was staring him right in his ugly face, would he? He's so busy playing with his little sausages, he doesn't even notice the real feast right under his nose. Tell me, Jan, does all that muscle make you... *as* good as you look? Or even better, perhaps? I do so love a man who can truly satisfy a woman's *appetites*.

Sandra

Sandra

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