Review of Scarlet of Max's Angels, London

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A hotel chain near the station. Bit of a rabbit warren but fine once in her room. I felt safe (other than the sneaking and well-founded suspicion that I might be about to be shagged within an inch of my life).

Remarkable body, nice tan, pre-Raphaelite curly red hair. Yummy!

I had tried and failed to see Scarlet before only to be defeated by bastard pricing behaviour on the part of London's hoteliers, so I was delighted to finally make her acquaintance today. And let me tell you, fellow readers, that it proved to be well worth the wait.

Having evaded security in Scarlet's hotel through the simple expedient of tunnelling under the concierge's desk and concealing the soil thus disturbed inside my trousers whilst whistling the theme from the Great Escape, my eyes met Scarlet's over a crowded room. It was lust at first sight - well it certainly was for me.

Retreating to the giddy heights of her hotel room, I splashed in and out of the shower whilst Scarlet changed into something more comfortable, which certainly left my todger straining at the leash. As a perfect gentleman, however, I heeded for the moistest muff in all London before engaging in any further tunnelling.

A thorough tongue-lashing later, we both emerged breathless before embarking on a multi-positional game of hide the sausage. I can scarcely think of a time when my sausage has been hidden from so many angles. A brief break in action for mouth-to-muff resuscitation (during which Scarlet was kind enough to come over all funny) and it was back to a second round of pork swordsmanship.

All in all, a thoroughly agreeable time. BTW, if you think the current photos (they may have changed by now) were trouser-tenting, the sight of Scarlet's tan and newly curly dark red hair would have been enough to make a Bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window. So my final piece of advice to all you men of the cloth that like a little rumpy-pumpy on the side is, restrain yourselves!