NyLon! - chapter 21

The veterinarian gynaecologist from Rimini Dr Tabar nervously smoked the pipe thinking to his dog life. Candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel, his perfect body shining in small openings of suffused light that penetrated through the lowered rolling shutter's chinks creating an exciting eroticism of sophisticated chiaroscuri, was laying beside him, the left arm outstretched beyond the nape to evidence the hairless and muscular chest, the right leg folded on the left, and the velvety skin slightly beaded by the liquid semen that strained from his lips after the canine fellatio.

The Formula 1 driver Jarno Trulli was nervously smoking a cigarette thinking of that cuckold Briatore. Heidi Klum, her perfect body shining in small openings of suffused light that penetrated through the lowered rolling shutter's chinks creating an exciting eroticism of sophisticated chiaroscuri, was laying beside him, the left arm outstretched beyond the nape to evidence the compact and mature breast, the right leg folded on the left, and the velvety skin slightly beaded by the fog of the Ruhr insinuating tenuously and sly in his Toyota small van. No wonder that the cuckold had fired him. Ok for shagging Naomi, anyway she had small tits and bandy legs, but with Heidi he had exaggerated: every model in the collection of his boss couldn’t systematically be shagged. Reason why he was exiled in Cologne and, as an Italian driver resident here, to us Londoner fans nothing was left but the motorbike champion Valentino Rossi, interpreted here by Livio Schnur.

The motorbike champion Livio Schnur was nervously smoking a cigarette thinking on how in this story he could reasonably posing as Valentino Rossi. Bruna Colacicco, her perfect body shining in small openings of suffused light that penetrated through the lowered rolling shutter's chinks creating an exciting eroticism of sophisticated chiaroscuri, was laying beside him, the left arm outstretched beyond the nape to evidence the compact and mature breast, the right leg folded on the left, and the velvety skin slightly beaded by the Castrol oil insinuating tenuously and sly under the motorcycle of Schnur in Piccadilly Circus.

Four hundred miles to the north, the Roman gladiator Giulio Carmelo Palmanfredi was nervously smoking a cigarette thinking on how his idyllic wedding with the radical secretariat member and translator into Italian the investigative adventures in Lindsay Davis’ imperial mysteries, had suddenly became in a Scottish nightmare as soon as they went through the fatal Adrian Wall. Abigail Palmanfredi, her perfect body shining in small openings of suffused light that penetrated through the lowered rolling shutter's chinks creating an exciting eroticism of sophisticated chiaroscuri, was laying beside him, the left arm outstretched beyond the nape to evidence the compact and mature breast, the right leg folded on the left, and the velvety skin slightly beaded by the humidity of the celtic moorland, gray-brown like her eyes saddened by those desolate lands of the bard Robert Burns, where it always rained the aborigines spoke like natives of Bergamo.