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Sexy knickers giving sexy lady sexy itchy crotch

A HOT lady has been made extra attractive with some lacy pants that she has to constantly readjust due to them being f**king uncomfortable.

Donna Sheridan bought an expensive thong as a special treat and felt so alluring that she could pull anyone, so long as they didn’t notice her giving herself a good scratch every three minutes.

Sheridan said: “I was feeling frumpy in my regular cotton briefs, and decided it was time for a change. And look at me now, I feel spectacular, as long as I don’t sit down or walk more than a few metres. This thing chafes like hell.

“I don’t know what it’s made of, but look how sensual this material is, all red and shiny. That’s also how it made the skin on my hand go when I held it for too long in the shop.

“It’s improved my dating life already. It’s hard to notice how dull these men are when all I can think about is how it feels like I’m sitting on a fire that’s ridden its way right up my arse crack.”

Date Oliver O’Connor commented: “She said she was desperate to get her knickers off and then immediately took a cab home alone. Talk about mixed messages.”

Does anyone else feel like their bloodlust isn’t sated?

HAS anyone else got this restless, unsatisfied feeling, like they were all ready for a public disembowelment and the victim never turned up?

You know? Like we’re all standing out in the streets, flaming torches aloft, staring at a raised platform on which justice was to be bloodily delivered and no-one’s there?

I’m not a bad person. I, Joe Turner, ordinary British painter and decorator, have never intentionally harmed anyone. But when you hear about certain things that are very specifically morally wrong, it gets your dander up.

And when you’re told it’s a BBC presenter, beamed into your very home night after night, it arouses a primitive desire for very public retribution even if you don’t know which one.

So I’m here, revved up, disgusted and appalled at this household name whose identity I’m still unsure about, all ready for their naming, ousting, hanging, drawing, quartering and the placing of their head on a spike, and I’m told it didn’t happen?

That it might all be made up? That this burning need for a reckoning in my breast may be entirely misplaced? Well that doesn’t make me feel good.

What should come first? The truth, which might take years to emerge, or an angry mob’s urgent desire to tear a man apart first and ask questions later?

As a member of said mob, I say the latter. Let’s name him, let’s get the executioner out, and let’s have a big old cheer when head hits basket. It’s the British way.

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