0 comments/ 35268 views/ 3 favorites Pat Wynn - Perfect Woman By: adoration I don't know if you've ever read those things in Reader's Digest, that feature they used to have called "My Most Unforgettable Character", they may still run it, I dunno, never read it any more. Anyway, I thought about it the other day when someone mentioned during conversation when the topic had moved to our favourite subject, "Whatever happened to Pat Wynn?" Now if you're of my vintage, with more hair around your old fella than on your head, you'll know immediately who I'm talking about, but you young blokes have probably never heard the name. Shoot, have you bastards missed something! I came across her – OK, awful pun, I know, but truthful – when I was working in Soho in 1979. I was a very successful photographer – yep, you know the type of pictures I'm talking about. Anyway, I was 30, dark brown eyes, which matched my dark brown voice and I had long, jet-black hair which came almost to my shoulders – yeah, I know, we thought it looked good, didn't we? I was tall – well, still am – and slim. Nothing massive down there, just over seven inches, uncut, and I knew how to handle it. No, sorry, another terrible pun, I mean I knew what to do with it. Luckily, so did Pat, but I'm getting ahead of my story. This loft I worked in was a typical Soho loft. Over-priced, rent-wise, too cold in winter and too hot in summer, but it was in a terrific location, just off Wardour Street, close to some great restaurants, good strip clubs and filthy book shops. Haven't lived in London or England for that matter for nearly 25 years – it is still the same? But the place was well equipped for my purposes. High stud to the ceiling, plenty of leather chairs and couches, tables, equipment – a lot of the pictures involved bondage, whips, you get the picture? And I was a very sought after clickster, mainly for the flesh stuff, but also for more "straight" pictures, too. The name I worked under was Richard Patterson, you've seen loads of my work if you've seen back numbers of Mayfair and Escort magazine from that period. Oh, no one calls me Richard by the way, except "She who must be obeyed" when she's really pissed at me. Everyone calls me Rick. And I know what you're asking – is it true you got to fuck a lot of nubile little totty in your day, Rick? Well, the hypocrites in the business will all say what they've been programmed to say: no, it's strictly business, can't compromise my reputation or the girl's. Stuff like that. But I won't give you any of that horse hockey. In my day, course we did. If the lady was turning it up, who would be a cad and decline? Couldn't go round hurting their feelings, could you? I mean, I may be a cunt, but I'm not a cad. You with me? So anyway, here I am sitting in the little kitchenette we called "The Savoy Grill", sucking on a Lucky Strike – shoot, I used to think I was cool smoking those fuckin' awful things – and sipping a bloody awful instant coffee while doing the Daily Telegraph cryptic crossword (I was a gun at 'em, still am) when my gofer comes in with the latest pile of magazines from our little newsagent's down Wardour Street. Jackie, that was his name, see, dumps a pile of skin mags on the table, says "Here's the latest pussy publications, Rick", in his thick Scottish accent – I wouldn't dare try to copy it here – and helps himself to a Coke. I'll never forget the date – well, the month, to be more accurate. It was May, 1979, and there, in all its pristine glory was the June issue of Mayfair magazine. The tart on the cover wasn't too dusty, either, a dark-haired bimbo, with one knee on a couch and a pair of shiny pants which I think they called "tap pants" – still may do, for all I know. I picked up Mayfair first because I did a lot of work for them and they always paid well and promptly. Believe me, in those days the "promptly" was almost as important as the "well". So I glanced at the spread on the dark-haired lovely, and very tasty too. But then I got past the centrespread, and the very last woman to feature in the mag was indeed that – a WOMAN! It was Pat Wynn, and it said she was the wife of a Surrey stockbroker, or some such imaginary twaddle, I dunno, I never believed it, did you? Likes hot chocolate, dogs that don't bite and long walks on the moors. Bollocks! We all know what they like, don't we? Anyway, it said she was 40, I think, and gave her measurements as 40-26-36, although I reckoned then, still do, that her superstructure was more in the 44-inch range. And don't go on about that figure being meaningless and it's all to do with the width of the lady's back, or crap like that. These jugs were HANDFULS! So I whistled, or something, and Jackie peered over my shoulder and he whistled too, the filthy little pervert. "Fuck," he said, "what would I give you fuck that!" And I could see his point. This woman was built and beautiful. She had a shock of fairish red hair on her head, nice hair. She had these bloody big bazookas – all right, sorry, it's so 1960s or '70s, but fuck, this WAS 1979, remember? She also wore black stockings held up by a slim garter belt, and had high heels. That combination always makes me hot! And she was also shown in silky, slinky black satin, and she had a cheeky smile which sort of said "I know what YOU'RE thinking, you naughty boy!" and a pussy which was rather hairy, but fuck, I wanted to muff dive it there and then. I guess my thoughts must have been like one of those balloons in cartoons, because Jackie read my thoughts in a shot. "You wanna shoot it, don't you?" he asked, cheekily. "And I don't mean with the fuckin' Hasselblad!" Little Glaswegian bastard had me there! What wouldn't I have given for a jump on that lush-breasted, full-buttocked, RIPE-looking woman! Just looking at her made me go wobbly at the knees and hard somewhere else! So I picked up the phone. Now, while I was a very good photographer of the naked, and sometimes-not-so-naked, female form, I was an absolute fucking genius at working a telephone. I called my contact at Mayfair magazine, a woman who booked most of their models, and even took part in the randy bastards' conferences where they decided which pictures they'd use. She was a nice lady, not my type, but I took her to lunch at a little Chinese joint once a month and made her laugh with pretty banal, filthy stories, and she looked out for ladies on my behalf. When Camilla and I had got the niceties out of the way, she snapped into business mode. "Rick, how can I help you?" she asked. "Pat Wynn," I replied, as casually as I could, which wasn't too fucking casual at all, to tell the truth. "Oh, going for the more mature woman now, are we?" she mocked me from the other end of the line. "Camilla, she's fucking gorgeous and I have a shoot in mind for her," I said, trying to rein in my emotions. "Sure you do, big boy," laughed my magazine contact. "You wanna shoot it right between those massive mammaries, don't you?" "Camilla," I chided, "please, such disgusting thoughts." The woman chuckled. She was probably Pat Wynn's age. "She was the oldest woman in any shoot for us for years," she told me. "And know something? I think she was the best in the mag this issue." "She's the best in the mag, ever," I corrected. "Now, can we do business?" Camilla said sure we could. "What did you have in mind? Let's see if I can pitch it to Pat." I was ready for that. "PVC or latex," I said. "An open-breasted, open-crotched playsuit from She An Me, out South Kensington way. Plus PVC bed boots, and a whip. Haughty make-up. The aunty look. 'Aunty's gonna flog you, but first aunty's gonna fuck you', look." Camilla laughed. "OK, it sounds like something she'll go for. Only I think it's more 'So erect – amazing' than us." My contact was using the old anagram – and a fucking good one if you ask me – for Escort magazine and I tended to agree, but pointed out a younger woman had appeared in Mayfair a matter of a few months before in just such an outfit. "Yeah," Camilla said, "but there was no hint of whips or sadism in that shoot. And anyway, we wouldn't run Pat again for a while. No, it's more an Escort spread, I think." I didn't give a flying fuck, to be honest, all I wanted was Pat Wynn in my studio loft showing me her tits and pussy, and I'd take my chances from there. "Tell you what I can do," said Camilla, still all business. "I can't give you Pat's number, as you well know, but what I can do is give her yours. And then, if she calls you, well, over to you." "Camilla, how can I thank you enough?" I laughed. "A Chinese lunch?" Camilla disagreed. "Fuck no, Rick. This is the Savoy Grill at least – and I don't mean that fucking little hovel you call a kitchen!" * * * To say it was like walking on eggshells for me the rest of the week was an understatement. I almost jumped out of my skin every time the fucking phone rang, but it was never the lovely mature madam. Finally, just as I was about to call it a day on Friday afternoon – Jackie had left around lunchtime for the afternoon express to Glasgow from King's Cross - and I was pondering a quick meal at a Wimpey's and then off to the Nell Gwynne strip club in Dean Street to see if there was anything remotely photographable dancing there that evening, she rang! "Rick Patterson, photographer of the breast of British," I replied, in my deepest "Why don't you come up and fuck me sometime" tone of voice. "Pat Wynn," said this honey of a voice, "and if you want 'breast' then I'm the best." It was a nondescript sort of Home Counties twang, could have been London, Surrey, Berks Bucks or Oxon – even fucking Essex. You name it, I couldn't pick it, but all I knew was it sounded like music to my ears. I laughed, trying to think of something witty to reply, but all I could do was babble: "I think you're fantastic and I want to photograph you." Talk about banal! But she actually chuckled. "Well," she said, in the sort of voice that sounded like the mouth it came from would suck you off and spit you out in spunk bubbles, "you don't fuck around, do you?" "Er," I gabbled, "it's just that you sound so wonderful, I guess I'm tongue-tied." Another chuckle. "You surprise me, Mr Patterson, or may I call you Rick?" she said, in a sort of "Can I sit on your face?" intonation. But before I could plead "Call me Rick, call me Rick!" she had ploughed on. "For a man who wants to photograph me in slippery, shiny, sexy PVC you most certainly should not be tongue-tied. Now tell me, why a latex shoot? Whips, too, I'm told?" I coughed, trying to clear my throat. "Er, well, let's see – um, latex. Oh, it's just, I don't know, it's just ..." Pat Wynn interrupted me, thank fuck! "It's just so oozingly, cock-hardeningly sexy," she suggested. "It makes naughty boys want to rub their thick, hard cocks against it, feel the coolness, the slippery material, the way it gleams as it clings to a breast-bared mature woman. How's that?" I stammered. "That's absolutely fuckin' perfect," I admitted. "Well, why the fuck didn't you say so, Rick?" she laughed. "Now, let's meet and let's get a naughty outfit for me to wear. Where can we go to buy it? She An Me, didn't you tell Camilla?" I was gobsmacked. Here was this gloriously, bit-titted beauty actually talking to me about shopping for some kinky – well, maybe not so kinky, even for 1979 – latex outfit and suggesting we go there together! "Er, sure, it's a shop that sells sexy lingerie in the Old Brompton Road, South Kensington, about a two-minute walk from the South Ken tube station," I told her. Then Pat stopped me. "OK, big boy, let's meet there – outside South Ken tube station, I mean – at 11 tomorrow morning. Can you make it?" Could I make it? I'd have cancelled a date with Racquel fucking Welch to make it! "Sure," I said. "I'm tall, long black hair almost down to my shoulders and I'll wear a brown leather jacket and blue jeans." There was another "I want to sit on your face" chuckle from down the line. "You'll spot me easily enough," she said. "I'll be the one with big tits!" * * * I got to the tube station and stood outside the main gate at 10 to 11. I had shampooed my hair, then blow-dried it, so it gleamed. Looked fucking good, even if I say so myself, and no, there's nothing queer about me. I wore a smart, open-necked white shirt, a brown leather jacket I'd bought at North Shore Leather in San Francisco a couple of years before, blue Levis and what passed for "fuck me" shoes in 1979 – white, with brass buckles. Wouldn't be seen dead in 'em today, of course, but styles change, don't they? That's why they're called "styles" I guess. It was 11.10am by the Omega Seamaster on my wrist – yes, they were expensive even in 1979 – and I'd just about given up on her, when this fucking vision emerged through the gates, her light, reddish hair blazing, her breasts several inches ahead of her. Oh, OK, six inches ahead of her! Pat Wynn was wearing a tight white blouse, a black leather jacket, and black leather jeans. Must have cost the earth, even back then. Without any hesitation at all, she spotted me, marched over, placed her beautiful, blue-eyes close to mine and kissed me on the cheek, not passionately, but not like a fucking sister, either. "Just like the picture Camilla showed me," the busty beast smiled. "And you approve?" I asked, slipping an arm between hers and leading her down the Old Brompton Road towards the lingerie shop. "I like what I see," she smiled. "And you?" She turned to look at me as she asked the "And you?" and her breasts sort of heaved in her tight-fitting blouse. I thought I'd come on the spot. "You are so magnificent," I breathed, trying to imprint the moment on my mind forever. "Are they real?" I asked, blatantly looking down at the glorious bristols. "Fuck, darling," she laughed, the two words loud enough to make other Brompton Road strollers turn and stare, "I've smeared enough cum over 'em down the years to give them added texture, I sure as hell hope so!" My look must have amused her, because she leaned and whispered into my ear – in her high heels her head was level with mine and I'm 6-1 – that "Cum is great for adding inches, believe me!" I believed her. If she'd said Arsenal had just won the European Cup – they're still trying, aren't they? – I'd have fucking believed her! Then we were at the steps leading up to She An Me, at 70 Old Brompton Road. Now, I don't know if the place is still in business, I doubt it, but in 1979 it was THE place to go for kinky, wet-look lingerie, and PVC and latex stuff. I bought a thong there that day and it lasted me through all sorts of sexual escapades well into the 1990s – great products were to be had from She An Me. Something else I can tell you about the place. They produced a fucking A-grade catalogue. I've still got one that they brought out in around 1975 – wet look, shiny, lingerie, plastic fantastic, all shot on glossy A4. It's bloody brilliant, and the girls! But that's not all. It was shot by – and I kid you not – that old pervemeister, Helmut Newton, the kinkiest mainstream photographer the world's ever known. The man who was once told by his father: "Helmut my boy, you will finish up in the gutter!" Helmut fucking Newton, that's who. So Pat Wynn and I walked up the staircase to the display rooms and found once we were inside that we were the only people there – well, the only people aside from the girl behind the counter named, and I'll never forget it, Wanda. I knew she was Wanda because her name tag said so. "Hi, how can I help you?" she asked, all cheerful like, putting down what looked like one of those Soho cyclostyled sex books and putting up on her face one of those salesgirl's smiles. She was pretty, with short, dark hair, big boobs in a tight white T-shirt, a pair of PVC trousers that looked as if they'd been sprayed on and flashing brown eyes. "You can find a latex playsuit that will fit me so this old pervert here can enjoy himself," said Pat Wynn, totally ignoring the fact that I must have been about 10 years younger than her. The "pervert" I didn't object to. "You know the kind," said the busty bird, "open-fronted so my boobs can poke through and with a zip from the navel to the small of the back so he can access you-know-what." "Oh, you mean something he can enjoy without having to take it off you mean?" laughed the kid, who looked to me to be around 18, 19 at the absolute top upper limit. "Precisely, you've got it," smiled the busty bird with me. Wanda grinned a cheeky grin and pointed to a copy of Mayfair magazine propped up in a perspex display case on the counter. "You mean something like this?" The magazine was the April, 1979, issue – volume 14, number 4 if you're keeping notes – and showed a pretty, dark-haired woman on the cover in a black latex playsuit, demurely covering her breasts with her arms. Wanda took it from the display case and opened it to the spread featuring the buxom brunette. I only glanced at the accompanying copy, but one line said something to the effect that "I like this outfit, I can have fun in it without taking it off, if you get my point". I certainly got her point, because she was showing off her tits and a dark-haired pussy, and so did Pat Wynn. Get the point, I mean. "That's perfect," she said, smiling at me. "Isn't it just too sweet, Ricky-wicky?" "Yes, it is," I said, through gritted teeth, "and don't call me Ricky-wicky." "Now, now," said Wanda, as she walked out to one of the display racks, "no lover's tiffs if you please!" But instead of picking out the required item of sexy apparel, she walked on past the racks to the door, swung the "Open" sign around so it showed "Closed", drew the drapes on the door's glass panels and walked back to us. "Don't want to be disturbed if madam's going to model something risque, do we?" said the 20-year-old, cheekily, giving me a knowing wink. Then she swooped on a rack, produced one black latex playsuit, a pair of black PVC "bed boots" and long black latex gloves. "If modom will follow me, please," said Wanda, trying to sound like a seller from Fortnum & Masons, instead of a girl in a kinky lingerie shop, and Pat walked away with the kid to a changing room. "I'll be right back, you lovely old pervert," smiled the big-breasted bitch, "why not shop for something yourself? Latex, PVC, only make sure it's got a zip in the front so you can play with me while you're still wearing it!" I'd have blushed if I'd been the blushing type, but by now I was getting used to her cheeky line of patter. Anyway, I'd known her – well, been in her company – for only about 10 minutes, and here I was, already jumping to her beck and call. I was actually searching the "Menswear" racks looking for something. Of course, I knew the way she was egging me on, that we were going to fuck, and I decided that if she wanted me in some sexy little garment, then that's what she'd fucking get! I chose a black PVC brief – we'd call it a "thong" today, though I don't think the term was around in those days. It was shiny and black, high hipped and narrow over the old fella and it cupped the balls nicely. Not that I knew that at the time, I just looked at the "M" for "medium" size tag, saw it had a zip running from about the middle of the abdomen down to the back of the scrotum, and grabbed it off the rack. This had taken me about two minutes, and for about two minutes more I checked out some of the huge range of kinky, seductive gear on display, then Wanda was back in the shop. Pat Wynn - Perfect Woman She ducked out from behind the curtains to the dressing rooms and gave me a very cheeky grin, then ran her lovely little pink tongue across her lips, lasciviously, too, I must say. It was an action that spelled out "Guess what I've just been licking!", only one didn't have to be Einstein to work out what that was. She looked like the cat that had got the cream. "She'll be a couple of minutes," said the brown-eyed beauty, as she stepped behind her counter, "she's just putting the bed boots and her shoes back on." It was then that I made an instant decision. Every now and again I'd come across someone who yelled out "Photograph me, I look perfect in the nick!" and this little Wanda screamed sex appeal, even though, as I may have told you, I was then more into the maturer woman. Still, business is business, and I flashed out my wallet, pulled out a card and handed it to Wanda. "I do sexy pictures for magazines like this," I told her, nodding to the skin mag back in its perspex display rack. "You would be marvellous. It pays quite well, have a think about it and call me, eh? Oh, how old are you, by the way?" Wanda grinned. "I'm 18 and I don't have to think about it, Rick," she said, after glancing at my card. "The answer's 'Yes', and I can tell you right now I have a thing for quarter-cup bras and crotchless panties." Who, I said to myself, doesn't? "Great," I said. "Stick your number on the back of the card and I'll give you a call. Will you bring your own gear?" "What there is of it, sure," she smiled, printing a pair of phone numbers on the back of my card. "The top's work, I answer the phone. The bottom is my flat. Either me or my flat mate answers." Then, my attention was dragged from the pert-breasted little lass to a much more mature woman. Pat Wynn had coughed one of those "stage" coughs and I turned to look at her. You know the word "pulchritude"? I think it simply means "beauty" but ever since that day in the Old Brompton Road I've associated it with a good-looking, mature, 35-45-year-old woman, with big tits, nice thighs, great arse and a "Come to bed" smile. And Pat Wynn spelled the word out in capital letters – P-U-L-C-H-R-I-T-U-D-E, there, I've spelled it out for you. Fuck, she looked sensational! Now, I'd be the first to confess that when it comes to sexy, seductive, kinky lingerie, I'm an addict. Just the mere mention of "suspender belt", or "quarter-cup bra", or "crotchless panties" and the old fella starts to stand to attention. My wife reckons I've got more interest in the erotic underwear than the woman herself, and I'll admit that a woman may be plain-looking, even a bit ugly, and if she's in erotic lingerie, well, she'll be half-way to turning me on. But – and it's a big "but" – put a woman who is already good-looking in a sexy outfit like this black playsuit Pat Wynn was wearing, and she's got my total attention. A sexy woman looks even sexier when she's dressed to seduce. And fuck me, was PW dressed to seduce! The gleaming black material clung to her ample, generous curves. The first thing I noticed, of course, was her breasts. They were glorious, even though I knew that already, from the magazine spread. They were large, suckable, lickable, fuckable. The nipples were quite large and they were hard! The thought of sliding the old fella up and down between those delicious mounds was sending him hard up against the satin panties I was wearing – yeah, all right, I know, but there's nothing wrong with a bloke wearing women's panties, it's sexy, feels great down there. And NO, for the second time, there's nothing queer about me. Kinky, sure. Queer? Never. Then I looked at her thighs. Full, firm, slightly sun-tanned. The thought of them wrapped around my neck was intoxicating, as was the glimpse of her labia just beneath the crop of light brown pubic hair. She'd undone the zip, of course, to display her charms, there, the tart! Next I took in the bedboots. Shiny black rubber, they clung her to lower thighs, and her shapely calves, like a second skin. The thought of rubbing my cock across them was making me even harder! Then she twirled, and I saw that the unzipping had bared her buttocks. Large, but not massive, smooth and extremely kissable. On her arms were black, PVC elbow-length gloves. They didn't look half bad, either. My thought there? Her rubbing my cock with her gloved hands, of course. "Well, Rick, will I pass your strict test?" she laughed, putting on another high-heeled twirl. "Pass? You're top of the fuckin' class," I almost shouted, then looked at Wanda and mouthed "Sorry". The 18-year-old laughed. "Heard it before, don't worry," she grinned. Then I turned my attentions to the playsuit-clad beauty. "Like it?" The 39-year-old nodded. "Want me to photograph you in it?" I asked. "And something else, sweetie!" she roared with laughter. Wanda joined in. "It's a deal," I said, turning to Wanda. "Tot up the bill while Pat gets changed. And put this on the tab as well." I tossed the black male briefs onto the counter. "Oh, I can see these outfits are going to get a really strenuous work out today," said the cheeky little trollop, then Pat was gone and I peered closely at Wanda's tits. "Like 'em?" she said, realising immediately where my attentions had been drawn, now that Pat was back in the dressing rooms. "Lovely. May I ask?" I said. "Sure," said Wanda. "38s – and the rest of me is 24 and 36. That OK for you, Mr Photographer?" I nodded. "Sure, but don't tell my friend," I said, a throw-away line, really, I didn't give a fuck what Pat knew – hell, photography was my business, right? When Pat emerged from the dressing room, clothes in hand, she walked to the counter, dropped the playsuit and bed boots on top of it, then looked at me. "I want to talk to Wanda, Rick," she said. "Fuck off into a changing room and try on those briefs. If they fit, keep 'em on, I like the thought of you wearing them for me." And you know what? I meekly obeyed, walking down to the side of the shop, pulling the PVC thing on – it fitted perfectly – and slipping my women's panties into an inside jacket pocket. Back in the shop I found the pair laughing and giggling, but ignored it. "Ready for lunch?" asked Pat, slipping her arm comfortably into mine. "Or shall we go straight back to your place, big guy?" And I didn't miss her theatrical wink towards Wanda, as she said it. "No, lunch is fine," I said, ignoring her sexual overtone. "Exactly," said Pat, moving towards the door, with me still in her grasp. "You know what they say, Rick, never make love on an empty stomach, feed the girl first!" * * * I took the busty creature, carrying her She An Me plastic bag, to an Italian restaurant in Ealing Brodway – I lived in apartments in Hanger Lane in those days, just up from the Central Line tube station. While we were tucking into a ravioli dish washed down with an earthy Italian red, I asked Pat: "When did you decide you were going to fuck me?" She grinned, flicked a trace of sauce from her upper lip, and looked innocent. "Oh, I always thought it was the man who made those decisions?" I sipped on the red, made a mental note never to buy a bottle of the stuff again, and disagreed with her. "Bollocks, Pat, as you well know," I told her. "It's always the woman's decision. If a woman wants a man, she damn well gets him. "A man can lust after a lady for all he's worth, but if she's not interested, then forget it. In the matter of sex and bedding people, it's the women who call the shots. And you fuckin' well know it!" Pat laughed, a throaty, sexy laugh, and put down her fork. "All right, I made up my mind as soon as Camilla showed me your picture in the Mayfair office. You looked lovely, dark haired – I love dark hair – and you're not fat. I love slim. And you? You love lush-bodied and old?" I nearly choked on my wedge of pasta folded ham. "Old? Fuck off, Pat, you're what? 39, the magazine said, married to a stockbroker in Surrey. Lush-bodied, sure, but don't bullshit me about 39 – 39 is perfect." Pat finished her bowl of ravioli, and drained her glass of red, but wisely refused a top up. "All right, I give you the fuller figure, and the 39 – though I'm damn near 40. "But there's no Mr Wynn, well not now. The fat slob was a stockbroker but the only figures he was interested in were in companies' annual balance sheets. And now I'm told all his colleagues in the City who have seen the magazine spread of me are saying 'You walked out on THAT?' "Fucking creep." I finished my food, we drank coffee, then I settled the bill and we got a cab from the Broadway up to my second floor apartment in Hanger Lane. Nice, polished wooden floors, looked out on a park behind, not on the traffic-streaming lane, and had a nicely furnished bedroom. Once inside the corridor, Pat marched through into the lounge, nodded her approval, then walked to the door leading to the bedroom and bathroom. "I'm gonna get dressed to thrill," she announced. "When I get back I want to see you dressed in nothing but that skimpy little g-string you bought at She An Me." How could I refuse? I stripped, putting my clothes in the spare bedroom, which led from the lounge via some sliding doors, then sat in a large leather easy chair by the window, the afternoon sun had made it warm to my naked flesh. Oh, naked that is, apart from the little briefs, which pouched my aroused cock nicely. Then she was back, her high heels clip-clopping on the wooden boards in the hallway announcing her imminent arrival. Fuck, she looked great! There she was, clad again in the playsuit, breasts bulging out to greet me, zip undone, showing off her hirsute minge. The black rubber bed boots glistened on her like wet skin. The elbow-length PVC gloves shone succulently, as well. She walked slowly across to where I sat, almost transfixed, then settled into my lap, my mound of cock and balls pressing against the crotchless piece of her playsuit. Then she pressed her left breast against my face, rubbing it across my cheek, and presenting the turgid nipple, dark and blood-engorged to my mouth. I sucked at it, eagerly. "This what you're after, eh, big boy?" she murmured, but I couldn't speak, I was too busy licking, kissing and nibbling at her heavy but delightfully firm mound of breast. "Don't ignore its mate," she said, cupping my chin with her gloved right hand and brushing her right breast against my almost-drooling mouth. I lay back in the warmth of the chair for what seemed ages, but I guess could only have been a few minutes, blissfully sucking and kissing at her great, glorious globes, but then Pat decided it was time to move on, as it were. "Time for a different taste treat, big boy," she said, an expression that I didn't mind, although I knew when she got down to my seven-and-a-quarter inches she may well be disappointed. From her place in my lap, the lovely 39-year-old swivelled around until she was kneeling on the arms of the easy chair and her magnificent minge was moving towards my expectant mouth. Then I felt the moist hairiness close against my face, and I buried my tongue in her slippery snatch. The aroma was glorious, heavy and ripe with female juice, the perfume to beat all perfumes, and she wasn't just sitting there, she was writhing against my hard-at-work tongue. As I licked up and down her thick-lipped quim, she was sighing and groaning, occasionally egging me on with "That's it big boy, there, THERE!" and then she was pushing her quim down, removing her cunt and labia until her clitoris was pressing onto my mouthy. "Clit me, baby, clit me," she breathed, in that undefinable Home Counties accent, and I took the beautiful bud on my tongue and rolled it around, licking and nipping at the aroused bubble of flesh in my mouth. Soon the inevitable started to happen – I never considered myself an expert at the old "Dining at the Y" routine, but I also thought I wasn't exactly a duffer in snatch slurping. I could get by, if you follow me. But Pat was a great help. She writhed and graunched on my face and lips and tongue. She didn't just lie back and think of England, you know? And the inevitable came with a crashing, thundering crunching on my mouth, as the orgasm pounded to the surface. Pat Wynn wasn't one to let such an occasion go by with a little laugh, or a small sigh. Fuck no! She celebrated it! "Aaaaaah," was the first cry she let go with, as her climax soared to its pinnacle. Then a sort of "Yeeeeah" grunt, then another "Aaaaah", which sort of descended into a throaty, grunting "Aaaaargh" and then she was coming and coming and coming on my panting face. Nice? It was fuckin' heaven! To complete her oral arousal, I flat-tongued the thrusting, pulsating pussy, until my tongue was pressed against her quivering clit, and then, with a sort of sobbed pant, she pulled from my face and lowered her quim to my left thigh and sort of rubbed it up and down on my muscle there. At last, she was satiated, and with a laugh she kissed me full on the mouth, the fact that my lips and the flesh around them was obviously heavily perfumed with her glorious sex juice not bothering her one moment. "And now you, big boy," she grinned, placing a gloved hand on the zipper at my belly. "You ready to rock 'n' roll?" Carefully, I eased her onto an arm of the chair and stood, unzipping – very, very carefully – the g-string. The last thing I wanted at this stage was to cut my cock off with a zipper, before I could push it into her wet cunt! Then my 7 and a quarter inches of thick cock – thick, sure, long, no – was pointing at the lovely mature model. Pat looked at my cock, then looked up at me and the smile on her lips made me think she was going to make some crack about my cock. But she then leaned forward, took the heavy ball bag in her left hand, and with the thumb and forefinger of her right, she took my shaft where it joined my scrotum, and bent to suck on my pre-cum dripping tool. The sensation was delightful. She only went down on me to my ring, but her suck was strong, sensual and I thought for a moment I was going to go all dizzy and faint. Then she pulled from my dripping appendage and looked up at me. "Very tasty, now let's see if you know what to do with it, big boy," she smiled, and standing, took me by the hand and led me slowly towards the bedroom. Once again, I didn't protest. * * * The bedroom was also bathed in sunshine – the rear of these apartments away from the Hanger Lane side got all the afternoon sunshine, thank goodness – but I didn't need any help. I was on heat myself! The lovely lady lay back on the bed – she must have pulled the sheet back when she'd got changed into her erotic gear – and I lay on top of her. No foreplay – none needed, really, eh? – and I was driving up her cunt in a swift, smooth movement. Fuck, she was tight! Her vaginal walls grabbed my cock and I was no more than an inch into her than my foreskin was being pulled back to the ring by the confines of her cunt. And then I was banging away at her, our pubic bones grinding together, our crotches making squishing noises as we made love. "Lick them, tell me you love them," ordered my lush new mistress, cupping her puppies in both hands and pressing them against each other in the confines of the playsuit. I lowered my mouth from her mouth to her breasts, sucking at first one nipple, then the other, rubbing my tongue across her lovely firm mounds, still revelling in the excitement of a new fuck. Shoot, she was great! Her body wriggled and romped beneath me, and I had my hands beneath her buttocks, I was rubbing my palms over her cheeks there, and they were lovely too! Soon, despite all my good intentions, I felt that wonderful, familiar surge as my balls announced "Coming, buddy, and sooner rather than later!" "Fuck, Pat, I'm sorry, I guess you've got me all excited," I panted, "but I'm nearly ready to come." Pat kissed me on the mouth, then snapped – and it was a tone that brooked my argument: "Pull out, come on my tits, quick, don't come in me, you cunt, on my tits!" I obeyed, and flopped my old fella out onto her still-pressed together titties. I was now sort of circumsized, thanks to the tightness of her cunt, and my cock head was pink and moist. I adjusted the foreskin, so my cock now had a full head of flesh, and then I was driving it between her globes, pressing and thrusting, relishing the lovely, lubricious mounds of fuck flesh. The tightness of the valley between her breasts served to act like a circumsizer, the way her cunt had. As I thrust up towards her throat, the tension on my shaft pulled my foreskin lips back from the head, then as I pulled down to the middle of her luscious puppies, the foreskin plopped back in place. Pat smiled as she saw this. "Look, he's enjoying himself," she laughed, "coming out on the upthrust to say 'Hello'. So sweet!" And then, with a strangled groan, I couldn't stop my surging ejaculation any more, and my cock was spurting big globs of creamy semen onto her wonderful big boobies. When I'd finished – and I hadn't come for about four days, from memory – she whispered: "Let me suck him!" I raised myself on one elbow and Pat Wynn's mouth made a sensational slurping sound as she sucked me dry. Then, when I'd rolled off her lush, lovely figure, she peeled down her PVC gloves and rubbed her palms all over her puppies, spreading my spunk all over the globes till they gleamed with my semen. "Do you really believe that that'll make your boobs bigger?" I asked, lying back and watching her work, "If I believe it will, then it will," she smiled, working my cum deeper and deeper into her breasts, massaging away. "Doesn't matter what you think, big boy." I leaned over to the bedside table and lit a Lucky. "Smoke?" I asked, as an afterthought, but she shook her head. "Filthy habit," she said. "As filthy as liking a man to cum over your titties?" I asked. "Much filthier," she said, getting out of her playsuit and peeling off her gloves and bed boots. "There," she said, with a gasp, "that's better. Fuck, that outfit it hot!" "You can say that again," I joked, and she had the decency to smile. "Now," she said, snuggling against me, "when do we do this photo shoot?" "Whenever you like," I said, "I'm easy." "I noticed," she laughed, looking at me archly. "No, I mean business is slow at the moment. When you're free, I'm ready." Pat Wynn propped herself up on one elbow and started to stroke my now limp cock. And – and I kid you not – the fuckin' thing started to get worked up again! Whether it was a new hand at work, or whether I'd been too celibate too long, I don't know, but it was getting interested. Pushing the lovely lady onto her back, I re-mounted her now naked body, loving the way her big breasts pressed against my upper chest as we merged. "I must be getting my second childhood," I laughed, as I started to thrust deep in her cunt once more. "Just make sure your second childhood doesn't get so fucking excited this time," she warned me. And as I pumped away again, she kissed me, then ordered: "Roll over, I want to be on top!" I did as she asked, and the lovely lady placed her fists on each side of my upper chest and straightened her arms, thus thrusting her big bazookas against my face. "Suck my nipples, go from nipple to nipple," she ordered. "Only do it slowly, suck for 20-30 seconds before going over to the other. Suck 'em hard, firmly, it makes me come!" Pat Wynn - Perfect Woman And it did! In about one minute, possibly two, but not probably, she was sighing and sobbing and then yelling "Suck my tits, cunt, suck my tits!" and she was graunching on my pubic bone and banging away to her second noisy orgasm. Quickly, after her climax had subsided, she pulled from me, pressed her quim harshly against my upper thigh, then she lay back and commanded: "Now the tit fuck, big boy!" And once more, after I'd adjusted my foreskin, I placed my cock between her big breasts and started to hump my way to heaven. Only this time, she had a twist. "Now put it in my mouth, big boy," she snapped, "quick, before you spill it everywhere." I was on the verge of asking about "Whatever happened to the cum on your tits?" but bit my tongue and placed my quivering cock to her lips, and then she was sucking me, sucking me, sucking me until, as was only to be expected, I shot my second load deep into her throat. Smoking another Lucky, I lay back and we chatted, then decided on a bath, before getting back into the lounge and attacking my reserves of Bacardi Gold. "One thing about the photo shoot," I said. "This may seem a fucking silly question in the light of what we've just been doing together, but do you want a chaperone?" Pat, to my astonishment, nodded her head. "Yes, I do," she said. "And I only want you, her and me at the shoot." I inclined my head in an accepting response. "Fine by me." Pat grinned. "I bet it will be," she laughed. "Why?" I asked. "Well," she said, drawing out the word, "because I think you'll like her." "Her?" I asked. "And why should I like her?" Pat grinned again. "Because it's going to be Wanda from She An Me!" Once again, I didn't protest. * * * Well, that was how it started. We soaked in a long bath, and yes, it came up again and we fucked in the bath. And then we towelled down and went naked into the lounge, drank some mellow Bacardi, then fucked again and that was pretty much the way the week-end went. Pat Wynn was amazing. It wasn't so much her sexual gymnastics – she wouldn't fuck hanging from a chandelier, for example. She was pretty much into doggy style, soixante-neuf – a lot of that – the good old missionary position, fellatio and cunnilingus. Oh, and, of course, tit fucking. So it wasn't the variety of positions, but it was the fact that she was so fucking enthusiastic. She'd fuck at the drop of a hat – well, the drop of a pair of panties! And when the time rolled around for the playsuit photo shoot, I was pretty much exhausted. She? She could have gone on forever, for all I knew. The day for the shoot arrived, and I had to "shoo" Jackie out of the loft, Pat didn't want him around. He was pissed at that, but I gave him a tenner and told him to prop up the bar at the Nell Gwynne and talent scout the strippers for me. Pat had arrived with the lovely Wanda, and I found that the 18-year-old was going to "chaperone" the more mature model by wearing a red satin quarter-cup bra and red satin crotchless panties. We did the shoot and the results appeared first up in Escort – "So erect, amazing" remember? – with a picture of Pat on the front cover, looking haughty and oh-so-fuckable. The pictures were a big hit, especially the ones where she's holding this whip, with its thongs dangling against her magnificent thigh. The same pictures appeared in magazines around the world. There was one, I've still got it, called High Heels, and despite the title it was a German publication. All the women were wearing PVC, latex or rubber outfits, and most of them were holding whips. But the centrespread in the mag – and the number one stand-out, if you ask me – was Pat. Only the Krauts called her "Joan". Fuckin' stupid, as if you could disguise Pat Wynn as anyone but Pat Wynn. I did several shoots with Pat after that. In some, Wanda took over operation of the Hasselblad and took pictures of Pat sucking my cock. Fuck, is my pubic hair black! More like sodding grey, now. Other shots were of Pat licking Wanda's minge, a task she thoroughly enjoyed. They were always obviously Pat doing the licking, too, lovely profiles of her working away at the teenager's trimmed pussy. And all the while, of course, Pat and I were fucking each others brains out. She was insatiable – well, she seemed that way to me. Since then, I've fucked a few women in her age range, and they go off like women for whom it's gonna be the last fuck they'll ever have in their lives. I guess it's that what makes mature women such good shaggers. And she liked a little bit of the smutty stuff with Wanda, too. For me, it was like living in a brothel every day. Pat would drive across town in her little Triumph Stag and we'd get it on. She introduced me to the delights of doggy style fucking. I'd never done it much before, but Pat insisted it was fun. She'd kneel on the bed, with her knees almost on the edge, so her calves and feet were jutting out above the floor. Then I'd push my erection deep into her, and with one hand I'd stroke her glorious handfuls, and with the other I'd tweak her clit and stroke her labia. And fuck, could she get wet down there! The only thing I wasn't keen on in the doggy style fuck, was the fact that it was difficult, if not impossible to kiss her, well on the mouth, I mean. So I preferred her sitting on my cock as I sat in the easy chair. She'd slide her quim onto my hard on, then I could stroke her puppies, and also play with the clit while kissing her and letting our tongues flick against each other. That was nice. She was keen practitioner of the soixante-neuf position, which allowed me to lick around her lovely little brown anus, before diving into her cunt and between those thick labia, before driving for her clit. She, in turn, fellated like a fucking professional, sucking me off and often swallowing my cum. She said it didn't taste bad, and was a nice way to bring me off. I had no arguments about it, I can tell you. I also talked her into shaving down there. Now, this was around the time when Penthouse magazine courtesy of that filthy old fucker Guccione was showing us pink – well, more and more pink. Pat didn't want to do it at first, but I explained it to her. "Look, darl, perverts like me around the world want to know what a woman's sex lips and her cunt look like, it's the way of the world – look at Wanda's pussy, shaved, but not naked. That's the way to go." So she did – shave, that is, but NOT the Brazilian job that so many porno magazine women go for these days. She just trimmed it back till it was a nice dark brown stubble. And as far as I was concerned, it made cunnilingus all the more enjoyable, not that it hadn't been fun before, because she was so, oh how can I put it? Ripe! But the one thing she preferred above all others was the tit fuck. She was hot for it! Sometimes she'd wear a shiny, black satin bra and make me slip my cock beneath the bottom of the brassiere, and up between her massive mammaries. Fuck, it felt great! And then I'd pump away, slithering and sliding between her big jugs, till the inevitable happened and I'd spunk over the boobs, and she unclip the bra and rub the gooey stuff into her breasts. At other times, she'd drape a black, seamed stocking over her boobs, and also tying them around the pair of beauties so they sort of hoisted 'em. And then I'd drape the hard on onto the big balloons of flesh and wank away between the mounds till I shot my load. Did I fuck her in the arse? Well, we did try it once, but she was so fuckin' tight there I thought my pecker would get stripped of its skin, so no, there wasn't any of that. But the fuck sessions with Pat and Wanda! Wow. Quite early on in the piece, Pat called me from a phone box in South Kensington. No mobiles in those days, remember? "Get your ugly arse over to Hanger Lane, Ricko," she told me, "I'm picking up Wanda and we're coming over to fuck you to death." I laughed. "What a lovely way to die," but I was in a tremor of excitement all the way back on the Central Line to home. The girls – well, one girl, one woman – arrived 20 minutes after I'd got there. I was wearing my little PVC briefs, with the zip undone, and my old fella sticking up almost pointing to my chin. It was Pat's instruction that I ALWAYS open the door to her dressed – undressed, more like – in that fashion. The two lovelies marched past me, and into the lounge. There they stepped out of their shirts and skirts but kept their high heels on. Bloody great big wedged, blocky things that were all the rage back in those days. Pat was dressed in her black PVC outfit we'd showed her in for the Escort shoot, and Wanda was in her trademark outfit of quarter cup bra and crotchless panties – this time in a bright red colour. There was a long, wooden coffee table in that Hanger Lane apartment, and Pat told me to lie on it, with my head just jutting out over the edge. Then she straddled the table, and sat on my cock. She was wet and ready for it – she always fuckin' WAS! The next move was from her teenaged mate, who faced Pat and then sat on my face, wriggling and writhing her steamy and sopping wet snatch over my face. As I licked and worked away at her quim, I placed my hands up and stroked her wonderful titties. Then Pat was driving up and down on my cock, and as she fucked me, she leant forward and Wanda edge forward a bit too, and they smashed their breasts together, and began to snog and smooch while one of 'em fucked me, and the other face sat me. After a few minutes of this, Pat pressed Wanda's head down to her boobs and in a minute or two, she came on my cock as the shopgirl sucked on her nipples. The next move was for Wanda to climb from my sex-smeared face and walk to where Pat was climbing off my cock, its foreskin pulled back down to the ring courtesy of her still-tight vagina. The lovely little lass bent, kissed my naked-fleshed cock head, sucked on it slowly, then climbed aboard. In the meantime, Pat had arranged herself on my face and I was slurping and sucking away at her delicious, lubricious minge. For this round of suck and fuck, Wanda pumped herself on me more slowly than Pat, but after a couple of minutes – and they were at it again, snogging away on top of me – she panted "Suck my nipples, Pat, suck 'em, PLEEEASE!" and as the 40-year-old (she'd had a birthday a month or two before) went to work on Wanda's thick, turgid nipples, the girl roared and soared to a noisy climax. From here, they dragged me into the bedroom, and Pat announced: "You're such an old perve, Rick, and I know you love Wanda in these saucy little bras, so now you can come. But in a tit fuck!" And Wanda pushed me onto my back, and arranged her big mammaries – they were 38s, she said, remember? – and started to slither and slide them up and down on my cunt-drenched cock shaft. It took about three or four minutes for her to get me to the point of ejaculation and I must have telegraphed the fact that I was about to come, because just before I shot my load, Wanda took the root of my shaft, down by my scrotum, between her thumb and forefinger and lowered her mouth to my throbbing stiffy. Splash – I shot the lot into her throat, fuck it was great! After about an hour's rest, and another assault on my now dwindling stocks of Bacardi Gold, we went at it again, back on the coffee table, only this time Pat face sat me first, as Wanda sat on my rod, then they swapped places. Wanda, of course, was an obvious target for my trusty Hasselblad. She posed for me for Penthouse magazine, and was one of the biggest hits in that publication. The mag gave her some fuckin' stupid name, and said she was Spanish and 20-years-old, instead of 18 and from Clapham Common. I guess they thought it was more "romantic". I also did a series of shoots with Wanda for Mayfair but she never did some of the lesbian-style things that Pat was up for. In all the pictures I took of Pat licking the lovely little totty's pussy, you couldn't see who she was going down on. So all in all, my Pat Wynn affair worked out very well. I got pictures of Pat and Wanda in various magazines, we all made some money, and the sex was fuckin' great. But the affair ended, of course. They always do, don't they? Pat went on to become a sort of agony aunt for some Paul Raymond publications – he called her "Aunty Jayne", from memory, although that's not what ended our passionate affair. What did, I think, was the fact that she hooked into some older man, certainly a lot richer, and I understand he squired her around the fleshpots of Europe and kept her in the manner to which she'd become accustomed. Still, I'll never forget the raging affair we had for a month or two back in 1979. I often think of her now – since that "Whatever happened to Pat Wynn" remark the other day – and I guess she'd be around 68-years-old, if she really was 40 in 1979. Me, I migrated to Australia not long after my fling with the gorgeous Pat, couldn't stand the cold in the dreary winters and the "When the fuck's summer gonna arrive?" the rest of the time. I'm in real estate now, selling places in Sydney and the only pictures I take are of the properties I sell. Not that there's much call for them. I specialize in multi-million outfits – in the trade they laughingly refer to them as "Patterson's Palaces" – and we usually make DVDs to showcase their charms. I'm also happily married. My wife has got big breasts and a penchant for wearing quarter-cup bras and crotchless panties. You guessed it, I married Wanda. She's a wonderful woman, and she's even sexier now than she was back in 1979 because she's much more mature, and that's where my fetish lies, mature, sexy women with big boobs! She's also got a very high sex drive – thank goodness! Some days, when I'm sitting in our Vaucluse home, watching some rugby league or a cricket test on the huge plasma screen TV in the lounge, I'll hear a cough and standing there in her skimpy little "Fuck me" outfit of quarter-cup bra and crotchless knickers will be Wanda, who's 46 now. Perfect – well, perfect for me. Anyway, when I hear her cough, it's the signal that she wants sex – now! We've got a little fetish, tell the truth, and before every fuck, I take a few pictures of her with my digital camera – everything's digital now, isn't it? – and we make a sort of log of what's happened. Like the entry for yesterday: April 19, 2007: quarter-cup bra/crotchless fuck No 1025 (the log has only been going since I've had a digital camera, OK?). "Cunnilingus to orgasm; missionary position fuck; came on titties. Duration of sex: 46 minutes." Every now and then, Wanda will ask me: "Am I as good as Pat Wynn?" And I'll say, "Course you are, darling, you're much more mature than when I met you, and you've got smashing tits". And, of course, I'm lying. Well, not about the tits, but still it's a fib, right? I mean Wanda's wonderful, but how could she be as good as Pat Wynn, I ask you. Pat Wynn – My Perfect Woman. I'd sell the story to Reader's Digest for their "My Most Unforgettable Character" feature, but I doubt that they'd print it! The End. PAT WYNN – PERFECT WOMAN I don't know if you've ever read those things in Reader's Digest, that feature they used to have called "My Most Unforgettable Character", they may still run it, I dunno, never read it any more. Anyway, I thought about it the other day when someone mentioned during conversation when the topic had moved to our favourite subject, "Whatever happened to Pat Wynn?" Now if you're of my vintage, with more hair around your old fella than on your head, you'll know immediately who I'm talking about, but you young blokes have probably never heard the name. Shoot, have you bastards missed something! I came across her – OK, awful pun, I know, but truthful – when I was working in Soho in 1979. I was a very successful photographer – yep, you know the type of pictures I'm talking about. Anyway, I was 30, dark brown eyes, which matched my dark brown voice and I had long, jet-black hair which came almost to my shoulders – yeah, I know, we thought it looked good, didn't we? I was tall – well, still am – and slim. Nothing massive down there, just over seven inches, uncut, and I knew how to handle it. No, sorry, another terrible pun, I mean I knew what to do with it. Luckily, so did Pat, but I'm getting ahead of my story. This loft I worked in was a typical Soho loft. Over-priced, rent-wise, too cold in winter and too hot in summer, but it was in a terrific location, just off Wardour Street, close to some great restaurants, good strip clubs and filthy book shops. Haven't lived in London or England for that matter for nearly 25 years – it is still the same? But the place was well equipped for my purposes. High stud to the ceiling, plenty of leather chairs and couches, tables, equipment – a lot of the pictures involved bondage, whips, you get the picture? And I was a very sought after clickster, mainly for the flesh stuff, but also for more "straight" pictures, too. The name I worked under was Richard Patterson, you've seen loads of my work if you've seen back numbers of Mayfair and Escort magazine from that period. Oh, no one calls me Richard by the way, except "She who must be obeyed" when she's really pissed at me. Everyone calls me Rick. And I know what you're asking – is it true you got to fuck a lot of nubile little totty in your day, Rick? Well, the hypocrites in the business will all say what they've been programmed to say: no, it's strictly business, can't compromise my reputation or the girl's. Stuff like that. But I won't give you any of that horse hockey. In my day, course we did. If the lady was turning it up, who would be a cad and decline? Couldn't go round hurting their feelings, could you? I mean, I may be a cunt, but I'm not a cad. You with me? So anyway, here I am sitting in the little kitchenette we called "The Savoy Grill", sucking on a Lucky Strike – shoot, I used to think I was cool smoking those fuckin' awful things – and sipping a bloody awful instant coffee while doing the Daily Telegraph cryptic crossword (I was a gun at 'em, still am) when my gofer comes in with the latest pile of magazines from our little newsagent's down Wardour Street. Jackie, that was his name, see, dumps a pile of skin mags on the table, says "Here's the latest pussy publications, Rick", in his thick Scottish accent – I wouldn't dare try to copy it here – and helps himself to a Coke. I'll never forget the date – well, the month, to be more accurate. It was May, 1979, and there, in all its pristine glory was the June issue of Mayfair magazine. The tart on the cover wasn't too dusty, either, a dark-haired bimbo, with one knee on a couch and a pair of shiny pants which I think they called "tap pants" – still may do, for all I know. I picked up Mayfair first because I did a lot of work for them and they always paid well and promptly. Believe me, in those days the "promptly" was almost as important as the "well". So I glanced at the spread on the dark-haired lovely, and very tasty too. But then I got past the centrespread, and the very last woman to feature in the mag was indeed that – a WOMAN! It was Pat Wynn, and it said she was the wife of a Surrey stockbroker, or some such imaginary twaddle, I dunno, I never believed it, did you? Likes hot chocolate, dogs that don't bite and long walks on the moors. Bollocks! We all know what they like, don't we?