It's winter in Sydney, and by the time I left work last night it was dark, windy, and seriously cold. I was tired, walking fast, and concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. The liability, therefore, was all mine when I ran into a tall, Arab-looking guy and his very blonde girlfriend. They were arguing, and for a second I believed the Arab was about to emphasise some point he was trying to make to her by punching me in the head. Instead, he looked hard at my face and then smiled.

His name was Joe, and her name was too -- Joanne -- only real life could be so corny. Anyway, I haven't seen Joe in about seven years (and have never met Jo), so what could have been a fistfight in the street turned into a celebratory drink or fifteen at the nearest bar. Joe and I had a lot of catching up to do, interrupted every ten minutes or so by some quasi-urgent call on his phone, which would take him out on a balcony for better reception.

This left me alone with his girlfriend, and I soon learned that Joe and Joanne were having problems because of Joe's possessive, jealous, suspicious nature. I knew this all to be true, because I knew Joe's first wife had left him for the same reasons. Except on that occasion he'd had every right to feel that way, given that his first wife was a slut. Even I had fucked her -- and frankly I think we did Joe a favour, because his first wife had the smelliest box I have ever encountered.

Anyway, there I was making moves on Joe's latest acquisition. I was drunk enough to be overtly flirty, also I was lecherously admiring her almost perfect cleavage, peeking through the neckline of a blouse she was wearing under a big fur-trimmed coat.

"See something you like?" she asked me innocently. But there was nothing innocent about her hand on the inside of my thigh. I can't remember what my response was, but given my lack of sobriety no doubt it was both witty and clever. Her response was to slide her hand right over the bulge of my cock and give me a squeeze. It was just at that moment that Joe returned and resumed telling me what he'd been up to for the last seven years.

Of course, the only thing I was now interested in is was what I'd been up to for the last seven seconds. We were all sitting at a low, wide table at the back of the saloon bar. There were a few people nearby, and some bar staff at the end of the room, but mostly we were alone. I slipped a hand under the table and slowly unzipped my fly. Joe's mouth was moving, but I couldn't hear a word he was saying. Jo was drinking white wine, and looking at me over the rim of her glass. I eased my cock and balls out of my pants, and started to stroke myself under the table.

Joe had mesmerized himself with his storytelling prowess. He was speaking with his hands, telling some high story about something fabulous he did somewhere, and I was nodding, muttering in praise, encouraging him to keep talking. Jo, to my astonishment, reached into the front of her coat and