Might be the part where we both get drunk and I let you put your hand up my skirt.

[Although that's not actually in the plans tonight (probably evident in the fact that he's in jeans and a vest, both tight enough to be sprayed on but decidedly unfeminine). There is no plan, per-se, but Freddie's a little drunk, and a little high from the night's earlier excesses, and there's a couch back here draped in faux-furs which seems too good a prospect to waste.

The heating doesn't exactly work, in his flat - not regularly - and he managed to break the bed a few weeks ago. The couch here pulls out into a better option, but he leaves it folded for now, reaching up to retrieve a couple of tumblers from one of the dressing room cupboards.]

But if you think you can work up to fucking me better in false eyelashes and heels, I'm sure I can dig you something out.