Sunday, August 7, 2011
Chapter I: A CHANGE OF EMPLOYMENT
“You little ninny, Warnock. I told you to polish the fish knives, not give them an idle dusting! Look at those traces of tarnish in the handles! I want them burnished until you can see your silly face in them, miss. Do you understand?"
“Yes, Mrs Beacon. I’m sorry, Mrs Beacon.”
The young woman flinched involuntarily as the housekeeper clattered a large tray of silver cutlery down upon the scullery table. She wondered what the master and mistress would say if they knew their valuable tableware was being so brutally mistreated.
“Sorry didn’t build the Empire. On with it, girl. I shall return in one hour to inspect your work.”
The large woman in grey stalked out of the small, dark room, closing the door behind her with a slight bang. Staccato footsteps retreated down the corridor, then silence. McGeever, the young Irish scullery maid, looked up from her task, preparing beetroot. The palms of her hands were stained bright pink. She smiled, consolingly.
“We calls her Bacon on accounts of her being such a pig.”
Warnock simply nodded, her dark eyes fixed upon the scullery door. Eventually, she shrugged slightly and, picking up a fish knife, began to rub with as much vigour as she could muster from her cold and aching form. It had been a long night, tossing and turning in the creaking old bed with the sagging mattress, with McGeever’s icy feet occasionally pressing against the backs of her calves like a pair of flaccid semi-frosted fish. Maybe she would knit the girl a pair of bed socks. Christ, it was freezing. McGeever appeared to be in a chatty mood. Her strong, broad fingers worked on, cutting off the tops and trailing roots of the beets, scrubbing the purple globes free of dirt. She had spread an old cloth across her knees to prevent her pinny from getting stained.
“It must seem very quiet for you here in the country, after London. I have cousins in London but I’ve never seen the place. Been to Dublin, though.”
Warnock shivered and lifted the knife she was polishing up to the yellow light from the hissing gas mantle. The sun wasn’t even up yet. Darkness pressed against the four small panes of the tiny window set high on the scullery wall.
“I’ll get used to it. The air is fresh here. The city can be hard on your chest, especially when there’s a fog comes up from the river.”
The young woman paused to examine her diminutive reflection in the silvered surface of the knife’s blade. McGeever snorted and wiped her hands on the rag with an impatient gesture.
“You’ll have no time for primping here! What work did they set you to do in London, then? Doesn’t look as if you’ve spent much time with the cutlery. You’ll be at that all day and old Ma Bacon will be apoplectic by tea time.”
“Will she now?”
Warnock breathed on the knife, a fine coating of mist briefly clouding the reflection of her deep brown eyes. Idly, she wondered how long it would be before McGeever or the housekeeper or anyone else discovered her guilty secret. She was unmarried but not a maid in any sense of the word. Well, she had better learn and learn fast. She looked up just in time to catch a sharp look from the Irish girl, who put down her basin and stood up, the beet-stained cloth slowly falling to the cold, flagged floor.
“I’m going to show you something and it’s for your own good.”
McGeever’s round cheeks were shiny and flushed almost as deeply as the root vegetables in her bowl. Her hair was thick and dark, her mouth as small and round as the spout of a teapot. Warnock watched the other girl impassively as she began to lift up the hem of her skirt. Layers of white petticoats were hoisted to reveal dimpled knees and plump thighs.
“You’re not wearing any drawers.”
She had to remember to sound at least a little bit shocked, although going without drawers was a common enough folly where she had just come from. McGeever bit her bottom lip and turned around to face the wall, simultaneously raising her skirts to waist level. Warnock saw.
“You’ve been caned, Mary.”
The young girl’s fleshy white buttocks were liberally striped with livid scarlet welts. Abruptly, she let her skirts fall and her face glowed redder than ever as she resumed her seat on the hard wooden chair. When she finally spoke, her voice had diminished to a pale shadow of its former self.
“Be warned, Lily. If you don’t pull your weight in this household, you’ll get as much – or worse.”
Ah, but I already know all about that little game.
“So, is it Mrs Beacon who delivers the sore bottoms?”
Oddly enough, she already knew the answer, before the Irish girl had time to reply.
“Oh no, that bitch’s bark is worse than her bite, thank heavens. No, it’s Mr Gerrard, the butler, who sees to the disciplining of staff. I did a bad job of black-leading the grate in his sitting room last Wednesday morning. Jesus, I thought I’d never be able to sit down again. I swear it felt as if I’d been stung on the bum by a nest of hornets!”
Lily had made a swift assessment of Mr Gerrard the previous evening when she arrived. He was a large man, somewhat portly, with a bulbous, purplish nose that suggested a penchant for imbibing spirits. His bushy eyebrows met in the middle and he frequently consulted a large pocket watch. She had to remember to be frightened, to be totally aghast.
“You poor thing, Mary McGeever. I swear I’d faint clean away if he tried to do that to me.”
Mary resumed her work with the beets.
“Just be warned, that’s all. I don’t know what kind of easy, fancy ways you’ve been used to in your London town house, but you’d better pull yourself up by your bootstraps.”
Easy, fancy ways…
Smiling slightly, Lily began to polish with a vengeance, her mind firmly fixed upon her former home.
“My dear, a rose by any name could never smell as sweet as little Miss Lily here.”
The gentleman was an American and clumsily charming in the typical manner of his countrymen. He stood in the doorway of the dimly lit bedroom, swaying slightly with an excess of fine wine and after dinner port. Behind him, Mrs Jakes lingered, deftly tucking the guinea he’d proffered into the recesses of her small velvet bag.
“I think you’ll find this girl meets your requirements, sir. However, we do have a house rule concerning excessive marking of the flesh. If you beat her so she cannot work for a few days, you must pay more to cover our loss.”
The madam’s scarlet mouth seemed garish in the soft light of the room and her bombazine dress crackled slightly as she withdrew, exchanging a knowing look with the man who merely nodded politely and cleared his throat. Lily waited quietly, knowing that very soon the deceptive stillness would become a violent storm. She understood sadists.
“Are you a good girl, sweet Lily?”
Already his voice had changed, as swiftly as he closed the door behind him and casually tossed his hat upon a chair. Lily kept her eyes upon the ivory backs of her hands, which were demurely crossed upon her lap. She replied immediately yet softly.
This was a familiar game, the game of cat and mouse, always the same but for some minor twist in theme. Schoolmaster and errant pupil, cruel husband and virgin bride. The American did not remove his gloves.
“Oh? All girls must be good girls. The penalty for sin must be severe.”
Her voice had diminished to the faintest whisper and she realised that her heart had begun to beat like a drum. The body knows before the mind takes in what is to come. He was a monster, this Colonial, with his Southern twang. Why, he probably kept slaves, real life slaves and maybe he even beat them too. She slid to her knees on the rug beside the large and opulent bed. Subservience would please this arrogant oaf.
“Did I tell you to kneel, Miss Lily?”
The American moved around the bed and took a handful of the young woman’s soft dark hair. She cried out in pain as he sharply tugged her head back and slapped her several times across the face.
“Little bitch. Worthless little bitch. What are you?”
“I’m a worthless little bitch, sir.”
She loathed such humiliation but went through the motions of her act, moist eyes downcast to gaze at the swirling pattern of the Turkish rug. Large, slightly moist hands tore at the flimsy bodice of her nightgown, rapidly exposing her round, firm breasts to the warm air of the bedroom. Steely fingers pinched her nipples hard and, despite herself, she moaned softly.
“Slut. Worthless slut.”
“Use me, then.”
She couldn’t believe she had uttered those words, a red rag to the bull that towered over her cowering form. The American raised one eyebrow quizzically at such a forward outburst.
“Oh, I shall, Miss Lily. Believe me, I shall.”
The next thing she knew, she was lifted up and thrown down upon the bed, so violently that it knocked the wind out of her and she could barely catch her breath. The heavy mahogany posts of the headboard collided with the bedroom wall and Lily gasped as gloved hands found her throat and began to squeeze relentlessly.
“Insolent whore. Why, I could rid this earth of a piece of bad business in just the twinkling of an eye, my dear child.”
His voice was as soft and sibilant as the faint hiss of gas in the mantle on the bedroom wall. Darkness was rising, a velvety pool of inky oblivion. She was beyond screaming, her heartbeat a heavy pulse which filled her ears to overflowing. Blood suffused her face and her hands fluttered impotently against the scarlet silk of the counterpane.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
By Jay Lawrence and Harry Neptune
Miss Donohue stood in the door of the deserted girls’ changing room. The last hockey players had gone, off to their homework and whatever else they found to do outside the walls of the school. Sports implements littered the benches against the walls and overflowed to the floor. Hockey and lacrosse sticks, shin pads and gloves, tennis racquets and the occasional cricket bat. The windows were closed now, trapping the lingering steam from the showers and the smell of young lady sweat.
Sadie had not taken a shower. Miss Donohue knew that. She walked across the damp, muddy floor to Sadie’s locker, the lock left carelessly undone. Sadie had hung her school uniform skirt and blouse on a hook inside the door and dropped her underwear in a crumpled heap below it. She had gone home in her hockey gear with her satchel over her shoulder.
Miss Donohue’s breath and heartbeat came quicker. A little moisture appeared at her temples. She reached for the pile of underwear and took out Sadie’s white cotton panties. She held them lightly in her hands, then squeezed them hard, then hesitatingly brought them to her lips. Her tongue peeked out and touched the sweat stained crotch. Her nose caught a familiar scent and she convulsively buried her face in the material. She could smell sweat and a musty, juicy smell she knew so well from her own fingers. The smell of Sadie’s sex, of the juices seeping from her vagina when she daydreamed in class of devil-may-care buccaneers ravishing her on tropical islands.
Miss Donohue’s heart went trip hammer fast. She felt a pulsing between her legs, felt her own silk knickers stick to the dampness invading her pubic hair. Still holding Sadie’s panties, she kicked off her shoes and undid the zip down the back of her long plain dress. She shrugged it from her shoulders and worked it over her hips. She freed it from her legs and looked for somewhere to hang it, then impatiently flung it on a bench. Her silk brassiere matched her knickers. She unhooked it at the front and threw it after her dress. Her breasts were full, pale skin and large nipples, now engorged and hard in the open air.
She buried her face in Sadie’s panties again, breathed hard through the cotton and dragged the scent through her nose and over her palate into her lungs. She dragged the panties over her neck and to her breasts. Now her own sweat was mixed with Sadie’s sweat and juices. She squeezed her nipples savagely through the material. Her eyes were almost shut and she made mewling sounds.
Still pressing the panties close to herself, she massaged her stomach, down to the line of her knickers. She pushed the panties inside the silk and rubbed her clitoris with them, feeling it swell proud beneath the soaking material. Her forefinger found its way into her vagina, still wrapped in Sadie’s panties. She thrust it in and out in time with rubbing her mound. Her hair had been pinned up but now flew free with the violence of her motions, obscuring her face and her neck, almost down to her breasts.
Miss Donohue bent double when the orgasm rushed through her. Her forehead touched her knees. Her knees collapsed until her bottom touched her heels. Two fingers were deep inside her. The cotton, rougher then the bare fingers and nails she usually felt inside herself, set new sensations flowing from her vagina to her clitoris. She came again without expecting it and rolled to the floor on her side, still bent in on herself. She quieted. She was almost asleep. Her fingers hardly moved now, softly twitching in a residual rhythm.
After a few minutes Miss Donohue rose slowly. She leaned against the open locker, breathing more easily. She brushed the hair away from her face. She was soaked in sweat. She gently rubbed her face and neck with Sadie’s panties. She placed them carefully on top of Sadie’s bra in the locker.
She ran the tips of her fingers round the waistband of her own knickers. She hooked her thumbs over the silk and pulled them over her hips, past her sodden pubic hair, down her thighs and past her knees, her calves, stepping out of them one foot at a time.
Miss Donohue took Sadie’s panties out of the locker. She touched them to her nose and lips once more. She bent down and stepped into them. Her mature bottom was fuller than Sadie’s and the elastic pinched her waist and thighs.
She lifted Sadie’s bra from the locker. It was a size too big for her, even for her woman’s breasts. Sadie’s blouse and skirt were hung from a hook inside the locker door. Miss Donohue put the blouse on and buttoned it up, leaving the neck open. Her arms were bare in the short sleeves.
She unhooked the skirt and uncovered a photograph taped onto the door. It was a young man, in jeans and shirtless, handsome and smiling and muscled, leaning forward with one foot on a fallen log and an arm resting on his knee. A felling axe was on the ground beside him. The photograph was a pinup from a teenage magazine. Sadie or one of her friends had used a felt tip pen to draw an enormous erection bursting out of the young man’s jeans. Miss Donohue frowned and slammed the door shut. She hurriedly put on the skirt, tight again over her hips, and zipped it up over the blouse. She ran her hands through her hair and tucked it behind her ears.
Miss Donohue walked from the locker to a full-length mirror facing the door. She looked at her reflection, looked longingly at Sadie. The short tight skirt made horizontal creases across her hips. She tucked the blouse more firmly into the back of her skirt so her breasts pressed against it.
She ran her hands over Sadie’s belly, up to her breasts. She cupped them lovingly. She watched her fingers tease Sadie’s nipples into prominence, smoothing the material of her bra and blouse over them. She undid a button of the blouse and slipped a hand inside. Sadie giggled and tried to push her away, but Miss Donohue persisted and felt inside Sadie’s bra, took her bare nipple between her fingers and rolled it until it grew even more.
She admired Sadie’s legs emerging from the skirt. She wondered what she would find under the skirt. Was Sadie wearing panties? Her hand descended from Sadie’s breasts, back across her belly and to the waistband of her skirt. Miss Donohue hesitated a moment, then moved over Sadie’s thigh to the skirt hem.
Sadie had stopped protesting now. Miss Donohue watched her hand circle Sadie’s thigh and disappear under her skirt. She shoved the skirt up bit by bit and revealed more gorgeous thigh. She felt Sadie’s panties before she saw them, felt they were soaking wet and the girl was ready for her. She rubbed the cotton, searching for Sadie’s mound, finding it risen and sensitive to her touch. Sadie gasped.
Miss Donohue lifted the skirt higher, revealing Sadie’s white cotton panties and her own fingers stretching them against Sadie’s sex. She felt for the tight waistband of the panties and, with one movement, thrust her hand inside and captured Sadie’s clitoris.
Miss Donohue closed her eyes and concentrated on Sadie. She felt Sadie’s rigid nipples as she moved from one breast to the other and back again inside the bra. Sadie moaned and gasped at Miss Donohue’s expert touch, spread her legs apart to let Miss Donohue make free of her.
Sadie felt the juices well in her and her orgasm start to build. Miss Donohue sensed it and held back, teased Sadie until she begged her to go on, to frig her and not stop. When Sadie could wait no longer, Miss Donohue brought her to a shuddering climax with her knowing fingers. Sadie cried out in ecstasy. Miss Donohue eased her down from her peak with slower movements. She started to think of Sadie’s fingers in her own silk knickers.
Sadie’s muscles relaxed. Miss Donohue lifted up her mouth and kissed her. Sadie’s tongue met hers.
Miss Donohue opened her eyes. She met the eyes of the Headmaster in the mirror.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
By Jay Lawrence & Harry Neptune
It had been a long hard day. The phone never stopped ringing, the email never stopped coming, the coffee machine broke, and someone had dropped a peanut butter sandwich outside my office. Miss Frobisher picked the wrong moment to spill my precious Starbucks latte all over the papers on my desk.
“Oh my God! Oh, Mr Thomas, I’m so sorry! I’ll clear it up straight away…”
Miss Frobisher turned to run for some paper towels and whatever else you clear up spilt coffee with. I sighed a familiar, long-suffering sigh.
“Miss Frobisher, stop right there. Watch.”
Miss Frobisher stopped in the doorway. I picked up the waste bin and swept in the soggy remains.
Miss Frobisher stood aghast.
“But… but… all your work… it… oh no!”
With that last exclamation she turned pale then blushed crimson. Miss Frobisher came from the original catalog of secretaries. She was tall, with blonde hair tied back in a severe regulation bun, and wore horn-rimmed glasses. Her slim figure was encased in a tight pencil skirt, white blouse, and seamed stockings. She was made even taller by four inch heels. Thick bangles circled her wrists.
“Miss Frobisher. You have erred.”
“But it was just an accident! A silly mistake!”
I savored the young woman’s distress. Naughty of me, I know, but it’s a rather fascinating game to play when both partners are willing. My secretary was over-acting like crazy, doing her very best to get a good old-fashioned bare bottom spanking over my desk. Shocked? Don’t be. The world is full of spankers and spankees. I licked my lips as Miss Frobisher’s big blue eyes pleaded with me. I knew that she was begging for correction rather than leniency. I knew that her panties would already be wet, her clit engorged, her nipples hard. It had been several weeks since her last bottom warming.
“You know the routine, Miss Frobisher. Take off your skirt and bend over my desk. Oh, and try not to get latte stains on that nice white blouse.”
“Yes, sir. I really am sorry, sir.”
I believed her. Miss Frobisher is an excellent assistant and I normally have to invent reasons to tan her lovely behind. With unladylike haste, the young woman unzipped her long tight skirt and eased it over her hips and thighs. It rustled to a navy blue puddle about her ankles. I admired the view—long, slender, well-formed legs lightly encased in sheer seamed stockings, admirably topped with the sexiest bottom in New England. At my request, she wore full panties rather than a thong. I like the effect of the fine smooth satin peeling away from her pearly white skin. Slowly, like a striptease artist, Miss Frobisher revealed her beautiful buttocks. I remained as cool and business-like as a man with a monstrous erection can be.
I closed the door.
“Very good, Miss Frobisher. Over my desk.”
Miss Frobisher gave a sob and bent at the waist. Her legs and back were straight, a ninety degree bend putting her into that position. Miss Frobisher works out regularly and is an excellent amateur ballet dancer. Now last week’s languid Sugar Plum Fairy presented her bare pale bottom to my large and heavy hand. Last time I saw her dance I had to go the bathroom before the interval to relieve my pressure. This time the Ice Queen would feel her punishment and my lust in person. Her vulva was just visible between her legs.
“Please, Mr Thomas! Not too hard! Please don’t hurt me!”
The game went on.
“Oh, please, Mr Thomas! I’ll never do it again! I’ll be good! I really will! Oh sir…”
“Enough, Miss Frobisher! Be silent! You have transgressed. You have disappointed me. It pains me to do what I am about to do. But—it is for your own good, Miss Frobisher. For your own good.”
I ran my hand gently over her trembling buttocks. Miss Frobisher whimpered. My erection reached new heights.
“I hope you are ashamed of yourself, Miss Frobisher. Just think what the ballet would say if they could see you now.”
Miss Frobisher looked fearfully over her shoulder at me. A tear squeezed from her eye. This was going to be a very good session.
“Please don’t tell them! Please don’t! I’ll die of shame…”
“You should have thought of that before you spilled coffee all over my work, Miss Frobisher. Look to your front.”
Miss Frobisher turned her head away. I took her slender thighs in my hands and moved them apart ever so slightly. Just enough for her sex to feel the wind of my hand as it landed on her bottom. A drop of moisture ran from her pussy onto her leg. Soon I would be deep inside her hot luscious body. But first she had to be punished. Punished severely. I raised my hand.
“This will hurt me more than it will hurt you, Miss Frobisher.”
The secretary murmured something unintelligible and a delightful tremor shivered through her captive buttocks. My erection strained against my pants like a caged beast. I raised my hand higher and brought it down sharply against the tender under-shelf of Miss Frobisher’s behind.
I always relish the first smack. The spankee’s pained bleat always sounds so shocked and surprised, no matter how many bun-warming sessions are under her belt. At first, the buttocks feel cool and silky smooth but that soon changes to a fiery warmth.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
Miss Frobisher was already getting into the spirit of the spanking. Like a hussy, she ground her slender dancer’s hips against the edge of the desk and moaned softly. Her stiletto heels tapped on the floor as if she were doing an impromptu flamenco.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
The soft ivory skin of my assistant’s bottom was turning a lovely shade of pink. It made me think of rose petals. She continued to buck her rear like a little pony trying to throw its rider off, drumming her feet in a wild orgiastic rhythm. Strands of ice maiden blonde hair began to unwind from her prim hairstyle. Immaculately manicured hands clasped the far side of my desk. My cock throbbed and pulsed in my underwear.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
The slut was fucking the desk, her chastised rear bobbing up and down to the beat of my spanks. I watched her swollen pussy drip like a ripe juicy fruit. She wanted to touch herself but she couldn’t. She’d have to make herself come by dancing the spank fandango over my desk.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
My hand was warm now. That is always a good sign when spanking. It means the spankee is even warmer. Miss Frobisher was a good spankee, ready to take whatever my heavy hand could deliver.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
“Please stop, Mr Thomas! Please stop!”
Smack! Smack! Smack!
Miss Frobisher suddenly pushed herself away from the desk. She darted for the door, her blouse flying above her red behind. I reached out a hand and caught her arm. She cringed, then made as if to strike me.
I stood still, my eyes on hers. Her hand was raised but did not move. She trembled. She sagged in my grasp. Her arm fell. A tear rolled down her cheek.
I pulled Miss Frobisher around the desk to my chair. I sat and pulled her over my knee. Swiftly I pulled both arms behind her back and held her wrists tight. She whimpered. My hand rose. And fell.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
“Oh no, Mr Thomas! Oh no! Oh no! Please!”
Miss Frobisher’s hips bucked under my pinioning arm. I felt dampness on one thigh, breasts on the other.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
My mountainous erection dug into her shoulder. The moment she came I would be inside her.
The secretary’s pleading had taken on a different tone.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
Miss Frobisher’s lovely hair had come completely undone. She looked quite wild as she threw back her head, her eyes tightly closed, her full moist lips parted. I had a sudden thought.
“That open mouth deserves filling.”
Swiftly, I manhandled my assistant onto her knees, unfastened my pants and thrust the contents into her astonished mouth. She paused for a second, then two indignant blue eyes opened wide above my throbbing rod and Miss Frobisher began to suck. Oh boy, did she suck!
“Does that taste good, my dear?”
The secretary’s lips were stretched tight around my swollen cock. Her pretty, dishevelled head bobbed up and down, up and down, her hot moist tongue massaging the underside of my shaft. I held myself back for as long as I could, relishing the attractive scene between my thighs. Miss Frobisher’s blouse was partly undone, her high round breasts thrust in their virginal white lace bra. Her scarlet bottom bobbed feverishly, hips grinding in time with her juicy slurps. The minx was on the verge of an orgasm too. My balls were about to burst. Reluctantly, I had to let go. At the very last second, I pulled my manhood from Miss Frobisher’s dewy grasp and spurted hot creamy semen all over my assistant’s face.
She looked startled, then her hand strayed to her soaking crotch. I watched with much satisfaction as my secretary rubbed at her pink swollen clit. Cream dripped from her nose and ran in little rivulets down her lovely cheeks. Her eyelashes were coated.
“Make yourself come, Miss Frobisher. Rub that perfect little perfumed cunt!”
My assistant’s eyes opened wide in shock. I had never used such a word in the office. The shock effect worked divinely. Miss Frobisher frigged like a bitch in heat and soon began to squeal.
“Yes! Ooh, yes! Yes!!”
And that was the upshot of another day’s dictation. I hoped Miss Frobisher had learned her lesson. But not too well.
Like Ellery Queen, Jay Lawrence and Harry Neptune are close-knit co-authors, whose inimitable tandem style has left readers doubled up - with laughter! The Jay & Harry stories were penned at breakneck speed over many thousands of miles and on several continents. From the frigid wastes of sub-arctic Canada to the sultry steam heat of Trinidad, Jay and Harry, both expatriate Celts with a fondness for a passport full of stamps, leapt out of aeroplanes large and small, clutching battered old laptops and having some rather fascinating adventures along the way… Although fact is sometimes stranger than fiction, Lawrence & Neptune’s tales are pure cartoon, a gaudy concoction, an improbable cocktail with a paper parasol on top! But the places described do, in many cases exist, for Harry really does know the tropics. And Miss Lawrence? Let’s just say that she can indeed perform a mean cha cha cha…
Monday, August 1, 2011
Lust At Sea
by Jay Lawrence and Harry Neptune
“Mmmmmm… Whassup? Not guilty, go ‘way…”
“It’s all right, darling, I’m not the I.R.S. You have to wake up, Harry. Now! Something dreadful has happened.”
I gave the grunting hulk beside me a fresh prod in the ribs and this time a ruffled head emerged from the tangled mass of bedcovers, glared balefully at me through reddened eyes then sank back down on the pillows with a pained groan.
“My head hurts. Fetch me an aspirin, bint. What’s up? Run out of fresh meat? No toy boys at the market this morning?”
I rummaged in my purse for the emergency pain pill. Not being prone to headaches, the tablet was less than fresh and daintily coated in Kleenex fluff and chocolate crumbs. I brushed it off and passed it to the afflictee, along with the glass of water on the night table.
“Here you are, angel. Best take a nice big gulp or it might just stick in your throat.”
With Herculean effort, Harry lugged his bulk into a semi-upright position. Focusing on nothing in particular, he popped the pill on his tongue and chugged down the contents of the glass. There was a sudden choking sound, followed by a liquid eruption of Niagaric proportions.
“Harry Gravesend Neptune! You’ve soaked the bed!”
Rarely did I utter my partner’s middle name. It was an event that marked those inevitable times of extreme frustration which pockmark the face of any Great Love. Harry gasped and spluttered.
“That was neat Tequila, you little horror! You’re trying to kill me again, aren’t you? I don’t know why. I keep telling you I don’t have a brass farthing to my name. Neptune has never been synonymous with wealth, I’m afraid.”
Sheepishly, I took the glass from Harry’s outstretched hand and sniffed the remains. It was booze all right. Gently, I replaced the tumbler on the night table and stroked my paramour’s tousled hair. I had news to break and I sensed the bulletin might hit him hard.
“Darling, I have something to tell you.”
“You’ve found a cure for the farting.”
“Too bad. It’s kind of ripe in here. Can’t you open a window or something? Where the heck are we, anyway?”
Harry peered at his surroundings, a typically nondescript hotel room.
I steeled myself.
“We’re in Las Vegas, sweetie.”
“I thought you disapproved of gambling!”
“I do. Always thought craps was something you put on the roses. But, angel…”
Harry clasped his throbbing head, then gingerly drew back the sodden sheets to reveal some interesting night apparel.
“Don’t tell me! I lost my shirt, didn’t I? What on earth am I wearing? You minx, Lawrence. You set me up with the girls at the Crazy Horse again, didn’t you? Ah, I remember Paris. Is the Nevada squad as lively as the French? Odd, I really can’t recall a thing…”
I stifled a giggle. Harry was resplendent in scarlet silk pyjamas, naughtily printed with top-heavy nudes. He slowly examined the pattern with increasing amusement.
“Ooh, I say! Look at this plump one under my armpit. Could be you, except her bum’s not big enough…”
“That’s enough. I can’t help my genes. It’s the Eskimo blood. Right. That’s it. No more beating around the bush. You asked for it, Neptune. The thing is - we got married.”
Harry’s tanned face blanched to a shade normally associated with blotting paper. Then he looked at me suspiciously, a wry smile hovering about his lips.
“OK, Jaybird, you’re a very funny girl. Joke’s over. Harry Neptune ain’t that gullible.”
I sighed heavily and patted his hand.
“I’m sorry, darling. It’s not a joke. You proposed and I accepted. We are hitched. Spliced. Man and wife.”
My other half issued a pitiful strangled cry. I’d heard him make some pretty peculiar noises over the course of our longtime partnership but this one was new to the repertoire.
“But where? How? When?”
“At the Buxom Baybe Medieval Boob Fest. In the Chapel of Celestial Bliss. By the Fairly Irreverent Pastor Von Schlong. Sometime last night.”
Harry rallied visibly.
“Buxom Boob Fest? Pastor Von Schlong? Hah! Relax Lawrence, there’s no way it can possibly be legal. What are we doing for breakfast? I’m beginning to feel a bit more human again.”
“There’s a place across the road. But darling, I’m afraid this marriage lark is not the jolly jape it seems. I called my attorney about an hour ago, thinking he’d laugh my worries all the way to Yuma. The trouble is, it’s legal. I’m Mrs. Harry Gravesend Neptune.”
“Oh, good grief. We’ve been in some dangerous situations but this one takes the biscuit. I don’t want a wife! Had one once, hated every moment of it. There has to be an Acme Drive-Thru De-Hitching Center. This is Vegas. Easy come, easy go. Fetch me my shorts!”
I stared at the outraged vision in the lurid pyjamas.
“Well, if you must know, this wasn’t what I had in mind either! Give me Venice over Vegas, any time. Find your own shorts!”
“Acting like a bloody married woman already, I see. Right then. Breakfast first, then we seek further legal advice. I don’t believe this. I just don’t bloody believe it. Wait ‘til I get my hands on that Von Schlong. I’ll wrap him round a lamppost. What the hell was I drinking last night, anyway? Jet fuel?”
I searched my memory bank and came up with something unsavory.
“I think it was that stuff that comes with a nice fat juicy worm in every bottle. You were showing off for a brace of blonde croupiers from Caligula’s Circus. I think you actually ate the bug, with a Jalapeno chaser.”
Harry clutched his stomach.
“That’s it! I’m going on the wagon. Never again!”
“No more croupiers?”
“Ha ha. Lawrence, I don’t suppose we have photographic evidence of this fiasco, do we? Exhibit A, as it were.”
I fished in my purse and withdrew a Polaroid. Harry’s face contorted. He turned beetroot. His stomach heaved. Finally, he let out a huge guffaw.
“HEE! HEE! HEE! Another one for the family album! That is an absolute classic! Where are you, anyway?”
“Oh, very funny.”
I snatched the instant image from my better half, and wondered whether I could have it digitally altered. A very much the worse for wear Harry leaned (nay, slumped) against a fake Roman column, elegantly dressed for the occasion in a garish Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to his navel. His glasses were slightly askew, his eyes likewise. His hair was a mess. In fact, it looked as if he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards, to quote a quaint old Celtic phrase. Beside him, at torso level, was an equally disheveled head, all red eye and out of focus. Apparently, due to the cramped dimensions of the chapel and the distinctive difference in the bride and groom’s respective heights, the photographer decided to capture what he could. It was cut off Harry’s head or lose my body and my body lost. I stifled a sob.
“There, there, old girl. The shirt ain’t all that bad, and anyway it looks like it didn’t survive the party. Where the hell did these pyjamas come from, anyway?”
“I don’t care where the bloody shirt went or where the bloody pyjamas came from! I want my wedding pictures!”
I stared at my diminutive friend in surprise. This was a far cry from the Miss Lawrence who gave a Montana football team more than they bargained for when trapped in a snow-bound Howard Johnson’s two winters ago.
“I want my wedding pictures! All dressed up in virginal white and you in a white tuxedo and a black tie. And bridesmaids. And flowers. And ... and ... and … I want my wedding pictures!!”
I put my arm around my sobbing friend – my sobbing wife. She rested her head on my shoulder for a moment then tugged at my pyjama jacket and blew her nose noisily on it.
“Mind you, I never thought you’d be in my wedding pictures. But you asked me so nicely, on bended knee and everything, rose behind your ear and champagne in the waitress’s slipper. ‘I love you, Jay Lawrence,’ you said, ‘Hitch your star to mine and I’ll have your babies.’ Everyone applauded and someone gave you the Fairly Irreverent Pastor Von Schlong’s folding brochure and…”
The tears started again and I did my ineffectual manly bit until they stemmed. It was starting to come back to me.
We turned up at Miami airport and told Fly By Night Airlines that we would go anywhere as long as we got an upgrade. After rejecting Edmonton, Alberta with a pair of heartfelt shudders we accepted two Business Class seats to Sin City. We loaded up with sushi from the concourse bar, instructed the flight staff as we boarded on how to store it and when to serve it, and proceeded to show our appreciation for Fly By Night’s generosity and cooperation by gushingly complimenting every glass as it arrived and was rapidly replaced by the next one.
“I want the plashtic handcuffs!” is the refrain I recall emanating from Miss Lawrence in a bondage mood. Eventually they fished out the restraints to keep the racket down and she was happy for the rest of the flight.
Things got a bit blurry after that. There was a taxi ride to a hotel, presumably the one we were in now, and a bar crawl along the strip in which we made lots of new friends. And in which apparently I ate worms. I didn’t remember that bit and didn’t want to, blonde croupiers in togas or not.
Then, apparently, I popped the question and slipped the Irrelevant Schlong a fin or two to do the dirty deed.
“A white dress…”
“Shush, my dear. Rest your head on me and calm yourself.”
“A white dress … and bridesmaids…”
“Hush a bye baby…” I trilled.
Mrs. Neptune sat up. “Are you going to be sick?”
“No, I am not going to be sick! I am comforting you with a lullaby.”
“Humph. Stick to patting my bum or I’ll be sick.”
“Charming! What’s that sticking out of your bag? Is it our wedding certificate?”
Jay leaned over and pulled out an official looking piece of paper covered with small print. I could make out the words ‘Copyright, Chapel of Celestial Bliss’ overprinted in pale red.
“It’s not the wedding certificate. I propped that up on the dresser with your aftershave bottle. It’s – it’s a prenuptial agreement!”
“What! Does that mean I get all your money when we annul this afternoon?”
Jay gave me an old-fashioned look.
“It says on the top, ‘For The Bride’. As far as I can make out I take you to the cleaners under any and all circumstances, plus a few I hadn’t thought of. Wow! Not even Elizabeth Taylor thought of that one – it’s a lulu…”
I leaned back and adjusted my comfort. I smiled.
“As I keep telling you, my love, I haven’t a sou. I live off my wits and charm. You may dispose of that useless piece of paper in the nearest waste receptacle.”
“Oh yes, Harry Neptune? What about that Cayman National Laundry account you told them to pay your winnings into last night? That’s where you keep your dirty socks, is it?”
I maintained my sangfroid admirably. I closed my eyes and sighed.
“A hang over from my Colonial days, sweetie pie. Merely a few tens of dollars to cover any unexpected expenses. The interest wouldn’t keep me in jelly babies.”
I yawned elaborately and peeped at my new spouse out of one eye.
“Your Platinum Cayman National Laundry account. No doubt with diamond clusters.” There was a glint in the Lawrence eye. “We’ll see about that. I always did wonder where you found the loot for Saville Row suits.”
I decided a change of subject was in order. I was searching for one when a sudden and obvious thought burst into my mind.
“Consummation! Every marriage has to be consummated or it’s null and void! Who was the queer poet who never rogered his wife and she divorced him after years and years?”
“Oscar Wilde probably. And who says our marriage is not consummated? We’ve consummated at every opportunity for yonks!”
“Not after the ceremony we haven’t! That’s all that matters. Pre-marital practice doesn’t count.”
“How do you know we didn’t? You can’t remember a dickey bird from last night!”
“Exactly! I rest my case! You know perfectly well that if I get as completely blotto as that, the old hampton wick goes into hibernation. Quod est demonstrandum. Nil lead in pencil, nil consummation, nil marriage. We’re off the hook!”
I was glared at.
“And nil prenuptial agreement – there must be a cooling off clause in there somewhere!” I added as an afterthought.
I wasn’t expecting the fist that landed in my left eye. Nor was I expecting the hand that dived into my pyjama trousers, nor to be straddled by a gimlet eyed Miss Lawrence.
“Miss Lawrence!” I gasped.
“That’s Mrs. Neptune to you!”
Harry made a sound like antique bagpipes.
“Oof! Gerroff my belly! And before breakfast, too! You know I can’t do a thing ‘til I’ve had my eggs over easy!”
Relentlessly, I hunted down his snoozing manhood and clasped it tight within my hot little hand. My husband yelped.
“You’ve been over easy for way too long, darling. I think it’s time you saw the light and were saved by the love of a good woman.”
I was quite getting into the matrimonial lark. In fact, I wondered why I hadn’t tried it before. Oh, it was something to do with that “love, honor and obey” clause. But no one ever paid much attention to the small print, anyway. The power was rather intoxicating. Seductively, I slipped my silky robe from my shoulders, revealing my heavy breasts. Sensing my strategy, Harry turned his head to one side and scrunched his eyes shut. I began to rock gently and rhythmically against his crotch, enjoying the way his big torso made me open my thighs full stretch. Riding horsy was one of our favorite games. Harry clenched his teeth. I picked up speed, moving from a sedate walk to a nice crisp trot.
“Bouncy, bouncy! Ooh, look at those boobies go! Up, down, up, down, up, down. Jiggle, joggle, jiggle, joggle, jiggle, joggle!”
There was a large mirror on the wall above the bed and I watched my plump breasts twitch and frisk in the bright morning sunlight. Not bad, Mrs. Neptune. Not bad at all. It was a few years since I’d last appeared in a blue movie but I still had the moves. I felt a vague stirring between my legs and Harry began to mutter.
“Cold showers, thick tights, cold showers, thick tights…”
I giggled and upgraded the trot to a canter. My boobs began to slap lustily against my ribs as I gripped Harry’s hips with my thighs and squirmed my soaking pussy against his helplessly swelling shaft. Now, I understood why people got married. Amazing to think that such a large percentage of the populace were sadists, however. Strains of Wagner filled my head as I rode my trusty steed towards a rousing climax. The muttering intensified and the pitch rose by an octave. My beloved sounded like a Buddhist monk on acid.
“Oatmeal and woolly vests! Oatmeal and woolly vests!”
The sweet taste of victory close at hand, I launched myself into full-tilt gallop and the William Tell Overture, popularly known as the theme from the Lone Ranger.
“Da da da, da da da, da da dah dah dah!
Da da da, da da da, da da da dah dah!”
“Cold tights, woolly oatmeal…”
“Hi ho, Silver, away!”
Now we bounced as one, the furious rhythm carrying us along in a wild orgiastic frenzy. Harry’s cock was hard and full against my dripping cleft. With a deft feat of syncopation, I captured his luscious love-tool with my hungry snatch and gripped as if my life depended on it. My husband howled in a schizoid blend of pleasure and despair.
“Bitch! Oh, Jesus, that feels good! You’ve never done it like this before! Aaaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeeee!!! Nnnyurrrghh!!!”
I felt my own orgasm approach hot on the heels of Harry’s. Interestingly, marriage seemed to be bringing out my sluttish side. Maybe wedded bliss was the ultimate kink for a card-carrying pervert and confirmed single. My singing rose to an ecstatic shriek.
“Ooh, yes! YES!! Harry!!!”
I dismounted with as much grace as I could muster (which wasn’t much, as I had cramp in both calves and my knees had seized up). Harry lay like a beached whale, a strange glazed look in his eyes. Briskly, I threw off my robe and headed for the shower, attempting to limp with a slink. Casually, I called out from the bathroom:
“I think we can call this marriage consummated, sweetie. Don’t worry. I just know this is going to be good for both of us. Don’t know why we didn’t take the plunge years ago.”
“You said you were allergic.”
Harry sat on the edge of the bed, numbly examining the large damp patch on the front of his pyjamas.
“I hope you haven’t ruined my new PJs!”
I adopted a clipped, 1950s hausfrau tone.
“Of course not, darling! Why, you just whip them off and I’ll get out my Acme washer and wringer and have them squeaky clean in no time at all! Would you like nice sharp creases in the trousers? I should have some Crispo laundry starch.”
“Well, now you mention it, I do have some shirts you could iron…”
“Sorry, darling. The schedule is full. Ask the maid. I want to visit Retro Mart for some old-fashioned undies to play my new wifely role to the hilt. You know, seamed stockings, Betty Paige stuff. You won’t regret making an honest woman of me!”
Harry began to look more cheerful. At that moment, there was a faint rustle and a large pink envelope slid underneath our hotel room door. Tastefully decorated with glittery kissing cherubs, it bore the legend:
Compliments of the Chapel of Celestial Bliss
Do Not Destroy! You May Be A Winner!!