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A Dutch Interior 1680

An adult story. 18 plus

This was my entry for round four of the Smut Marathon in 2018.  The task was to “write a hot masturbation scene where your character uses a sex toy. With a maxium of 3oo words.”

Awake, but still in my dream, I tumble from my bed and go to the kitchen, where there are spices to be ground.

From the spice cupboard I take some precious coriander seeds. Then I let them fall like hailstones into the mortar. I press down on them with the wooden pestle and as they crack apart, releasing their exotic lemon-like fragrance, I realise my dream will not let go of me.

A dream, brimful of country matters with my lusty master, who presently is travelling to Delft. . But I am in need of pleasure at this very moment and so with a brush of my hand I remove the remains of coriander from the thick rounded end of the pestle and take it into my mouth like a wanton succubus.

Sitting on the kitchen chair I lift my linen shift and feel the heavy dew about my lips before gently finger dipping my cunt. Then my fingers make way for the ever constant pestle. I do not take it all, as patience is often a virtue. Instead, after a few moments I retrieve it and taste my sweet and pungent juices which besmear its head.

But the time to strike is now, so I plunge the shaft deep inside me. I shudder. My other hand, close by, dances attendance upon my pleasure. My breathing becomes shallow and I whimper with delight as the pestle seems to swell like my master’s cock. Until at last, ecstasy, a visit from a long forgotten friend, arrives and sends me wild and whirling into breathless abandonment.

Through weary eyes I see my pleasured nakedness illuminated by a moted sunbeam come newly through the window.

The pestle drops onto the icy flagstones and stirs me from my reverie.

Banquo’s Ghost

This is a short NSFW entertainment for Wicked Wednesday Prompt #447 Christmas.

He didn’t normally leave the theatre between the matinee and the evening performance but today he was desperate for a fuck. A wank in his dressing room would definitely not cut the mustard.

The rest of the cast were also beginning to get on his nerves with all their prattle about Christmas. It was the first Christmas since the end of the war and they all seemed to have gone mad. Even Sir Ronald appeared more relaxed and jovial than ever and had invited him round to the Randolph Hotel tomorrow for a bit of a get together.

‘I hope you can come Malcolm,’ said Sir Ronald, in one of his famous stage whispers. ‘It won’t be the same without you. Just a little shindig with all the cast to express my thanks for a successful tour. Just one more week in Oxford and then we can all go our separate ways for Christmas.’

‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

I’ll just show my face for a few moments, he thought glumly. I’ve no intention of spending any time longer than necessary with this group of second raters.

He was only really peeved because all the women in the show,had spurned his advances and that had included Sir Ronald’s wife, who was playing Lady Macbeth, The only partial success had been with Jenny, the assistant stage manager who had given him a blow job in Weston Super Mare. More out of pity, he fancied. Anyway it had been a one off and since then she hadn’t been able to look him in the eye whenever she handed him his personal props.

It was only a ten minute walk from The Playhouse back to his digs but there was no time to dawdle. Time was of the essence. He didn’t have too long before he had to be back for the ‘half’ so he kept up a brisk pace, scuttling over Magdalen Bridge like a man on a mission.

Brenda Glossop was his favourite landlady. She was so accommodating, catering as she did, for all his needs. He’d first stayed with her when he was fresh out of drama school. She must have been about thirty then. She was married but that had not stopped her offering him a few ‘extras’ as she called them. She loved his voice. His deep actorly voice and she would especially ask him to say crude words to her as they shagged in the turret bedroom. ‘Shag’ was her favourite word for sex, though with Malcolm’s encouragement she had expanded her lexicon to include ‘fuck’ and ‘cunt’.

‘He’s not a natural shagger, my husband,’ Brenda said, the first time they had sex, ‘and I am a woman with extensive physical needs.’

‘Needs must,’ Malcolm replied, with a rare attempt at humour.

Brenda opened the front door. Still as attractive as ever. But no husband now.

‘He’s gone west.’ She’d told him at the beginning of the week.

‘Oh dear. Sorry to hear that Brenda. He was your husband after all. I hope he didn’t suffer.’

‘No, he hasn’t died’, she said with a strangled chortle, ‘He’s literally gone west. To Haverfordwest. He met a Welsh WAAF during the war over a plate of bara briths.’

Brenda pulled him in so violently through the front door his feet hardly touched the parquet floor. He barely had time to take off his Burberry raincoat before she was smothering him in kisses and dragging him into the sitting room.’

‘My word Brenda. You’re keen’

‘I’ve been waiting all day for this. Our morning shag was merely the hors d’oeuvre. I want my main course now.’

The room was lit only by the light of a roaring fire which set shadows of dancing flames across the walls, giving the room the air of a scene from Dante’s inferno.

Brenda had shed her floral dressing gown and was standing in front of him wearing only a suspender belt and nylons.

‘Come on slow coach. Get your clothes off. This bitch needs fucking.’

Malcolm mused for a second on how unladylike Brenda had become over the years but in all honesty to hear her uncouthness spurred him on and made him as stiff as a broom handle.’

‘That’s more like it Malcolm. No need for a preamble. My cunt’s as wet as a fishmonger’s slab.’

Brenda was lying on the hearth rug with her legs apart with two fingers inside her cunt making squelching sounds as if to emphasise her excessive moistness. She took her fingers out and the juices glistened in the firelight.

Malcolm, now naked, apart from his socks, sucked her fingers, murmured approval, as if he’d just savoured a glass of the finest Gevrey Chambertin, before quickly thrusting his cock inside her most accommodating cunt.

‘You don’t think we’re too close to the flames Brenda. My arse is roasting.’

‘And my cunt’s on fire. Shag away dear boy. Shag away.’

By seven thirty Malcolm had not signed back in at the Playhouse stage door. The stage manager telephoned his digs but there was no answer. As soon as he’d put the phone down a call came through.

‘Hello, this is Brenda Glossop. Could I speak to the stage manager please.’

‘Speaking.’

‘Hello, I’m Malcolm Bly’s landlady. I’m calling from the hospital. I’m afraid he’s died and won’t be able to perform this evening. He’s dreadfully sorry and sends his apologies.’

Brenda broke down in tears and the line went dead.

The next day at the Randolph Hotel, the shindig was more of a wake. There had been talk of cancelling the do but Sir Ronald thought it would be only fitting to carry on. It is what Malcolm would have wanted. Not that he had ever taken a blind bit of notice of Malcolm.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, our Banquo is no more. Sometime after the matinee performance, Malcolm Bly, acclaimed thespian and our friend, slipped away. His heart simply gave out. His landlady, Mrs Glossop, informed me that he died with a smile on his face.

I should like to take this opportunity of thanking Miss Jenny Allbright, our assistant stage manager, for taking on the role of Banquo last night at such short notice. What a trouper she is. Nevertheless a Mr Tosh, who some of you may know, will be joining us for the last week. He’s a fine actor and what’s more roughly the same size as Malcolm Bly so there’ll be no need for a new costume.

There was a ripple of applause for Jenny and a few muted ‘hear hears’.

Sir Ronald hadn’t quite finished what he was going to say but before he could get going on a moving rendition of ‘Out out brief candle.’ he let out a most dramatic cry with both hands covering his face. He fell to his knees and wailed. It was as if he had been felled by an axe.

The assembled cast merely thought he was being his usual overly dramatic self and paused ever so briefly before continuing to devour the buffet.

‘Can you not see him? There, there. Behind the trifle.’ he cried.

Jenny who was just serving herself a spoonful of the said dessert looked about her and smiled blankly back at Sir Ronald.

‘It’s Banquo’s ghost as plain as day. Or rather, should I say…,’ and here he paused for dramatic effect, ‘the ghost of our former colleague Mr Malcolm Bly.’

Sir Ronald collapsed and was taken to hospital where it was decided he needed a rest and should abstain from acting for the foreseeable future.

The ghost of Malcolm burned like a tormented vision in his brain. He never told anyone but the apparition was completely naked and had an erection as stiff as a broom handle.

The last week of the play’s run was cancelled. Mr Tosh never got to wear Malcolm’s costume and that’s just as it should be.

Brenda Glossop remained on the theatrical digs list for many years but she never met another man who shagged her quite like Malcolm did.

See who else has wryitten something wicked .

.

Fiction Relay Part 2 – Up North

Part 1 – Smile for the Camera by May More

A synopsis of the story so far.  Ellie and Susie were best friends as children. The summer before they were due to start secondary school – 1995 – the pair spent some time larking around, taking photos in a local field. Ellie left in the afternoon as Susie was due to meet an older ‘mystery’ lad. The next day Susie was found dead. After a while the case was suspended. Eleven years pass by. Ellie met Steve and they are soon to be married. She decides to finally get the photos from Susie’s last day developed and could not believe her eyes when she sees what looks like Steve, camouflaged on the edge of the woods, watching them.

Some days life’s not so bad. For a few moments I can be happy. Even longer, if I’m lucky. Especially when Beth comes round.

She’s not inquisitive. She doesn’t pry. She doesn’t ask about my past. She’s all right is Beth.

But the time will come, I just know it will.

She’ll say something like, ‘What’s the matter Dave? You seem a bit down.’

And I’ll reply. ‘I’m all right. Didn’t sleep too well.’

‘Well I’m here if you want to talk about it. Whatever it is, that’s keeping you awake.’

I’ll say nothing. I’ll smile. Give her a hug and a kiss. And the next day I’ll slip away in the car and never see her again.

But I can’t go on like this.

It’s been eleven years.

I need help.

I need to live life, not to hide from it. I try, I really do, but every day I remember my daughter Susie, and the pain and grief of her death overwhelm me.

The events of that hot August day in 1995 when Susie went missing constantly replay in my mind.

It’s like a loop of film, which starts with Sonia, my wife, going out of her mind with worry when Susie’s late home. We thought she’d be with her best friend Ellie. Sonia phoned and spoke to Ellie’s mum but she’d not seen Susie. I drove round in my car looking for her everywhere. She was only twelve for god’s sake. The next day our hearts sank when we saw two police officers coming up the path. I still cry when I recall our grief. The howls of anguish that came from a place deep inside us. We had to identify her body. We hoped beyond hope that it was all a terrible mistake. But of course it wasn’t.

As the years pass, Susie’s face fades. It becomes harder to remember what she looked like. It’s like a cruel trick being played on my memory. But I blame myself. I should have taken care of her more. Told her I loved her more. Cherished her. And then she might be alive today.

I have a few photos of her. They help. On her eleventh birthday we went to the local Indian restaurant in Ripley. The Blissful Balti. It’s a bit creased now but there’s a great shot of Susie and Ellie splitting their sides at my expense. I didn’t realise the Madras curry would be quite so hot. I suppose Sonia must have taken it but I don’t ever remember seeing her with a camera.

Life was good in Ripley, once.

I lie. It was better than good. It was there I met and fell in love with Sonia. We both worked at Bradshaws, the carpet factory, and happened to bump into each other in the canteen one day. We hit it off almost straight away.

It wasn’t long before we started having sex. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. We even did it once in the wool store at work. Lots of jokes about shag pile carpets. Happy days.

When Sonia became pregnant we got married and moved into a furnished flat. It wasn’t a shotgun marriage as such because we really loved each other and when Susie was born we were over the moon.

I did well at work and eventually we could afford a small house with a garden.

From an early age Susie was independent. Full of confidence. A free spirit you might say. She’d spend hours playing with her friend Ellie. I sometimes thought she’d like to live in the nearby woods, she spent so much time there. I followed her once, secretly, and saw the den they’d made. Sonia had sent me. She thought Susie might be messing round with boys.

‘You must be joking Sonia. She’s only a kid.’

‘But she’s grown up fast Dave. Are you blind?’

I was blind. She was my little girl. After her murder some reports in the papers hinted she’d had a string of boyfriends. Not that there was any evidence to back it up. No boys were ever interviewed by the police as far as I know. The police were pretty useless to tell the truth.

There was a reporter on the local paper, Ken Blake. He was good. He tried. He seemed to put more effort into finding the murderer that the police did. Every year on the anniversary of Susie’s death he’d write a long piece. He was always very critical of the police. If Susie was sexually assaulted why was there never any DNA tests done of the local men? He wasn’t very popular down at the local nick. He used to keep in touch but I haven’t heard from him in years.

Sonia and I stared to drift apart after Susie’s death. In fact, to be honest, we’d been going our own ways for years. Divorce was for the best.

So I moved up North. Going from place to place. A year here, six months there. Selling carpets mainly. It’s all I know. Sonia moved on too. But only to the other side of Ripley, Shacked up with a bloke called Billy Trent, who’s in the motor trade. She’d been carrying on with him for years I discovered. I really was blind. They’re married now. Live in a big house, along with Billy’s son Dan.

I can hear Beth in the kitchen making tea.

‘Here you are Dave. Good and strong. Just how you like it.’

She climbs into bed beside me. It’s a nice way to spend a Sunday morning. We snuggle up while the tea cools. We hold each other tightly. It’s what I need.

‘I thought I heard your phone go,’ she said. ‘Must have woken you up.’

‘No, the sun did that. Thin curtains. And your singing.’

‘You cheeky bugger.’

I check my phone. It’s a Ripley number.

‘You all right Dave? Look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

I have passed the baton on to Sweet Girl

Click here to go to the Fiction Relay site

 

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Sunday in Blackpool

Written for Intimacies of Body Language, Prompt #152 for Four Thoughts or Fiction

It was my haven. A small café called Daphne’s in the warren of streets leading off from the promenade in Blackpool. I doubt if I could ever find it again, seeing as all this happened back in the summer of 1977.

I called it a haven because I was comfortable there. Blackpool was a new town to me and to be able find a place where I could sit, read a book, drink a coffee and eat a slice of Black Forest cherry gateau, well it was a sort of joy.

It hardly rained during that summer but one Sunday I was sitting there and the heavens opened and the place suddenly filled with damp miserable people. Day trippers. Or people down for a fortnight of fun. I tried to ignore them as they piled in and some of them even plonked themselves at my table. Without even a ‘do you mind?’

I decided to make a swift exit but I noticed Daphne was looking flustered, which wasn’t like her. I walked over to the counter. I didn’t have to say anything. She just knew I was offering to help. I’d told her once, during one of our brief chats, that I’d worked in a hotel, so she knew I was up to the task.

‘You can come again.’ she said, as she locked the door when the last customer had left. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without you.’

‘Happy to help, Daphne.’ I said.

‘I owe you a drink, young man.’ she said, as she put on her coat.

‘I’ve had enough, thanks.’

‘No. A real drink. A drink drink. Come on. Chop chop.’

 

We didn’t have to go far, which is just as well, as it was still raining.

‘Is this your local?’ I said, as we stood at the bar.

‘Yes. I like it here. It’s small and out of the way.’

‘A sort of haven?’

‘If you like. I don’t get any trouble here.’

‘Trouble?’

‘You know. Lads. Coming on to me. Trying their luck. I can’t be doing with it.’

I didn’t know what to say so I just nodded like one of those nodding dogs in the back of cars.

‘Now what you having? Oh sorry chuck. I don’t even know your name. How rude of me is that?’

‘Don’t worry, it doesn’t matter. I never said. It’s Brian and I’ll have a pint please.’

We sat facing each other in a small back room in the pub called the snug.

‘Cheers.’ she said, as we chinked our glasses together. My pint of best and her Dubonnet and bitter lemon. ‘You’re a life saver Brian.’

She’d taken her damp coat off and hung it on the back of her chair. Water pooling on the floorboards. I took her all in. She was chatting but it was as if I’d turned off the sound. She was all smiles and gesticulation. Continually sweeping her long dark hair away from her beautiful lively face. Touching my hand every now and then, for the briefest of moments.

‘Same again?’ I said.

‘Don’t mind if I do.’

We were very snug now. Sitting side by side. Thigh against thigh. My heart was starting to race as I silently drank my beer and she sipped her Dubonnet. She snuggled up to me.

‘This is nice Brian. Very nice. Nicest Sunday I’ve had in a long time.’

‘And me Daphne.’

We had a third round in the pub, during which she gently caressed the inside of my thigh. I followed suit and ran my hand up her skirt before touching, ever so lightly, her knickers. She closed her thighs together, trapping my hand. She smiled and kissed me on the ear.

 

I walked her back to her flat. We cut down to the prom just by the North Pier. The sun was out again and so were the trippers.

‘Do you fancy a show sometime?’

‘I don’t know. What’s on?

‘Music. Comedy. Take your pick. She pointed to a face on the billboard as she was saying this. ‘He’s very good. Does all those characters. He’s an impresh…..’

‘An impressionist?’

‘That’s it. Like that fellow Monet.’

‘But he wasn’t funny.’

‘We strolled on, laughing, hand in hand before crossing back over the road, narrowly missing a tram. We were a bit drunk.

 

She owned a flat in an old house. Three floors up. With a sea view.

Daphne got out a bottle of Mateus Rosé from the fridge, poured a couple of glasses and put an LP on the record player. It was the latest album from Fleetwood Mac she told me. Rumours. We held each other close and kissed. The rosé swilled about our mouths.

Then she flopped on the bed.

‘Like what you see?’ she said, pulling up her skirt..

‘Best view in Blackpool.’

She touched herself between the legs. She was silent now apart from a barely audible murmur as she pulled her pale blue knickers to one side and slid two fingers inside her vagina.

We fucked to the sound of a creaking bed, gulls squawking and Fleetwood Mac.

It really was the nicest of Sundays.

 

 

 

The Joy of Photography

This is for Food4Thought # 148 Photography

A love of photography goes back a long way in my life but it is only in the last two years, since retirement, that it has become a serious hobby.  My early photos, back in the 60s and 70s were taken on a black and white Kodak Instamatic.  These days we can instantly review our work but back then it meant a trip to Boots to have the film developed.  It was often a week before the prints were ready to be collected. It’s funny how aspects of life, like these visits to Boots,  have  completely disappeared.  Sometimes the prints weren’t ready and a feeling of despondency would overcome me.   More often than not a few photographs would have  been spoilt by having my finger partially over the lens or worse still,  a sticker stuck over a blank print, saying it was impossible to develop. The subtext was, ‘Do you really think you should be taking photographs?’

Belfast 1969

 

Best friend 1971

 

The Malvern Hills 1970

 

I didn’t take many photos during my time in theatre and television. A party with some actors in Southampton contains the beaming face of Michael Praed.  I often used a polaroid camera at the BBC.  Helena Bonham Carter and Dinsdale Landen were in Arms and the Man.

Nuffield Theatre Southampton 1979

 

Helena Bonham Carter, Arms and The Man, 1989

 

Dinsdale Landen, Arms and the Man 1989

 

Two years ago I knew nothing about the workings of a digital single lens reflex camera.   I wanted to buy one but had no idea which one to get. After much research I plumped on a Canon 1300D which is an entry level camera. It has suited me very well and has been been my constant companion on my trips out. I now have a few extra lenses and recently bought a another camera,  a second hand Canon 70D which has a few more bells and whistles on it than the 1300D. Learning how to use these cameras has been a pleasure.  There is often frustration when the photos don’t turn out as I want them to but generally this new hobby of mine has been an absolute joy.

My last trip out before the Lockdown was to London on March 15/16.  It was originally to attend Eroticon but due to its cancellation I was able to go the Aubrey Beardsley exhibition at Tate Britain.  I then crossed the river and walked all the way up to Borough Market, taking photos as I went.   My favourite is the one I took of St Pauls near the end of my journey., before collapsing into the bar of the National Theatre for a well earned lager.

St Paul’s Cathedral and the Millennium Bridge. 15 March 2020

 

Apart from taking the actual photos, another pleasure is meeting people.  Having a camera around my neck  seems to draw people to me.  They want to chat and pass the time of day.

I ended my weekend at the Photographers’ Gallery in Ramillies street near Oxford Circus  where I saw some wonderful exhibitions.  It also has a shop crammed with every photographic book imaginable. And a café serving fantastic light lunches.  After walking miles, sustenance is always required. I heartily recommend a visit to this venue if you are in the area.

I just wonder now when I will be able to go out on a photography expedition again. In the meantime I am studying a photo editing suite called Affinity. It is proving hard going but at my age it is good to give my remaining brain cells a bit of a work out.

The photographer as a young man of 18, 1971

 

I put quite a few of my photos on Instagram, if anyone would like to see what else I’ve been up to  @cousin_pons50

 

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The Film Buffs

This is the 400th edition of Wicked Wednesday and the prompt is 400.  This story is flying under false colours as it is not wicked at all.  In my mind it becomes wicked just after we leave it. It is a sort of fantasy with nods to the films Casablanca and Double Indemnity. 

 

The cinema kiosk was unattended and then, as if by magic, a lady suddenly appeared.

‘Sorry I didn’t mean to startle you,’ she said

‘No that’s quite all right. I’m feeling a bit tired actually. I need a jolt.’

‘Well come in and watch the film. It starts in five minutes.’

‘At 4.oo pm?’

‘Yes that’s right.’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Go on. It’s a good one. Casablanca.’

‘I know. I saw the poster outside. It’s one of my favourite films and ordinarily I’d jump at the chance but you see I’m a little bit concerned that I might miss the last bus home.’

‘What time’s your bus then?’

‘Well that’s the trouble. I’ve forgotten.’

‘You are in a pickle.’

She looked perplexed and I couldn’t blame her. I must have seemed a bit of an odd ball. The type of person you wouldn’t want in your cinema even if they did have an affection for Casablanca.

Her finger hovered over the ticket machine, waiting for my decision.

‘You know I came here today hoping to see the sea.’

‘But there is no sea here.’

‘I was clearly misinformed.’

She pressed a button and the ticket popped up.

‘That’s half a crown. But I won’t charge you. Have it on me.’

‘How very kind of you. But I do have money. I’m not a wastrel.’

‘I know that. It’s plain to see. You’re carrying a BEA overnight bag which tells me you’re a man who travels. A man who has seen the world.’

‘Once possibly. But now I can’t even find the seaside or remember the time of my bus.’

She paused for a moment and then in the manner of a hard boiled cop said, ‘Are you sure you came by bus. You look like a man who drives a car. A man who knows how to handle a four stroke engine. You don’t look like a man who takes a bus. If you don’t mind me saying.’

I smiled at her. A rather lame smile. ‘I think you must know me rather better than I know myself.’

I felt in my pocket and sure enough there were my car keys. I held them up. The way clerks hold up evidence in court.

‘Well that’s a relief. You can now see the film and then drive home.’

I suddenly noticed that the clock on the wall behind her head said 4.10pm

‘I’m afraid I’ve missed the start.’

‘No you haven’t. There’s Pearl and Dean to get through first. Bags of time. Now would you like some sweets? You’ve got sherbet lemons written all over you.’

‘What I’d really like is a cup of tea. I don’t suppose you do tea here do you?’

‘Well, not normally but I’ll see what I can do.’

She passed me my ticket through the hatch and then ran to the entrance to the auditorium. I hadn’t really noticed before but she was wearing a rather fetching navy blue uniform.

‘Ticket please sir.’

‘Of course.’

She tore my ticket in half and then followed me in and shone a torch along the aisle.

‘Sit anywhere you like. The back row is very good.’

‘The place was empty. On the screen was an advert for an Indian Restaurant.

“The Bengal Tiger is just around the corner from this cinema. You will be assured of the finest Indian cuisine this side of the Pennines.”

‘Where is everyone?’ I asked.

‘Sad isn’t it. But that’s why we’re closing. Television has taken our audience. You are our last customer.’

‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’ I walked back into the foyer. My heart wasn’t up to watching Casablanca now.

‘I’ll be on my way. You’ve been very kind. Bought me a ticket for a film I never saw.’

‘Don’t go just yet. Stay and have a cup of tea with me. That’s what you really wanted, wasn’t it. A nice cup of tea.’

My mind drifted off again.

‘I suppose so.’

‘Are you all right sir? You look a little faint.’

‘It’s Richard. My name’s Richard. A chair would be nice.’

She led me through to a small side room and sat me down on a dusty sofa surrounded by piles of old cinema posters.

‘I won’t be long. I’ll just lock up and put the kettle on. Take your jacket off. Relax.’

She bustled off but soon returned with my tea. I could hear the muffled sound of dialogue from Casablanca through the wall.

‘The film’s still going,’ I said, between sips of tea

‘Bob insists on playing it through to the end. Audience or no audience. He’s a professional through and through.’

‘And so are you. You’ve been very kind to me. Kindness itself.’

‘Drink your tea. It’ll help you relax.’

I took a few more sips and then eased back into the sofa.

‘Here, let me put your mug on the table. Don’t want any spillage, do we.’

She had a very soft and tranquil voice which washed over me as I lay there with my eyes closed.

‘I’ve worked here for thirty years. I’ll be forty nine next birthday. This has been my life. And now I’m on the scrapheap. The cutting-room floor. My name is Beryl Lambert but sometimes I wish it was Ingrid Bergman or Carole Lombard. I wish I had hair like Veronica Lake and lips like Barbara Stanwyck. I wish I could wisecrack like Joan Crawford. But most of all I wish I had a man.’

My eyes were closed but I could hear all she was saying.

‘Of all the cinemas in all of the world, I walk into yours,’ I said, in my best Bogart impression.

‘Oh you’re awake. I thought you’d dropped right off.’

‘Almost, but not quite. In fact I feel a whole lot better. And that’s all down to you.’

I stood up and held her in my arms. The lights in the room dimmed until there was just a soft spotlight on us. The soundtrack from the film swelled and filled the room.

‘There’s a speed limit in this state,’ she said.

‘How fast was I going officer?’

‘I’d say around ninety.’

‘Suppose you give me a ticket.’

‘Suppose I just give you a warning?

I pulled her closer. She leant her head back and closed her eyes. Her bright red lips parted slightly. We kissed. And then we kissed some more. It was light pleasant work.

‘Beryl, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’

‘I think so too Rick.’

 

 

 

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Heat of the Night

This was my entry for round five of the Smut Marathon 2019. The task was, ‘to write a story set entirely in the dark. Use your senses!’

It takes place on a very hot night, so not very seasonal  for those of us in the Northern hemisphere and it doesn’t follow the wonderful prompt by Kisungura  for  week 277 of Masturbation Monday.

 

As we lay on the bed in the dark, we caught our breath and readied ourselves to go again. Or perhaps not. It was another hot night made even hotter by our sudden need to fuck. We were almost strangers, but we’d just shared a meal of tortilla wraps, drunk some icy lagers and discovered in the course of two hours or so that we liked Japanese films, crossword puzzles and sex.

Outside, the city was sleeping. The last tram had been and gone and all the drunks were silent.

Liliana got up and went to the toilet. Even with the bathroom door closed I could hear her peeing and it aroused me. Lying in the bed, eager for her return, it seemed to me that the apartment was alive with its own heartbeats. The humming of the fridge, the whirring of the ceiling fan and the tick tocking of a clock somewhere. Was it because of the darkness I was more aware of these everyday sounds? Being far from my own country it might have been natural for me to be homesick but these noises were so recognisable to me that I was comforted by their familiarity.

Liliana returned with two bottles of lager from the fridge. She chinked them together playfully before handing me one. We drank them, side by side on the bed, with our knees up. We could almost have been on a picnic in one of the great city parks. The chilled lager swirled refreshingly around our mouths and spilled onto our chests as we kissed hungrily. I licked it off her small breasts and from in between her legs where rivulets had formed amongst her pubic hairs.

We’d used all our words earlier. Now, our sighs, grunts, and gasps filled the dark stale room. Her slender legs, tightly wound around my back, pulled me deeper inside her. It was not a time for shilly-shallying or trying to prolong our pleasure. We took it as soon as we could, voraciously. Then, too tired to move, we lay entwined, slowly taking in air as if learning to breathe for the very first time.

I woke at some point in the night. It was still dark and all I could hear was Liliana’s gentle snoring. The fan was off, the fridge was strangely quiet and even the clock had stopped.

 

 

 

 

Thoughts on the Smut Marathon 2019 and The Tea Planter’s Wife

 

The 2019 Smut Marathon is over. I reached the final round and came sixth, with my story The Tea Planter’s Wife. I’m not normally one for too much analysis but I have just gone through my results for all of the ten rounds. In the first place it was good to remind myself of the stories I wrote and the pleasure I took in writing them. It wasn’t so good to remind myself that in round eight and nine I just scraped through into the next round by one place. Most of my votes came from the public for which I am very grateful. My first jury vote didn’t come until round six and then no more jury votes until rounds nine and ten. I was very pleased to score my very first ten in the final round. There is an element of luck in progressing in the Smut Marathon. A fraction of a point can be the difference between staying in or going out.

It was great to be in all ten rounds and to get a chance to respond to the wide variety of assignments. It often takes me quite a while to think of a story.  I end up with pages of handwritten notes. Sometimes just on scraps of whatever bit of paper is available at the time. I find being in the bath is the best place to come up with dialogue.

When you get the email from Marie with the instructions for the next round she writes ‘Remember, when you write your story make sure you have an original setting…’ I took this very much to heart for the final round and decided to set my story in India during 1938.

The assignment was to write a Whodunit of between 2000 to 2500 words. I knew that in the days of the Raj the British, in the hot summer months, would go to various hill stations throughout India to escape the heat. I originally thought of Simla, the most famous of the hill stations but eventually decided upon Ooty in Southern India.

The appeal to me of using one of these hill stations was that they were built to resemble English towns and the inhabitants carried on as if they were at home, with cricket, golf, amateur dramatics and dinner parties.  I thought it would be the ideal place to set my whodunit.

In my research I read about something  called The Fishing Fleet.  It was a term used to describe the thousands of English woman who sailed to India during the Raj in search of a husband. Those who failed, returned home and were referred to, rather brutally, as unused empties. I was able to get a copy of The Fishing Fleet by Anne de Courcy. This was a totally absorbing and fascinating non fiction book and helped me so much with facts and background information.

Of course I had to come up with a plot and characters. I ended up with a story board of post-it notes stuck on a wall. I also remembered what Raymond Chandler wrote in his essay The Simple Art of Murder ‘When in doubt have a man come through a door with a gun in his hand.’ So I put in a few guns, as well as a very English cricket match.

If you fancy reading The Tea Planter’s Wife, here it is.

 

The Tea Planter’s Wife

Deepak watched a cockroach scuttle across the tiled floor as he rhythmically pulled the cord which operated the bedroom fan. The insect was free to come and go but woe betide him if he should desert his post. All hell would break loose because some Britishers were getting hot. Why did they come to India in the first place if the heat was not to their liking? With any luck this threat of war might see them all toddle off back to Blighty.

Apart from Mrs Hobbs that is. Recently, Deepak had slightly increased the width of a crack between the door frame and the wall. It was an easy enough job, because although the bungalow looked like an elegant abode, set as it was in the verdant hills around Ooty, it was in fact, shoddily constructed.

With Mr Hobbs, a tea planter, away on business, Deepak knew he would be in for a good show tonight. Even with the mosquito net covering the bed he was able to see her well enough. She was twenty five, dark haired and with smooth white skin. To see her firm breasts always made him gasp with delicious admiration.

But tonight was different because the memsahib was not alone. A man had appeared, sporting an erection, the like of which Deepak had only seen in temples. And like those erotic sculptures the man started to take Mrs Hobbs through a wide variety of sexual positions. The one which seemed to please her the most was when the man thrust himself into her from behind. Deepak watched incredulously as the cock pumped in and out. How she took that great length he couldn’t imagine but take it she did and with each thrust she let out a cry of blissful satisfaction. Eventually the man, with a stifled groan, ejaculated inside her.

It had not taken Deepak long to realise who the man was. It could prove to be a useful bit of information to keep up his sleeve.

* * *

The Maharajah of Nilgiri had just reached ninety four, when it was decided by the captain of the home team to have a break for drinks.

The Maharajah did not leave the crease and had one of his men bring out a cooling refreshment on an elegant tray. As he sipped it he said to his servant, ‘Today we will win and show these Britishers who is boss. They pretend they are on the playing fields of Eton and walk around with their noses in the air. No wonder this hill station is called Snooty Ooty.’

Drinks over, Bill Finnegan, started his run up. His flannel shirt billowing as he steamed down towards the stumps. The ball was released and flew through the air at great speed. It fizzed for a moment as the seam bit into the hard soil, allowing the Maharajah to flick it imperiously off his toes and into the air. The crowd watched it sail well over the boundary and disappear into the long grass beyond for six.

The Maharajah held up his bat to accept the applause of the crowd.

‘Good shot,’ said Maddie Hobbs to her husband.

‘Not bad I suppose. For an Indian.’

Maddie walked away from her husband in disgust.

Just then a loud cry went out from one of the fielders who was looking for the ball. Bill Finnegan raced over to see what the fuss was about. There, under a tree, was the body of an Indian. He almost had the air of someone sleeping if it weren’t for the large slit across his throat and the wounds in his chest. Finnegan quickly switched from being a cricketer to being a policeman. He was the Assistant District Superintendent.

The Maharajah sauntered over with his bat tucked under his arm.

‘Is this going to take much longer Mr Finnegan?’

‘A man has been killed your highness. I’m afraid we’ll have to call the match off.’

‘A great pity, especially as I was doing so well but I agree the decent thing would be to pull up the stumps. Please feel free to use one of my cars to transport the body to the mortuary.’

Finnegan was kneeling by the body looking for clues. The strange thing was, the murdered man was wearing a light flannel suit and canvas shoes.

‘He’s dressed like a tea planter, Mr Finnegan. Let us not hope he had ideas above his station,’ said the Maharajah with a chuckle.

Though it was now red with dried blood Finnegan was just able to see the name tag on the inside of the jacket. It read G. Hobbs. But Gerald Hobbs was sitting in the pavilion sipping chilled champagne with his wife.

The Maharajah came nearer. ‘Very upsetting business Mr Finnegan. Upon closer inspection I recognise the sorry man.’

‘Who is it,’ said Bill, impatiently.

‘It is Mr Hobbs’ punkah wallah, Deepak. Poor chap.’

 

Soon everyone apart from Finnegan had departed The body was safely in the mortuary. He poked around in the undergrowth and quickly found what he was looking for.

 

The Maharajah, who was in his late twenties, lived in unrivalled splendour five miles out of Ooty in what the British called the stately pleasure dome.

As usual after one of his many sporting endeavours he was relaxing with his favourite wife. Aged nineteen, she was the oldest of his five wives. He had his head between her legs and was feeding greedily on her vulva. He loved to taste her petals, as he called them, and to feel them swell in his mouth. As he ran his tongue around the jewel in her crown she let out a whimper.

‘One hundred runs your highness is a noble feat deserving of a noble prize.’

‘What can you give the man who has everything?’

She turned over, clasped her buttocks and spread her cheeks apart.

The Maharajah was just about to ease himself in when he was thrown off his stride by a commotion outside. It was that damned Bill Finnegan.

‘This is a murder enquiry your highness. I just have one or two questions and then you can get back to whatever you were doing.’

They had repaired to one of the innumerable reception rooms. The Maharajah was no longer in his cricket whites but had changed into silks. His hair was black and swept back over his forehead. And slightly long over the collar.

‘Would you care for a drink Mr Finnegan?’

‘Tea would be splendid.’

‘Hah! Tea. You British and your tea.’

‘Well I’m Irish actually so I’m as much welcome here as you are at times.’

‘I did wonder about the red hair and the strange accent. The British are a most ungrateful lot. They are happy to come here and enjoy my parties, and yet they do not let me join their clubs. I am ostracised in my own bloody country.’

Finnegan took out a knife and placed it on the table.

‘I just found this by the body. Do you recognise it your highness?’

‘It looks like a run of the mill knife to me. They are ‘two a penny’, I think you would say.’

‘But it is curved and there are jewels in the handle. The sort of knife that a maharajah might own.’

‘Possibly. And on closer inspection I believe it is one of mine.’

‘How would you account for it being used to murder Deepak?’

‘My hands are clean Mr Finnegan. I had no part in this. If I were you I would have a word or two with Mr Hobbs. He doesn’t always play with a straight bat, if you catch my drift.

‘I’m on my way to see him now.’

‘Good. But before you go and I return to my unfinished business, let me just mark your card.’

 

Finnegan knew Hobbs slightly. He was a stuck up snob. He knew Mrs Hobbs very well and for the first time in his thirty five years he was in love. As he drove towards the Hobbs’ tea plantation he tried to piece together the clues, along with the extra bits of information the Maharajah had just tossed his way.

At the moment though, all he could really think about was Maddie Hobbs and the possibility she might be in danger.

They’d met about a year before at the Gymkhana Club. Seeing her husband drift off for a game of bridge he’d taken the opportunity and sauntered over.

‘Do you know Mr Finnegan, if it weren’t for the heat we could almost be in England.’

‘You know my name?’

‘I have little else to do here other than keep up to date with any newcomers to Ooty.

She held out her hand. ‘Maddie Hobbs. Pleased to meet you.’

It was just a brief handshake but there was a warmth and friendliness in it. Something which had been lacking in his life for some time.

The waiter came over and Finnegan ordered two chota pegs upon her recommendation.

‘I’ve become quite accustomed to these little gin and tonics,’ she said. ‘Purely for medicinal reasons you understand.’

‘Naturally.’ They laughed at the well worn joke.

‘I think I’m going to enjoy knowing you Mr Finnegan.’

‘It’s Bill. Which you probably already know.’

‘Then tell me Bill. Do you think it is inevitable?’

As he stared into her eyes he was transfixed by her beauty. Yes, It was inevitable After only a short time in her company he already ached to have her.

‘Oh, yes Maddie, it is inevitable.’

‘I agree, but I hope we’re wrong. It’s hardly any time since the last war.’

As the weeks wore on they snatched precious moments alone until one evening they were able to spend the night together. She told him she had come to India five years previously in search of a husband, just like hundreds of other girls from England in a custom known as the Fishing Fleet.

‘Some made excellent catches but I should have thrown Gerald back in the sea and returned to England.’

‘But then we wouldn’t have met.’

‘Very true, my love.’

She was lying on Finnegan’s chest, enjoying a moment of post coital bliss. Their heartbeats and breathing were as one. The only other sounds were the cries of jackals, the hum of insects and the creak of the ceiling fan.

‘You don’t think the punkah wallah heard us, do you.?’

‘No Bill, Deepak is deaf.’

 

Maddie was standing on the front steps when Finnegan drove up.

‘Thank god you’re here Bill.’

‘Calm yourself Maddie. What’s happened?’

‘Gerald has gone. We had an argument. I asked him if he knew anything about the murder and he went mad. He drove off about ten minutes ago. with all our money, my jewellery and his revolver.

Finnegan tried to persuade her to stay put while he went off after her husband but it was useless.

‘We do this together Bill. You and me. I’m not letting you out of my sight.’

Finnegan put his foot hard down on the accelerator and they raced off in pursuit.

‘Do you think Gerald killed Deepak?’

‘It looks that way. I discovered he was having trouble with the Maharajah. Trivial stuff. The Maharajah wanted to buy some of the tea plantation to expand his golf course. Gerald would have none of it and started saying some pretty nasty things about the Maharajah. The Maharajah decided to get his own back and get some dirt on Gerald so he persuaded Deepak to spy for him.’

‘So he wasn’t a punkah wallah at all?’

‘Well he was, but with a sideline in spying. He wasn’t deaf though.’

‘Deepak learnt that Gerald had penile dysfunction and had been visiting Indian doctors in the region for a remedy but with no success. The Maharajah blackmailed Gerald and said unless he allowed him to build his golf extension he would let it be known that Gerald was only half a man, so to speak, and also that he beat you.’

‘This is all rather unsavoury Bill.’

‘The murder weapon was a gift from the Maharajah to Deepak for services rendered.

Somehow Gerald found out that Deepak was spying and killed him with the dagger the day before the cricket match.’

‘But why was he in Gerald’s clothes.’

‘To frame the Maharajah. To make it look as if he, the Maharajah, had stabbed Gerald, not realising it was Deepak. But the jacket had been put on the body after the attack. There were no holes in the jacket you see. Just in Deepak’s body.

‘That’s Gerald’s car,’ cried Maddie as they screeched round a bend.

Gerald’s Daimler was just ahead, going flat out down the mountain pass. He took the next hairpin too fast and lost control of the car. It skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust. Finnegan stopped too. From out of the dust walked Hobbs. He was holding a pistol in his right hand. Finnegan reached for his Webley in the glove compartment.

‘This could get nasty Maddie. Stay in the car and keep your head down.’

‘It’s you Finnegan. Damn and blast you man. I thought I was being chased by some ruddy dacoits.’

‘And you with all that money and jewellery on board.’

‘What the devil are you talking about?’

‘Put the gun down Hobbs. I’m taking you in.’

‘What the hell for? Has the sun addled your Irish brain?’

‘Don’t make this hard for me Hobbs. I just want a few wee words with you about murder. Simple as that.’

‘I’m sorry Finnegan but I have a meeting in Madras, so as nice as it would be to chat and all that.’

Hobbs turned to get back in his car and a shot rang out. He fell to the ground. Finnegan looked round to see Maddie with a Browning automatic in her hand.

‘He had it coming to him Bill.’

‘Give me the gun Maddie.’

She ignored Finnegan and walked over to Hobbs and kicked him before firing another shot into him.’

Finnegan ran towards her and she levelled her weapon at him.

‘Don’t try and stop me Bill. It was fun while it lasted, the sex was frightfully good but you simply had no idea about anything. You swallowed everything the Maharajah fed you.

‘What are you saying?’

‘Gerald was many things but he was never a murderer. Unlike me.’

Three bullets pumped into Finnegan in quick succession and he was dead before he hit the dusty ground.

* * *

Today, in the churchyard of St Stephen’s, Ooty, lie the remains of many who died serving the British Empire, including those of Gerald Hobbs and Bill Finnegan. Nobody remembers who they were and why they died. It was, after all, a long time ago.

They could almost be in England, if it weren’t for the heat.

 

 

Two Books and a Film

For Food 4Thought #126-One Book

 

At various times in my life I’ve not always been an ardent reader. The thought of picking up a book has often seemed like the dullest of occupations. But then, as if almost by magic, a book has appeared which has grabbed my imagination and rekindled my enthusiasm for the written word.

When I was nine or ten I was staying with my grandmother. I was complaining of being bored and she suggested I read a book. I knew her bookcase well. It wasn’t big. It contained about thirty books. Most of them had belonged to her sons, my uncles. There was a book on magic tricks which was quite fun and a book on algebra which wasn’t. None of the books had a dust jacket. They all looked dull and uninteresting. However, there was a book called Biggles Fails to Return by Captain W E Johns. Grudgingly I took it off the shelf and started to read. It was an adventure yarn full of excitement and had a plot that rattled along . There were goodies and baddies and twists and turns galore. I was entranced. Over the next few years I read every Biggles book that existed. The stories started in WW1 with Biggles in the Royal Flying Corps and ended with him as a policeman at Scotland Yard in the 1960s.  He must have been ancient by then and well past retirement age. The stories were often in far flung parts of the world and I think they must have started my love of geography.

In 1968, when I was fifteen, I went to boarding school. It was there I discovered my love of cross country running and one of my proudest moments was getting into the Lincolnshire team. All this running and the lure of listening to Jimi Hendrix as well as creating a satirical magazine with my two best friends gave me little time for reading. The magazine was all hand drawn and hand written and was passed around the boarding school. After the second edition the headmaster confiscated it and forbid us from creating any more. The headmaster was a good man really. He’d been a teacher in Hong Kong before the war but was then captured and spent the rest of his time in a Japanese Prisoner of War camp. He was usually very fair.

I digress. Let me return to books. I was ill, with flu I think, and spent a few days in the boarding school sick room. There was only one bed and I was the sole occupant. I was about sixteen by now and often dreamt of the assistant matron. An attractive woman in her twenties with a fine figure and gorgeous blond hair. When on duty she always wore one of those old fashioned white lab coats. The same as those worn by hospital doctors and intimidating chemistry teachers. It did nothing for her, hiding as it did her wonderful figure.

When the flu started to wear off and I was enjoying being waited on hand and foot I began to wonder what was in the large chest of drawers that stood ominously along one wall. It was a bit of a job to open the bottom draw, but not surprising really as it turned out to contain books. As did all the other drawers. The odd thing is they were all by the same author. Namely, Georges Simenon, the most famous Belgium after Hercule Poirot. I remember the first one I took back to bed with me. Maigret takes a Room. (Which I have re-read a few times since) I devoured it with relish and when I’d finished it I feasted on another. I was reading about two a day. How wonderful it was to escape the humdrum life of boarding school and find myself in the company of Maigret as he journeyed about Paris solving crimes. Around this time I started watching French New Wave cinema when I was at home. In those days on a Saturday the BBC had a slot called World Cinema. How I loved the films of Chabrol, Truffaut and Goddard to name but a few. Oh and I mustn’t forget Louis Malle. How I loved Jeanne Moreau in his film Les Amants. A truly wonderful actress who thrilled me more that even assistant matron did.

I had hoped to write about a few more books that had entranced me, especially my love for the works of Balzac, who wrote Cousin Pons as well as a multitude of other novels. But I have rambled on and most probably strained your patience so I will say adieu and thank you for reading.

Biggles Fails to Return. By Captain W E Johns. Published 1943

Maigret Takes a Room. By Georges Simenon Published 1951

Les Amants. Directed by Louis Malle 1958