Leonora enjoys Talk Like A Pirate Day…

Leonora stirred her drink in a desultory fashion. She didn’t know the word, but she could do the action. The bar was turning out to be not as described “a bustling social hub at the very heart of the Singles Scene”, but in fact a rather tragic place. It was quiet in the way that a railway station is quiet when there is only one train still due to stop there before it closes for the night.

Her makeup (and there was a LOT of it) was starting to shows signs of age: the generous layers of foundation developing the sort of crackleglaze look which oil paintings take centuries to acquire. Her “smokey eyes”, carefully designed some hours earlier to entice and ensnare, were apparently sliding down into her lower lids, giving her the look of a prizefighter who has just lost the big match.

All of a sudden she heard a new, different voice in the room. A big, deep, throaty voice. It was resonant of wide open spaces, fresh air and Gauloises, with the latter having the real say in the end result. It thrummed with testosterone, and Leonora thought it VERY sexy, and immediately a wiggle came back into all of her moves
She looked up, hastily wiping the dregs of makeup from under her eyes with a serviette, and took in the view.

He was tall, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, and dressed strikingly in a tattered leather jerkin, baggy trousers and boots.
He saw her looking at him, and growled “Hiyaaaaargh!” His voice was so loaded with male hormones that he seemed like a rutting stag, and indeed it was clear, despite the bagginess of his trousers,that no-one could challenge him on the horn front

Leonora was drawn like a magnet to him. She stood up, all slackness and depression gone, and crossed the bar towards him. Everything about her strutted, wiggled and almost pinged loose. The effect was only momentarily spoiled by the intervention of alcohol and stilettos which can combine to undermine a good strut. She recovered brilliantly, and her stumble gave the mystery man the perfect excuse to dash forward, throw a muscular arm around her waist and help her up.
Once she was upright and back in full strut, wiggle and ping mode, he failed to let go. Instead her gathered her closer, his aforesaid muscley arm clenching around her waist (which we shall call “slender” for the purposes of the artistic ideal) and pressing her close, so that through lycra, coarse linen and leather, their two fleshes could sense each other.

Things were happening fast inside Leonora: she looked up at him, lips strategically parted, and said “Hi”

The mystery man instantly pressed lips hard against hers: the passion was intense, but his breath smelt beery and he actually bruised her lip. It was wonderful!
“Oh gosh!!!” Leonora whispered hoarsely (NOT horsely. that would be very different)” Are you a pirate or something?”

“Haharrrr!” was his response, and his free arm swung a tankard up high, toasting things generally
“I am that! And would you like to feel the tip of my sworrrrd?”
Leonora squirmed excitedly, still held in his strong grip “I think I can!”
He sat down abruptly on a chair which was (luckily) behind him, pulling her onto his lap
“Sit astrrride my prrrow, young miss!” he cried, and sat her across his legs “You can be my figurrrrrehad!”
She giggled and ran her fingers through his curly hair. He looked surprised, not having realised his trousers were undone.
“But I’m facing the wrong way for a figurehead!” Leonora said
“Oh! Now you preferrrr the otherrrr way about do you miss?” he replied, “Forrrre and aft!” and deftly twisted her round so she sat astride his legs the other way. “Get yourrrr beam end round here. I like avast behind!” The rutting stag image rose in her mind, just as the stag’s horn rose in his trousers.

What a night that was! She was soon abaft the beam. Leonora had never experienced such passion in the crow’s nest, nor such attention to her barnacles. He came at her broadside, and found a welcome in her poop deck. She heaved to, he slipped an oilskin on his bowsprit, and soon her porthole was wide.

Eventually they were both becalmed.
“Aaarrrrrrrh!” he murmured contentedly, languidly stroking her luffs….

Drusilla and the Dibber

On a warm spring day there was nothing Drusilla looked better than a browse round the local garden centre. She did not have a garden, just a balcony, which although like Drusilla, was generously sized, could not offer the sublime pleasures of a garden.
However the local garden centre, Let’s Root, was inviting, and there were some extremely inviting staff. On her very first visit, she noticed a man who was designed by nature to wear overalls in a very fine way. He was strong and handsome in a rustic, earthy way, with eyes as dark and shiny as elderberries, though fortunately somewhat larger. He must have noticed her looking at him, and presumed she was wanting help. She was, though not in the way he first thought.
“Would you like me to help you?” He asked her, tucking his trowel tidily into his overalls.
Drusilla was overcome with embarrassment, and, pink-cheeked, looked around for inspiration.
“Errrr…I’ve got a gap I need filling”
“Ok. How big is the gap, and where exactly? What sort of soil and light conditions?”
She blushed further, which Edward thought most becoming.
“It’s not that big…I mean, normal size I suppose…doesn’t get much light, and the soil is, well it hasn’t had much attention for a while”

Edward rubbed his manly chin thoughtfully. She noticed his strong hands, and with a thrill, the lines of ingrained dirt.
He had taken her to the special shady section, and together they had discussed the merits of various shade-loving plants. Drusilla had come home with armfuls of woodland species, quite unsuited to her small sunny balcony.

Since then she had been back over and over again…each time returning home with more plants. She gradually filled her balcony, until the struggling shade-loving plants actually started to thrive, beneath so many others.

So it was, with a heart beating in anticipation, – rather than purely circulation – she once again arrived at Let’s Root.
Sure enough, Edward was there, fiddling with his bergenias.
She wandered in his direction, trying to look casual.
“Morning, Drusilla! What can I do for you today?” And after a pause he added “….any little gaps you’d like me to fill?”
“I’d value your suggestions” she said, tossing her curls flirtatiously.
He pointed. “What do you think…Antirhinum?”
She looked where he was pointing “Not at all. I think they’re lovely”
“Would you like to try a Coleopsis?”
Drusilla’s heart began to pound like a rotivator on clay soil.
Would she ever! She followed him, breathless with anticipation, to a far corner of Let’s Root, but then in dismay she realised he was talking about a perennial.
“Can we go straight to summer bedding?” She asked, urgently.
Edward, his confidence growing like the disarray in his overalls, took her tenderly – like a young dahlia – by the hand, and led her there. He looked around.
“There’s no-one else near, Drusilla…”
“I know…” She murmured, nervously playing with a young shoot.
Edward took his dibber out of his overalls pocket and laid it in the compost.
“I like this time of year” he said “you can feel everything sprouting, and growing”
Indeed she could. The sap was most definitely rising, things were reaching up to the light, swelling and growing.
“I think you should consider experimenting with bulbs too” Edward hinted. Adding that they were underrated and responded well to a little attention.
“I’ll remember that” she replied, and gently gathered a handful.
“I love this time of year, when everything feels so….vigorous” she said, and she was right; Edward certainly WAS vigorous.
And in the spring sunshine, Edward at last was able to put his dibber to work in the compost, thus filling a gap in the lady’s garden.
He loved his job

Scotsmen. The great decision: YES or NO

Penelope loved her job. It was very glamorous being a reporter for the highly regarded Scottish newspaper Och Aye Tha News, and she was the only English person on the staff, which made her feel extra special. True, it had a declining circulation of only around 3,000, about a third of the population of its hometown of Invercraunch, but she was a real journalist, and that was all she had ever wanted to do.
She was doubly excited when the Features Editor (he was also Sports Editor, Local News Editor and covered Small Ads; on a little local paper everyone has to pull their weight) called her to his office for a special assignment.
“Miss Penelope” he growled [Editors have to growl and there is training for those who struggle with this] “With the big vote approaching, I have a particular challenge in mind and I think that YOU are the man for the job. So to speak”
This was wonderful news! She took up her reporter’s notebook excitedly.

The assignment was to interview two local characters with opposing views, Murdo McGregor of the YES campaign, and Hamish MacIntyre of the NO camp.

Murdo was a tall and wiry man, with a mass of ginger hair which waved around to give emphasis to his arguments. It was distracting, so Penelope asked him to put it down. He did do, and she could then admire his twinkling jaw, the set of his masculine eyes.
“So tell me Mr McGregor, why do you feel so strongly that people should vote YES?”
Murdo settled into his chair comfortably.
“It’s time to move forward,Miss Penelope. The men o’ Scotland need support, and we should no’ be too proud to say so”
Penelope was jotting this all down with alacrity. A pen would have been more useful, but she had forgotten to bring one.

“What do you think the women of Scotland think about this though?”
Murdo smiled broadly; he always smiled that way at broads.
“Nae doubt they’ll be o’ the same mind. They ken just as well as we men how important it is to feel supported. We can say guidbye to a’ that if we get a Nae vote. Everything will be hanging by a wee thread, so it will, and that’s nae guid tae them either.”
“But Miss Penelope, ye must hae some views o’ your own. This is important!”
In a gentler tone, he continued “An’ I do ken how difficult this is fer some folks. Especially the older ones. We in the YES campaign believe it’s high time we moved for’ard, but traditions hold us in strong bonds, so they do.”
He leaned towards her, sensing she was warming to the subject, and fixing her with a gaze which made her shorthand go wobbly.

“Do ye like a bit o’ STRONG BOND yersel’ Miss Penelope? I’m a wee bit partial to that meself, if the truth be told” he reached towards her, gently crooking a finger under her chin and lifting it so he could look again into her eyes. Her concentration was lost. She was indeed warming, in areas of her body which had heretofore been untouched by journalism.

Blushing, she confessed “I do like to be held tight, certainly…”
Murdo laughed, a rich laugh like a tea biscuit,and staring appreciatively at her plump stotties, said “once this interview is over, maybe the two of us could have a wee game of tying the knot, eh?”
But Penelope was in no mood to wait. Casting aside her reporter’s notebook and her alacrity, she climbed onto Murdo’ s tartan lap and pressed herself against his strong chest. She gazed up at him from under her lashes, – it being impossible to look at him from above them as her eyelids were in the way.
“Oh gosh!”She exclaimed as she sank into his lap. “Whatever is that?”
“My sporran!” He explained. She looked momentarily disappointed, but then he assured her that his mighty sporran was only worn to try to contain the power beneath, lest it be too distracting…

And she was mollified. At least, that what Murdo called it.
“Mollify me again!” She cried, “and then cut me free again with your great big dirk!”

Once she was completely mollified, she wrote up her interview. (She left out the whole mollification part) and went to visit Hamish.

Hamish welcomed her with alacrity. She told him that she brought her own.
He was a burly, muscular man, whose massive knees shone beneath his kilt when he sat down. He was very keen to tell her his opinion.
“We say NO, he see. NO because it violates a’ oor most treasured traditions. I canna believe that any folk would want tae gie them up. I’ve a lot o’ respect for oor Murdoch, mind. But wi’ his modern notions we wud a’ be saying guidbye tae oor proud heritage”

Penelope nodded, breathlessly. Hamish was becoming animated, and she noted with her new sense of understanding that his sporran was also animated.

“He talks a load of hornswoggle, too, if ye dinna mind me sayin'”
“Really?” Penelope was intrigued. “How do you mean?”

Hamish hesitated. He looked at the lovely Penelope, cross legged on the chair in front of him, her smooth thigh exposed, taunting him with its thighishness.
“It’s probably best if I show ye. Then ye’ll ken why folks roond here are so passionate aboot a’ this”

Penelope watched, unable to look away, as Hamish unclipped his massive sporran and handed it to her to hold.
“It’s SO heavy!” She said “but the tassel is so strokeable”. She clasped it firmly, running her fingers over it.
“This is the important part, though” said Hamish, lifting his kilt.
“Now take a GUID look, Miss Penelope. Nice and close up”
“So is this a haggis?” She asked after a significant pause.
“Nay, lass, it’s the sack for my bagpipe. You’ll mebbe like to try and get a wee tune out o’ it, while ye’re doon there….”

Penelope discovered she had quite a knack with the bagpipe; she worked at it with all her breath and the result was surprisingly stirring, especially for Hamish.
“I’ve always loved the skirl o’ the pipe” he said contentedly.

Penelope felt that Hamish’s argument was a good one, that Scotsmen should say NO to the wearing of underpants beneath the kilt

Heat and Vegetables

It was a glorious day for the Little Nimby Flower and Produce Show. The marquee was fully erect on the green, and there were stalls springing up around it, a Coconut Shy (the outgoing coconuts never seem to make it across to England) Hoopla, Whack the Rat and other village traditions. The show always seemed to fall on a hot day, and the local young girls arrived in skimpy summer outfits. The Vicar always nobly volunteered to be the victim at the Soak the Bloke stall, where he spent the afternoon getting doused in cold water. He never seemed to mind; indeed he said he found it oddly helpful.
The judging in the big tent had been going on in private for some time. The folk of Little Nimby were keen gardeners and there was always a lot of competition. If anything, the hot weather seemed to help: more people than ever wanted an entry.
Finally the judging was complete. The mayor pulled the flaps apart and declared the marquee open to the public. Priscilla, who had been trying to win a ping pong ball by throwing goldfish into glass bowls, was keen to get inside and see who had carried off the rosettes.

She came first to the bakery section, where as usual Miss Glover’s buns had again been declared Best in Show.
The Sticky Tart section was a draw between the two most highly regarded practitioners of the art: Mrs G Lans and Miss L Abia.
So Priscilla had to go to the vegetables to get a surprise. And she certainly did, encountering quite the most magnificent collection of aubergines a girl is ever likely to see. But that was not all. She positively gasped with astonishment when she saw the courgette entry. Mark Dibber, who was one of the judges, heard her cry of amazement and was in a moment standing behind her, a prize parsnip in his hand.

“Impressed, eh?” He asked, noticing how the sunlight, streaming in through a gap in the marquee, played on her hair. He leaned closer but was unable took make out the tune. Still it was nice being so close to such a lovely woman. She turned suddenly, and found herself gazing into a pair of steely grey eyes. She had expected the judges to be rather older than this man, and definitely not so handsome. Mark Dibber was tall, and wore his hair swept across his brow. When he wasn’t wearing it, he kept it on the bedpost brushed in exactly the same style.
Priscilla felt emboldened by the surrounding vegetables.
“You have amazing eyes” she said, “steel grey”
“Yes, they’ve always been grey” he replied. Sensing her interest in his parsnip, he held it up. “I’ve had to disqualify this” he said.
“Gosh!” She exclaimed. “What on earth for? Is it the wrong size?”
“False start” he said grimly. “It’s a shame. But rules are rules”
He put the disgraced parsnip down.
“Would you like me to show you around?”
“I know what a round is, Thankyou” said Priscilla, a little primly. She didn’t like to be patronised.
“I can give you a tour of the prize marrows” he offered. At that, Priscilla immediately forgave him over the patronising incident; after all, such an offer does not come knocking twice, and Priscilla was not a girl to pass up a knocking.

Just as he had promised, he showed her the finest courgettes, the most perfectly formed bulbs of garlic. He showed her the winning beans, all varieties, though he preferred the broads.
The marquee was deserted by the time they came to the highlight of the afternoon, but it was definitely worth waiting for.
He never even asked her name, nor told her his. At the time this seemed perfectly natural..they were just two people together, enjoying some late summer heat amongst the brassicas.

“This is it, then” he said, his excitement mounting like a Jack Russell.
“The prize exhibit”
She looked…She gasped…
It was truly astounding. The little card beside it said, instead of the full name of the entrant, just “Mr M D”
Priscilla turned and gazed into his eyes, which were of course steel grey,

“My marrow” he said, with a smile
“But you’re a judge! Surely your not allowed an entry?”
“That’s my secret” he said. “I always enter without giving my name. It’s better that way”

Tickle me with a feather

It was a glorious sunny day at Mere View Bird Sanctuary. The sun shone from a sky lightly tufted with clouds, there was a gentle breeze rippling the skirts of female visitors (and one or two male ones from a specialist club on an annual outing) and the birds were, appropriately, singing.

Charlene was enjoying the sunshine and views, and the way the wind was rippling HER skirt. It was a reminder that she had dressed carelessly and was wearing no drawers. Beside a beautiful lake there was a sunlit bench, and Charlene sat down to take in the view. The whole rippling thing was still happening so she crossed her legs discreetly.

A few minutes later she noticed a man walking along the path towards her. He was dressed, and carrying round his neck a huge pair of binoculars, as well as a large camera with an enormous lens which swung at hip level like a massive signal of interest.
He smiled at her, a cheeky, lopsided smile due to the fact that he was chewing some gum.
“Fabulous view!” he commented as he got close
“Oh yes!” said Charlene, sensuously brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “I like to feel the fresh air” – and she smiled a little secret smile to herself.

The man sat down beside her, his camera on his lap and looking even more like a bid for attention, and delicately spat out the gum.

Charlene shaded her eyes with her hand (whilst still leaving a gap to see through) and studied the lake.
“Are you looking for something in particular?” he enquired
“I’m on the lookout for a shag”
There was a meaningful pause, during which the man adjusted his camera a few times.
“You’ll not get one here. Too far from the sea”

Charlene looked crestfallen, like a crested bird whose crest had fallen.
“I can tell you about the birds around here if you like” he offered, by way of consolation “I’ve got a lot of experience of them”
He pointed to a speck on the lake in the distance “That’s a goosander, a kind of duck”
Charlene squinted. “I can only see one bird” she said

The man introduced himself as Derek Whinchat, and added, slightly embarrassed, that he was a twitcher.
Charlene looked closely at him but could see no evidence of it: he was sitting quite still.
He was young and as far as she could see, quite fit, though much of his (probably) muscular torso was obscured by binoculars and camera. He had thick wavy hair which had restricted itself to his scalp, leaving his ruggedly handsome face exposed. His eyes twinkled, which was probably a trick of the bright sunshine, but had an extraordinary effect on Charlene. (She was still being rippled by the wind)

“I’m really looking out for a widgeon” he said. Charlene’s inner smile became broader.
“Really?”
“Yes. I love their pink-flushed breasts”
Charlene leaned towards him, breathing heavily. Everything was rippling
“Can you see any?”

He turned towards her. The huge lens pressed against her, and she jumped a little in surprise, her pink-flushed breasts jiggling distractingly.
“I believe I can” he whispered hoarsely. “A breeding pair”

“Do you think they might nest somewhere round here?” Charlene asked, looking up at him meaningfully through her lashes (which were of course long and luscious)
“I’d certainly like them to” he said, sliding an arm along the bench behind her. Fortunately it was his own arm.

A swan paddled across the lake. Charlene seized her moment
“Have you ever found a whooper?”
He shook his head. “I’d like to. Most are mute though. But once when I was looking for shags I got a bittern”
“Gosh!” Charlene looked shocked. “Did that hurt?”
He shrugged. It was all part and parcel of his passion. “I got it on here” he raised the camera with its massive lens.

“I don’t really know anything about birds – I just like it here” Charlene confessed.
“It’s easy to get started” he explained, leaning closer. “You just have to start taking notice of the important features, like for instance breasts” his eyes dropped lower, but luckily stayed in his head. He found he was staring at her important features, and felt a sudden urge to put his big lens to use
“I think I’ve just seen something beautiful and exotic. A nesting pair” he whispered,
“Really?” Charlene looked excited, and indeed the rippling breeze was doing its job well.
“Would you like to see them a bit closer?”
He nodded; his mouth felt dry. “Stop feeling it” he told himself. “It looks odd.”
“Let’s take a walk, there’s a hide nearby, where I can get closer to them without us being seen”

They walked a short distance away from the lake. His camera was swinging at a jauntier than usual angle. When they were safely concealed in the hide, he put down his equipment and took her close into his arms.
“careful of your camera!” she exclaimed, and was then astonished to see it on the floor.
“Oh gosh!” She blushed, and then glanced down at his zoom function, and felt those familiar ripples flooding through her.

“Oh Derek!” she cried, and as he pointed to his spotted redshank she gave out a little auk.

That day, Charlene learned that, even amongst all those exotic birds, one swallow can be very special..

Good use of the clutch

Gladys had always been nervous about learning to drive. Like her friends, once she had passed her 17th birthday, she had been desperate to get going. But an early bad experience with a ferocious female teacher (who had told Gladys NOT to wear stilettos to drive) and the unfortunate incident with the award-winning rose garden (confusing directions from the said instructor) had left her anxious. For years she had avoided even considering it, but Mr Grommet came highly recommended by her friends…

He did not disappoint: he was tall, reaching right to the top of his head and as far down as the ground, and he had a mop of curly black hair. Gladys was disconcerted by the mop and was glad when he put it in the boot.
“Call me Nelson” he said “It’s my favourite name – I love it when people call me that”

She settled anxiously into the driver’s seat. “Let’s get that seat belt nice and tight” said Nelson, pulling the strap firmly across her volumpty breasts and curvy tummy. He liked the way it defined her cleavage.

“I’m very nervous” she said. He put a hand gently on her knee and squeezed it comfortingly. “We’ll do this together”
Gladys was puzzled, but put her hand alongside his, and together they squeezed her knee.
She began to feel a surge of warmth stir within her… After a little while it became uncomfortable and she wriggled (fetchingly) in her seat. Nelson noticed this and switched off the heated seat.
“Have you ever done this before?” he asked. “I have” she answered hesitantly. “But it was a bad experience: I ended up with a lot of pricks”
“Well let’s hope I can make it better this time. Women are usually very satisfied after my lessons”
“I don’t think I’ll be any good” said Gladys.
“Let me be the judge of that” he replied, smiling…

He was very good: he explained to her about the proper use of the clutch, getting a smooth change of gear, the possible consequences of leaving your hand resting on the knob whilst driving, when to go for the horn.

They went very slowly for a while, but Gladys’ confidence was swelling.
“I think I’d like to go faster” she said, risking a sideways glance at Nelson, and noticing has his confidence was also swelling
Thrilled by her growing confidence,he encouraged her to press on the throttle with her stiletto, and she did, enjoying the feel of being thrust back into her seat by the power.
“Wow, this is fantastic!” she cried, but at that speed she didn’t dare to wipe her tears away. Nelson, all concern, dabbed gently at her cheek.
“What on earth are you doing?” she demanded. “If you’ve got a hanky, wipe my face”

They were approaching a stretch of dual carriageway: Nelson had no more lessons booked that afternoon. He leant across to Gladys and whispered “There’s no turning back now, you know” She nodded, and took a deep breath which pulled the seat belt even tighter across her chest. Her jubblies appeared to rise up like the headlights on a sports car.

A few moments later Nelson said breathlessly “Pull over!”
“Are you cold?” asked Gladys, scrabbling to find the heater control.
“No, I mean stop the car. Up ahead, in that lay-by”
She pulled into the lay-by, sliding smoothly in, as far as it could go.
“I know I’m just a beginner, but do you think I’ll get it in the end?” asked Gladys, and Nelson assured her that she would.

With a sudden surge of accelerating passion, she turned to him and said “Dab my cheek again will you?”
He did, as he gathered her into his arms. (She had spread all over the place)In fact he dabbed both her cheeks, which were warm from the seat.
“Gladys, darling! Let me instruct you! I’m going to have you doing three pointers, we’ll do some reversing into tight spaces. You’ll be as happy with your rear end as with your front bumper when I’m done, I promise you!”

A spanner in my works

Suds! Suds! Everywhere. Darlene opened the door of her kitchen and was met by a huge mound of bubbles. Pausing only to scoop up a few handfuls and toss them playfully, she waded through and found her pad of Useful Numbers. She had never had to call a plumber before. But this was a crisis. Luckily a Pipes@Home engineer was not too far away. Darlene cleared the mess as best she could and then went upstairs to change out of her wet trousers. She had only just undressed when the doorbell rang. Not wanting to miss the engineer on any account, she grabbed her satin dressing gown and wrapped it around her voluptuous and still slightly damp body.
She descended the stairs two at a time, the dressing gown flapping around her shapely legs. This was the view which greeted the engineer waiting on the doorstep: The front door had a glass panel which now bore the imprint of his nose, pressed against it as he watched her approach.
She fumbled with the lock inside, he fumbled with his overalls outside
The door eventually opened, and a flustered Darlene beckoned the engineer inside
“Such a mess!” she exclaimed, but the engineer disagreed, telling her she looked fine really. Darlene blushed and played with her hair

In the kitchen there were still bubbles spreading in a slow tide across the floor.
“Stop cock! That’s what we need” said the engineer
“Stop cock? That never occurred to me” said Darlene, feeling foolish. Then she suddenly realised he was looking around for somewhere to put his bag
“Do you need somewhere to put your tools?” she asked “it’s not a very big kitchen and that’s a huge toolbag.”
She cleared a space for him and the engineer eased his toolbag onto the table.
“I expect we’ll find the stopcock under the sink” he said helpfully “why don’t you have a look?”

Darlene opened the door of her under-sink cupboard. The floor was still very wet so she bent carefully down, grasping her dressing gown with one hand to stop it falling into the puddles. Sure enough the stop cock was there. She tried to turn it with her free hand, but it was stiff.
“It’s so stiff!” she cried, but the engineer did not at first reply: he was adjusting his overalls again as he watched Darlene, her dressing gown the only filmy barrier obscuring her succulent butt as she bent over the cupboard.
“I said it very stiff” she repeated. There was a pause, and then the engineer muttered awkwardly “I’m sorry miss, it just happens”

Darleen turned round to look at him: he was young, with a strong jawline, muscular muscles and two good eyes. He also appeared to have a large spanner inside his overalls.
“Let me take care of this!” he said confidently, striding forward. Darlene could see he was carrying a pipe wrench and a sink plunger, one in each hand. So where was the huge spanner?

In a moment he had turned off the water and stemmed the rising tide of suds. “No more stop cock problems for you!” he said triumphantly. “Now I just need to flush through your pipes”
Darlene was flushed already, and couldn’t help but stay close and watch as he pulled out her washer and felt along her tubing with a firm but gentle stroking and squeezing action.
“What are you doing that for?” she asked. “I’m wondering if you have a blockage along here” he replied, and Darlene stood back a little to let him finish the job. She watched his strong back as he squeezed the tubing vigorously, and felt a deep, damp yearning to be that tubing.

“I think I’ve found the problem” he said suddenly, and in a flash he had whipped off her connections, released her tubing and the blockage, (a coin) fell to the floor. “Oh how marvellous!” Darlene exclaimed “Will you need to flush through now?”
The engineer straightened up awkwardly “I fear so, yes”
To lighten the moment, he glanced down at the coin on the floor and said
“My tip!”
Darlene looked searchingly at him, and yes, she thought she could see his tip…

In a sudden surge of passion, she flung open her satin dressing gown: the effect on the engineer was immediate, (though mollified by the fact that Darlene was still wearing her sweatshirt…she had only taken her trousers off when the doorbell rang)he sprang forward, taking her in his arms. The huge spanner seemed to get in the way a bit at first, but after a while they made room for it.

The engineer was good, very good. No leaks, and the pressure was higher than ever before. Darlene had worries about blockages in her tubing, or her stopcock or valves any more. Her engineer from Pipes@Home was right at home in her pipes…

The Rude Mechanical

Clarissa Tilbury was distressed: her beautiful brow furrowed in concern. Her beloved BMW convertible was unwell: it made strange noises, stranger even than the ones Clarissa had sometimes made in it. She loved to feel the power of it beneath her, a tickle of her right foot enough to make it growl and surge forward. But now she feared it was not reliable, and no woman to fear that power drain away at a crucial moment. She booked it into a garage – Honest Mike’s Reliable Repairs.

As she explained the problem, her hands anxiously twisted the strap of her fabulously expensive designer handbag. “I’m afraid I don’t really understand mechanical things…” she faltered, pressing her perfectly manicured hand to her chest apologetically. Mike noticed the polished nails and pale smooth skin, and contrasted it with his own oily hands.
“When I press for more power, I get a big knocking”
Mike nodded. He had had that very same problem himself, but there is never anyone around for a man to talk these things over with.

“it could be your big end…” he suggested, snatching a quick glimpse at it “How about if I take a look?”
“At my big end? If you think that’ll help” she giggled, blushing
“Let me get underneath for a moment. I find that works better for me”
Mike laid down on the hard concrete floor and wriggled underneath the car. The action dragged his jeans kneewards slightly, exposing hairy belly and the top of his underpants. Clarissa stared, mesmerised, at his toolbox
“I can’t see any leaks, no damp patches or anything” he reassured her.
“Can you see anything helpful?” Clarissa asked. Mike assured her that yes he had seen something useful (as Clarissa was wearing very tight jeans) and that he would sort her out if he could.

“Oh thankyou!” she cried “I can’t wait to get back in the driving seat, feeling my hair being rippled and my cheeks flushing. It’s just the best thing ever”

Mike rubbed his oily hands down the front of his jeans by way of distraction. “I’ll just get my overalls on then, love, then I’ll get to work. I’ll give her a thorough check while I’m down there, don’t you worry. Tappets, timing, I’ll grease her nipples and everything. You have a seat over there” He pointed to a grubby chair in the corner of the office.

Clarissa sat down in it, wondering if she would have a dirty bottom at the end of all this, while Mike got to work.

After a little while he returned. “I’m afraid it’s looking quite serious my dear. I don’t think I can finish in one go. Can she stay over?”
Clarissa looked upset “Oh no! I just thought you’d be able to sort her out quickly…you look like a man who could do that” she purred, like the engine of a well tuned Jaguar.
“I’ll certainly do my best” he said. “I’m known for my skills with a wrench, but this could be quite a big one”

“While she’s in, how about going over the bodywork?” Clarissa asked
“Would you like me to?” Mike asked, beads of sweat appearing through the grime on his forehead
Clarissa nodded, suddenly realising she found the smell of sump oil strangely alluring. She reached her soft, clean hand out to Mike, who looked confused, and then tenderly placed his spanner in it.
“Oh my! That’s huge! ” cried Clarissa, “and so heavy! How do you manage to hold that all day?”
Mike drew her to him, his huge spanner still between them, pressed between her swelling baps.
“I don’t want to get you dirty” he said, concern in his voice
“I am already very dirty” Clarissa murmured, sliding her hands over the spanner. It was hard and oily
“Take off my jeans, Mike” she whispered
He pulled away, shaking his head. “You’ve got this all wrong Miss Tilbury”
“Why?”
“I’m not wearing your jeans”
“Never mind, take off the ones I’m wearing. I’ve got oil on them”
“Do you want me to get them cleaned?” asked Mike anxiously
“No!” she gasped, grasping his well-muscled arms in her dainty hands, “I want you get oil all over me…”

Gnocchis for ever

Sharon had always dreamed of something more…something beyond the small town in which she lived. She had seen plenty of American movies where the heroine starts off as a waitress in a little place somewhere, and meets the hero as she pours coffee for him….It was why she had got a job at Gnocchi’s restaurant.

The months had passed though and although she had altered her uniform to make it shorter and tighter, leaned further and further over the customers as she served them, no heros had appeared. She had been quite optimistic about one young man who, for several months had been a regular. He had sat in a corner with his laptop for hours at a time, ordering snacks and coffees in a distracted fashion as he worked away. Sharon thought he might be an author working a novel (maybe she could be his muse?) or an intellectual finalising his doctorate. Whenever she brought something to his table she walked with her special wiggle, and leaned as far forward as she could manage, a feat which often helpfully caused her top button to pop undone – (“Ooh goodness me! Look what’s happened!”)but she produced no response other than a clutching of the laptop to his rather buff chest. It was depressing to think that a girl could blot out the light with her sumptuous norks and get no reaction….

Eventually she decided that she had to act: Summoning her courage she approached him with an espresso and a plate of little biscotti.
“I love to nibble on these….don’t you?”
The man looked up, the sunlight through the open doorway fell on his strong jawline, injuring it slightly.
“I’m sorry?” he replied
On impulse she sat on the edge of his table. “I like a nibble”
The table rocked precariously: his previous cup and saucer slid to the floor with a crash. The young man grabbed his laptop. Other customers and the staff to turn and stare. Sharon didn’t care! She wobbled back onto the table, hitching her short, tight skirt up and leaning further towards the young man.

“What are you working on?” she asked him. he looked embarrassed – though whether at the question or the sight of Sharon’s ample bangers bursting out of her uniform is hard to say. Leaning a little to the side she caught a glimpse of the laptop screen.
It was a dating site. He had been internet dating all the time whilst she had been serving him with her goodies. It was a bitter blow. She slipped off the table (not entirely intentionally) straightened her skirt and walked (still trying to do the wiggle)back to the kitchen, struggling to control her emotions.

She had been so wrapped up in her fantasy about the handsome young man that she had been oblivious to Carlos Gnocchi the chef and proprietor….
For weeks Carlos has been watching Sharon’s uniform shrink until it gripped her luscious form like the skin of a salami. He had watched her gradually developing wiggle, the top button of her uniform spontaneously popping open and her rapturous bazookas erupting out of it. The last few moments had been torture for him…seeing her leaning forward over the young man’s table, her already miniature skirt almost vanishing. She was offering him nibbles! It was too much.

Sharon burst through the swing doors into the kitchen and stood, sobbing and oblivious, before him. Before he could reach her, the heavy doors swung back and hit her full in the face. She crumpled, but before she quite hit the floor, Carlos was there. The hero in chef’s whites, his apron tied tightly, – fortunately – barely concealing his desire for her.

She fell into his arms, seeking solace and comfort. He gathered her to him, seeking something moister. Would their two desires ever blend and combine? How about their bodily secretions? For the moment it was enough that he was holding her in his arms.
After a few more moments Carlos realised that it was actually too much. She was a curvaceous girl, and starting to feel quite heavy. But she was still crying loudly and damply on his chest.
He eased them both to the corner of the kitchen where he could sit down to take the weight.
In that position he could feel her heaving bosom pressed against him.
“Sharon!” he cried
For a few moments she just cried
Then she looked up, wiping her slightly snotty nose on his whites. “Nobody will ever love me, Carlos. I will be stuck here forever”
Carlos lifted her chin with his hand, looking into her bloodshot eyes. “Sharon my beloved, I have nothing to offer you but Gnocchi’s. Will you take Gnocchi’s for your knockers?”

She opened her eyes wide, suddenly seeing Carlos in a fresh light. He was not just the chef, he was so much more.
She remembered how he kneaded the pizza dough, his hands caressing the warm squidgy mixture like a lover. She remembered his muscular arms stirring pans of sauce, and him pausing whilst chopping herbs to flick back a lock of black curly hair….he should have had his trousers done up whilst cooking, that’s true. But she could overlook that.

Maybe she didn’t want to be taken away from here. Maybe she wanted to be taken. Here.
By her hero in an apron……

Be Dental with me!!!

She desperate for a filling: Arriving early for her appointment, she flicked through the glossy magazines in the waiting room with a beating heart. Indeed, it was better that way: if she had not had a beating heart, no dentist could have helped her.
An article on celebrity bust-enhancement managed to engross her, despite her mounting excitement. After all she had to be realistic: she might not get mounted.
Finally her name was called and the nurse ushered her in.
She climbed into the chair, smoothing her T-shirt down in a beguiling way, and glancing provocatively at the dentist. He was busying himself with arranging his tools, and hardly allowed himself to look at her. The dental nurse pressed that special button and the chair reclined. He could not prevaricate for long: she was laid back and waiting for him, lips parted.

“Relax” he murmured, momentarily brushing her arm with his hand and feeling the tension. “It’ll be so much easier if you relax”
She tried, she really did, but as he leaned forward over her, his eyes above the surgical mask met hers, shook hands, exchanged pleasantries and bought hers a coffee. It was a long moment. So long in fact that the nurse cleared her throat loudly and reminded them both that they were not alone.

“Open wide for me” he whispered, with gravelly authority. She could not resist and her enhanced red lips parted to reveal dazzling white teeth.
“Mmmm” he murmured approvingly “I see you have been following my advice”
“Oh yes” she replied, her breath uneven, possibly hitching “I’d always do EVERYTHING you say”
“Is that so, Miss Lush…”
“Call me….Claudia” she whispered.
He turned abruptly and glanced at her notes, strewn sensuously about the desk. “I thought you were called Bernadette?”
“I prefer Claudia…it makes me feel….exotic” she purred “as do you…”
“Do I?” he leaned forward uncertainly, his tool held tremulously in one hand. “Don’t speak for a moment, …Claudia”

She opened her lips wide, easily accommodating his probing tool. Eyes closed in ecstasy, she felt as he tenderly inserted the tip around, above, below, between…occasionally wiggling it in a way which made tremors of agitation run through her body.

When he had finished he pointed towards the mouthwash, and offered her a swill. She accepted, and as she did so he wondered if she was the swallowing sort….

She glanced sideways and was thrilled to see his green apron lifting until the bulge was right underneath the arm of the chair.
“I hope I haven’t hurt you” he said, pulling away….from where he could see a tiny trickle of sweat running over her collarbone. His eyes followed it down, down, down, until it disappeared into her heaving cleavage.

In one crazy impulse Claudia/Bernadette grabbed his upper arm (feeling the manly muscles flexing enticingly inside his tunic) and drew him closer. “Mind yourself on the arm of the chair!” the cried, pulling him towards her and pressing her red lips urgently to his.

The kiss was crazy, passionate, insane. Their hot breath mingled, but sadly not their tongues as he was still wearing the surgical mask.

“Claudia! this is insane!” he cried, pulling away and straightening his mask. Flustered and flushed he waved the nurse away. She had been standing nearby, white with shock. “Go and mix me some amalgam, Mavis”
The nurse looked confused “Amalgam? I thought her teeth were fine?”
“Her teeth ARE fine, Mavis, but she’s going to get a filling anyway!”

Mavis rushed out of the room, giving the door a hard banging behind her. This further inspired the dentist, who pulled down his lipstick-stained surgical mask and gathered Claudia into his muscular arms.

“I’m going to recline you right back!” he cried, pressing on the appropriate button. Claudia squealed in delight as the chair descended, creaking a little under their combined weight.

“Drill me!” she gasped, lifting his green apron. Their throes of passion sent the instrument tray crashing off its fixings, and teeny tiny drill bits skittered all over the floor.

“Oh no!” Claudia cried, “You’ll have to re-sterilise everything now!”
“I don’t care!! For you I would re-sit my orthodontics finals”

It seemed only a few moments had passed before he cried out to her “I’ve drilled you, now I’m going to fill you!”

How unfortunate that Claudia’s injection had only just started to work and he had already finished the job…