comedy – Smut’n’Chuckle

Keep it quiet, Lucinda!

It was a quiet day at the library. This was completely normal. In fact Lucinda couldn’t remember a day that wasn’t quiet – even when it was busy. She liked the serenity of her working environment, but occasionally longed for a little lively distraction.. She was charmingly unaware that she herself represented just that to more than one of her regulars – dressed as she habitually was in a demure skirt and a little blouse buttoned to the throat.
The liveliness of the distractions she caused was due in no small part to the dimensions of the little blouse…. it having been sewn with a woman of more boyish proportions in mind. All the reaching, lifting, stretching and carrying which her job entailed obliged the little pearl buttons which held together Lucinda’s respectability to make an extra effort on her behalf. They clung on to their corresponding buttonholes with desperate determination, whilst the intervening fabric stretched and bowed. Total respectability was all the time being sacrificed, but each button could only do what a button can do: the gaps in between were not their concern, and if the fabric should arc away and reveal glimpses of upholstered mazumbas, they could console themselves they had each done their best.

Lucinda loved her job. Her pleasure at a working life surrounded by books left her no time to consider the fastenings of her blouse, and the numbers of downcast eyes in the faces of library users she interpreted as respect for the world of books. She would have been surprised to learn that in most cases the eyes were being drawn irresistibly to the glimpses of cleftage.

Into this subduedly-fevered atmosphere stepped a young man making his first, slightly anxious sortie into the library. It was an old building, smelling reassuringly of wood polish and musty paper. He was looking for an obscure tome – The Practical Pyromaniac by William Gurstelle (out of print) and, though not expecting to find it on the shelves, thought he might hunt down some expertise amongst the staff.

After a little wander to soak up the atmosphere of hushed cerebricity, he approached the reception desk. Lucinda was hunched over it, cross checking something against something else. As the young man approached she looked up, and smiled.
When Lucinda smiled, it was like a scene from an old cartoon in a wood: curtains of leafy branches draw back to reveal a sunlit glade of dazzling beauty. The young man, Stefan, appreciated the view and instantly wished that he could make her glow with a warm shaft.

“May I help you?” she asked, her words intruding disturbingly into his train of thought.
“I’m looking for a book” he answered
Lucinda smiled. She was confident she was on home territory here.
“We have quite a lot. Are you looking for one in particular, or just books in general?” There was a twinkle in her eye as she spoke.
Stefan chuckled. “One in particular. But I don’t think you’ll have it”
“Try me” Lucinda replied, once again releasing demons of new thoughts in Stefan’s mind.
He told her. She was unfazed. She stood for a moment, thinking, – one elbow on the desk, a finger to her lips (which were as rosebuddy as you might imagine) and then said “Come with me. We’ll have a look”

He followed her, watching her callipygous curves swaying – rolling even – with each step as she walked along the avenues of wood and paper.
Lucinda ran her finger along a shelf as she walked, apparently scanning the spines. Stefan scanned her spine (amongst other things) but felt it would be inappropriate to run his finger along HER spine.
“How do you find anything in here?” he asked. She started to explain a little about the categorisation and the systems they used, pointing at the labels glued to the spines. Stefan, who was having trouble concentrating anyway, looked baffled.
After a few moments she stopped, and turned round, her apple-cheeked face radiant in the gloom of the shelves, the fabric of her blouse on the point of conceding defeat against the heaving of her bosompities.
“You don’t GET Dewey do you?”
Overcome with confusion at the abruptness of the question, Stefan could only refute this “Er…well I do occasionally, you know how it is”
Lucinda cocked her head on one side and looked quizzically at him
“Not at the moment, anyway” she said
Stefan blushed to the roots of his hair and confessed in a whisper that, just at that moment, he was actually rather dewy.

There was a pause. Lucinda adjusted her clothing a little primly to cover her own embarrassment. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately) this pushed the poor buttons right over the edge. Silently, two of them gave up. They simply let go, and the swelling splendour of Lucinda bustables hoved into view, raising the temperature in that lugubrious enclave by several degrees.

“This is the specialist section. Antique, rare, that sort of thing”
Stefan looked at the shelves. Rows of leather bindings lined up into the distance.
“I like this section the best” She reached out and took down an early edition of Palgrave’s Golden Treasury and held it out for him to admire.
Stefan took it, gently, and turned it over in his hands (which were strong and manly)
“It’s beautifully tooled” said Lucinda
“Is that important to you?” Stefan heard himself asking, and she nodded. “And you don’t mind a bit of foxing?”
She shook her head.
“On the contrary. I love it”
Stefan nodded eagerly “Me too!”
He slid the book expertly back into the slit of the shelf, pushing it firmly but tenderly home .
“What about binding?” he asked, stepping a little closer to her. At this proximity he could feel her warmth breath. “Is that an interest of yours?”
She looked up at him, taking a deep breath (which caused a few more buttons to fail)
“A good binding is a delight” she murmured. “There’s plenty to look at….and no-one else ever comes here”
“But YOU come here….”
“Not every time” she murmured, stepping so close that their bodies were touching. Only the top front bits so far, but it was enough to make the rest inevitable.

Stefan found that his search for The Practical Pyromaniac (out of print) was both fruitless, AND unnecessary. Lucinda could light his fire right here, merely by stroking the fine tooling.
“You find plenty of interest between the covers here, don’t you?” he asked her
“When it comes to covers, hard is best. It lasts so much longer” she told him.
Together they explored the literary landscapes within the aisles of the dark recesses of the old library. Stefan ran the tip of his finger down her spine. Then he gently opened her covers, pausing to admire the endpapers, before riffling tenderly through the interior, savouring the unfolding narrative as it built to a stunning climax.
They had to keep VERY quiet, but Lucinda was used to that

The Keys to the Kingdom

Zak was looking for a new place to live, having outgrown his current flat-share arrangements: It’s fine when you are a student to live amongst the airing smalls of your peers, on a sofa the back of which has been eaten by mice, but there comes a time when one must move on to new levels of sophistication. The urge for a fridge of his own, in which he had no need to label his yoghurts, really overcame him when he achieved the sort of promotion which might have led to swooning, had he been the type. Zak’s reaction to the news, though, was to leg it down to the local estate agent’s offices the moment he was free.

The window was full of exciting photographs: Zak gazed at it, mesmerised, until he eventually realised that it was the window of a rather specialist nightclub. The estate agent’s, Roger M Furmleigh, was next door.

Its window was also full of photographs, and though interesting, lacked some of the more unusual features he had spotted in the previous window.

He went inside (the estate agent’s office – he would leave the other place til later).

There was a big desk in the centre, with a computer on it, and piles of paper, but no-one around. He slid into the chair in front of it and waited. After a moment a curvaceously scrumdunctious woman burst into the office from a back room carrying a sheaf of papers. She headed towards him, wearing a smile and a badge which read “Make yourself at HOME”. She was breathtakingly breathy, with a sort of south facing outlook and all mod cons. She looked well-maintained, but with no more than a lick of paint across her lips. There was evidence of lacey underpinning to support the upper storey which jutted out; but this would not deter a man of Zak’s stripe. Indeed Zak caught himself wondering if she had exposed beams.

As she got near, the papers, of their own volition, dispersed themselves in a cascade across the desk and floor. With an exclamation she crouched to gather them up. Some landed on the floor near Zak, so he bent down to help. As he leaned forward below the desk, he found himself face to calves with the woman, who, above the desk was introducing herself as Hetty.

Hetty was thanking him for helping her with the papers, but he didn’t hear, being mesmerised by the sight of her nervously crossing and uncrossing her legs at close quarters. Especially as they finished up uncrossed… Zak realised he should stand up soon, or face the double consequence of seeming weird, and having a semi- which was not detached

“Can I help you?” Hetty asked, and Zak rustled the papers he had rescued to cover both confusion and trouserage.

Zak nodded.

“OK. Well first of all, what sort of thing are you looking for?”

Zak was not sure exactly, never having been in this position before. He had, in point of fact, been in many positions, but during none of them had she been considering a mortgage.

“Well, this is my first time, so something small and easy to manage would be good”

“What areas are you interested in?”

Zak wasn’t really sure. Hetty reassured her that she covered ALL areas.

“I’ll tell you what” she said “I’ll get some details out on a range of properties and you can see if anything takes your eye”. With that, she reached down and began rifling through her drawers.

After a moment Hetty sat up with a sheaf of details in her hand.

“I’ve got quite a big wad for you”

Zak slid his chair forward under the desk for discretion. That was normally his line

“These are the new ones which came in over the last few days” She spread them out on the desk in front of Zak “point to anything takes your fancy, and then I’ll have an idea what you’re after”

There was silence for a little while as Zak considered this offer. After a few moments he realised he should be looking at the estate agent details. He was determined to concentrate.

There was a pause, then Hetty said gently: “I’m used to dealing with first time buyers. Would you like me to make some suggestions?” He nodded eagerly

“Position is important. You want a good position” Zak agreed with that

“These are my best positions”. Hetty pushed some options forward. They both leaned forward to look at them, her eyeline flitting upwards regularly to take in Zak’s chest, which was hugged in a rather nice shirt, the buttons of which pulled apart slightly as he moved, revealing just enough chest hair to signal both his hormones….and Hetty’s.

After a moment’s thought (during which she nibbled at her lip in a way which made Zak’s toes curl slightly under the desk – and parts of him uncurl as well ) she pointed to one and said “This one really is just a one bed flat, even though it’s got a massive frontage”

“Yes!” exclaimed Zak.

Hetty leaned forward on her folded arms, her bosumptage resting temptingly in Zak’s eyeline. “And it’s ready to go

“Yes, I noticed that one… I was taken with the frontage myself”. He spoke as an expert

“Tell me about it” asked Zak

“Well, it’s a few years old but it’s been very well looked after. It’s got a lovely big balcony – beautiful view. If you like that sort of thing? I know I do”

He nodded

“I’ll be honest, the interior could do with a little bit of work. Mostly just a touching up, but the main room could do with getting plastered”

“Anything major?” he asked?

“How are you in the kitchen?” she asked

“In what way?”

“Do you spend a lot of time there? Are you keen?”

Zak nodded. He was very keen

“Hmmm. Might need more than a lick in there then.”

This did not put him off. As he examined what was on offer, he found himself underpinning his hopes on a closer look at this property.

Zak noticed that Hetty seemed nearly as excited as he was; there was a flush to her soft cheeks as unlike a toilet as to be quite beguiling. “Look at this photo of the main entrance, it’s really lovely”

She turned over the page of details and pointed

Zak agreed. “I like the welcome mat”

“But does it have any garden?”

“Yes” Hetty assured him. There’s a shared area, so if you’re keen you can get a bit of gardening in the parsley patch”

“So if I went for it, how quickly could I get in?” Zak asked.

“Hetty smiled “I think this one can move very fast, if you can. I’d advise a full survey at the earliest opportunity”

Zak was so keen to proceed that they went ahead for the full survey that very day. And if Zak was charmed by the welcome mat, he went on to be delighted by the entrance hall (which was the perfect size) and found the balcony everything he could have dreamed of. And he was absolutely fine about the bit of touching up required – in fact he enjoyed it immensely.

He felt as though he had been given the keys to a kingdom

Thrummeling in the Wolds

It was a glorious day for the annual late summer fete at Thrummeling in the Wolds.

There was a lot of bunting (because everyone likes a good bunt) and much jollity. It was a very traditional event: the WI sang about jam and posed naked behind small, crucially-placed objects, coconuts were shy, cakes were baked and iced , there was a tent for the flower and produce competition.

Martha joined in with enthusiasm: she loved such occasions. She bought a butterfly bun – a perfect combination of Victoria sponge and buttercream which took her back to her childhood in one bite. She hurled a wooden ball at a shy coconut which failed to respond. She took the opportunity to throw a wet sponge at the vicar, who had nobly volunteered to be clapped in stocks for everyone to take aim at. In her childhood she would have been excited by the lucky dip, and still cherished memories of the cheap plastic dolls with lurid, standing-up hair which she had dredged up from the bottom of the bran tub and unwrapped with such haste.

There hadn’t been a demonstration of blacksmithing for some years, but this summer a new young blacksmith had started up nearby and thought it would be the ideal place to showcase his skills and business.

There was a small crowd gathered around the temporary forge. The blacksmith had put up a large colourful tent for the fete, and his erection could be seen from some distance. As Martha approached she could hear the cries of the audience, impressed by what they saw.

There were examples of his work arranged nearby: bootscrapers and plant stands made from horseshoes and painted in shiny colours, – even a sculpture of an owl. Martha eased her way to front, and in doing so wriggled her brightly-clad frontage directly into the view of the blacksmith, who noticed, though he kept his head down.

It was a hot sunny day. Dan had started fully dressed, but by now was stripped to the waist, his leather farrier’s apron hanging in front of his closefitting jeans. His muscles were polished with a sheen of sweat and writhed over each other like battling serpents as his swung his hammer. A smile flickered across Martha’s face as she imagined the hammer in action.

He was demonstrating an old art now rarely seen – making a horseshoe from scratch. And it was a very physical process, involving a lot of pounding. He had begun by heating a big metal bar in his portable forge. Once it was all aglow, he removed it. It needed careful handling: it was red hot right to the tip, and though still hard, amenable to being beaten. He worked on it with great energy, his breath coming in pants, (just as happens to adolescents from time to time), his muscles bunching with effort. With a grunt he flung it back into the hot cave and turned to look at the crowd of onlookers. Amongst the families with small children (some of whom were so fascinated that their ice creams had dripped to the ground, neglected) and the older folk savouring the memories brought back by his skills, he noticed Martha – and indeed who wouldn’t. She had wriggled to the front, accidentally using her ample frontular parts to ease her way through the crush. Few will obstruct an exhuberant nork squeezing past them, and she was rapidly successful. Once there she turned herself to the diagonal to allow others closer in. The blacksmith looked up and saw before him Martha’s flamboyantly nunctious silhouette. It was enough to make any man take a firm grip on his hammer…

There was a pause. Then Dan turned and flicked the catch on his forge. The door opened and, using tongs, he removed the glowing bar, now slightly curved. He laid it on the anvil, picked up his hammer, and like Thor, set about it with vigour. Martha could not take her eyes off him, and deep within her loins stirred a primeval urge to be laid across an anvil and given a pounding.

Whilst the shoe was back in the forge again to heat up, Dan showed everyone his tools. Everyone was interested, and none more than Martha. He had tongs and hammers of all sizes, sufficient to keep a man entertained through a long winter night. Or indeed a woman, thought Martha.

Dan explained what each was called and how it was used. He was a good demonstrator – holding his tool out so everyone could see – sometimes even walking round with it so that members of the public could see it up close, run their fingers over it, or even hold it.

“What do you think of that?” he would ask. Everyone was impressed

“I’ll take it out again in a moment” Dan said “960 degrees is the annealing temperature, and then it gets a good quenching!” he pointed to a bucket of water.
Martha liked the thought of him a-kneeling: she was sure she would need quenching at the end of it

Sure enough the horseshoe was red hot again. He took it out of the forge with the big tongs, and gave it another good banging over the curved end of the anvil, so that it assumed the required shape. He then dunked it into the water, causing a massive gout of steam, and held it aloft triumphantly: “There you are ladies and gentlemen! The finished shape! Before I can put it on a horse I would need to make holes in it for the nails, but that’s the basic horseshoe.”

“A horse” he added, “is the only animal you can bang nails into”

He asked for any further questions, answered them, and then the crowd started to drift away: small children tugged on parents’ arms and argued for candyfloss, brans tubs, bouncycastles and ice creams. But Martha waited. Dan had disappeared behind the screen at the back of the stand. She wandered around the display, touching the sculptures and exhibits, picking up items and feeling the weight of them.

A few moments later Dan reappeared to see Martha there, holding a massive tool in her hands, a look of concentration on her lovely face.

“Hello” he said. Blacksmiths are known for their wit.

She looked up and smiled “I suppose you have to be very strong to be a blacksmith?”

He nodded. “It certainly helps. I mean all these hammers and things are pretty big and heavy, and if you’re on a big project you can find yourself banging away for a whole day”

“Really!” Martha’s eyes opened wide. “And you can do that can you?”

He nodded, with a proud smile. “I can. Sometimes I can end up with sore hands from having to grip so hard for so long. But when I get to the end and see how happy the client is, well it’s all worthwhile for me. I call that a good day’s work”

“Yes so would I!” exclaimed Martha. He was still stripped to the waist and she was finding his musculations very distracting. He picked up a towel a wiped his hands on it, then began to rub his damp torso. “I’m sorry” he said “It’s very hot work on a day like this”

Martha smiled “That’s ok” and on impulse added “Would you like me to help?”

He looked startled, but in a good way. That way which is universally associated with a surge of blood to the netheroids. “Great! Thankyou” he said, handing her the towel with a moment of hesitation that it might not be clean enough for her. Martha had no hesitation. She took the towel and began to rub him with it. Although she was rubbing his upper arms, she might just as well have been operating in different regions, considering the effect, and Dan was extremely grateful for the presence of his heavy leather apron. This allowed him to savour the experience without anxiety, and Martha was able to set about all areas of his naked torso with the enthusiasm of a woman in the throes of thrutchage. Eventually she had dried all exposed flesh, and Dan felt obliged to say “Thankyou. I can get my top on now”

As he spoke he met Martha’s eyes. In truth they had been meeting regularly for the past while, and were now ready to go steady. Her eyes were big, completely filling the places in her face which were meant to have eyes in, and they were very expressive. Dan had been anxious that he should really remove his leather apron next, but that the resultant demonstration of his feelings might be too much: Martha’s expressive eyes relieved him of that anxiety, which also freed him up to enjoy the sight of her curvaceatude, all soft rounded parts of which seemed to be distracting him at once. She took a step towards him, and the general engineering of her joints seemed to move with a well-oiled freedom which thrilled him. There was a meaningful pause, and then he said “Do you want to see behind the screen?” Martha nodded.

Behind the screen was a sheltered corner of the field, bordered by high hedges and his large blacksmith’s van. The grass was soft and dry – thereby being similar to Martha in one way, and opposite to her in another. She was able to test Dan’s assertion that he could keep up the banging for as long as was needed, and to her delight, he was proved right. Dan let her use his favourite hammer, the one which he didn’t bring out for the public at the events. It turned out that he didn’t always need the little forge to make things red hot. They didn’t need the anvil for Martha to get a really good pounding; it was a good day for Thrummeling in the Wolds.

A jolly good ride

The door of the saddlery was heavy to push open. It seemed to indicate from the outset that the sort of people who needed to enter were stout, (in the sense of “A stout pair of walking shoes”) and outdoorsy, the kind who were kitted out with the very best in both biceps and triceps. These were people who could carry a bale of hay under each arm whilst whistling, it seemed to announce.

Neville shoved again and found that he was up to the task of entering the shop. He was immediately enveloped in the rich aroma of leather, dubbin, saddle soap, and fly repellent with a side order of salt licks and a whiff of rubber. It was a heady combination, and it was enhanced by the unexpected arrival of a little gust of florals, in the shape of Davina. Davina’s shape was indeed divine, especially wrapped as it was in a pair of jodhpurs (staff were expected to look the part) which are well known for their ability to display the goods. Neville was prompted to make a purchase there and then, but, taking a moment to gather himself (which he hoped was not too noticeable) he said “Hello”

It was a winning opening line, but Davina was up to the challenge and responded with “Can I help you?” The answer was most definitely yes, he thought, noting that Davina’s top was equal first with the jodhpurs in terms of clinging to the underlying form. Or indeed forms.

“Yes” he affirmed again. “My friends have dared me to have some riding lessons, so I thought I’d better find out what it’s all about”

“Have you ever ridden before?” Davina asked, and Neville felt that the question brushed his very soul. “Not on a horse” he replied, confusingly. Davina made a beguiling, wrinkled-nose puzzled look and said “Well to begin with you will only need the basics” and then, liking the cut of his jib (to mix sports metaphors) she added “But I can take you through a lot of the stuff we have here if you are interested in knowing more”

Neville was, and as Davina turned to lead the way towards the back of the shop his enthusiasm for getting astride began to grow.

Davina prioritised: top and tail. The man needed a hat first of all. She spent some time assessing his head for size and finding a suitable one and then they moved on to boots. She offered him some rubber ones to start with but Neville was a leather type of chap. Here Davina showed her expertise: Neville greatly enjoyed the time spent sat in a chair with Davina crouched in front of him, her hands expertly gripping his calves (he should have left them in the field, he later thought. They were a distraction and left a mess) and sliding the leather goods on and off. Davina reckoned that the best fit was a pair with zips all the way up the back. The zips were a little stiff, and they were not alone.

“You’ll need to give a good tug at first” Davina advised. “Shall I help you?”

“Yes please” said Neville, his voice coming out as a slight squeak. Davina bent down alongside him and gave him a good tugging. After a moment she paused and looked up at him, her cheeks pink with effort; “I’ll just work it for a little while until it goes soft” she said

“That’s not going to happen any time soon” thought Neville as he considered her cheeks, which he imagined as pink.

“I can rub a little oil on to lubricate it” Davina offered. It was a most helpful suggestion and soon her hand was working it up and down with ease. “There you are. All done” She said. Neville managed a smile: he was not quite done yet.

Finally she stood up, flicking back her lustrucious mass of hair, the colour of chocolate. She fixed him with a winsome smile and asked “What about a whip?

What could Neville do? He followed Davina to the whip display and watched as she picked one out

“Normally” she assured him “it is just used to encourage, to hint, very gently” She demonstrated, tickling his leg with a delicate little flicking action. “You need to be careful though. If you are too powerful with it –“ she flashed it through the air and it made a zipping noise (which momentarily alarmed Neville, who looked down at himself to check) “you could cause real pain”

She leaned close to him and said quietly “NEVER do that to a horse. They can’t talk to you and tell you how it feels”

Then she offered him the whip, to practice with. Neville flicked it gently, and whizzed it through the air, and generally tried all sorts of moves with it. Davina seemed impressed. “Are you sure you haven’t used one of these before?” she asked, stroking one elegant finger along the length of it. When Neville assured her he hadn’t, she pinged the end of the whip with her finger and smiled one of those smiles which could be used to sell anything from toothpaste to lawnmowers.

“I need to make sure you know the difference between a tickle and a painful smack” she said, “and a horse can’t tell you”. Neville’s mouth started to feel dry, in that way which confirms that all the body’s efforts are busy elsewhere, and none can be spared right now for such peripheral duties as tongue-moistening. He looked around them a little anxiously. The shop seemed empty apart from them. Davina winked at him. A thing which had never happened to Neville before in his entire life, and made him feel that until this moment, his life had been but a pale shadow.

“We have some…changing rooms at the back” she said, walking ahead of him, her callipygous buttoculars circulating around each other mesmerizingly as she walked. She did not look back, as she knew he would be following.

As they walked into the….changing room, she flicked a sign on the door to “occupied”. Neville noticed that there was also a bolt on the inside – which Davina thrust home with some vigour.

The ….changing room was not like any he had been in before. It was larger, for a start, and whilst it was well fitted out with mirrorage, it was definitely low on hanging rails, and seemed to have a greater expanse of comfy cushionage than he had expected. There was also some shelving containing items which, although Neville would have been the first to admit his knowledge was limited, did not look awfully equestrian.

Davina stood before him, a whip in her hand (which she flexed most interestingly) and a teasing smile playing across her lips. Neville felt duly teased.

“This is where you can test out your whip hand” said Davina. The teasing smile was now sticking its tongue and pulling faces at Neville, who replied with a mere squeak and a slight nod. Davina turned, aligning her curvulaceous buttocks towards him and said “have a go. I’ll let you know how you get on”

Nervously, Neville tickled her with the end of the whip. She giggled, and said “any harder?”

Neville nodded. There was a pause.

“I mean can you do it any harder”

“Oh. Sorry” Neville flicked her a little more briskly. Davina started, and Neville began to say sorry, but she giggled again and said “No that’s fine. We’ll make a whipper-in of you yet”

And amazingly, she did. Davina taught him the best wrist action for optimum control, and how to get the precise angle on the curve of the flesh. Neville was a quick learner, and though he had never ridden a horse before, was soon feeling confident about being in the saddle. Being astride with an experienced mount is wonderful ; it gives confidence and allows the rider to really relax and enjoy. With her to guide him, Neville felt able to undertake some really quite daring manoeuvres of which, heretofor he would not have imagined himself capable.

Davina, for her part, having freed up Neville’s zip action, was able to indulge her passion for a good jump

Araminta and the great outdoors

Araminta had never been camping before; her holidays had most definitely involved very comfortable hotels.
She was accustomed to soft beds and firm masseurs, hot showers and cool drinks, spas and wristbands which gave her everything she could want.
However, she had girlfriends with other ideas, and Araminta was not inclined to miss out on fun, even at a personal cost to herself.

She was determined to be as prepared as possible, and took herself off to the Wild ‘n’ Wet camping store for some advice.
Not having any clothing appropriate to a weekend in a field, she arrived in her customary teetering heels, and the resultant wiggle of buttage as she walked around generated immediate interest in her as a customer.

The young man in charge of the camping department watched her for a while, concluding very quickly that she was new to outdoor activities, but allowing her to wander for some time because, as an outdoorsy fellow, he liked to savour the view. Finally he strode up, looking manly and rugged in his jeans, check shirt and jawline.

“Can I help you?” he asked – always a good opening line in such circumstances. Araminta turned, and gave a melting sigh of relief, which, in its breathiness, caused a little thrill to run through the man’s veins.
“Oh yes please!” she exclaimed. “My friends want to go on a camping weekend, and I’ve never done anything like that before!”
The man raised his eyebrows (they were getting in the way) and said “Really?” in as unsurprised fashion as he could manage.

“Where are you going?” He asked her. She turned, startled. “I was just going to look at that tent” she replied, nervously
“I meant, where are you going camping?” he explained, to discover just how serious the kit would need to be.
They weren’t going too far, and only for a weekend.
Araminta spotted a tent which took her eye: It had a large sleeping area opening onto a central space, and a big awning over the door. She explored it excitedly, exclaiming “I think I could get used to this!”
The young man paused for a significant moment before saying “This is quite a big tent for a starter. How many of you will be sleeping in it?”
“Oh it’s just for me” Araminta replied, carelessly
“Will you be able to put it up on your own?”
There was a shocked pause. Araminta hadn’t thought of that. She hesitated. “Oh. I just assumed there would be a man there who could get it up for me”
The young man smiled, thinking that this had probably been her experience to date. “You might be lucky” he said, but generally you have to do it yourself”
That changed everything. Araminta looked crestfallen, especially as the young man, who introduced himself as (of course) Guy, led her to a range of far smaller tents, like little crysalises.
“This is more the sort of thing you’ll want” he explained. Araminta looked very disappointed, but when he told her they were self erecting she perked up and was keen to have a look inside them. “They are roomier than they look” he assured her. She reached down and, hooking a long red nail into the back of one of her long red stilettoes, flicked it off, followed by the other. The shoes lay in a higgledy-piggledy little heap on a display groundsheet. As Guy watched, momentarily unable to breathe, Araminta crouched down onto the floor, onto her hands and knees to peep through the flap of the nearest little tent. Her jeans were fitting closely around her rumpulars, and when she went into her hands and knees, the effect was mesmerising. Guy watched her cheeks roll over each other as she crawled forward, savouring the calliypygously elumptious view. As she murmured cautious appreciation, behind her Guy was experiencing what in the trade is known as “Freestanding Tent”

After a few moments Araminta reversed back out of the tent, and action so mesmerizingly delicious as to require Guy to walk around a bit, staring at the ceiling. By the time he had turned full circle Araminta was just getting to her feet. Her face rose upwards right in front of him, her eyeline pausing briefly as it swept over his flyline. She had noticed his ridgepole.
“It does look rather cosy, I must say!” she exclaimed, smoothing her clothes down in a way which was not helpful. They were already clingy and this just encouraged them. Some pieces of clothing seemed to be wrapping themselves prospectively around her heaving by bustage with unnecessary enthusiasm.
“So, let’s go over some of the other…equipment which will help me settle in”
Guy nodded, and walked carefully over to another part of the shop.

“You’re going to need something for cooking. You’ll find you get very hungry being out in the country.”
Araminta nodded; “When I’m out in the country I always get utterly ravished!”
There was a little pause. “I think you mean famished…?” suggested Guy, cautiously. Araminta shot him a glance: “I know what I mean” she replied firmly “And it makes me very hungry”
“Here’s what you need then. Billycan”
“I’m sorry – I thought you said your name was Guy”
He held out the steel item to show her. She smiled coyly, and then leaned towards him and said quietly “I’d be more interested to know if Guycan…”
Guy felt himself flush pink, but only for a moment before all the blood was urgently required elsewhere.
Araminta explained that she thought they would be eating meals at a nearby pub, so cooking equipment was unnecessary.
“OK. So…what about bedding?” he asked “That’s very important”
Araminta couldn’t agree more, so they took a look at some of the displays
“Do you see anything here which you like the look of?” asked Guy
“In terms of bedding you mean?”
“Yes”

The conversation had got awfully meaningful and seemed to exist on two entirely separate levels. Guy was distracted by thoughts of wild camping in secret deep gorges…
“Yes. I’ve got some ideas, but you see I’m so inexperienced that I need advice”
Guy struggled to accept that notion, but offered his help anyway. “You want something that will keep you nice and warm -” Araminta nodded enthusiastically – “so I’d like you to take a look at this mummybag”
Araminta was keen to do so; and only slightly less so when she realised it was a kind of sleeping bag.
“It’s very narrow” she objected.
“It goes very closely around your body. Like this” he moved his hands symmetrically down either side of her body, tracing her volupinaceous curves in the air. She looked thoughtfully at him with an air of consternation, and then said “You’ll only fit one person in there”
“It’s only meant for one person”
Araminta burst out laughing. “But this is supposed to be a holiday!” she exclaimed.

“Will you want an airbed?” he asked her
“Is that what you suggest?”
Guy told her that he did: he told her that in fact when he was a lad he regularly had a Li-Lo at the weekends. Araminta looked puzzled “Is that like Lola?” she asked him. He explained it was an old established brand of airbed, and suggested she try one out to experience its comforts.
“We have one blown up you can lie on”. It was inside one of the display tents; Guy pointed to it. Araminta did her distressing hands-and-knees thing again, though it was not strictly necessary this time as the doorway was much higher. But she had been amused by its effect. Guy said “I’ll come after you” which Araminta considered was very thoughtful, and was very nearly true.
He edged round the far side of the airbed, and, putting his strong, muscular – yet sensitive – hand on the rubber, gave a firm squeeze as he explained “You have to check them regularly. I gave this a good pumping earlier. Ah great! Still nice and firm. You like them firm?”
Araminta nodded eagerly. Yes she did.

“So, climb onto it and get comfortable” he advised. Araminta did so, thinking as she did so that camping was not such unfamiliar territory after all. She wriggled into a good position, giggling a little at the noises the airbed made as she moved.
“Are they all this loud?” she asked
He nodded. “Every one seems to make more noise IN a tent than out of it”
Araminta considered this. “It must be the effect of the fresh air” she answered. Guy didn’t really follow her meaning, but he didn’t care as he was fully engaged (or indeed, engorged) in watching the lusciousness that was Araminta wriggling her lusciously lush physique all over the airbed, savouring the unfamiliar experience.
“You’ll soon get used to it. The way when you squash it down in one place it pops up in another”
“Oh I’m used to that” she assured him
“Do you want me to show you how to pump it up?” he asked, but Araminta simply said that she was completely certain she could manage that
“What about letting it go down afterwards?”
Araminta said she generally left things to do that themselves

Very soon Araminta understood the basics of camping. She had never had trouble pulling on guys, and once she had learned about ripstop nylons, and therefore didn’t have to worry about snags, she felt she would be able to really enjoy herself.
Guy was a knowledgeable and experienced teacher too: he had spent his teenage years playing tents and had a confidence with his tent pole which was inspirational.
It wasn’t long before he had showed Araminta how good he was with a stuff sack. The whole experience was intense

Credenza and Girandole

The afternoon sun was warm and bright: it was a nice day to be out and about. Credenza found herself with time on her hand (she was wearing a watch) and, her business in the small high street having been concluded, she decided to explore a little. Down a side street she did not remember entering before, she found an antique shop; La Belle Epoque. The window display was just dusty enough for a proper antique shop so she pushed open the door (and was pleased to find this activated a real bell on a spring)and went in. A stooped old man in a misshapen tweed jacket of uncountable years (and the man was ancient too) smiled at her, his teeth both glinting in the shafts of sunlight which eased in through the glass.

“Hello” said Credenza, smiling brightly. “Just having a little look around”
The man smile even more broadly and inclined his head. He was inclined to do that. She noticed he was holding a figurine in his hands, a large bronze coloured woman, wearing only a few filaments of gauze and carrying a basket of fruit. She was a very shapely lady, obviously hearking from the days when popular taste was for the curvier form – rather like Credenza herself in fact.
She smiled again at him and then turned away to examine a display of china.

Suddenly she heard another voice, deeper, edgier and very masculine. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” it said. Credenza was surprised to hear such power come from such a frail body.
Then she heard the reedy reply in the form of a chuckling “Aye, that she is!”

She turned to see a young man in jeans and a checked shirt standing at the back of the shop. His arms were folded, and as the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, she was able to tell in an instant that they were the arms of a man used to physical exertion. They were the arms of a man perfectly at home with a bit of heaving and grunting, a man who would think nothing of activities which would leave a lesser man gasping (and not in a good way)
Credenza could hear herself emit a sort of little purring sound. She allowed one elegant finger to draw slowly across the shining rim of a whatnot, before fixing her gaze on the young man’s face.

“Are you the manager?” she asked. He indicated that he was. “Are you looking for something special?” he asked.
What a question! Of course she was “Do you see anything you like?” he continued
There was a throaty guffaw from the elderly gentleman behind. The young man turned to him and said firmly “Are you REALLY interested in that piece Mr Hassock? It’s just that you come in every week and handle her. Are you going to make me an offer?”
Mr Hassock emitted a grumbling noise, and after tenderly running his hands over the bronze nude a few moments longer, gently replaced it and shuffled out of the shop.

The young man approached Credenza, rubbing his hands momentarily, before catching himself at it and stopping.
“I’m Girandole” he said, offering her his hand (to shake, not in marriage)
Before the look of surprise had finished registering on her face he continued “Ambitious parents” with a smile

The handshake continued just a little bit longer than was strictly necessary, and then Credenza said “well, show me what you’ve got” and he stepped back abruptly, covered in confusion from which he took a few seconds to recover.
Girandole proceeded to take her to the various corners of the shop, pointing out their best stock. “Look at this chair!How’s that for a cabriole leg?” he exclaimed, stroking the polished wood as he spoke. Credenza nodded. Then suddenly he grabbed the chair, and lifted it, flipping it upside down in a single, sweeping move (“So that’s how he gets those muscles!” Credenza thought)
“I like to see good legs, but you know you’ve got a real peach when you check out the bottom. See that?” he pointed to the flawless workmanship on the underside of the seat. “That’s how I know she’s a cracker. First check out the legs, then flip her over and have a good look at the bottom”
Credenza agreed

Nest he called her to admire an occasional table. he drew her attention to the fine marquetry-work on the top, and the pointed out the elaborate and unusual pedestal, which divided near the top.
“See that?” he said eagerly, his eyes meeting hers as they bent over to look. “This here” – his hand stroked up to the point where the pedestal split into two – “That’s a crotch veneer. Very rare!”
“I bet!” exclaimed Credenza, with a genuine, if breathy, surprise

She continued to examine it, whilst Girandole, standing up, admired Credenza’s Baroque curves, and the operation of her drop-front when she was bent over.

She stood up slowly, and allowed her gaze to run up his body, assessing everything from the quality of his baluster up to his pediment.

Their eyes engaged in a long moment of interactive psychology, and then she broke the gaze and looked across the shop. She noticed a big oil painting on the far wall, just above the china display she had been examining earlier. It was of an almost naked woman relaxing in what looked like a Turkish bath.
Girandole followed her gaze “Tiffany’s Crysanthemum” he explained. Credenza stared at him in astonishment. “Is that REALLY what it’s called?”
He assured her it was. She shook her head in amazement. “That’s a very….errr….LIBERAL title” . He looked momentarily confused, and then burst out laughing. “I thought you were looking at the chinaware! That design is called Tiffany’s Crysanthemum!”

Credenza blushed. She didn’t do anything by half measures, and she blushed over every exposed surface of skin. This was quite a big area, due to the fact that she was wearing a V-necked top out of which her bosomage was tumbling like a cornucopia of lusciousness.
“Is that a bit of Nanking?” she asked when she had calmed down. Now it was Girandole’s turn to blush: “No!” He insisted, “I was just fidgeting”
Credenza smiled up at him (he was quite a tallboy) and her eyelashes fluttered of their own volition, doing a little fan dance of their own divising.
“I meant that piece of Chinese porcelain…” she continued innocently, pointing across at it. “On that sideboard”

Girandole relaxed a little. But only a little, as moments afterward Credenza told him she wasn’t a great enthusiast for sideboards, and preferred a Chest-On-Chest. He couldn’t argue with that, as her chest was so utterly inviting: its patina was divine. Furthermore he longed to examine her underglaze.

Credenza distracted herself momentarily with a small framed black and white photograph. Girandole gently took it from her, saying “It’s a nice little photo, but needs completely reframing. Very poorly mounted.”
She could not but agree “That’s always such a let down, isn’t it?”

Finally he had to ask her: it was important. “Do you prefer a chaise longue or an Ottoman?” They had both at La Belle Epoque.
Credenza looked from one to the other. Girandole continued “Myself, I like a chaise longue…I like a strong back”
Credenza nodded. She could see the argument for that, though being laid flat, if well-upholstered, was also appealing. Girandole, his hand cupping her extremely sexy elbow, led her across the shop to the chaise longue. “Settle yourself on that and see what you think” he said, before taking a few steps to the front door and turning the sign round to “closed”. He left the steps there for good measure.
She looked comfortable on the chaise longue, but to advance his argument , Girandole drew her attention to the unusual bell turning.
Credenza agreed that it was very unusual, and that she was anxious to see it in action.

Sure enough, Girandole was able to demonstrate the benefits of snug dovetailing, getting in up to his escutcheon. As for Credenza, she realised that sometimes the old ways can be the best, and that all this had happened without ANYONE mentioning etchings…

Chris & Tina: Gardening in the parsley patch

Tina loved her garden: In the spring it burst with life, and every year she was delighted and astounded by the rapidity of its change from drab winter to fecund and voluptuous growth. However, even she had to admit that the general fecundity had gone a bit far. So far, indeed as to almost completely obscure the small pond, and some of the little paths.
So she was pleased when a card in the local newsagents advertised that Chris could come and mow her lawn, tend to her beds, and prune her shrubs.
Chris had left a mobile number on the card, so she sent a text. The response was quick and promised Chris’s arrival the following morning.

Tina dressed in her gardening clothes too: she was going to join in – being uncomfortable with just watching. So when Chris’s van pulled in she was in grubby jeans and wellies. No matter: when Chris got out of the van, she too was in grubby jeans and wellies.

There was a moment, just a very short, almost imperceptible (unless you were one of the two women) moment of readjustment as they looked at each other. Each took in the matching outfits, and the fact that they both looked rather good in them. Maybe there is something about a well-turned welly, or the smudges of earth on the knees of a pair of jeans which have been worn and loved into the exact shape of their owner’s buttoculars.

Whatever it was, it infused the ensuing conversation with a extra layer of meaning – sliding like strands of mist around and amongst them.
Chris broke the meaningful silence
“Shall I take a look around? Then you can tell me where you want to start”
Tina already knew, but didn’t want to seem forward. At least, not TOO forward.
She accompanied Chris as she walked round the garden. It was quite large, with hedges which had grown a little too high, shrubs that were a bit too big, flowerbeds a little overgrown. Nothing she couldn’t handle.
“I’m getting a feel for your style, the way you like things” Chris eventually said. They locked eyes – which was tricky as for a while neither could find the key
“I like a cottagey style” Tina replied “relaxed, informal, ….” – she trailed off, her eyes drawn to Chris’s ample breastage swinging out over a flowerbed as she bent down – “I like things to spill out”

Chris stood upright, the gently oscillating frontage settling back into position. “I know exactly what you mean” she assured “I’d be delighted to work on your beds”

They continued to walk round the garden, in silence, until they reached an overgrown quince, its branches sprawling.
“Your bush could do with a trim” Said Chris, without looking at Tina, who nodded.
“What would you like me to do first?” Chris left the question hanging in the air. It hung therefor a while, before settling somewhere near Tina’s unruly bush.
“I’d like help with my beds” she replied, dampeningly.

Chris fetched her toolbelt from the van, and slung it around her curveaceous hips with a confident swagger. As she walked, the trowels and forks and secateurs swung gently with each swish of her hips. Tina could see her buttocks joining in a bit too, which was nice.
They crouched together at the edge of the larger flower bed. It was overgrown with perennials which had outlasted their prime. Chris started explaining her strategy: “What you want to have is some nice strong, well-shaped perennials to give structure, and then you get some good bedding each year to fill in”
Tina nodded eagerly: she was keen on the whole idea of getting some good bedding, especially if there was some filling in too. It was delightful to be with someone who so understood her needs.

Chris had a very good eye for these things, and had some recommendations to make; “What you need over there is a statement plant. I would suggest a Red Hot Poker. One of my favourites. It comes up time after time. It always delivers” Tina nodded breathlessly, admiring at the same time the way the breezes ruffled Chris’s curleaceaous hair, which tumbled down over her shoulders.
“How about Love in a Mist?” she suggested, hopefully. “I love that too” purred Chris

They weeded and tidied together for a while, til finally Chris felt they had done enough. “I’ll get a good layer of mulch over that and it’ll soon get everything going”
She was squatting beside the bed, toolbelt and jeans having slipped slightly southwards, just enough to reveal the sort of little furrow Tina would like to sow some seeds in, so to speak. Even without a layer of mulch, Tina felt everything was getting going.
“It must be time for a cup of tea!” she exclaimed, “Let’s have a break. Come inside and have a sit down”

They went into the kitchen, dragging off wellies at the doorway and shaking out crumpled jeans, – an action which got all four buttocks jiggling happily.
The kettle was soon on, tea was soon mashing. Tina suggested they sit down. Chris worried that her jeans were too dirty for the sofa.
Tina reassured her “You’re not too dirty for MY sofa” and they sat down together. Chris wriggled uncomfortably, and then giggled as she realised she had sat down with the toolbelt on.
“I sat on my dibber!” she cried, pulling the large wooden item from beneath herself
“Let me help you out of that” said Tina, undoing the buckle hurriedly
Chris smiled “That’s not the toolbelt” she said. But she didn’t mind.

The tea mashed. For longer than is generally advised. Neither noticed; they had both forgotten the tea. For although their throats may have been dry, the flowerbeds were damp. And as time wore on, inhibitions were loosened. They shared their enthusiasm for summer bedding and good tools. There was no mulch to hand to get them going, but it didn’t take long before they were able to enjoy plants in all their forms – climbing sprawling, squat, trailing. And as for the toolbelt? It lay on the floor, forgotten for now, except for the dibber.

Cleaner and dirtier

Petunia did not enjoy housework, and having inherited both a rather nice house and a rather large lump sum, she had decided not to trouble herself with it again. The answer she felt, (and Petunia always tried to feel things if she could. She was a very tactile person) was to employ a cleaner. She had been worrying about how to go about this when a card dropped through her letterbox advertising the services of Whistle-Clean, – “reliable, discreet, and fully insured” it said. Petunia was unsure why “discreet” was emphasised, but decided to contact them anyway. A stringy-voiced woman made an appointment for the company representative to call and discuss her requirements. Petunia poured herself a large G&T and almost rubbed her hands with glee at the thought of the agonies of vacuuming and dusting, polishing and hahh-ing on mirrors being almost at an end.

She was so excited at this prospect that she prepared a tray of tea and coffee (all bases covered there) plus chocolate biscuits (she was desperate), in readiness for the meeting. She had a sudden lurching fear that SHE and her house might not meet up with THEIR requirements!

Absolutely on time her doorbell rang. But to Petunia’s surprise on the outer side of it stood, not the young woman in a nylon tabard which she had somehow expected, but a man in smart jeans, sporting a badge which declared him to be from Whistle-Clean. He also proffered an ID card, just to be on the safe side. He introduced himself as Mark, adding with the sort of wry but cheeky smile which always seems to accompany such young men “But you can relax. I don’t leave any marks!”

He had a certain dashing charm: his hair was curly, as hair should be on these occasions. His jaw was manly, his nose was manly – they did after all belong to a man.

Petunia would have liked to relax, but as we have established, she was already excited at the prospect of having a cleaner. Now she was also excited at the thought of having the cleaner.
“Come in! Come in!” She exclaimed, after a tiny pause of readjustment which she hoped he hadn’t noticed. (He had)
He came in, through the large and impressive hall (noting as he went the level of dusting which would be required) and Petunia showed him into the sitting room (“Lounges are for airports dahling” her mother had said)
a sweep of her arm encompassing the room, the tray of refreshments and the chocolate biscuits. He sat on the elderly sofa, finding it more comfy than it looked. With an eye on Petunia’s lightly flushed cheek he helped himself to a biscuit without being asked.

“Do…Errr…have a biscuit.” She responded, a slight glow of indignation causing her ample bosomage to lift with its own buttress of indignity.
Mark smiled his wry, cheeky smile again and Petunia’s bosom deflated to its normal position. This was still, in Mark’s view (and it was at that moment, very much in his view) quite uplifting as well as uplifted.

“I’d better show you around” said Petunia, taking the initiative again, and willing to put the whole biscuit scenario behind them. She walked to the door, looking back over her shoulder for Mark to follow. He did, as if on a doglead, still smiling and finishing the biscuit.
Petunia led him back into the hall, and gestured up and down it.
“This will need dusting and vacuuming every week, and perhaps twice a year, the floor [which was wooden] will need oiling and buffing.” Mark nodded. So far he had predicted her requirements. They continued through the downstairs rooms, with Petunia stating her wishes briskly and avoiding Mark’s eye. This of course allowed him plenty of time for noting the pink flush of her cheek, the curl of her luscious curls, the flutter of shylashes, and the snugness of the skirt around her buttoculars. As she walked he fancied he could even discern the faint rustle of a petticoat beneath. That was a rare treat these days. In Petunia’s view it was a practical way to reduce static. In Mark’s view it was actually increasing the spark.

“Now, upstairs” she said, turning from the third step to look back at Mark. He felt quite overshadowed by the cantilevered norks above him, and in the shade was able to contemplate at his leisure the row of buttons which held her blouse together. They were tiny but feisty, straining at the silk like a tea strainer. No, not like a tea strainer at all, he corrected.
They went upstairs. Petunia gave her instructions about the landing, and then stopped at a door, her hand on the knob. The simple thought of this action had an effect on Mark, especially as he watched her fingers close round the knob, and slowly but firmly give it a little turn.

“How are you on rugs?” she asked “Only we have some rather nice ones which need particular attention”
Mark assured her of his experience on rugs. Especially the really thick ones. “I’m very good” he said “I know what I’m doing”
Petunia smiled.
“Do you want me to use your vacuum cleaner?” he asked
She was surprised at that. “I just assumed you would” she said
Mark said that he could, but if she preferred he had his own, with larger capacity. That won Petunia over “And does it have a more powerful suck?”
Mark nodded, his mouth dry. “Would you like to try it?”
She would.
He hurried down the stairs (two at a time) and fetched the industrial vacuum cleaner from his van. Petunia was impressed, and ran her hands over it
“It’s very big” she murmured, “and look at the size of that bag!” she hefted it gently in one cupped hand, her eyes telling Mark she was bewitched by it.

“I’ve got a special duster for hard to reach places too” he went on, pulling from his kit a long handled purple feather duster. Petunia giggled, and, encouraged, he wiggled it playfully. She moved closer, the feathers tenderly titillating her tits, and smiled at him. One feather caught on a tiny button. Mark stilled the lively duster and moved in closer to help.

“Hold still” he said, exploring the fine fabric and the heroic button with deft fingers. Inexplicably, as the feather was freed, the button seemed to spring undone of its own volition.
Petunia was unfazed: its neighbours could hold the fort if required.

“There are three bedrooms up here, all with Turkish rugs” she said, businesslike for the moment.
“So…how long do you think it would take to do me?”
Mark paused. “Would you want me every week?” he asked
“Yes. Come every week. That’s what I’d like. How long would you allow? I wouldn’t want you to rush things”

Mark assured her he was not about to rush things; after all, so far his only progress was one button. “I’m very thorough” he said “You won’t be disappointed”
This was exactly what Petunia wanted to hear. She squeezed the knob and turned it, opening the door to the main bedroom. They stepped through, Mark almost unaware of the lush furnishings. He could see only Petunia, standing on a thick Turkish rug, her calipygousness almost bursting out of the skirt, and her volumptious norkage gloriously uplifted. She turned away from him for a moment and when she turned back, oddly, some more buttons seemed to have become loosened.

“Tell me about the suction power” she whispered, breathily. Mark tried to, he really did. But then he confessed that the only way was a demonstration.”Show me the power of your suction on this rug” she said. Mark agreed, and though his bag was already quite full, she was impressed by what he could do.

He tried to help with the button situation, but more just seemed to undo, as if the release of the first had started an avalanche of female flesh…little by little Petunia’s skin seemed to come forth, and a most beguiling wriggle of her hipsiness freed her of both clinging skirt and rustling petticoat.
He was able to show how he found his way into every little nook (nooky being his speciality) and cranny. How he could reach into crevices with spectacular results. Very soon everything he touched was glowing

She gave Mark free rein with his feather duster, and found that, just as he had said, it could get right into those hard to reach places and give them a long-overdue experience.
As for oiling and buffing of the ground floor, Mark was on the case. He advised her it was best done far more often than she had previously thought, and it wasn’t long before she was really feeling the benefits!
He left his Mark after all

The General Erection

Dahlia had never voted before; it wasn’t that she didn’t care about things – she cared with a sort of mystical sense of right and wrong. She had been, however, completely unable to connect such urges to reality, to the statements made by political candidates. So she had previously watched from the sidelines and merely joined the ranks of complainers afterwards. Here as well she was not fully engaged – being of a generally sunny disposition and naturally inclined to make the best of things.
Recently though, she had felt that as time advanced her rather far beyond teenager, she ought to have a more adult approach and take on more responsibility. It was time she voted.

Nerves struck her as the day arrived. She put it off, and put it off again until it was almost half past nine by the time she arrived at the polling station in Little Seminal.
This village had been described as a “fluid” constituency – wavering as it had done between different parties.

Little Seminal was a small place: narrow access routes meant everything streamed out through a single channel, and some inhabitants felt it had begun to shrivel. Still, it enjoyed bags of space around it and was much loved by the residents.

By 9.30 everyone who was going to vote had been and gone. The staff in the Polling Station were looking at their watches and privately thinking of what they could be doing instead.
Leo noticed this and suggested some should go home. All eagerly agreed, except Mr Pronk who was very deaf and asleep in a chair in the corner. Leo sat on the edge of a table swinging his leg.
Then Dahlia entered. Hastily Leo re-attached his leg and walked over to say hello. Not only because it was good manners but also because she represented the most interesting thing he had seen all day. Waves of tweed had been replaced by a voluptuous vision of knitwear and a pair of jeans whose job Leo instantly envied.

“Hello” he said. It was a cliché, but it sometimes worked.
This was one of those occasions.
“Hello” said Dahlia
Leo found he was rubbing his hands. An unfortunate habit, likely to be misinterpreted. Or, as in this case, interpreted.
“Come to vote have you?” This was a silly question as he would be the first to admit
She nodded, the curls of her hair bouncing as she did – perfectly synchronised with the bouncing of her democratically rounded norks.

“You’ll probably be my last one” he continued
Dahlia looked around, a little anxious
“This’ll be my first; I’ve never done this before” she said. Leo reassured her that he would guide her gently through the process, right up to the moment of climax where the implement touched the spot. That was for her alone. Or as Leo put it
“What goes on in the booth stays in the booth”
“Is that so?” Dahlia purred at him, noticing his balanced manliness, his impartial jawline.

“I’ll get you a ballot paper” he murmured quietly, trying to avoid waking Mr Pronk. They walked together to the table. The atmosphere was heavy with the promise of what was to come. Dahlia rifled through her handbag urgently “I can’t find a pen!”
Leo put a reassuring hand on hers, electricity flowed between them, though a few moments ago they had been poles apart. Dahlia also felt the connection; it sent shivers through her body and she didn’t know how to conduct herself.

“Relax!” Leo said, his voice like chocolate sauce on her terminals “Pencils are provided”
“You think of everything!” cried Dahlia, melting into a mixed metaphor of electricity and cookery.
“I need to tick you off though” said Leo, assuming a manly air of responsibility. Dahlia looked worried.
“Have I done something wrong?”
Leo laughed, a deep, balanced laugh which made Dahlia wish she could tick his box with her pencil.
“On my sheet”
Dahlia wished she was on his sheet
“Name?”
“Dahlia Parts”
“Address?”
Dahlia fixed him with her huge brown eyes, willing him to want to know as much as she wanted to tell.
“14, Rhizome Terrace” she said, slowly and meaningfully
“Just round the corner from me!” exclaimed Leo
“Now take this slip into one of those booths over there, and put a single cross beside the candidate of your choice. Don’t put any other marks on or your ballot paper will be disqualified”

“Gosh! It’s very strict isn’t it?” Dahlia exclaimed “Can I take my handbag in?”
Leo assured her that she could, and watched as she walked into the furthest booth, on a slant in the corner. There was a snoring grunt from Mr Pronk as Dahlia’s mesmerotic ass wiggled rhythmically across the floor. The building itself seemed to be waking from a slumber: it had not seen the like for decades. After a moment there was a little whisper from the booth
“I’ve done it. Now what?”
Leo tried to answer in a whisper so as not to wake his colleague “Fold it in half and put it in the slot”
But Dahlia could not hear him. She whispered more urgently. Leo crossed the floor, the same floor across which Dahlia’s glamunctuous thighs had just previously propelled her, and stood behind her in the booth.
“Is it folded in half?”
Dahlia, her back to him, shook her head. “It’s just lying here. Give me a moment” she folded the paper in half, slowly running a perfectly manicured fingernail across the edge. Leo watched her from behind. More accurately, Leo watched her behind
She turned, uplifting her face to him, offering up her ballot paper to him.
“Here it is” she whispered, holding it level with her perfectly balanced cleavage, in which each party vied with the other for attention. Leo, himself committed to impartiality, privately resolved that if he had the chance, he would give equal weight to both.
He turned sideways so she could brush past him out of the booth. And she did, soft bits making noteworthy contact with his charged flesh in passing.
“Into the slot!” he whispered, and watched as her nimble fingers wiggled the folded paper into the narrow slit in the black box.

“That’s it done!” he said, a slew of disappointment washing over him. Dahlia was feeling rather the same, – at least that may explain her sensation of dampness.
“I left my bag in the booth!” she exclaimed. Leo rushed forward, keener than ever to be helpful. They both pushed into the booth together, and parts of Dahlia pushed into Leo, causing alterations to his manifesto.
In a counter-move, parts of Leo began to fight back, putting significant pressure on Dahlia.
They both cast glances over at Mr Pronk, securely asleep in the chair and facing away from the booths. Everyone else had gone home. The clock struck ten. “That’s the election over is it?” asked Dahlia
Leo whispered in her ear “It’s only just getting started”, and Dahlia had to suppress a giggle

And so it was that in Little Seminal Village Hall, as Mr Pronk dreamt of cricket matches and tea urns, democracy gained an enthusiastic supporter. Leo’s campaign had only sprung into life as the polls were about to close, but he quickly found himself making inroads in Dahlia’s home turf. Of course she had never really wanted to stand alone, so she soon decided to toss her hand in with him, and together they were unstoppable, scaling height after height until they had the world at their feet. Dahlia’s final cry of triumph was enough to disturb Mr Pronk, who gruffled, shifted position and muttered “seal the ballot boxes”

It was a great day for democracy

A walk in the woods

It was a glorioriorious spring morning; the sun was playing in and out of fluffy clouds, the air was full of tweets (though there wasn’t a smartphone for miles) and all around, in the earth under one’s feet, at the tips of branches and in the stems of green plants, sap was rising. New leaves, in freshly minted green, were unfurling. Bulbs were pushing the earth aside and thrusting upwards. Buds and other loosely connected things were starting to swell.
Dymphna loved the spring, for all the beguiling reasons listed above as well as others, and seized the opportunity for a ramble in the woods.

Her nearest woods lay on the edge of the village, quite still, so they could be reliably found time and time again. In April the paths would still be muddy so she pulled on her trusty wellies. Everyone should be able to trust wellies; they have a simple mission – to be waterproof. Should they fail in this their reason for existence is negated (unless they happen to belong to an artistic type who works with the mundane) The word “trusty” is therefore redundant and I apologise for its inclusion, except that it was how Dymphna thought of them.
Feeling secure in dryness of foot she set forth, along the wooded path, edged here and there with a sprinkling of primroses. Birds, as mentioned earlier, were singing. She was lucky a few minutes late to see a cock pheasant strutting across her path, his plumage magnificent in the dappled sun.

She had been admiring him for a while when in the distance she saw a dark figure approaching. She had been keeping very still so as not to disturb the bird, but the intruder’s foot cracked a twig and the pheasant darted into the hedge row and disappeared. Dymphna was a little indymphnant.
The figure drew closer, revealing itself to be a man, but only insofar as could be determined by his tall, broad-shouldered figure.

“You seen something interesting?” He asked as he got close. Dymphna realised she had been standing still for some time
She had at first been irritated, but the sight of him, all tall and definitely masculine, with a head of blonde curls, melted her heart like a Mr Whippy in the sun. He smiled, revealing dazzling white teeth which were, if anything, out-dazzled by his eyes and set off brilliantly by his testosterised jawline. Dymphna felt her cornet becoming damp.

She nodded. “A pheasant. Just over there” she pointed.
“Ah yes” he replied, smiling even more broadly. “There’s a big cock round here quite often I believe. Very impressive”
Dymphna nodded. She was ready, indeed quite keen, to be impressed by that.

She was becoming conscious of the fact that she was wearing a rather old pair of jeans; completely suitable for a walk in the woods, but, she felt, not her first choice of garment in which to be meeting a very handsome young man. She hoped that the man in question was rather drawn to women in jeans and wellingtons. She was right; he liked the outdoorsy type, and this woman epitomized it, with her wind-ruffled hair and the slight flush to her cheeks from the fresh air. He did not realise that any cheek-flushing was not due to spring air but to the rising of sap.
Dymphna was keen to build on her strengths. She WAS an outdoorsy type. She could rock tweed, and he was about to find out.
“So you’re interested in the wild life?” She asked
He laughed, a rich, fruity laugh like an all-butter Shrewsbury biscuit.
“I’m not exactly David Attenborough, but yes” he answered.
Dymphna almost purred. “No. You’re a lot younger for a start”
“Gosh it’s warm!” She continued, slipping her jacket off. Beneath it, or more accurately, inside, she wore a soft, close-fitting sweater which wrapped around her feminine curves as though it was enjoying itself.
“I saw a pair of Great Tits here the other day” she said, looking at him from beneath fluttering lashes.

The man made a little sort of choking noise before recovering himself.
“is that so?” he replied cautiously “I’d like to see those”
Dymphna smiled, and her body gave a little unconscious wriggle, of which the man was wholly conscious.

They stood still and silent for a moment, then he kicked idly at the leaf mould with his trustily-wellied foot. “Shall we take a walk then? See what we can see? Enjoy the woods?”
She nodded, slinging her jacket over one arm and striding out in a confident, outdoorsy way which made the man’s corduroys ripple.
“Do you know your way around?” she asked him.
“Not really…I was just following the path”
“Oh the PATH!” she exclaimed “You’ll see much more if you step off the path. Don’t worry I know these woods – you’ll be safe with me!”
He was hoping that was not so, but followed her anyway as she turned off the muddy path and into the sun-dappled woods, a carpet of bluebell plants (not yet in flower) and primroses surrounding her. Last autumn’s dead leaves crunched softly underfoot like spilt crisps, but the ground was dry. They walked together for some time, pausing here and there to admire a mossy log, or a bright shaft of sunlight in the undergrowth.
Dymphna was very at home with large logs, mossy or otherwise, and powerful shafts.

After a while she observed that “Once you get off the paths it’s not muddy. You don’t really need wellies here.”
The man nodded, “Can’t really take them off though!” he laughed.
“You could, you know” Dymphna responded, turning to face him. Her eyes were sparkling like a picturesque little brook in the sunshine, though with less babbling.
“It can get hot in wellies”

There was a long pause, then she added “I’m rather warm in this jumper actually”
“Is that so?” the man asked, breathing somewhat heavily.
He glanced around him. The woods stretched out in every direction, like a large piece of lycra. They hadn’t seen anyone else at all. There were no sounds apart from birdsong and the odd rustle in the distance from an animal stirring.
He looked at her, and in the quiet it might have been possible to hear something else stirring, were it not that corduroy provides good sound insulation.
Dymphna sat down on a fallen log. She patted its mossy top. “It’s quite dry if you’d like to sit down”
He would. He wood.

They sat together on the log for a moment, and then he asked “Where was it you saw those great tits?”
“Just here” she answered, lifting the jumper slowly, watching his twitcher’s eyes fixed on her.
Soon she was beside him bereft of jumper, savouring the feel of spring sunshine on her skin. He was savouring it too, and it made him hungry. He wriggled out of his corduroys, assuring Dymphna that wherever one found a pair of great tits, there was bound to be a splendid cock – pheasanty or otherwise.

They plighted their tryst on the moss-speckled leafmould, though exactly who plighted and who trothed is unclear.
In the field of ornithology it may have been the first time a cock pheasant came upon a pair of great tits.
Yes, to his delight she really was a dymphnomaniac