funny – Smut’n’Chuckle

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.

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

Morwenna helps out

Jumble sales are less common than they used to be: displaced by American invaders like car boot sales, and modern innovations like eBay. However in the village of Gowainer-cum-Quickley the old traditions survived. Morwenna valued that, so she always helped at the village jumble sale – also because she got to have first dibs at the bags of donations. This not only satisfied the scavenger in her, but gave her an insight into the private lives of her neighbours. She relished the memory of opening a bag donated by the intimidating Mrs Pomphrey, massively-be-titted incumbent of the old blacksmith’s house. Inside she found some rather striking black undergarments which an experienced eye could discern as bras, but to the untrained might easily be mistaken for surgical supports – or possibly sophisticated bondage equipment. After that Mrs Pomphrey and her cantilevered bazoompas seemed a lot less scary. Indeed, Morwenna amused herself by thinking of Mrs Pomphrey, whose husband looked as though his wife’s terrifying chuffas had sucked the life out of him, being banged on the anvil.

Mrs Pomphrey’s husband was not a blacksmith; there had not been one of those in Gowainer-cum-Quickley for many years. Which is a shame because every village needs a young man who can legitimately be stripped to the waist and flexing his oiled muscles for the delight of the local women. This was probably what had been missing from Morwenna’s life.

At any rate she was busy at the village hall, opening bags and boxes of donations, sorting them for the various stalls and generally helping with preparation of the tea & coffee service, Guess the Weights of the Tits stall (run as an educational project by the local birdwatchers)and the Lucky Dip. She was a good all-rounder and was always being called here and there to help; one minute she was rifling through some men’s underwear, the next she was required to set out the refreshments attractively – it was generally accepted that no-one knew how to show buns off to advantage like Morwenna.

There were a variety of other traditional stalls too, as befits a jumble sale.

Into the middle of this bustle strode a man lugging a massive package. This was a most welcome sight to Morwenna on a number of levels; he was a new face (and a very handsome one) and these are always welcome, and also any young man with a massive package will find himself popular on such an occasion. He told them that he had just moved into the village and in the process of settling in had also done some de-cluttering.
Morwenna rushed over with almost unseemly haste to check out his package. It was very full and looked extremely promising. She gave it a squeeze
“Anything fragile in here?” she asked
“Not really” he assured her, noting her breathy excitement. “This seems like a very….broadminded village”
He tilted his head in the direction of the birdwatching society’s stall. Mrs Pomphrey (patron of the local branch) was standing beneath the banner announcing Guess the Weight of the Tits. Morwenna giggled, and explained that it was part of an educational drive. This came as a relief to the young man, who had also been rather concerned by a poster nearby headed “Tit identification guide”. He had worried about the need for that…

“Let’s see what you’ve got in there” Morwenna said, eyeing his large bag, and they set about unpacking it together. As they did so their eyes met again and again, becoming close friends in the process, even swapping recipes and adding each other to Christmas card lists.
Whilst their eyes were engaged on this innocent adventure, their loins were longing to become engaged more directly. Morwenna began to stop thinking about an imaginary blacksmith with a leather apron offering protection from his red hot tool, and instead consider that this newcomer might have something to offer. He had a neat clipped beard, chiselled cheekbones and soft curly brown hair.
After a while he suddenly looked at her directly and said “I’m so sorry: I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Sean”
Morwenna smiled broadly (she was, after all, a broad) and said “No, you’re not!”
He looked confused. They were leaning quite close together. She, emboldened by the exchange of recipes etc reached out and gently touched his bearded jaw. “You’re not shorn at all!” she laughed, with a sound like the tinkling of a lady having a tinkle.
Sean laughed too. “You’re right” he said, stroking his beard thoughtfully, though not as thoughtfully as Morwenna at that moment. She had no experience of facially hirsute men and had been been considering whether various sorts of curly hair could become dangerously entangled in certain situations.
“And what’s your name?” Sean asked. “Morwenna” she answered – that was an easy question.
“Very pretty” said Sean, leaving the ambiguity of his answer hanging in the air like a helium balloon.

She was very pretty, he thought. Her face was pink cheeked (he did not realise why at this time) with pouty lips and the sort of cheekbones one generally found on a cat. “Cute pussy” he thought to himself.
They sorted through the contents of his bag, Morwenna taking things to the various appropriate tables (men’s clothing, games, books, white elephant and so on) and eventually near the bottom there was a large, heavy carrier bag. “Old sheets” he explained. “I thought maybe someone could use them as decorating cloths – you know, to put over the furniture when you’re painting…” his voice trailed off in slight awkwardness.
“Were they off your bed?” asked Morwenna, an urgent curiosity arising in her.
“Yes. I really don’t know if they’re suitable for a jumble sale…They’re a bit marked, you know, where I’ve spilt my stuff on them. ”
Morwenna raised her eyebrows at him

Right at the very bottom of the bag she saw some shiny fabric, which she pounced on. “What’s this?” she asked, tugging away. “Steady. Don’t pull too hard!” Sean cried, helping her out with it. “This is a dress my sister donated. She was coming over and I told her you were having a jumble sale so she brought this”
Morwenna was thrilled; this was why she liked to help out – because of finds like this. “It looks lovely!” she exclaimed “Do you mind if I try it on myself?”
“I’ll put some money in the box for it if I like it” she added, not wishing to appear mean

“Oh yes, do!” Sean exclaimed, adding “It’s a perfect colour for you”
Morwenna scooped up the dress and hurried off to the corner of the hall, where a door led into a side room that had a notice taped on it saying CHANGING ROOM, and another on a string which had VACANT on one side and IN USE on the other. Sean followed her, curious, and waited by the door. Morwenna slipped into the makeshift changing room (a committee room which had been cleared of chairs, and with a long mirror leaning against the wall)There she peeled off her jeans and jumper, and (because it was a dress) her socks too. The dress slipped down over her, clinging to her clingaceaus curves like an octopusean lover. But when she reached behind her she found she was unable to do up the zip. It was tricksy and stuck part way up.

She felt, therefore, completely justified in calling out quietly to Sean, to tell him of this problem. “My sister said something about that…do you need a hand?”
“Yes please” Morwenna replied, and moments later Sean had slipped in through the door. His eyes feasted on the spectacle before him. The dress, which was of a stretchy, shiny fabric, was just a little bit too tight for Morwenna. or, to put it another way, a perfect fit. She was wriggling herself into it, doing that thing women do where they rub their hands over their waist and hips, at once smoothing the fabric over THEIR bodies and disarranging the fabric over the bodies of nearby men. Sean felt himself disarranging as he watched.
“It’s a bit tight” she said. Sean shook his head without thinking. “Let me have a look”
He looked. Indeed he could not help it. He looked at the shiny shape of her hips and thighs, and then up at how terribly tight the dress was further up. That was where the real struggle was going on, with Morwenna’s perfectly stacked fruity baps threatening to spill out of the top, cherries and all.
“Turn round and I’ll do the zip” he said. Morwenna turned, saying “I’m not sure it will go, it’s so tight”
She turned, and Sean had the benefit of her shinily bound buttocks rotating gently before him, causing dangerous levels of further disarrangement. The top half of the zip was open, Morwenna’s black bra strap visible in the gap. He took hold of the zip tag and, steadying himself by putting a bracing hand on her lower back, began to tug. It was jammed. He tried again.
“Are you giving it a good tug?” She asked.
“Not at the moment – I’m trying to get the zip to move” he replied.
“I’ll hold the top of the zip together, see if that helps”
He gripped the gaping sides of the dress with one hand, squeezing them together, an action which inadvertently caused Morwenna’s bra hooks to come undone.
“Oh no!” she cried, unconvincingly. “Now look what has happened!” she turned round to face him, the terrible damage very evident as her volumpties spilled out like the tide bursting through a wall of sand on a beach.
With admirable speed Sean flipped the sign on the door from “VACANT” to “IN USE” and prepared to deal with the situation.

The zip was indeed stuck he confirmed. It would go down, with help, but not up. There was nothing for it: he would have to help her out of the dress completely, and he was up for that.
Together they extricated Morwenna from the entrapment of the dress, sliding it down over her hips. The zip would not go right down so it was a struggle, and took her teensyweensy underthings with it as it went. Sean apologised, though it turned out that was unnecessary as Morwenna was glad to be out of them anyway.

A short queue formed outside the changing room for a while. But those at the front of it reported that they feared it had been closed due to a plumbing leak or some such, as they had heard some odd noises.

It was a very successful jumble sale, much was raised, especially in Sean’s manly department.
He correctly identified the Tits, and was soon able to guess the weight of each one quite accurately.
He had been wondering about having a go a Whack the Rat, but as it turned out, he didn’t need to as Morwenna was ready with her famous refreshments, which lived up to all expectations. And the question of whether assorted kinds of curly hair can sometimes get entangled was resolved to mutual satisfaction by thorough experimentation.

Muriel finds her Spark

Muriel had noticed her skirtings getting loose. They were tatty and needed a lick of paint, and if there was anyone motivated to get a lick on her skirtings, it was Muriel. A kind neighbour had helped her to compile a list of things she needed

Muriel had already had a number of tools round her house, and she was determined it would not happen again

The list seemed a little daunting so she went directly to the help desk for advice. The man behind the help desk was very polite, as helpful as the name suggested, and clearly benefitted from a lifetime’s experience as he seemed to Muriel to be about 90. After she had asked a number of questions, and the queue accumulating behind her was starting to develop its own social and economic structures, he eventually suggested that he call someone to walk the store with her, answer questions, and lead her to the right place for each item. He made an indecipherable tannoy announcement and then Muriel was sidelined as he attended to the rest of the queue – which had now established a primitive form of democracy.

Fairly soon an overalled man appeared, introducing himself as “Spark” on account of his electrical expertise, but he assured Muriel he was a good all-rounder
He rubbed his strong, capable hands together with what seemed like glee as Muriel took out her list.
“I’m sorry it’s such a long one” she apologised. Spark smiled “That’s OK; I’ve had to say that myself more than once”
“We’ll start at the top and work down” he continued “Unless you’d prefer the other way. I can work in any direction you like”
He took the list from her.

Spark began to read, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Muriel’s jumper was deliciously tight and clingy, and that she had the sort of ass and thighs which would enable her to hold a ladder steady. Furthermore, if he was UP that ladder, the view down the front of her jumper would most likely had caused him to dive down into it. Health and Safety be damned

“What do you think?” asked Muriel. Spark felt he couldn’t really say exactly what he had been thinking. “Just trying to work out what you need” he eventually said
“I think I know” Muriel said with a cautious little smile, which flickered across her plump cheeks like a sort of fluttery thing, but I’ve never done this sort of thing before so I’ll put myself completely in your hands”

Spark liked that idea. Very much, and he considered it – coincidentally at precisely the same time as Muriel was thinking about his strong capable hands.

Spark took the piece of paper
“First thing you need is some long screws” he said, then after a pause he added “We’ll come to those later”
They walked slowly through the aisles, then Spark reached out to the shelves and pressed a huge tool into Muriel’s hands.
“This is a big wrench” he explained.
“Oh I’m sorry!” exclaimed Muriel “I had no idea this would upset you”
“No. I mean this thing here”
Muriel blushed “It’s very big…and so heavy”
“It’s adjustable too” Spark explained “Just grasp it here and give it a slight turn and it gets bigger”
She tried it. “No, hold it more firmly. Then let your hand slide round this part here. See how it expands?”
Muriel was impressed “So it will go as big as I want?” Spark nodded

After a long moment watching Muriel playing with the wrench (she was better at making it bigger than she was at making it smaller) he looked again at the list.

“What’s this?” he asked, pointing. She explained
“I want to put up a windowbox, so I need to drill into the brickwork. I got my neighbour to have a look at my bits but he wasn’t sure if they would do and suggested I come here and ask an expert”
Spark smiled proudly at this description of himself. Indeed he seemed to grow two inches, but without actually getting any taller. Muriel fumbled around in her bag, found her bits and pressed them into Sparky’s hand. He gently blew on them (they were a bit fluffy)examined them closely and pronounced that they were fine for the job in hand.
She smiled

The next item was rubbing oil. Muriel felt obliged to explain that.
“I was given an old oak bench by a friend, and the wood is a bit dried out. I need something that I can rub in all over to bring back its sheen”

Spark explained that rubbing oil was at the other end of the shop. In fact it turned out to be not actually on the shop floor at all, but behind those hanging plastic straps which separate off the storerooms. And it wasn’t even in the main storeroom, but a dark corner.

Muriel found that she was remarkably deft at giving the mighty wrench a firm turn to make it bigger. And she was soon having the fluff on her bits gently blown. Unlike the oak bench she was not at all dried out – quite the reverse, so no oil was needed to lubricate the rubbing.
At the end of the list they got the long screws

And that is how Muriel and Spark reached their prime, cementing (and grouting) their love of DIY