love – Page 2 – Smut’n’Chuckle

Ariadne’s beautiful buns

Ariadne was excited about her first evening class. She had signed up to Baking for Beginners, on the grounds that she had never been completely happy with her buns.
The class was not very full; all women, all standing singly and awkward. She looked around at them nervously as she pulled her frilly crossover apron over her head and tied it tightly behind her.
The faint sussurations of chatter around her fell suddenly quiet as the teacher entered the room. To everyone’s surprise, it was a man. The name on the noticeboard, Sam, had been ambivalent enough to let students make their own assumptions.
Sam was not wearing a pinny (indeed none of the other students were) but he was wearing a broad smile and a pair of tight jeans. The former on his face and the latter on his lower body, fortunately.
The first thing they were going to do, he told them, was give their equipment a thorough going over. Ariadne liked the sound of that, and congratulated herself on her choice of class.

Sam discussed measurements first: imperial, metric and American. The trouble with cups, he explained, was that different women had different sized cups, and if you had the wrong size cups it would be bound to cause problems. Ariadne nodded enthusiastically; this was an issue she could relate to.
Next he talked about bowls, and then spoons: he was very keen on stirring things. Finally he moved into what he described as “more specialist stuff” and proceeded to discuss whipping. Ariadne was an open minded sort of girl and naturally inclined to be adventurous, so her ears pricked up at this.

Finally he clasped his hands together and said “that’s enough of me. It’s time to get started”
Ariadne didn’t agree; she was happy to have a lot more of Sam, but for now she had to do some baking. Sam said they would start with something easy, and which everyone enjoyed. Buns! Who could say no to them?

Under Sam’s guidance they set to: he walked around the room, offering help and advice to each student. He stopped for a long time by Ariadne; when she was ready to add the eggs, he put his hand over hers to show her how he liked the beating done. “You’ve got to keep a good strong, steady rhythm” he told his eager pupil. She nodded, eyes sparking with excitement, keen to learn. When he told her she was a good beater, her cheeks flushed with pleasure. Sam couldn’t help but notice how snugly her apron fitted: it was pulled so tightly across her chest that Sam thrilled to the irresistible image of her mixture bursting completely out of its bun cases
Sam told them all the best features of perfect buns: fluffy, moist, succulent and tasty. The secret was to get things to rise well, and he chose Ariadne as an example of someone who could achieve that: she had the perfect wrist action for a good beating.

Once the buns were in the oven, Sam suggested they should all think about how they would like to decorate them. There were so many ways, but Sam liked to keep it simple. For him, a cherry was enough, as he emphasized to Ariadne. Once her buns were ready, he would like nothing better than to have a bite of her cherry.
As soon as the buns were out, and still warm, she offered them to Sam. He tasted enthusiastically, relishing the warm, soft, still steaming nibbles, and getting his lips round the cherries with particular joy.
Sam put the finishing touch to her buns by topping them with cream from his piping bag with the special nozzle.

Mind my plums!

It was a hazy spring afternoon when Davina entered the green grocer’s shop. The light slanted in between the notices stuck on the window, – MeLon’ s £1-99 and in one corner BICYCLE FOR SALE 27″ frame £20, and MAN & VAN, with telephone numbers. Plum’s the greengrocer had been at the centre of village life for a long time, and fulfilled many functions, not just the supply of your Five-a-day to whomsoever might be interested.
Since moving to the village, Davina’s intake of fruit and veg had escalated astonishingly. This was not due to a conscious decision to eat more healthily. It was due to her seeking an excuse to visit as often as possible. It was quite close to her flat, so she could manage to spread her purchases thinly, buying a little something at a time. She had come to love the feel of the rustly paper bags, of a succulent pear in the palm of her hand. The proprietor, a young man who was keeping on the family business, had decided she must be a health food obsessive, always wanting her fruit as fresh as possible. And that was fine, because he liked serving her. She always dressed very nicely too, though she seemed impervious to cold. Even on chilly days she rarely wore a coat, and often appeared in a vest top. He supposed she was also keen on keeping fit.

In fact Davina was a recent convert to the joys of intensive fruitage. She had at first just come to the shop out of curiosity and orientation to her new home. She asked for apples, – unable at the time to think what else to all for. The green grocer had stepped forward out of the shadows and been handsome at her. Quite powerfully. And it had had an immediate effect, so that when she said “a bag of apples please” and he had replied “what do you like? Cox?” She had become covered with confusion and had to go outside for a few moments, feigning a coughing fit.

She recovered herself, and got her apples to take home. It was very first experience of Cox like this, – in a brown paper bag, and it was as delicious an experience as the apples themselves. Next time she went in, a little shyly, and asked for the next kind of fruit on her then short list; pears.
The lovely green grocer had smiled at her again, and his hand her brushed hers as he handed over the brown paper bag. “I always say you can’t beat a lovely juicy pear.” She was almost sure he had winked.

As time had passed, her requests had become more adventurous, and her outfits smaller and tighter. She bought potatoes with the earth still on, and then asked him to clean it, “Can you make the earth removed for me please?” She asked him about his plums, and he generously let her feel them first.
By the time she asked for his advice on melons, she was dressed in a vest top so tight that from some angles it was possible to read her bra size through the taut fabric. She hoped the green grocer, expert as he appeared to be with succulent fruits, would not need to see the label to confirm what he could judge with his eyes.
She stood in the busy shop, breathless with excitement, watching him deftly reaching for a leek, adjusting his courgettes, talking effortlessly with the customers. She hung back, professing indecision, until everyone else has been served. “I’m interested in your melons” she said. “Can you advise me?”
He gave her that smile again, and she felt the sensations stirring within…She thought she could hear her blood circulating, rushing through her ears on its way to other, more secret places….

“I certainly can” he answered. “I’m a great man for the melons myself.” He lifted a cantaloupe gently with one strong hand, and lifted it up for her to see. “You have to handle them very gently…they bruise easily, do melons, especially when they are ripe…and juicy, and -” he shot a lingering glance at her chest – “ready to burst”
“I’m sure you’re right” she whispered, her voice failing in her throat.
“Should I get just the one, or would I be better with two?”
He put the melon on a scale, and reached for another. “I always say, why have one melon when you could have two”
She nodded, her mouth dry. “I’ll take those then”
“Anything else?”
She felt as though she stood at the brink; it was more or never…
“Can I see a courgette, maybe?”
Of course she could. He picked one out, and held out towards her. In an instant of pure passion she took a firm grip on it with one hand and pulled him towards her. They stood for a moment, the courgette firm and upright between them.
He reached past her and flicked the sign on the door to CLOSED and then allowed himself to be propelled backwards until he was leaning against a shelf covered in artificial grass, and still stacked with produce.
Davina was leaning against him, her succulent melons, still, he noticed, with the stalks on, were tempting him beyond endurance. And since he could not endure that, he gave in to it, dropping his courgette and unwrapping the melons (he was glad these did not rustle) and checking them for ripeness. They were, as he had expected, perfect. She leaned harder against him, and they tipped back into the shelf, which was fortunately strongly built, like him. “Mind my plums!” He cried. The contents of the shelf tumbled away across the floor. She didn’t mind his plums, at all.
Suddenly she looked surprised ” what’s happened to your courgette?”
He laughed “that’s the thing about a courgette…in no time at all, with the right conditions, it turns into a marrow!”

Marilyn gets her ticket clipped

The 21.47 from Lechlade was running a little late. This was fortunate as Marilyn was too. She had run, teetering along the station approach, clattered over the bridge, wobbled dangerously down the wrought iron steps (so tricky with stilettos) and staggered, gasping and unsteady through the doors of the carriage as they were shutting. Luckily the nearest seat was free and she collapsed into it. She was so busy getting her breath back that she failed to notice the carriage’s only other occupant.
He, however had noticed her. He noticed the precariously high heels (so flattering!) the tightness of her dress, the heaving of her bosom as she recovered herself. Strictly speaking, as he did not think in Victorian terms, he had noticed the heaving of her bosoms, which was much more in accordance with his way of thinking. It was very satisfactory. THEY were very satisfactory. He was still in full agreement with himself on this when she looked up and saw him staring.

Marilyn didn’t mind this at all. In fact she was rather glad that her efforts getting the buttons done up on the front of the dress had been worthwhile. She smiled back, and then opened her magazine, pausing now and again to settle herself into her seat, an action which involved a surprising amount of chest lifting. The man across the carriage was surprised, certainly.

She glanced at him over her magazine from time to time. He was casually dressed, young, with hair which flopped across his forehead. She noticed that: it indicated a lack of body. Indications can be deceptive though, as her next glance showed him to have plenty of body.
That very next glance also showed him to have been looking at her at the same time! She allowed a flicker of a hint of a smile to play across her lips (which were luscious, of course) like a cellist with a large instrument between his thighs, before glancing away in a manner intended to be teasing. It worked. It teased. Marilyn was good at this, and after a few more moments she reached into her bag and drew out a sandwich. The man was impressed: he had not expected her to be an artist as well.
She ate it carefully, taking tiny girlish nibbles, and licking her lips (which were, as mentioned, luscious) frequently. A crumb dropped down her front, bouncing on her frontage and from that delicious launchpad, careening down until it encountered a gap between the straining buttons. The gap engulfed it into the warm depths of her capacious cleavage. The man watched, mesmerized, entertaining hitherto unexpected dreams of life as a crumb, and all the opportunities it might offer.
These opportunities expanded as she, whilst exploring the inviting crevasse in pursuit of the crumb, suddenly exposed the buttons to stresses they were not designed to take, and the front of her dress burst open. At that moment the opportunities for a fulfilling career as a crumb were not the only thing which expanded: lo and behold the man was soon fidgeting in his seat as well.
“Oh gosh, look at me!” Exclaimed Marilyn unnecessarily. She began to try to flick off the crumb, now attached to one swelling bosom. This had the effect of seeing up a resonance frequency amongst the contents of her dress, and causing further agitation across the carriage.
“May I help you?” The man asked, in a voice which seemed surprisingly squeaky. She looked slightly surprised, but then he held out a paper tissue. Marilyn, though all ready to be outraged at his forwardness, then was immediately disappointed by his politeness. She took the tissue and began to dab at the crumb.
Suddenly, because trains have a sense of narrative and an understanding of the human condition, the carriage jolted severely, and Marilyn going herself thrown across the aisle. With only a minimum of contrivance on her part she managed to fall into the lap of the young floppy haired man opposite. Not so floppy now!
He was obliged by circumstances and inclination to steady her with both his arms, which was particularly useful as only moments later they entered a tunnel.
“Oh my goodness!” Exclaimed Marilyn, several times at intervals, and with a range of different inflections.
It was a long tunnel. Which was almost what Marilyn said after she stopped saying “Oh my goodness!” and which seemed to please the young man a great deal. In fact Marilyn herself seemed to please the young man a great deal too.
The errant crumb got lost in all this…but it was not missed. The buttons went astray too, and it was lucky Marilyn had a cardigan to wrap herself in afterwards. Her magazine ended up torn and scattered across the floor, the rest of her sandwich forgotten.
As for the young man, he found himself enjoying the experience of a tunnel. In a tunnel. He had been a railway enthusiast since boyhood, but in all his childish fantasies he had never imagined exploring sidings, touching a set of points, the pounding of pistons, the building pressure of steam, the exhilarating whistle of the express! He had never clipped a ticket like Marilyn.

Leonora enjoys Talk Like A Pirate Day…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drusilla and the Dibber

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

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

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

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

Scotsmen. The great decision: YES or NO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heat and Vegetables

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good use of the clutch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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