Tag: porn

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”