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Disconnections
- a series of stories -
by Eve Adorer
Connubial Bliss
Synopsis: ‘A woman is
only a woman; but a cigar is also a smoke’.
Connubial Bliss
David Johnson thrashed the
miles. Highway ribboned fore and aft of his auto. He’d got promotion not long
since. It had meant a move up to the 2,000cc plus league, and a car with an
automatic shift. But that didn’t make the motorways shorter. Besides, they’d
married promotion with the more distant locations, and that had increased the
pressure. Employment was no enjoyment. Either he delivered new sales or he was
out. It was just like in that film: ‘Dearth of a Salesman’, or whatever it was
called.
“Fucking SUVs should be
banned!” David cursed under his breath as he belatedly booted the brake pedal
to avoid a collision with the four-by-four jeep and its wavering horsebox
trailer: a crash that was, thankfully, now historic possibility, rather than
present tense, or premonition.
God it was racing!
Overtaking in a wholly miscalculated manoeuvre, it had swerved in, in front of
David, and its trailer had ducked in latterly, nearly hitting his front wing,
as if the driver had forgotten she was towing a horsebox.
If he had been honest with
himself, David would have admitted he’d seen the truck and trailer long before
since in his mirror, and paid it inadequate heed.
He had seen it veering
erratically. At this time of evening in the
Blame therefore was not
leavened by equity. So far, only David’s case for the prosecution had coloured
the air blue. But the double-take didn’t help. Even if it caused him to forget
the near accident.
The double-take didn’t help.
My god! There she was in the trailer. Was she five-three? She was such a pretty
little thing. A Chinese doll with raven hair racing to her ankles. And, oh god
her legs!
She was stark naked! For
cripes sake, she was stark naked!! There was a white leather bridle on her
head. She wore blinkers, had a headband, and had a bit between her teeth. And,
oh god her pretty legs!
Her arms, her slim arms,
were grasped by a single white leather glove laced tight up to her lower
triceps, clamping them behind her back, under her glowing hair, with her fisted
hands on her pert little bum, and her slender shoulders hunched forward. And,
oh god her legs!
She was up on the very
highest tip-top of tiptoe with her feet forced into round wooden clogs shod
with iron horseshoes. And, oh god her pretty legs!
She had reins on her tits.
The reins hung down to tether her to a bar at the inside side of the horsebox
where she swayed with its lurching progress, and her titties danced incitingly
independently and in delightful duet. And, oh god her legs!
The reins though, came over
her shoulder after they had passed back through rings at the two ends of the
steel bit between her teeth. The reins were one long loop of white leather. The
open ends of the loops went through the bit-rings, down her chest, and were
clipped to her nipples.
And, oh god her legs! They
were so pretty! She was only a doll-sized girl but she comprised as many curves
as swerves and as many swerves as curves, and her legs were strong with
pronounced calves, flat-backed thighs, and knees locked back as if she were
double jointed. Oh god her pretty legs!
Mee Yonge! It was Mee Yonge,
David and Janette’s neighbours’ daughter!
“Hi Mr Johnson”, her sweet
voice called as the jeep and trailer whisked distant its lovely load, away from
David Johnson’s place on the lonely road.
……………….
‘Tiredness can kill’, said
the sign all too truthfully it seemed from the scene he had just daydreamed
he’d seen. ‘Services 11 and 42 miles’ read the next, and the dubious pleasures
of a Service Station lay-by were beckoning David, before a reckoning with a
wreck if he was wracked from his track, or he spurted from the hard-on he’d got
from seeing the imagined imaginatively tortured girl.
Eleven miles later,
parked-up, engine off, David stretched his arms and worked his shoulders and
winced and grunted as he eased his locked muscles from where they had slumbered
whilst his auto had lumbered the five-hundred miles till now.
Even if he stopped
half-an-hour for a coffee, he could still make the town of
As David yawned he pondered.
Were the midsummer nights longer in the north of
He was used to driving
immense distances, but, this time, he should have got to bed earlier the night
before. He had got to bed early; but it had been early morning not the good
intention early evening he had sworn to.
He’d fallen asleep in front
of TV. Stupid that. He was so much on the road, and so little home with wife
Janette, that you’d think he’d have taken her hand and dragged her to bed for
passion to be fed. But instead, it had been cosy and warm and so lovely just to
sit beside her, watching the succession of soaps with which she seemed
obsessed.
The early fires, and the
fury of the flurry of arms and legs in the all-in wrestle to fill a vessel with
his root and plant his seed in her, had, for David and Janette become long
since a part of their past. Their only intercourse now was conversation. A head
on the shoulder, and the meaningful meaningless routine kiss in the doorway,
before he left to hit the interminable road, had long since become the outward
signs of an inwardly contented couple, who no longer indulged coitus, and had
not for years.
Being so long on the road,
and avoiding TV in favour of the bar when he was out and about away from home,
David always lost track with the latest happening in ‘Neighbourhood’ and
‘Accident Ward’ and ‘Queen’s Road’.
For Janette, they replaced
the world she loved to be in: the world with David there.
He had to work. And work
took him away. They had a lovely home in Barnmouth, not far from the River Barn
itself. And it was just down the road to the harboured town with its fishing
boats and nets spread for mending in the summer sun. But when David was not
there, and, these days, even when he was, she would keep up, ‘Neighbourhood’
and ‘Accident Ward’ and ‘Queen’s Road’ as her daily evening diet.
Last evening, as Janette had
told him, as if they were really real, as they seemed to her to be, David had
followed, only so far, that in ‘Queen’s Road’ Tom had come back after time
serving in Afghanistan with the army, only to discover that his wife, Mary, was
having an affair with the local ‘love rat’, Jason, who was really ‘gay’ and in
love with Don, who ran the local public house. And that Don, who was ‘straight’
and had rejected Jason’s approaches, but seemed to be thinking twice about the
rejection, had once been married to Mary. And that their teenage son, Mark, who
appeared to have been killed by a tram when he was over in Prague under
Professor Eisentein’s tutelage for the virtuoso violin, had reappeared alive,
having temporarily lost his mind with the stress of being such a talented
musician, and worked his passage to Australia, where he had married an
aborigine girl and they had had twins. This after he had got out of hospital
with his right foot having had to be amputated because of gangrene of course.
But Don, newly discovered to be a grandfather, had fallen head-over-heels in
love with his son’s wife and was plotting to murder his own son, so he could
run away with her. In the meantime, the lovely aborigine girl had just met Mary
too, and there seemed to be a strong attraction between them. And Tom had
forgiven Mary for her dalliance with Jason, and they had reaffirmed their
marriage vows before the vicar. But then, as Mary and Tom, wreathed with happy
smiles, had walked down the aisle of the church after the reaffirmation, Mary’s
sister, Regan, had had what was feared to be a heart attack, and been rushed to
hospital, where the ‘dishy’ Indian doctor, played by well-known Bollywood
heartthrob, Attiah Farad, had found himself suspended from duty for examining
Regan allegedly all too intimately, without the presence of a female nurse as
chaperone, because the hospital was too busy for a nurse to be spared. But that
had only happened because Regan had complained, and that was because she was
hopelessly in love with the younger man: Farad. But the character played by
Farad, had discovered that Regan had the first signs of Alzheimer’s even though
she was still only forty, and would have had to break the news to her had it
not been that she had levelled the complaint about him to the hospital
management. And Farad’s wife, a gorgeous dusky dish, whose natural beauty made
even Janette appreciate what men saw in girls, was a little schemer and social
climber, and had threatened him with divorce if he did not get to be a top
notch brain surgeon in the next year. But she had also just met Mark, and
seemed to be just the woman to help him realise his talents to the full. And
with him, by contrast, she would not even mind being penniless and destitute
until he could reach the top of his calling, or even if he failed. And she had
already told him that changing nappies was no role for a boy of his genius. And
he had been bowled over by her stunning beauty, and they had woken in bed
together at the end of last night’s episode…..
“What was that for?”,
Janette had whispered after David had kissed her cheek following after the
intense flow of her conveying of this resume of ‘the story so far’.
“Because I love you”, he had
answered.
Later, she had gone to bed,
and he fallen asleep in the chair, in front of the highlights from an
indifferent soccer game, he had originally been looking forward to the
excitement of watching.
……………………
As he slammed the door of
his car, and the ‘beeps’ and amber indicator flashes confirmed he had secured
it, David was smiling at his recollection of his evening at home alone with
Janette, his wife of twenty: oh jeese, was it twenty or twenty-one years?!
From relaxation and
anticipation of hot black coffee, David had sudden guilt descend. Had he
forgotten an anniversary? Janette was so understanding she would still have
forgiven him.
He knew they had married in
June. But was it the nineteenth or twenty-ninth? Hell, if it had been the
nineteenth, which was just gone, she must have wanted to murder him last night.
But, if it was the twenty-ninth, there was still time for flowers and, oh damn:
year one was paper, it surely couldn’t be pearl or gold, or diamond. What was a
twentieth, or was it a twenty-first, anniversary marked by? He’d have to phone
his mother. She’d be discrete. She’d remind him.
After reaching into his
suit’s left inside pocket, he flipped out and opened on his palm, his mobile,
only to hear a loud ‘crack’ and a shout of: “Giddup you idle little whore!”
before Mee Yonge trotted ‘clipclop’ ‘clipclop’ ‘clipclop’, briskly by, with her
long black mane fluttering in the breeze of her speed, and her legs pumping
heaven high, whilst the girl in the chariot Mee Yonge hauled, whisked a whip
and worked Mee Yonge’s tits to tell the darling little doll which way to turn,
while she obediently trotted along. And, oh god her legs! The cruel driver,
looking curiously like Janette, was using Mee Yonge’s tits to tell her to turn
left or right by pulls on the reins. “Giddup you idle little whore!” ‘clipclop’
‘clipclop’ ‘clipclop’ ‘clipclop’. And, oh god her legs!
“Hi Mr Johnson”, Mee Yonge
sang musically breathlessly, deliciously dissonanently, as she was trotted high
stepping by. And, oh god how high she was pumping her pretty legs!
………………
“Hi Mr Johnson”, David heard
again as he woke on the train to see the lovely face he faced, and the look of
tender concern on its youthful beauty, as Mee Yonge gently woke him from his
dream.
“I so sorry Mr Johnson. I
not mean wake you. But you look have bad dream”, Mee Yonge said, as she looked
tenderly concerned.
Half awake, David watched
Mee Yonge sit back from where she had tapped his knee to wake him, lift a
lovely hand to rearrange the light refracting jet tress that had curtained one
kaleidoscopically mesmerising deep brown eye, and then reach the same pretty
hand to self-consciously pull her miniskirt’s hem down her thighs, as she
unconsciously, but not dismayedly or surprisedly, instantly calculated the
trajectory of his awakening gaze.
“Mee Yonge! How lovely. What
are you doing here?” David half-yawned.
“Mmm, excuse me, I was dead
to the world just then. I’ve just got to streeeeeech. Ahhh! God, that’s better!”
David clutter-uttered, as he watched Mee Yonge watch him, and begin to smile at
his antics, as he raised his arms aloft and then bent his neck rapidly
side-to-side, so he could feel a crack from the top of his backbone, that he
passingly wondered if she could hear too.
“That’s better. What are you
doing here sweetheart?” David then asked again.
It was the wrong refrain.
Mee Yonge was: must be: surely by now, at least eighteen? To address her as ‘sweetheart’
when he had helped change her nappies, was one thing; but there was a
difference between a girl and a girl. And seventeen years added on, what sat
before David now was a fully functioning young woman, of exceptional and
alarming physical and facial charms.
“I home college. Summer
vacation. I no go back college now. I soon work in stables at Barnmouth House,
for Lady Barnmouth. I be ponygirl”, Mee Yonge smiled sadly.
“Stable girl”, David
ventured in correction.
“Yes”, said Mee Yonge, with a
mildly quizzical look.
“Stable girl”, David
repeated, “You said ‘ponygirl’”, he gently informed, whilst subconsciously
hoping she would still say she had got it right, and he wrong.
“Yes, stable girl”, Mee
Yonge blushed, seeming to see the gleam in David’s eyes as he had corrected her
English, but not knowing why it embarrassed her.
For David to wake was not
good news. He had no good news to tell. To the contrary, he had lost his job
and had yet to face Janette with the announcement.
The first offence for being
found out driving after drinking too much alcohol at a business lunch, had lost
him his driving licence for twelve months. He had only been lucky in that the
offence and subsequent trial and conviction had been way up in Kandren.
That good news was not going
to last. The event had not made the news at home in Barnmouth. But David was
about to be both the messenger and the message on that score.
Nobody wanted a travelling salesman
who could not drive to travel and pedal the wares – in David’s case, speciality
gift schemes for the rewarding of business efficiency. His boss had been
generous. She had given him his train fare home just before she fired him.
“How’s college?”, he asked
the glowing lovely before him, having instantly forgotten she had just told him
she had been ejected, his mind confused by the knotty problem: the problem of
his lost job.
“My English no good!” Mee
Yonge sighed, and her brow showed signs of distress David longed to kiss away.
“Mummy and Daddy only talk
Chinese. I not learn speak English till I sixteen at school after we come back
from
“Your dad went out there as
a translator didn’t he?” David reconfirmed.
“Sure, when I two. But he
not talk English at home out there”.
“Your English is adorable”,
David ventured, unintentionally, wishing he could bite the words back after.
After all, this lovely girl was a daughter-distance in the age scales.
“How you mean?” Mee Yonge
asked, with a querulous smile, and a slightly nervous look, whilst tugging her
intriguing teasing hem down her firm thighs once again with both pretty hands
this time.
“I mean you speak English
much better than you think you do”, David ventured lamely.
Meanwhile, he had been
working the buttons on his mobile, and raised a hand to signal he’d got a ring
tone: “Janette? Me. I’m on the train. Had to abandon the car up at Kandren….
No. Not an accident: a recall”, he lied “There’s a safety concern with the
power steering on that model…… No, they’d no courtesy cars, so many recalls and
me late to get mine in…” he elaborated.
“Guess whose on the train
with me?”, he prompted, to steer the subject away from cars and driving:
“Little Mee Yonge. Can you pick me up at the station about…. if we’re on time,
should be about seventeen-hundred… that’s five o’ clock, silly clot….”
“Do you need a lift?” he
mouthed elaborately to Mee Yonge, who nodded with the prettiest of her many
pretty smiles….
“And Mee Yonge too…. Okay?
Okay love. Love you! Bye now!”
David clicked his mobile
shut, and fell again to pondering what he had tried to avoid thinking about:
what on earth he was going to tell Janette about his job being now ‘former’.
………………
Journey ended, at the
station: “Hi” Janette smiled to husband David. “Hi Mee Yonge”, Janette then
added, surprisingly coldly, David thought. Was there a tad touch of jealousy
there? Did his wife resent the youth and beauty of the delicate doll Mee Yonge?
Forty now, Janette had the
fulsome curves of the full-grown woman she had been this last twenty and more
years. She was in great trim, and filled her jeans with a bum that swung as
firmly and as far as it had ever when she was younger.
The red-and-green tartan,
thick cotton shirt she wore, was buttoned to her neck bar at the collar itself.
Her handsome chest’s boldness told it was controlled restrained and contained
by the cups of a pretty practical rather than a pretty per se bra.
Her face, Janette’s face,
showed love and laughter in her constantly sparkling hazel eyes. Her mouth’s
generous lips showed the quarter-negress blood that impassioned her veins.
Her curls too were from the
same quarter. These days she had begun to hide the hints of grey by the day.
Therefore she coloured it once in a while, and anyway kept it trimmed boyishly
short, but that only added to her eminently evident femininity.
Her boots were dirty. They
had something fresh on them that David wagered would not smell too pleasant in
close proximity.
“I lost…” David blurted at
one and the same time as Janette said: “Sorry about the boots, I got…..”
“No. You go first”, David
smiled, after the loving voices of man and wife had just accidentally clashed.
“I was going to say, that
I’ve got a job”, Janette smiled. Lady Barnmouth wanted helps up at the big
house, and your brilliant wifey got herself a plumb job!” Janette announced
with a tone of voice that clearly conveyed she had found a new feeling of
fulfilment.
David hugged her, and would
have kissed her were it not for pretty Mee Yonge looking on.
“What was your news?”
Janette enquired
As Mee Yonge pulled down the
hem of her miniskirt yet once more, Janette having just pressed the key, the
car door-lock buttons clacked up in an orchestrated erection.
“Nothing that can’t wait
sweetheart”, David answered, as if the secret he withheld was going to be a
pleasant surprise: one he had perhaps recollected he should not reveal before
Mee Yonge for some reason.
They were in the car by soon
after now, and an unpleasant stink came from the foot-well on Janette’s side as
she sat behind the wheel reaching for her safety belt.
“Just what is it you’ve got
on your boots?” David joked, holding his nose as he powered down his window to
let in fresh air.
“Some fine healthy stable
manure, my lad”, Janette answered in a poor imitation of a bad actor’s country
yokel’s accent.
“Mee Yonge was just saying
she’d got a job at the same stables”, John informed.
“Oh yea”, Janette responded
dismissively, in a manner that conveyed that no expansion of that particular
conversation point was sought, or welcome, or worthwhile, though perhaps that
was because she was concentrating on her driving.
………………
David’s invitation to Mee
Yonge to come round to dinner that evening was one Janette had seemed reluctant
to confirm.
They had dropped the angel
off at their own home, and she was already walking to her parents’ place next
door, after a sincere and shy thank you for the lift, when David had thrown out
the invitation as if by reflex, just after he had admired her very pretty legs
once more, and her hair billowing in the breeze.
Home at last, David insisted
Janette shed her boots in the garage, and he readied the garden hose to wash
them off, whilst considering what best to do with the car’s soiled carpet on
her side of the foot-wells.
As he turned on the tap for
the hose, David noticed Janette’s
He lifted one Wellington
boot to examine it, and saw a wedge of straw impregnated faeces lodged where
the back of the sole met the cliff face of the front of the heel, as well as
the same mix in every grove of the treads on the sole.
He raised it to his nose and
smelt the sharp tang of excreta and the accompanying breathtaking smell of
urine-impregnated rotting straw, screwed up his nose, and held the boot away
from him at arms length pulling a face expressing little less than the disgust
he felt. What was going on up at the Barnmouth mansion?
“Hope you’re not going to
bring this stink back every day!” David called to his wife, who was in their
kitchen, unloading some of the groceries she had bought earlier, and
distributing them between the pantry, freezer, and refrigerator.
“What?” Janette called back,
“Oh that. Goes with the job darling. They’ve got me mucking out the stables for
starters. We won’t ever be rich on what they are paying me though!” she added.
“Not stinking rich but
certainly stinking”, David muttered, as he played the hose on the brown dung
and pressed-in straw lodged on the boots.
“You’ll have to speak up
darling!” Janette responded.
“I’m thinking of preparing a
salad later. I believe Mee Yonge is vegetarian!” Janette shouted above the
sounds of running water, from outside hose and the sink in the kitchen.
The four boots cleaned, but forgetting
the car mat, David chased the filth down the concrete drive with play of the
hose, so that it was washed into the rain drain at the edge of the road.
When David entered the
house: “I’ll think I’ll get a quick shower”, he called as he passed the kitchen
door, thereby adopting the approach Janette was used to from him when he was
home: the approach that minimised the prospect he would be anywhere useful to
the procedures for preparing and serving a meal, or any other domestic duty.
“Okay. But what was it you
were going to say about your job?” Janette enquired as he passed by.
“Oh that”, David answered,
trying to think of something to say that would not see the visit of Mee Yonge
cancelled, “Nothing important to us really. Andy McJackson has got the shove.
Drinking and driving, would you believe?” he lied.
“No!?” said Janette, as he
stopped what she was doing and came to the half-open kitchen door. “The bloody
fool! And he and Sheila with little Roddy just born too!” she speculated, as
she weighed up the horror of the lie told, which to her tolled yet with the
ring of truth.
………………
At seven-thirty sharp, even
her ring on the electric doorbell seemed somehow shy.
“That’ll be Mee Yonge now.
I’ll let her in!” David called to Janette, who was still busy in the kitchen:
this time with preparing the upcoming meal.
As David opened the front
door, a face of such exquisite loveliness smiled up at him from five-feet-three
of one-hundred-percent pure girl.
Mee Yonge wore a
Prussian-blue silk dress that served to swerve her curves so faithfully, it
must have been poured on like paint to dry.
The shimmering dress was
embroidered with the outlines of two fearsome red dragons, whose scaly tails
curled on Mee Yonge’s slap wanton bottom, and whose bodies then wrapped around
her waist and up till their gaped mouths spat furious flames on her alertly
pertly proud non-pendulous breasts.
The long sleeves of the
dress hugged Mee Yonge’s slim arms. Its collar stood upright round and
uniformly high, and repeated the fiery dragon theme, with the two flames being
disgorged from both and either sides, toward Mee Yonge’s Adam’s-apple, were it
visible.
The dress buttoned at her
left side with loops over gold studs, that the seamstress seemed to have run
out of when it got to her mid-hip. Because, from there down to the hem brushing
her feet, it was open, and showed the length of her leg, the double-jointed
knee bent back, and the gold clasp of an azure suspender, holding up a seamed
baby-blue nylon stocking, with a snake curving around the ample thigh as
pattern in the stocking itself
Her three-inch-heeled white
sandals, with double ankle-straps, shaped her shapely leg aptly additionally
appetisingly appealingly.
Mee Yonge’s makeup looked
‘young-girl-immature-amateur’ in its quality and application; but was all the
more stunningly seductive for that.
The eyeliner should not have
been green, or at least not that shade of green. The colour of the lipstick
too, was a little far toward the ‘slut’ end of the spectrum for such a sweet
girl to be choosing.
But all that was as entirely
forgivable, as her hair was entirely unforgettable, for she wore her midnight’s
midnight tresses fore and aft of her, and its glow flowed to her heels back of
her left shoulder, where it caressed over her bottom, and fore of her right
chest, where it gentled over her breast.
As Mee Yonge stood
demonstrably devastating, she added to her disarming charm, by gently shaking
her head to aside her hair from the love-shine in her demon-dark-brown eyes.
It was only then that
David’s appreciative eye, noticed that her lovely hands cradled a bottle of
wine.
“Hi Mr Johnson!” Mee Yonge
sang, unavoidably sexily, standing in the porch outside over the front doorway.
“It’s ‘David’”, David
insisted gently.
“Hello David”, Mee Yonge
giggled and then blushed, as she shyly poleaxed him with her innocent eyes.
“Do come in Mee Yonge: It is
Mee Yonge!” David invited the girl, and then called to confirm to Janette out
in the kitchen, as if, indeed, anybody else had been expected.
As she entered the hallway,
David took the wine bottle present, and bade Mee Yonge walk in front of him to
the home’s lounge-diner.
It was a mistake. Mee Yonge
knew she deserved a compliment, and turned her head to smile, so as to say that
anything David might say right then would be okay.
“You look lovely just now”,
David blurted inadequately, knowing what was needed, but not being able to come
up with it, because not having complimented his wife Janette in the last five
years and more, and thus rusty of practice.
In answer, Mee Yonge,
speared his heart with a cupidic shaft down to its fletchings, as she merely
intoned: “Thank you David”, with a follow-up lowering of the lovely lids over
her irresistible brown lanterns, as if to momentarily turn off her traction
beam’s devastating distraction.
“Hello Miss Janette”, Mee
Yonge whispered respectfully, as David followed her feline flow into the
kitchen.
“It’s all ready, if someone:
David: would like to lay the table for us”, Janette subtly hinted, “I just want
to dash and get a quick change, then I’ll join you in the lounge”.
As Janette made her way to
the main bedroom moments later, she popped her head around the lounge door to
ask: “Will you check I’ve set the video right for ‘Queen’s Road’ please David?
It’s on in five minutes, and there’s to be a revelation about ‘Beth’ I don’t
want to miss!”
………………
Alone with Mee Yonge, David
found himself completely tongue-tied. He showed her to the sofa, where she
settled her dainty delicate frame and, David noted, showed no
self-consciousness about letting the full length of her left leg all the way up
beyond stocking top to firm smooth bare flesh and gold suspender clasp, go on
display.
The contrast with this and
the way she incessantly insistently pulled at the hem of her miniskirt when
they had been on the train earlier, registered with David as another fascinating
instance of the adorable mysteries of the feminine psyche.
David poured the wine Mee
Yonge had brought, and she took the tiniest sip with lips as red as its Oporto
ruby rouge, and then smiled.
“I no drink. But I drink
tonight”, Mee Yonge observed with lips David longed to kiss to remove their
tantalising sweet innocence.
“When are you back at
university?” David blundered, forgetting that Mee Yonge had already said she
had left because her English was not good enough.
“I become stable girl tomorrow”,
Mee Yonge reminded him.
“Janette has started work at
Lady Barnmouth’s stables too, already”, David responded, trying to cover his
faux pas.
“I know”, Mee Yonge
answered.
David was making a fool of
himself. Of course she knew. Janette had told him in her presence. He struggled
to find some way of communicating with this adorable erotic creature aside from
the approach he longed for, which was to get her down on the couch and find out
with his bare hands, if she was wearing any panties: which he suspected she was
not, and if she wore and really needed to wear a bra, which he could see she
did and did not.
He just could not take his
eyes off her, and she was shyly adoring his admiration: “You are really
beautiful Mee Yonge” he then found himself blurting out, as he felt his cock
twitch and then ascend to assent to that sentiment: giving him a sensation he
had not recorded with full measure from that meter of a girl’s attraction in a
long while.
Now he felt the experienced
man who could show this slip of a thing the way the world really worked.
Janette had never complained of his prowess in bed; at least not back when he
had last managed anything remotely akin. And not that she had ever been bedded
by anyone else of course. But, still, he was a real man and had the means of
inoculating this treasure with the vaccine that would take her to the highest
of pleasure; if all was still in working order that is.
Janette saved the day.
To David’s surprise, Mee
Yonge stood when Janette came in, and did not sit again till Janette abruptly
invited her to.
What a contrast Janette was
in her inevitable blue jeans, and a white cable-knit sweater, to the younger
girl’s mysterious eastern promise.
“Any wine left for me?”
Janette enquired as she began to prepare the table David had inevitably
forgotten.
………………
Wine poured, wine flowed:
David had produced more bottles.
A light meal was consumed
whilst David was inflamed not only by the alcohol, but with desire for the
utterly unattainable.
After the seeming coolness
between the two women, a remark from Mee Yonge about the love-life of another
‘David’ in ‘Accident Ward’ set the two girls on a swapping of twists and turns
and characters in the soap operas that they both now discovered they followed
equally avidly, and in which conversation and on which points, David had no
part to play, and nothing useful to add.
So he fell to the quiet
enjoyment of watching two all too beautiful women talking, Mee Yonge revealing
her longing to go to bed with ‘Cord’ from ‘Queen’s Road’, and Janette, her
admiration for the fiercely independent ‘Jane Rothermere’, the vicar of the
fictional village of St Aldran, in the twice weekly ‘Heaven Bound’.
David smiled contentedly as
he drank wine and poured more in Mee Yonge’s glass, and she more than matched
him for conspicuous consumption, as if she were unaware that its lovely taste
was bringing an equally gorgeous colour to her normally naturally pallid face,
and that she was succumbing to the wicked side of its amorphous charms.
As time and talk advanced,
Mee Yonge eventually became one helpless giggle.
Too polite to tell Mee
Yonge, her guest, to her face that she, Mee Yonge had drunk too much, and much
too quickly at that, as he reached to recharge the helplessly giggling angel’s
glass once more, Janette gave David one of her blackest looks, with a shake of
the head, and silently mouthed: ‘No!’ and he desisted.
Mee Yonge’s always prettily
spoken limited English was, as she tried to stand now, pretty well limited to
the word: “Sorry” as she, unused to drink, became aware she had abused drink,
as it had amused David to encourage her to do.
Janette was gentle and yet
firm with her, as she called upon David to: “Just leave it to me. We can’t have
you taking her home in this state. What were you doing pouring wine down her
like that, you silly idiot?!”
As she had stood up too
abruptly in her intended overcoming of her mindset that her legs were too
rubbery to let her, Mee Yonge’s lovely face left it’s bacchanalian flush
behind, and now reminded David and Janette of the existence of the cliché about
the whiteness of sheets, before it was replaced by a slightly jaundice to green
tinge.
“I so sorry. I think I be
sick”, Mee Yonge exclaimed as she cupped her hand on her mouth, and Janette
rushed to get Mee Yonge’s lovely legs to walk her out into the outside fresh
air, in a bid to save her from vomiting at all, and most especially on the
lounge or hall carpets.
“I so sorry David”, were the
last sweet words David heard as the front door slammed to, and the sound of
poor Mee Yonge retching as she repeatedly repeated a plaintive sad, “Sorry”,
next followed, and made David regret his lust: the incentive for his inventive
insistence on assisting the ingénue to imbibe so much.
………………
It was a while before
Janette came into the house.
Her eventual turning of the
key in the front door, was preceded by the sound of the garage door being
hinged up, the garden hose being unrolled, the hiss of the jet as she hosed Mee
Yonge’s vomit away, and the return lowering of the garage door, after the hose
had been rolled up to storage position.
After she had washed the
puke off the drive, Janette felt a dirty as if by proxy. So it was a further
while still before she settled her lovely rear in the seat alongside David in
front of the television, to enjoy the last of the evening.
David, feeling guilt, and
sensing, completely wrongly, that Janette had been disgusted by his conduct,
was quiet for a time.
Then: “You can’t blame her
for getting a bit tiddly. She’s only a young girl”, he ventured in clichéd
half-hearted defence of Mee Yonge, and thus, as he intended, a transfer of any
residual blame from himself.
“You didn’t need to
encourage her though, you dirty old man”, Janette teased.
David’s head shot round to
see if Janette was serious, and would have been hurt if she was; but, despite
her attempt to playact disgust, Janette’s eyes gave away she was just being
playful.
“Did you see the way she was
looking at you? If I’d have left you two together for a second, she’d have had
her knickers off and your pants down before any lightening could even be
greased”, Janette speculated, to boost David’s wavering masculine morale.
As the cosy couple sat
side-by-side on their sofa, she reached for the remote and turned on the TV and
the DVD player, so they could both watch the ‘Queen’s Road’ episode replay
together.
“Bet she’s a virgin you
know. Never even kissed would be my guess. Such a shy girl, but so very
attractive, you’d think some lucky boy or girl….” Janette speculated, as they
both watched the flickering screen, and the opening credits scrolled down.
As Janette watched the
unfolding story from earlier that evening repeated to her first sighting,
silence from spouse and spouse ensued, and she was completely absorbed in the
unfolding story.
David watched too, seeing
but unseeing with his outside eyes, whilst he slowly undressed Mee Yonge in his
mind’s eye, and the one-eyed snake in his trousers twitched as, for some
unaccountable reason, he thought of rolling stockings up onto, or down off, Mee
Yonge’s legs. Oh god her pretty legs!
The advertising interval
broke ‘Queen’s Road’s’ credibility-challenging narrative thread, and, whilst
the screen flickered and a voice-over from the set, extolled the virtues of a
car breakdown rescue service, the happy married couple turned to each other.
“She said she had a summer
job up at the House. A stable girl, she told me”, David half-yawned as he tried
to unravel who on earth ‘Cord’ was, and what other TV soap he had seen the same
actor in at one time.
“Who?” Janette momentarily
asked, and then drawled: “Oh god, Mee Yonge again…. You’re still thinking about
her are you?…….. She really got to you didn’t she? ………Well, I can’t say I blame
you. She’s a pretty little thing…”
Then, Janette continued,
after a while, as if it had only just registered: “Stable girl? Is that what
she told you?”
“Yes. We got talking on the
train. She said ‘ponygirl’, but I knew what she meant: her English sounds so
sweet, but it does let her down so, such a lot of the time….”, David ventured.
“Mee Yonge is no stable
girl”, Janette responded in a dismissive distant indifferent tone, hinting at
contempt, and yet certainty of knowledge.
“She failed college. Lady
Barnmouth has taken her off her parents’ hands. She is to go into service at
Barnmouth House, but not as a stable girl. She’ll be a long way down the pecking
order from that”.
As ‘Queen’s Road’ came back
and dragged on, ‘Cord’ seemed to have something he needed to tell ‘Beth’, and
was taking no end of time about it, as if he was about to inform her that he or
she had been diagnosed with a terminal illness.
“But I suppose, in a way,
she was right though. Mee Yonge was right in what she said: what she told you
on the train that is”, Janette reprised, absent mindedly, a few moments later
still: before adding: “Mee Yonge is no stable girl, but ‘Ying-Yang’ will be a
ponygirl, and tomorrow Mee Yonge will become ‘Ying-Yang’, under my tuition”.
As it began to be revealed
on ‘Queen’s Road’, that ‘Todd’ and ‘Martina’ over in Canada, were really Beth’s
long lost mother and father, and that therefore, in marrying ‘Cord’, ‘Beth’ had
inadvertently married her own brother; amid the connubial bliss of the Johnson
household, David sat silently amazed, while something shot up in his trousers
like a surfacing submarine, but was trapped by his underwear, so that, risen pleasure-painfully
iron-hard as far as it could, when his testicles cramped, he spurt-jerked his
lust load profusely sticky-hotly impotently on his left thigh …
<>
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