In yesterday’s episode, we left Booby and her son-of-the-soil amour reclining upon a chair in the garden. Read on!
This decrepit leviathan of a seat has been in the shed for donkey’s years – and Kevin obligingly heaves it out into our little trysting spot(a sheltered area, near the sundial) each time he visits.
The weather being exceptionally clement – and all thoughts of Ecclesiastical godparents forgotten – Kevin and I abandoned ourselves to the exquisite lists of lust – and, after a satisfyingly brisk canter upon his lance, I was sated (for the nonce) and lying upon the dear lad’s hirsute pectoral area when, to my horror, trilling voices, and the clatter of cutlery, disturbed the afternoon’s post-coital peace.
Kevin’s ejaculated, ‘Jayzus Christ!’ didn’t exactly help matters.
Fortunately, we were both dressed (other than open zip and fuchsia-flung-panties) – and could have pretended he was just helping me mend the chair, had it not been for three things.
As Godmother Honoria hove into view, warbling, ‘Berengaria, dearest!’ I realised that the springs had finally given up the ghost; that shock had caused Kevin’s battering ram to lock inside my keep – and, worst of all, that we were both immovably wedged and being attacked on all sides by ancient cushion fragments.
With a frisson of horror, I watched the Reverent Percival – who is as blind as a cave crayfish – trip over an inconveniently-placed mole hill (the little buggers get everywhere) and fetch his not-inconsiderable length against the tea table, bestrewing scones, cream, jam and divers biscuits all over the lawn, and shattering much of the rather fine Spode tea set/family heirloom.
Bless him, he then realised that his Christian duty lay in trying to prise his godchild-by-marriage out of her predicament (and, had he but known it, one of her main squeezes out of the old love tunnel).
Blinking amiably, and crunching shards of irreplaceable china underfoot, he said, ‘Do you need a hand, M’dear?’
The resulting half hour was like something straight out of ‘Winnie the Pooh’ – the bit where Pooh gets stuck and all Rabbit’s friends and relations come to the rescue – with much heaving and hoeing and grunting and groaning. The neighbours must have thought I was having a very kinky Vicar-and-Tart-based foursome.
We were flung out, by an exceptionally vicious coiled wire, in the end – and Kevin slunk off, muttering what sounded to me like a Hail Mary. Never knew he batted for the other ecumenical side!
Percival chose to believe my tale of dropping an earring down the back of the chair, Kevin helping me and us both being gratuitously assaulted by an aggressive cushion.
Helga – and I say this reluctantly, for she is not in my good books – certainly came into her own regarding replenishment of supplies, whisking out the second-best tea service and generally smoothing things over.
I will confess, however, that during the melee described above, the faintest second cousin (once-removed) to a blush threatened, briefly, to stain my cheeks.
I may have to retire from society for the foreseeable…
Image of the author with ‘Booby Fellatio’s Lockdown Diary’
Torrid Tales From Booby's Boudoir! 