I haven't been posting for awhile. Sorry about that.
There is a very good reason though. And this is it ------
As promised, I've been, turning one of my blog stories, The Spanky Bottom Consortium, into a full-length book.
It's filled it with lots more characters – and a lot more outrageous sex.
Rating 18 - Adult Humour – Bawdy. Funny. Definitely very rude.
The quick low-down.
Having run through the vast family fortune he'd inherited, Rodney Augustus St John is flat broke. At 47, and never having done a days work in his life, he's no idea how to stop being flat broke.
A sprawling country mansion to run, an extravagant lifestyle, and no way to pay for it all, Rodney is looking into an empty champagne glass. Until, an unexpected encounter with the wife of a rich friend shows Rodney the road to financial salvation – servicing a county stuffed full of sexually disappointed females.
The Rawlings Hall, ' Stress Relieving Spa for Ladies' is born.
An angry sister, a Russian oligarch, a set of antique thieves intent on stealing his family's silver, and uppity male consorts, all conspire to upset his money making plans.
Rodney is going to have to use all his devious underhand talents to pay off his debts, and get back the feckless lifestyle he so enjoys.
UK Link http://www.amazon.co.uk/Spanky-Bottom-Consortium-Josephine-Vanner-ebook/dp/B01DR4EK8I
USA Link http://www.amazon.com/Spanky-Bottom-Consortium-Josephine-Vanner-ebook/dp/B01DR4EK8I
UK Link http://www.amazon.co.uk/Spanky-Bottom-Consortium-Josephine-Vanner-ebook/dp/B01DR4EK8I
USA Link http://www.amazon.com/Spanky-Bottom-Consortium-Josephine-Vanner-ebook/dp/B01DR4EK8I
And here's the first two chapters, to moisten your, naughty novel loving, lips.
The Spanky Bottom Consortium
By J Vanner
©2016 Copyright Josephine Vanner.
No part of this book my be reproduced or transmitted in any form whatsoever, by any means, electronically or mechanically, and or including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.
The characters and the events in this book are purely fictional from the author's imagination, and in no way represent anyone either alive or deceased.
References to public figures, products and geographical locations are purely fictional with no intent to disparage those products or services.
All rights reserved.
Rodney Gervais Augustus St John, was flat broke. At forty seven he had no idea how to stop being flat broke. It was a problem. He had a large country estate, and a sprawling mansion, Rawlings Hall, to support. He also had a sister. A sister who would take great delight in never letting him forget he'd wasted their inheritance.
He wasn't sure which was worse. Losing his wealth or facing Audrey's sneering scorn.
Life started for Rodney, with a solid silver spoon planted firmly between his toothless gums. A nanny, prep-school, Eton, and a place at Cambridge. His life had been mapped out for him from day one.
Trouble was, nobody thought to ask him, if that was what he wanted. He didn't.
University unleashed in Rodney his true identity. The diligent, nose in his books swot, who never said boo to his overbearing parents, was transformed from the moment he walked through the hallowed gates of Cambridge. He changed into a stay out all night, party animal, who had no intentions of entering a lecture hall, ever.
Rodney's father, Gervais Rodney Augustus St John, didn't take kindly to his son's unexpected show of backbone. He had decided after university, his son would join him at the private bank where he was a director. In a minor role to start with of course, rising in time, to a more senior position, helped by the elder Augustus St John's many contacts in the financial part of the city of London. He did not expect his son to consider gambling on horses as a preferred occupation.
Rodney declining his generous offer of employment was something he hadn't anticipated. His response, to immediately cut off Rodney's only means of income. His monthly allowance from said parent.
At twenty one, with a total lack of ambition, and an indolent nature, Rodney had the terrifying prospect of poverty looming large in-front of him.
Then his parents did him, the one thing, he ever felt the remotest bit grateful for for. They died. Their holiday cruise ship, collided with an oil tanker, and sank, taking to the bottom of the sea with them, all of Rodney's financial problems.
He did feel a mild twinge of loss at his parents going down with the ship. It quickly passed when the family solicitor told him exactly how much he had inherited.
An enormously large trust fund, a substantial amount of off-shore money, and several prime properties in and around London, not to mention the sprawling family home, had overnight become his.
The only fly in this otherwise superbly funded ointment, his nine year old, younger sister Audrey. A sibling he neither wanted or particularly liked. He packed her off to a very reasonably priced boarding school for girls, followed by an equally, very reasonably priced, Bulgarian, Swiss finishing school. Having sorted out his unwanted parental duties, Rodney was free to enjoy his good fortune.
In all his time spent flying around the world, skiing in Aspen, gambling in Las Vegas, sunning himself on exotic beaches, and generally living life to the fullest, it never occurred to him that the money would one day, run out.
Bankruptcy on the near horizon, it was a despondent Rodney, who sat in the book lined study of Rawlings Hall, his family's home for as far back as anyone could remember. He sipped at a fifty year old malt whiskey, gracing the cut crystal glass in his hand, wondering how in heaven's name, he was going to replace all the money he had spent.
The warming heat given off from a roaring log fire gave him no comfort. If he didn't come up with the readies sharpish, his financial arse would belong to the very bankers he had rejected all those years before.
He could try, he supposed, and touch his sister for a loan, though he had a pretty good idea of the outcome of such an enterprise.
Bitch. What was he supposed to do with a nine year old kid? Hadn't he sent her to good schools? Never forgot the silly cow's birthday. Always sent the simpering little idiot presents at Christmas, from wherever he happened to be that year. Often cost him a vast amount of bucks in postage. Ungrateful mare. Thanks to him coughing up for her education she'd had the smarts to make a sizeable fortune for herself. Her wealthy existence, Rodney decided was down to him, and because of his past generosity. No doubt about it, she had an obligation to help him out of his current financial embarrassment.
He hooked the telephone handset under is chin, and dialled her number, in complete confidence of his right to some of her hard earned money.
Audrey's voice-mail message was brisk, and business like. She wasn't in. Leave your name and number. She'd get back to you.
That had been three weeks earlier. She hadn't got back to him.
In all he'd left, he wasn't quite sure, but somewhere in the region of maybe twenty or thirty pleas for help. The last ten or so messages, were the pleas for help. The first twentysomethings were more on the demanding with menaces level.
“Let's face it Rodders.” Rodney's life-long friend, drinking partner, and the other person in his life who had helped him spend most of the money, Giles Patrick Timpson, mused, “I don't think your sister is going to cough up the readies.”
“Exactly how much do you have left?” Giles asked doing mental arithmetic.
He hadn't paid his rent in three months, and he was hoping Rodney, would as usual, help him out. He glumly considered the possibility of eviction followed by the humiliation of having to move in with his own sister. Her bigoted moron of a husband, and their four revolting children. Why she and the troglodyte she married, needed to breed so frequently, was beyond him.
“Well let me see.” Rodney trawled, doing a rough mathematical calculation of his own.
“Sod all really. I have this house, but the damn thing eats money. Then there's the racehorse, another cash burner without much return. And of course, the Jag. None of which I can sell. The house because it's been in the family for generations, and there's a bloody covenant on it that stops me from selling it. No one will buy the horse, it's never won a race, and I'm fucked if I'll sell the Jag. So basically unless you have any money I'm screwed, and as we both know you have spent most of your, I'll rephrase that, all, of your adult life sponging off me. You - my friend are a no hoper when it comes to giving me a cash bail out.”
“There must be something we can do?” The panicked edge to Giles's bordering on hysterical tone, was not lost on Rodney. He laughed inwardly at himself for having been lumbered with such a useless companion. The only thing Giles was good for was a very sensual blow-job, and as he was too stressed to contemplate sex at that moment, Giles wasn't even good for that.
Giles on the other hand was thinking he didn't see why he should have to suck Rodney's cock, if Rodney wasn't going to pay his rent any more.
Neither spoke, as they pondered their disastrous plunge towards poverty, over a glass of the rapidly decreasing supply of Rodney's finest, malt whiskey, when the telephone rang.
A thrill of opportunism raced through Rodney, “This could be Audrey.” He chipped. Swigging the last of his whiskey he picked up the phone.
Not recognising the number displayed on the readout, he answered in a cautious, cagey voice, kept especially for debt collectors, “Hello.”Who is this?”
“Oh Rodney darling, I'm so glad I've caught you. Something terrible has happened, Clive is in hospital.”
It took Rodney a moment or two before he remembered Clive was his golf partner, and the voice at the other end of the line was Clive's wife, Samantha.
“I'm so sorry to hear that.” He replied doing his best to sound sincere but not really caring if Clive lived or died.
“The thing is darling I'm due at a very important dinner this evening. I can't go alone. I was wondering if you would accompany me. I'd of course, meet all your expenses. ”
There are moments in people's lives when a light shines down on them. It's a light that brings with it, bright ideas. Rodney was the recipient of one such light.
Illumination filling his cranium he replied, “Oh my dear that's just awful. How can I not help you dear lady? Of course, I'd be more than delighted to be your escort for the night. What time shall I pick you up?” The promise of a decent four course meal, and not the cheese sandwich he had planned for his dinner, laced his reply with real sincerity this time.
“Oh Rodney you are such a pet. And a true old school gentleman. Don't worry about paying for anything. Clive's already done that and of course, I'll send the car for you.” Her reply was music to his impoverished ears.
Clive's chauffeur slid the Bentley to a stop outside the grand something or other hotel that was hosting the charity dinner, with practised ease.
The deep red carpet that stretched up the entrance steps, and into a spacious hall entirely met with Rodney's approval, filling him with a lifted euphoria that had been lacking since he found out he was broke.
It all went down hill by Clive's smugly smiling face photographed standing next to a large photo of the recipients of that night's fund raising. A group of sullen looking school children in front of a mud hut that would one day be a school bearing the name Clive Braithwaite. The school to be was somewhere in Africa that Clive had no wish to visit, hence the photograph of a photograph. It turned out that Clive was a lot richer than Rodney had realised. The red carpet was solely for Clive's benefit, as apparently he had stumped up most of the cash for that evening's excuse for a piss up.
As soon as Samantha had finished making sure she was photographed by the local press, the red carpet was whisked away. It also turned out that Clive was not much of a sharer, which was a bit of an irony considering what happened later.
Having sat all evening at the top table, drinking as much champagne as he wanted, it had been awhile since Rodney had gulped the deliciously intoxicating wine. And with a sumptuous dinner threatening to burst his undernourished stomach. Rodney's usually cautious sensible attitude to other peoples wife’s deserted him.
There was something rather wonderful about being driven to an event in a chauffeur driven silver Bentley. He was where he belonged. That he had to put up with Samantha didn't spoil the moment for Rodney. He tuned out her constant stream of inane chatter, settling back into the well upholstered seat as he listened to the purr of wealth softly emanating from the car's engine.
“You know Rodney you are a very attractive man.” Samantha strategically placed a hand on his thigh, sliding it slowly up his leg in the direction of his crotch.
“You know Rodney.” She cooed again, lowering his fly zip and manoeuvring her fingers inside his Calvin Kline’s, “You really are a most attractive man. Don't get me wrong, I love Clive, but let's just say he's lacking in the matrimonial department. Too many hours spent making money. Not that I mind that either. And then there's the true love of his life. Golf. I'm not bitter. It's just that I have needs too. And - oh my – you are so well endowed.”
Just shy of six foot, strong genetics had given Rodney an athletic frame and a naturally muscular body. Between tanning himself on sun kissed beaches, skiing, tennis, horse riding, and a passion for Latin American dancing, he maintained his toned body without the effort of ever having to set foot inside a gym. Not that he would have. Hard work and Rodney, didn't exactly go hand in hand.
Too much champagne, and basically not giving a toss what the chauffeur thought, Rodney allowed Samantha the pleasure of sucking him into sexual ecstasy.
“Why don't we go back to your place?” She suggested, delicately wiping her mouth on an expensive silk handkerchief she pulled from her evening bag.
Before Rodney could reply he was more than happy to, 'go back to his place', Clive's all knowing chauffeur had driven them through the gates of Rawlings Hall, and was parking the car.
“Won't your chauffeur tell Clive?” Rodney asked a Samantha, hurriedly removing bra and knickers, as soon as they entered his bedroom.
Her overgenerous boobs bouncing, like a pair of watermelons on a trampoline, she threw herself stark naked onto his bed. Answering his question with the confidence that the rich have over the poor, she said,“Not if he wants to keep his job. And not if he wants to keep earning his usual hush money he won't.”
She's definitely got stamina, Rodney thought a couple of hours later with Samantha still going strong. Oh well, without money, sex had been a bit thin on the ground of late. He decided to make the most of it whilst the going was good.
“Oh sweetie.” Sam, as she insisted he call her, squealed when Rodney thrust his well-endowed, stiff erection, up into Clive's wife's moist, and ready vagina. He pushed his cock up as far as it would go, giving her a third clitoris rippling orgasm.
“That was so delicious darling. Can you fuck me again next week? Say Thursday at 3pm?” She asked diary in hand, pencil waiting to mark the date.
A repeat performance was not something Rodney had anticipated. Poking Clive's wife, was, Rodney assumed, a one off. It really wasn't the done thing, he reminded himself. Bonking a pal's wife once, was by it's very nature, a one off. Doing it twice was backing stabbing to say the least. His manly honour wouldn't allow it.
That was until she unfolded five hundred pounds and spread them out on the bed, saying, “This is for tonight. If you think you shouldn't because of Clive being your friend, I will double it. Of course, I don't expect to be exclusive.” Her smile embraced a knowing nod. “I know several girls in the same position as me. And not to be too blunt about it. I know you could do with the money.”
Rodney was many things. Lazily, immoral, greedy, underhanded, and definitely out for himself, he was also a pragmatist. He needed money. A lot of money. Here was a woman, not too bad looking, and very enthusiastic in bed, offering him money for something he usually had to do the paying for.
A queue of women all paying a for his services, at a thousand a time, was not to be sniffed at.
“About how many girls, are we actually talking about?” His pragmatism asked.
“Well let me see.” She did a quick calculation on her fingers, “Somewhere in the region of twenty or so. For starters. I'm sure the girls know plenty more who would also be interested in your, deeply satisfying abilities.”
Rodney did his own quick calculation. It didn't take much math, to come up with a very agreeable sum total. Second pragmatic question, “How often are we taking about?”
“Some of us one a week. Others once a fortnight.”
Maths and pragmatism joined together, “Two thousand a time and you're on.”
Without the blink of a hesitation she replied, “Done. I'll tell the girls.”
As Giles rubbed soothing balm onto the angry red welds Samantha had so enthusiastically applied with Rodney's riding crop to his backside. Rodney positively glowed with satisfaction at having an address book full of wives, whose husband's were always away on business.
Wife's who'd never had a decent shag in their lives.
“We my friend.” Rodney announced trying not to wince, “Are going into the male escort business.”
Rodney did what he came into the bathroom to do, pee. He idly watched the golden stream splash into the toilet bowl. Finished. Shook his penis. Not bothering to replace the seat, crossed to the basin, and washed his hands.
He stood awhile admiring his naked body in the bathroom mirror. This wonderful piece of masculine machinery, was the salvation to all his money troubles. And to think, he chastised himself, he had this jewel of opportunity staring in front of him every morning, never realising his asset's potential.
Mindful of the need to keep supple, he did a full stretch upwards, then bent down, and touched his toes.
Fitness was the watchword in his new career. A couple of side-turns and three, almost four, press-ups, and he was ready for round two.
Emily, she had refused to tell him her last name. A friend of Samantha's, called to him from the bedroom, “Hurry up Rodders darling. I need you at least twice more before my husband gets home.”
Okay so he didn't have the six pack of a man twenty years his junior - but he had stamina. His body was on the whole firm. His butt showed no signs of sagging. More importantly he could still get his dick up any time he wanted without the aid of chemical enhancements.
'Why?' He asked himself hadn't he thought of this earlier. Getting paid for having sex, instead of paying for it.
Sex was the one thing he was any good at. The only failing he would admit to, was an addiction to wanting sex with as many women as possible. No longer something to consider a failing. He loved women. Getting the odd blow job from Giles, when the female form wasn't available, didn't count.
Life he decided, had it's mysteries. Sighing he went back to satisfy Emily's two thousand pounds worth of multiple orgasms
“Oh Rodders.” Emily squeaked in anticipation at the sight of his, ready for action, erection.
She had a voice that tinkled like a wind chime in a Japanese garden, and a body the shape of a tree trunk. She wore far too much make-up with colours that didn't suit her dyed blond hair. Her breath smelt of the half bottle of vodka she consumed most days. No wonder, Rodney thought, her husband had given up the impossible task of trying to satisfy her sexual appetites. He had to admire her though, for her size, and general inebriation, she did have staying power.
“This needs your big delicious cock.” She giggled pointing at a spot between her open legs. Just below a sparse patch of fuzzy black pubes.
“I'm all yours.” He said splaying open his arms, and throwing himself next to her.
The thing with a women like Emily, Rodney had discovered, was not to look like he was in a hurry. She had to believe having sex with her, was for him, fulfilling a lifetime ambition. She was the one and only one, and that he really enjoyed being in bed with her. Getting paid was an incidental, not a prerequisite.
Rodney had never had a problem lying, especially to woman like Emily. He told them what they wanted to hear. It was why he was making so much money. He replaced the husbands, who had no time for their lonely, frustrated wives. He was the caring, attentive lover they dreamed of, instead of the bed-hogging lump, snoring beside them.
“I want it all over again.” Emily said cupping her hand under his balls and giving them a hefty squeeze.
“Marvellous dear lady. I want it all over too.” Rodney replied, not meaning the same thing as Emily.
With the nasty feeling, he wasn't going to make it on time to his next appointment. He straddled Emily's wide hips sending out a silent wish to be out of the house, as fast as possible. Seconds later, his wish was answered.
The sound of car wheels crunching up the gravel driveway threw Emily into a blind panic. He was thrown off onto the bedroom floor, as an hysterical, naked, Emily did fifty fits all at once.
Rodney couldn't look. Not for modesty's sake. Under the circumstances he hardly thought that mattered. It was what he was looking at that made him turn his back.
Her body had been reasonable, covered up underneath a sheet. All that changed, as she ran around the room, without a stitch on, picking clothes up. The afternoon light from the partially drawn bedroom curtains revealed a drooping belly resembling a stuffed cushion, and a pair of saggy tits that stayed in place with the aid of a substantial under-wired bra.
“Get dressed.” She hissed scrabbling for a lacy thong that did nothing to hide the true horror he was experiencing, from the view of her cellulite creased backside, sticking up at him.
“My husband's back early.”
For a woman of such bulk he was surprised how quickly she sped around the room gathering her recently discarded clothing. Emily, something or other, was dressed before Rodney had started putting his pants on.
“No time.” The scream she mouthed at him may have been silent but his nerves heard it clear across town. Right up to the front door of Rawlings.
“You'll have to dress outside.” Emily hissed dressing faster than an Olympic sprinter with rockets attached to their running shoes.
“Outside. Quick. He'll kill us both.”
The tread of a heavily built man could be heard nearing the top of the stairs.
Throwing open the balcony windows, Emily hastily pushed, shoved and generally jostled Rodney onto the outside terrace.
“Now what am I supposed to do?” Rodney didn't see the point, of being an easily opened doors' distance, from a man who was obviously not the understanding sort.
“Wouldn't it be better if I hid?” He suggested coming back into the bedroom and opening the door to Emily's walk-in wardrobe.
The wardrobe looked remarkedly spacious to him. Certainly spacious enough for him to hide amongst the mountain of clothes she had stored in there. He made to go inside.
“Don't be bloody ridiculous. This is the first place he'll look.” She was talking from experience.
She manhandled him back onto the balcony, her fulsome figure firmly blocking any hope of return to the bedroom.
“Climb down and and hurry up about it. He used to be a boxer. See you same time next week.” She whispered blowing him a kiss. Locking the door, and pulling the drapes tightly together, she left him to his own devices.
Rodney assessed this sudden, and unexpected situation, none too favourably. He was stark naked on a first floor balcony. His clothes, minus one shoe, and a sock, were inside the now firmly out of bounds bedroom.
Between him and the rest of his clothes, was a pair of locked French doors. By the way Emily reacted at her husband's return, were not likely to open anytime soon. At least not by her.
The same couldn't be said for her quite possibly violent husband. Said husband, had the key to the doors, through which, the pugilistic other half, of the woman he had just been shagging, could at any moment crash.
He checked the height of descent. As athletic as he liked to think he was, leaping from a first floor balcony onto some decidedly sharp looking gravel was out of the question.
Directly under the balcony there was yet another set of French doors, above which had a small protruding roof. He knew these opened onto the husband's study. To be avoided at all costs, entered his mind.
Running down the side of the balcony, an ancient looking wooden trellis, with a decidedly iffy attachment to the wall, intertwined, by a brittle dry wisteria that had long passed it's best blooming years.
He had a choice.
Jump. As there was a good chance he'd break something that option was a, no.
Knock to be let back in. Listening to the raised voices and various thumps going on in the bedroom. Another non starter.
Nothing else for it. He was going to have to climb down. Unexpectedly the doors opened a crack and his boxer shorts were flung out.
He heard a faint, “He's in the shower. Run for it.”
“And how am I supposed to do that?” It was all very well for her to say, make a run for it, she wasn't stuck on the balcony. Bitch. The two thousand pound charge, rapidly doubling.
Making a run for it would have been easier if she had included his pants with his car keys in the back pocket. It didn't pass him by that she'd also kept the two thousand pound payment. Definitely an increase in fee.
Still at least he wasn't going to have to climb down with his tackle dangling in the wind. Pulling on his boxer shorts, he threw the rest of his clothes onto the driveway below. Basically, the shoe and sock.
The boxer shorts were worse than useless as the rain began to fall, and no use whatsoever when it came to protecting his well used manhood as he lowered himself over the wall, against wisteria that had been allowed to grow in any direction it chose. Old twigs, and sharp new shoots poked him in places that were impossible to get at with both his hands occupied in clinging to the trellis. Worse than the wisteria. Sharp splinters of old brittle trellis , dug into his bare feet, as soon as he stood on it.
Half-way down, he got the feeling, he was being watched.
Heavy breathing, interspersed by a low rumbling growl, confirmed his suspicions.
As dogs go, she wasn't large but as a dog with a keen sense of territory, she didn't need to be.
Rodney had briefly met the dog in the hallway, passing her on his way up to Emily's bedroom. She hadn't been friendly. By the way she was baring her teeth, he guessed she had no intention of changing her earlier attitude towards him.
“There, there.” He cooed. She returned his there, there, with another decidedly unfriendly growl.
Next he tried, 'Nice doggy', To this the dog added a unpleasant snapping of her jaws, then went back to snarling.
From his indifferent memory of her, he thought her breed to be a cross between a Chihuahua, and a smallish, Poodle. Both types, in his opinion, lap dogs, and therefore not much to worry about when it came to attack dog capabilities.
Roxie, was in fact a pure bred Jack Russell terrier, with a grip that once attached to it's quarry, rarely let go.
She also harboured a deep hatred of men she didn't know. She didn't know Rodney.
Assuming the dog was merely unfriendly, and incapable of doing him any real harm, Rodney continued his descent.
Roxie was no more harmless than her ex-pugilist master.
In a display of remarkable determination, Roxie, leapt.
Hot doggy breath, followed swiftly by a set of strong canine teeth doing their best to connect with his ankle, showed Rodney the error of underestimating the smaller breed of dog.
If the blasted animal didn't shut up, Rodney, had the uncomfortable feeling he was about to meet Mr Emily. As small as the dog was, she was making about as much noise as a pack of bloodhounds hot on the trail of an escaped prisoner.
The thing with dogs is, he was sure, you have to show them who is the master. A less soothing approach was obviously needed.
“Sod off.” He ordered in same tone as his father used with him. It worked a lot better when his father used it. The dog showed no intention of sodding off anywhere. She tried another leap. This time making it as far as his ankle.
Thanks to her efforts, blood dripped in a steady stream between to his toes, onto the gravel. The smell of his iron rich corpuscles, motivated Roxie, to redouble her efforts.
He was stuck between the proverbial rock and a hard place. Up or down. Either way, he was as screwed as Emily had been. And not in the good way she'd just experienced.
Some cosmic force, somewhere, chose to give Rodney a helping hand.
Iron nails that had in glorious days past, been shining examples of strong adherence. Nails that had kept the trellis fixed firmly to the wall, were now shadows of what they had once been. Cold winters, hot summers, well fairly hot summers, it was England after all. Snow, and two decades of turbulent English precipitation, rain, had reduced the nails into old rusty shells of their former selves.
All of this, was of course, unknown to Rodney. Gripping the trellising with one hand, he used his free hand in a misguided attempt to shoo Roxie away.
Roxie was a single minded creature. She had no intention of shooing anywhere. She leapt once more with the determination of a dog on a mission. The target of this mission. Rodney's boxer shorts.
The sound of ripping as the snarling dog laid into his only means of protection, brought with it a horrible realisation to Rodney that he wasn't going to come out of the situation on top.
His woes multiplied as he heard the ominous scrunch of metal leaving brick. The trellis swung outward. Hovered mid-air for a bit, then began to break in two.
With no way to twist around and jump down, Rodney gave in to the inevitable. He let go, and allowed gravity to do it's worst.
At least, he thought, from his now prone position on the ground, at least the damn dog has stopped barking. She also appeared to have vanished.
Apart from some sharp pebbles, and a throbbing pain his back, which he assumed was the result of bruising, his body seemed to have come off quite lightly. All things considered, there didn't appear to be much damage.
Rodney had always considered himself a dog lover. He'd never actually owned a dog. This didn't stop him thinking he liked dogs. He was sure he would have liked Roxie, if he had got to know her better.
As he looked down at the flattened, and very still body of Roxie, it was with relief that the wasn't going to have to find out.
Whilst, he admitted, his squashing her, was a sad misfortune for the poor creature, it was also rather unfortunate for him. He would now have to own up to Emily that he'd killed her precious pooch, and would probably have to give her a freebie.
He wasn't such a dog lover that he didn't unreservedly thank his guardian angel for letting him land on top of her.
He gently pushed a toe into the dog's rump. Dead as a dodo. Rodney reassured himself. Still he couldn't just leave the body lying there. Emily had told him the dog was her husband's precious little darling.
“He loves that dog more than he does me.” Was how she justified having sex with another man on her husband's king-sized bed.
Emily's, whatever her name was, garden, had been designed with the minimal need for any form of horticultural attention. Not a shrubbery in sight. No place to hide the body of a dead dog. Not even a small one. So now what am I supposed to do? Rodney asked himself. Simple, he replied to himself. Sod it.
As if killing his client's treasured pet wasn't bad enough, the rain changed from a drizzle to a downpour. Car keys, and a pair of dry pants, were more important than a dead dog. He needed to get into the house. Leaving Roxie where she lay, he crept around the perimeter of the house looking for a way in.
Emily, and her husband were far too security conscious for his liking. Not a single window or a door was unlocked. It dawned on him that if he didn't do something, he would be stuck outside all night, with only a pair of torn boxers, and a shoe to keep him from hypothermia.
His brain hit on a plan. He would wait until it got a bit darker, which looking at the ugly black clouds overhead, wouldn't be much longer. Then he'd sneak back to his car, break in, retrieve his cell phone from the glove compartment, call Giles to bring some warm clothes, and the spare keys to the Jag. All he needed was a place to hide until then.
A dilapidated potting shed with a door swinging half off it's hinges, offered the perfect solution to his current problem. He made straight for it.
The intensity of the growl he heard behind him was surprising, considering Roxie had been spark out only moments before.
Anticipation of the pain from a strong set of canine teeth clamping themselves to his backside, and Roxie's hot doggy breath slobbering at his heals, Rodney headed at speed for the open door of the shed.
He would have made it too, if the lack of a full set of shoes hadn't got in the way of a rapid pace.
Thoughts of revenge firmly in her sights, Roxie put a spurt on that would have done a cheetah proud. With his shorts between her teeth Roxie hung on to her quarry.
“Bloody dog. Let go at once.” Roxie was not a dog that enjoyed taking orders at the best of times. She rarely did what her master said. She saw no reason to start now. Securely clenched onto the loose fabric at the back of his shorts, she pulled. And then some. Even Calvin Klein's are no match for a vengeful dog. Barking in triumph, she headed back to the house dragging her trophy of Rodney's boxer shorts with her.
“Fuck you dog. And fuck Emily whatever your blasted name is. And fuck client confidentiality. I want my pants, and I want my car keys. And I want them now.” Rage boiled over in Rodney.
Not giving a shit about her husband. Stark naked except for his one sock and shoe, he marched towards the house determined to get what belonged to him.
Through the open dining room curtains, lights blazing, Rodney could see Emily, and her husband sitting down to a dinner he should have been eating.
As he watched, hungry, cold and ready to kill, Roxie ran into the dining room, triumphantly carrying to her master, his boxer shorts.
“Where the hell she get these?” Her master asked.
Where indeed thought Rodney, and how the hell did she get into the house?
“Well?” A familiar voice boomed at a very contrite looking Emily.
His back to him, Rodney did not need to see the face attached to the voice. Rodney had made a packet in the past betting on one punch Williams.
One punch Williams, had earned his name by knocking out his opponents with a single hit.
“Where is he? I'll kill him.” A fist the size of a football slammed down onto the table, sending several pieces of fine bone china crashing to the floor.
Rodney knew when he was beaten. As quiet as a mouse wearing bedroom slippers, he retreated to his car, on the way picking up a large stone for the purpose of breaking his side window.
Limping back to the safety of his car, it struck Rodney that he was approaching the whole gigolo business from the wrong angle. It was all just a bit too clandestine. Being treated like a common street whore, for which he had absolute respect, was not how he saw himself. A bit more wining and dining for the very valuable service he was providing, to a bunch of sexual frustrated housewives should be on offer. And what's more, his psyche complained, rather than being chased by their outraged husbands, those same husbands should be thanking him for giving their wives something they patently had no desire to.
thanks for reading this post...and if you enjoyed the first two chapters – I'd love it, if you bought the book...
The Riotous Writer
Books by the same author ---
The Warlock's Woman