The
Spanky Bottom Consultation.
By
Josephine Sanchez Vanner
Chapter
8 – Oligarchs, bodyguards and things that go bump in the night.
Tetley
Jenkins, antique dealer cum auctioneer, better described, as a
chancer, fencer of stolen goods and lecherous dirty old man for a
certain type of woman – the type that had a pulse.
He
had been brought up, as he would often say, singularly by his dear
old mam. Not because his father had absconded and left his mother to
bring up her child alone – but because she wasn't sure which one of
the many she had graced her ever willing favors with, actually was,
Tetley's father.
Trixie
Jenkins, lived all her life on a large council housing estate on the
rough side of Cardiff. Her Welsh ancestry had endowed her with a big
busted hour glass figure, and her humble circumstances a pragmatic
attitude towards sex and getting paid for it. She saw no reason why
she shouldn't use her voluptuous attributes to get her the good and
expensive things in life that her impecunious start had up until
then, denied her. It was this down to earth attitude to making money,
'with what the good lord has given you' that she had passed on to her
only child, Ivor Llewellyn Jenkins.
“Why
is he called Tetley, this friend of yours we are going to see?”
Jasper asked Giles as they drove the battered Land Rover into the car
park of Tetley's Auction House, slash, Antique show rooms.
“He's
not a friend. We simply do business from time to time.” Giles
replied evasively.
“That
doesn't answer my question.”
“Well
if you must know, he has a certain reputation. He's not entirely
honest when it comes to stolen property. He's what you might call a
bit of a, tea leaf, i.e. Cockney slang, read tea leaf - for thief. If
anyone can find a discreet buyer for the stuff up in Rodders's attic,
Tetley can.”
Jasper's
blank expression forced Giles to simplify, “Tetley, famous brand of
tea, got it?”
As
dawning of comprehension shone out of Jasper's eyes, he nodded and
said, “Ah yes, I see.”
“Thank
god for that, now shut up and let me do the talking.”
“As
I see, it boyo, you want me to sneak into Rawlings Hall, check over
the stuff in the attic and leave again without Rodney St Thingy,
knowing I've been inside his home, and you want me to take the most
valuable items with me and then flog them for as much as I can get,
and pass you the proceeds minus my usual commission? Am I right
boyo?”
“Exactly.”
“Fair
enough. Only you'll have to bring, whatever I decide is worth
selling, to my auction house. Don't want the rozzers thinking I've
pinched the stuff, now do we? When do you want me to come?”
“Tonight
at 11 pm, I'll let you in whilst the house guests are, erm, otherwise
engaged.”
At
exactly 11 pm, quietly and unobserved, Giles, let Tetley, into the
house through the servants back door and up the back staircase.
Thank
god for the snobbery of the English upper classes, thought Giles, as
he led the way. If the upper classes had allowed their servants the
dignity of equal status he couldn't be robbing one now. He chuckled
happily to himself, at the idea of such ironic retribution.
Tetley's
eyes didn't pop when he laid them on the assortment of silverware,
porcelain, paintings and general bric a brac, piled high around
Jasper and Giles's attic hideaway. They sprung from his sockets and
stuck straight out with delirious greed.
“And
you say, Rodders knows nothing about any of this?” He quivered
hoping he wouldn't wet his pants with pleasure.
“No
a clue.” Giles reassured him.
“There
must be at least a million quids worth of stuff here.” Tetley felt
a damp patch of urine encroaching on the middle of his trousers.
Excitement at the thought of such large amounts of untaxed money
coming his way, was sending an uncontrollable signal to his bladder to expunge it's contents.
“Which
bits are valuable?” Jasper asked.
“Well
all of it. Where's the toilet?”
Having
peed until he was empty, Tetley returned to the attic and began a
quick calculation. As Giles and Jasper waited with baited breath, no
one noticed the sound of a Balalaika being badly played drifting
through the house.
“About
a million quid plus, give or take a hundred thousand.” Tetley
announced shortly before Giles fainted.
“All
of it?” Giles croaked coming to.
“Give
or take a couple of things...yes.”
“Oh
my.” Giles drifted off again, then sat up with a start, “How are
we going to get it all downstairs without being seen?” Panic set
in.
“That
boyo is up to you. Get it to my place and I'll find you buyers. I
don't want anything to do with how it leaves this place. As far as
I'm concerned it's all to be sold legit. Okay boyo?”
Jasper
and Giles nodded, wondering how they were going to carry centuries of
assorted valuable clutter out of Rawlings Hall, without getting
caught.
The
right Honorable Lady Cynthia Ambrose-Gorely, widow of the late Sir
Charles Ambrose-Gorely, provided them with the solution. She died
whilst having the best orgasm, of her life.
“Heart
attack.” Dr Shipman diagnosed of the newly demised Lady
Ambrose-Gorely.
“Of
course I could write on the death certificate pleasured to death.”
Audrey's narrowing eyes led him to say, “Heart attack then.”
As
the doctor left he said in passing to Rodney, “I'd check with her
lawyers if I were you, you lucky old dog you.” He then nudged
Rodney in the ribs, winked and left him wondering what on earth the
doctor was talking about.
Giles
and Jasper, having heard the commotion going on in the bedroom below
their attic room, came down to see what all the noise was about.
“Where
the hell have you been?” Demanded an angry and much put out Audrey
as she caught sight of Jasper.
She,
didn't give a damn about what inconvenience death had caused Lady
Ambrose-Gorely, only it's inconvenience to her and that the 'goings on'
at the Rawlings Hall brothel, would now be out in the clear open.
It
had been a busy night for death in Upper Rawlings. The only funeral
home in the town was full up, and as the doctor had certified cause
of death, by natural causes, the local hospital morgue refused to
take the body. With a commercial eye on customer satisfaction and
getting the business of burying such a well to do personage, the
director of D'eath and Sons, dispatched the son part of the family
business with one of their best coffins to Rawlings Hall. He'd given
strict instructions to assure Miss Augustus St John, that the body of
Lady Ambrose-Gorely, would be collected as soon as space had been
made in the Chapel of Peace. The following afternoon, as a burial was
scheduled for midday.
In
her usual take charge manner Audrey, instructed Giles and Jasper, to
wait for the funeral director's son.
If
music is the food of love – then what is a brilliant idea? If not
very close to a banquet for hopeful lovers?
Giles
and Jasper, both had said brilliant idea, as together, they watched
the tall muscular son of D'eath and Sons, unload from his hearse a
large coffin and carry it upstairs to let the mortal remains of Lady
Ambrose-Gorely, rest in cherry wood and white satin peace.
No
words needed to be spoken. Giving an incorrect impression of
reverence for the dead, Giles and Jasper, waited silently, for Son to
put her Ladyship into the object of their desires.
They
kept this discreet silence as they showed the young man to his hearse
and then maintained the same dignified silence as they returned,
heads solemnly bowed, to the large and helpfully deep coffin of the
deceased.
Neither
of them heard the unmelodious strains of a Balalaika being played
somewhere close by. Their only thoughts, how many antique valuables
minus cadaver, could a generously sized coffin, hold.
The
onlooking paying clients decided as the fun was now officially over,
better fun was to be had by Viagra enhanced stiffies. Turning their
semi-naked bodies away, they went back to poking, probing and
generally having a damn good penetrating time, by the well-endowed
male consorts they had at great expense paid for.
Head
in hands, Olek Dmitri Pullemov, sat hunched at the edge of the bed,
where he had so short a time ago, enjoyed the oriental favors of the
Chang twins on. He sat in abject misery at the horrible realization that the scales of justice had fallen squarely on his shoulders. Why
fate had conspired so badly against him? It simply wasn't fair, he
moaned to himself.
Olga,
his wife until death did they part, had decided to depart a little
earlier than he had planned. It wasn't the thought of losing Olga
that had Olek so deeply depressed. It was the thought of all the
wealth and power going along with her.
He'd
have got rid of her himself, if he could have kept everything, but
the old bastard, her father the general had seen to it that he
couldn't do any such thing. He'd been far too clever to simply give
his daughter away without any strings very firmly attached to the
deal.
Their
wedding night lived in the horror memory section of Olek's mind. His
new bride had the unfortunate misfortune to be the spitting image of
her father. Try as he might, Olek couldn't unleash the power of his
virile cock into his wife without seeing her father looking back up
at him. If only he could have put something over her face. He'd
straddled her naked body with his own, and thought about covering the
offending article with a pillow but the temptation to keep on pushing
down was too much for him. Olek had no choice he closed his eyes,
thought of mother Russia, and all the general's money.
It
was this image of her father's face that prevented his marriage to
Olga, being consummated on a regular basis. Olek lamented that
thanks to the general's strong genes, and his own inability to shag
the old bastard's daughter, he was about to lose those things he held
so dear that came as a package with his wife.
Well
it wasn't going to happen. Olek Dmitri Pullemov was going to fight
back for the woman he married and the money he loved. No English,
bourgeois fucker was going to take what he had so rightly earned. A
plan formulated itself in Olek's cunning brain, Vodka and therapy was
what he needed. Olek dialed his cell, called his bodyguards to a
meeting, and began to put in place, Operation Retrieval.
At
the same time as Giles was sneaking Tetley through the back door, a
serious looking individual with sensible brown shoes, red bow tie,
and dark green suit was being shown in through the front door.
Professor
Wilhelmina Von Strudel had been woken, in what she considered to be
the middle of the night, by a loud banging on her front door.
Having
carried out their master's bidding, Olek's two bodyguards, Serge and
Ivan, drove at high speed to the home of the world famous hypnotist
Professor Von Strudel, demanding she come with them, immediately.
When
she refused, Serge showed her his powerful weapon and Ivan thrust a
large amount of money into her hand. As both had been difficult to
refuse, Wilhelmina did the intelligent thing and followed the two
heavies out to Olek's awaiting Bentley.
“How
much of that vile beverage have you had to drink? I can't hypnotize you if you are drunk.” Wilhelmina Von Strudel demanded pointing at
the bottles of Vodka crowding the bedroom.
“Not
a drop. This lot's for later. If you don't work.” Olek replied
lying in a relaxed position on the bed, as per her instructions.
“But
it better bloody work.” He muttered, feeling resentful at being
made to do something he considered to be little more than a
fairground side show act.
The
vodka had been his idea, the hypnotism, Serge’s. Having had it
pointed out to him that therapy could take years, and hypnotism, in
one session of mind over matter could give him the same desired
effect. Speed being of the essence, Olek sent his bodyguards to fetch
Wilhelmina.
The
things I do to stay rich and powerful. Olek said to himself.
His
thoughts drifted, as he listened to the Professor's soft compelling
voice, training his subconscious mind on a new pathway to matrimonial
bliss.
“Is
that it?” He was sure it had only been a couple of minutes since
the blasted woman started.
“Well?
How is this ridiculous nonsense going to change my attitude to my fat
ugly and looking just like her ruddy father, wife?” Olek questioned
forcefully.
“For
a start, you've been under my hypnotism for over an hour.”
Professor Wilhelmina Von Strudel informed him in her assertive German
accent that said, she'd heard the accusation before, ”And secondly
tell me what do you think of when you look at this woman?”, The professor thrust a picture of Olga under her husband's disgruntled nose.
“What
do you think I think of her? She's my wife. Bloody fine looking woman
too. Just look at those thighs, the size of them, they could crush a
bear. Isn't she marvelous?”
“My
work here is done.” Said Professor Wilhelmina Von Strudel in
complete satisfaction.
She
had pulled from the depths of a deviously wicked subconscious mind,
the faint traces of generosity and kindness that lay within it's
folds, and created a paragon of benevolent humanity.
Olek
Dmitri Pullemov had become a man possessed. Possessed with getting
his wife away from the English lord who was threatening his financial
security.
Of
course he didn't blame Olga. No...a good looking woman like that was
bound to attract a man like Lord Rodney. And of course, he couldn't
blame Lord Rodney for wanting a woman like Olga. Why he couldn't
blame him, Olek had no idea. The urge to have him tied up, tortured
and then shot by Serge kept surfacing in his mind, only to be pushed
away again by thoughts of well-being and forgiveness towards his
wife's lover.
Strange,
these feelings of benevolence to his fellow man, he'd never had them
before the professor's visit. As soon as he had got back his beloved
Olga, he would set up a charitable foundation for the poor and
underprivileged in honor of her late father.
Olek
longed with all his heart to have back his gorgeous wife, and take
her in his arms once again. Unusually he was also filled with desire
to ravished her naked body, squeeze her naked buttocks and rub his
giant prick between her equally giant boobs.
With
a newly acquired Balalaika, thanks to Ivan, clutched firmly between
his talentless sausages for fingers he made for where he knew Olga to
be.
Call
me a sentimental old fool. He told himself. Not that many would.
“What's
that appalling noise?” Rodney exclaimed disturbed mid pump as he
straddled across Olga's plump naked flesh, wobbling excitedly below
him.
“It's
a Balalaika.” Olga replied her eyes misting over.
The
delicate tune of a beautiful Russian love song, played with a
murderous lack of musical skill, wailed directly outside Rodney's
bedroom door, “It's bally-lika annoying.”
He
resumed his frantic pounding, unaware that for Olga, the moment of
heated passion had passed. She was far removed from her English lover
jiggling away on top of her.
Olek
had about as much artistic musical flair as a Siberian yak with
hearing problems. The closest he ever got to producing music was when
he farted in the bath - but for Olga, she had been taken to a
different place. In a different time. She was a young girl at her
father's dacha, in love with his handsome lieutenant, dreaming of a
white wedding.
The
door burst open, naked, except for the sash holding up his Balalaika,
Olek, sang to his Olga. As the words of his song choked the air
around her, Olga's resolve to have nothing ever to do with her
husband again, melted as quickly as snow beneath a gushing torrent of
yak's pee.
Olga
and Olek, collided in a mass of unrestrained bulk, crushing between
them Olek's balalaika, and Rodney Gervais Augustus St John's, dreams
of closing the brothel and playing the part of Lord Rodney.
****
The
characters in this short novella are not based on any real person and
are purely fictional from the author's furtive imagination.
I
hope you enjoyed this 8th chapter in my naughty novella -
Coming
Next.
Chapter
9 – The Final Chapter.
Not
with a whimper – but a bang!
Josephine
Sanchez Vanner
Half
Blood –
Turning the Pages Magazine, 2013 Adventure Book of the Year &
2013 Paranormal Book of the year.
Award
winning novel about alien vampires from a distant galaxy, who are the
good guys.
The
Warlock's Woman. A beautiful psychic, an evil warlock
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end.
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My
other blog, connected to my weight reduction book with helpful ideas
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photos
courtesy of freedidgitalphotos.net
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