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.
Copyright
Chapter
1
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.”
Chapter
2
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.
“What?”
“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.
Sexual
satisfaction.
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
Half
Blood
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