- a series of stories -
by Eve Adorer
Synopsis: ‘A woman is only a woman; but a cigar is also a smoke’.
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
“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 …