Sunday, January 18, 2009

The Barington Encounter: Part Twelve

WARNING: The following excerpt of The Barington Encounter may not be suitable for all readers - such as wimps, wussies, and people offended by depictions of human sexuality because they aren't getting laid themselves. It contains content of a frank nature - including heterosexual boinking, adultery, and worst of all the smoking of cigarettes - which may be harmful to people living in the sort of denial that makes them think stuff like this never happens, and also anyone so brainwashed by their clergy that they've been rendered incapable of precisely the kind of critical thinking which might help them understand that their clergy are probably trying to hide something exactly like this from them by brainwashing them in the first place. Parental discretion is not advised, since it's usually parents who are offended by stuff like this, while the teenagers they're trying to 'protect' - in other words, 'lie to' - aren't. ~MSM


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Oh, the Emmerdale theme tune was being emitted by the telly alright, but it wasn’t life on a northern farm interested Felicia Fripp this afternoon - no sirree bob, not by a long shot. In fact, it was an entirely different variety of animal husbandry which was consuming her thoughts just then...

After her confrontation with the alien from next door in her front garden she called up the vicar, Victor Vickers, and more or less ordered him to make a ‘pastoral visit’ - which euphemism seemed to fool everyone in the parish who mattered, as well as quite a few who didn’t. In the meantime there remained only the waiting, during which time she made a lacklustre attempt to put right the disarray she’d caused earlier, even though all of a sudden the fact that even with its mess her decor was pristine enough to feature in a spread in Hello magazine mattered to her not one whit.

Pacing up and down the front room, arms clamped about her newly bulbous chest, taking long inhales on a Chesterfield cadged from one of her husband’s many pathetically hidden packets - as if she was so stupid she’d never think to look for them in his golf bag! - she paused at the ends of each patrol and listened for it... Around and around her lounge she went in the same swirling motion as around and around in her head went the day’s events as well; yet with each pass those same thoughts became as disturbed as a nest of hornets in a lettuce spinner. Then, the tell-tale sound of the vicar’s Ford Cortina as it rounded the corner off of Castlewood Avenue and roared its way down the entire length of the street, first round one corner and then another, finally making its way up the lane and into the open shed in the back garden with all the subtlety of a candidate’s car two days before a hotly contested election.

That’s when she crossed into the kitchen and watched him from the window getting out of the car, his hat pulled low, before fetching one of Denis’ old coats from the boot and opening the back gate, scurrying up the garden path in a way that couldn’t have looked more dubious if it had actually been Denis coming home early in order to shag her brains out. It scarcely needs to be said that such a thing had never once happened, not even when they were newlyweds, although she knew because she’d seen him do it, Denis had often enough done just that with whatever random crumpet the company had assigned him from the typing pool.

The kitchen door opened and before Vickers could close it she hissed at him. ‘You fucking idiot!’

Shocked as he was to hear her utter a profanity, he pushed the door closed a little too roughly, rattling its numerous panes of glass into the deal. He even dared utter a peevish ‘Shush woman!’ before she’d uncrossed her arms; when she did, and when a voluptuous bosom that had never been there before sprang from her chest, Vickers’ eyes widened at the sight. It was a look which infuriated her further, which infuriation of hers aroused him all the more, which arousal of his flushed her genitalia with what felt like magma; a vicious cycle was developing - one which typically ended in a tangle of sweaty limbs and the moral morass which sadly too often accompanies it. While normally Felicia Fripp would have organized a hundred sheep-like protestors from the church into picketing such a thing inside twenty minutes - even if it occurred at night-time behind closed doors within the full sacrament of marriage - today she was feeling lusty enough to just let it happen. So rather than scolding him for shushing her, she cried out: ‘One of the aliens who just moved into number 14 put a curse on me!’

There was no part of her statement Victor Vickers understood - not the part about the alien and certainly not the part about the curse, although to be fair he had heard of the number 14, and suspected even without the context that it was also the number of a neighbouring house. Given the sight he now beheld with less and less blood accessible to his brain, though, his lack of understanding mattered to him not one whit. ‘Funny how an alien could put a curse on you that would turn out to be such a blessing to me,’ he said, approaching her like a silent movie villain, licking his lips and wringing his hands, demonstrating an earthiness which ill-suited his middle class upbringing.

With a disgusted exhalation she lit a new cigarette from the remainder of the old one then with a snap of her wrist tossed the fag-end the length of the kitchen, hitting the sink with deadly accuracy, turning on her heel with a haughty demeanour once she had. Of course, she went only as far as the fireplace, where she stood sulking; to which location he dutifully followed her, savouring as he did the sight of the two delicious mounds that had recently replaced her formerly flat buttocks retreating from him in such an ineffectual way that effectively rendered it a tease. Like a schoolboy being bullied on the yard, his cock squirmed this way and that, but failed to break free from the iron grip of his Church of England approved but Jeremy Paxman condemned Marks and Spencer’s underpants.

On the way he also managed to shed his shoes, his trousers, and finally even the cursed pants themselves, slinging his blazer over the chair nearest the fireplace in a neat move that would have better suited James Bond than a suburban clergyman who’d never been suave and was too old to start now. By the time his hands touched the sweet pink skin of her upper arms he was wearing nothing but his socks and his vest, which sight Felicia Fripp never got a chance to see, fortunately for him, although she was currently so aroused it scarcely would have mattered if she had.

He was behind her now, his rampant tadger and its inspiration assuming an identically furious posture; with one final draw she allowed the still-lit dog end to fall to the grate, and as his mouth began caressing her neck she exhaled in a way you wouldn’t care to have happen at Sellafield but if it happened in your front room in the middle of what until a half an hour ago was a very ordinary day indeed it might surprise you delightfully.

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