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The gentleman sat in his old dressing gown. Woollen and tied with a cord. It hung a little open and through that opening stood his even older penis. He was anything but a young man. Beside his armchair stood a small and round mahogany drinks-stand with a single glass of chilled Chablis.
If the truth be told, the gentleman was settling in for a pleasant evening alone reading, the sort of thing old gentlemen like to do, and… perhaps it is not done to reveal this, but it was undoubtedly true… a slow wank by the fireside. But it was not to be. Events were conspiring against his quiet solo evening. Travelling towards him, but not knowing, came the young girl whose vagina was destined to receive his semen that evening. Neither party had any inkling, but that would be the outcome.
The fire in the grate flickered, sending wavering orange light across the room. Behind him electric light from a standard lamp cast sufficient light for him to read, creating a pool of illumination from its heavy and old shade. The recesses of the room were dark. It was how he liked to sit on winter evenings although it was almost spring, just no one seemed to have told the weather. Even the sound of the wind wuthering and moaning outside, gusting at the house and making creaking sounds in the nearby trees fitted his mood. He took pleasure in the fussy Victorian like clutter of the room, the cosy warmth of his fire and the contrast with the cold outside.
He also took pleasure in what he was reading. Not for him modern erotic literature or ‘girly’ or pornographic magazines. His preference was for older erotica, or at least erotica set in a different time. Tonight, he had chosen to remind himself of certain passages in ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover.’ Not a work of erotic literature as such but parts were very much of that nature. Very much. Open in front of him was Chapter 15:
‘Do you know what I thought?’ she said suddenly. ‘It suddenly came to me. You are the ”Knight of the Burning Pestle”!’
‘Ay! And you? Are you the Lady of the Red-Hot Mortar?’
‘Yes!’ she said. ‘Yes! You’re Sir Pestle and I’m Lady Mortar.’
‘All right, then I’m knighted. John Thomas is Sir John, to your Lady Jane.’
‘Yes! John Thomas is knighted! I’m my-lady-maiden-hair, and you must have flowers too. Yes!’
She threaded two pink campions in the bush of red-gold hair above his penis.
‘There!’ she said. ‘Charming! Charming! Sir John!’
And she pushed a bit of forget-me-not in the dark hair of his breast.
‘And you won’t forget me there, will you?’ She kissed him on the breast, and made two bits of forget-me-not lodge one over each nipple, kissing him again.
‘Make a calendar of me!’ he said. He laughed, and the flowers shook from his breast.
‘Wait a bit!’ he said.
He rose, and opened the door of the hut. Flossie, lying in the porch, got up and looked at him.
‘Ay, it’s me!’ he said.
The rain had ceased. There was a wet, heavy, perfumed stillness. Evening was approaching.
He went out and down the little path in the opposite direction /from the riding. Connie watched his thin, white figure, and it looked to her like a ghost, an apparition moving away from her.
When she could see it no more, her heart sank. She stood in the door of the hut, with a blanket round her, looking into the drenched, motionless silence.
But he was coming back, trotting strangely, and carrying flowers. She was a little afraid of him, as if he were not quite human. And when he came near, his eyes looked into hers, but she could not understand the meaning.
He had brought columbines and campions, and newmown hay, and oak-tufts and honeysuckle in small bud. He fastened fluffy young oak-sprays round her breasts, sticking in tufts of bluebells and campion: and in her navel he poised a pink campion flower, and in her maiden-hair were forgetme-nots and woodruff.
‘That’s you in all your glory!’ he said. ‘Lady Jane, at her wedding with John Thomas.’
And he stuck flowers in the hair of his own body, and wound a bit of creeping-jenny round his penis, and stuck a single bell of a hyacinth in his navel. She watched him with amusement, his odd intentness. And she pushed a campion flower in his moustache, where it stuck, dangling under his nose.’
The old gentleman moved comfortably in his chair and sipped from the wine glass. His untouched penis reared from his dressing gown. The image of Constance adorned with flowers had a profound effect upon his mind. No less the idea of Mellors adorned with flowers and the creeping-jenny around his penis. He closed his eyes and reached, imagining the scene, preferring to think of Mellors’ penis erect and strong with the binding plant running around and round it. He smiled and opened his eyes, turning back the pages into the preceding chapter where Mellors had most definitely been güvenilir bahis described erect – ‘darkish and hot looking’ – and had taken his mistress.
‘He dropped the shirt and stood still looking towards her. The sun through the low window sent in a beam that lit up his thighs and slim belly and the erect phallos rising darkish and hot-looking from the little cloud of vivid gold-red hair. She was startled and afraid.
‘How strange!’ she said slowly. ‘How strange he stands there! So big! and so dark and cock-sure! Is he like that?’
The man looked down the front of his slender white body, and laughed. Between the slim breasts the hair was dark, almost black. But at the root of the belly, where the phallos rose thick and arching, it was gold-red, vivid in a little cloud.
‘So proud!’ she murmured, uneasy. ‘And so lordly! Now I know why men are so overbearing! But he’s lovely, REALLY.
Like another being! A bit terrifying! But lovely really! And he comes to ME!—’ She caught her lower lip between her teeth, in fear and excitement.
The man looked down in silence at the tense phallos, that did not change.—’Ay!’ he said at last, in a little voice. ‘Ay ma lad! tha’re theer right enough. Yi, tha mun rear thy head!
Theer on thy own, eh? an’ ta’es no count O’ nob’dy! Tha ma’es nowt O’ me, John Thomas. Art boss? of me? Eh well, tha’re more cocky than me, an’ tha says less. John Thomas!
Dost want HER? Dost want my lady Jane? Tha’s dipped me in again, tha hast. Ay, an’ tha comes up smilin’.—Ax ‘er then! Ax lady Jane! Say: Lift up your heads, O ye gates, that the king of glory may come in. Ay, th’ cheek on thee! Cunt, that’s what tha’re after. Tell lady Jane tha wants cunt. John Thomas, an’ th’ cunt O’ lady Jane!—’
‘Oh, don’t tease him,’ said Connie, crawling on her knees
on the bed towards him and putting her arms round his white slender loins, and drawing him to her so that her hanging, swinging breasts touched the tip of the stirring, erect phallos, and caught the drop of moisture. She held the man fast.
‘Lie down!’ he said. ‘Lie down! Let me come!’ He was in a hurry now.
And afterwards, when they had been quite still, the woman had to uncover the man again, to look at the mystery of the phallos.
‘And now he’s tiny, and soft like a little bud of life!’ she said, taking the soft small penis in her hand. ‘Isn’t he somehow lovely! so on his own, so strange! And so innocent!
And he comes so far into me! You must NEVER insult him, you know. He’s mine too. He’s not only yours. He’s mine!
And so lovely and innocent!’ And she held the penis soft in her hand.
‘Blest be the tie that binds our hearts in kindred love,’ he said.
‘Of course!’ she said. ‘Even when he’s soft and little I feel my heart simply tied to him. And how lovely your hair is here! Quite, quite different!’
‘That’s John Thomas’s hair, not mine!’ he said.
‘John Thomas! John Thomas!’ and she quickly kissed the soft penis, that was beginning to stir again.
‘Ay!’ said the man, stretching his body almost painfully.
‘He’s got his root in my soul, has that gentleman! An’ sometimes I don’ know what ter do wi’ him. Ay, he’s got a will of his own, an’ it’s hard to suit him. Yet I wouldn’t have him killed.’
‘No wonder men have always been afraid of him!’ she said. ‘He’s rather terrible.’
The quiver was going through the man’s body, as the stream of consciousness again changed its direction, turning downwards. And he was helpless, as the penis in slow soft undulations filled and surged and rose up, and grew hard, standing there hard and overweening, in its curious towering fashion. The woman too trembled a little as she watched.
‘There! Take him then! He’s thine,’ said the man.
And she quivered, and her own mind melted out. Sharp soft waves of unspeakable pleasure washed over her as he entered her, and started the curious molten thrilling that spread and spread till she was carried away with the last, blind flush of extremity.’
It was delicious, the juxtaposition of Lady Chatterley’s body and that of Oliver Mellors. Again, the old gentleman closed his eyes and imagined. The passionate enthusiasm of the young, the virility of the man and the readiness of the young woman. The old gentleman’s penis still could stand and did stand on many an evening when the old desire came to him. That strength had not gone from him, but it stood alone. There was no woman to join with, not anymore. His thoughts turned to his well-tended garden and the old stone statue, a copy of one from ancient times complete with visible but ‘soft small penis,’ just as Constance had held in her hand. In his mind the image of the statue somewhat different, where its ‘phallos rose thick and arching’ like his own; yet the garden unkempt. Winding up the stone legs of the classical statue türkçe bahis and very much curling around the erect organ, tendrils of ivy.
Indeed yes! That was how he was. An old man with ivy climbing slowly up him, as if up his old penis, like a fork or spade left by the gardener and not retrieved. The robin might find use for it as a perch, but sooner or later ivy would come.
The windscreen wipers swept back and forth. Ivy Reid stared ahead of her through the rain, going slowly in the traffic on the M1 south. It was atrocious weather. She was not an experienced driver, she had only just passed her test, and now she was travelling south on an awful night. But she had to do it. Her new job was about to start. The car’s heater did not work, and she was cold. Not only did the car’s heater not function but she was none too sure about the car. The occasional drip of water on her leg served as a reminder the bodywork was not good either. It was on its last legs but how else was she to get her ‘stuff’ down south?
If only… if only she could be somewhere warm and cosy. Not doing THIS.
She couldn’t go back anyway. Ivy shuddered. That had been an awful experience. Was it a week ago now? That awful argument, him slamming out of the flat only to return the next morning and it start all over again. She had hit him. It wasn’t him who had done that. Hardly the battered woman, but it had pulled both of them up sharp. ‘You need to go,’ he had said, and she had agreed.
She had gone to stay with her best friend, and it was only when, that very morning, as she had returned to pack away her things from his flat – it was his flat not hers – she had found out. Ivy had realised her best friend was now sleeping with him – they were ‘going out’ – had they been before? She was sure they had. Ivy was over with him but… that had been too much. She had not spoken again to Jill, just grabbed her own stuff and pushed the key through the letter box. All her worldly possessions stuffed in the old car and she had headed off south to the motorway, Manchester done with; boyfriend done with and seemingly best friend done with. Heading south for a new life, just her and an old car.
The car got her to the outskirts of London, got her thankfully to her new flat share. That was a relief. She had been so worried. Ivy had pulled up in the rain, had to park doors and doors away and had walked along the pavement so very relieved to have arrived.
The relief, but not the rain, was short lived. Her happiness at pressing the doorbell and then…
How could they, how could they have let the room to someone else when she had agreed, agreed on the phone, said she would be there that evening. It had been a week ago when she had spoken. How could they have taken someone else in? Just no good to her for them to say the new person was already in the room. No good at all.
No contract, well perhaps a verbal contract, but… she could have argued that, argued that in a court of law but that was not much use that evening or the next day or that week or month.
Ivy sat back in the car, wetter and colder than she had been and burst into tears. How could anyone be so callous? Were there no longer nice people in the world?
What could she do? There was no one in London she knew. She no longer had a boyfriend and her best friend… her ex best friend… gone too. Ivy had no idea what to do. She started the car and drove off, aimlessly, turning into this street and that – and then the engine coughed and stopped. It had got her to where she had thought she wanted to go but that was it. Ivy stared at the windscreen wipers still moving despite the silent engine. Surely the car could not have broken down as well.
But it could, and more followed. The battery had died on her mobile phone. Ivy thought she had been charging it in the car, but it was dead. Was the lead to the charger broken?
Again, the tears came as she sat in her cold car, feeling really cold, in a strange street, in a strange town under the yellow light of a streetlamp as the rain really poured down.
Earlier that evening the old gentleman had turned the page of his book and taken another sip of wine. He was comfortable and content. Before him an evening of pleasant erotic thought and gentle penile stimulation. About ten o’clock, when the clock on the mantlepiece chimed, he would stimulate himself into that particular but short-lived pleasure and then go to bed. He reached towards his erection sticking up nice and firmly between the leaves of his dressing gown. A good feeling as he thought about Mellors and Lady Chatterley, imagining them naked with flowers and the man’s helpless arousal, how Mellors’ ‘penis in slow soft undulations filled and surged and rose up, and grew hard, standing there hard and overweening, in its curious towering fashion.’ Perhaps the pair wandered out into the rain, perhaps güvenilir bahis siteleri Constance led him by the penis. He imagined them undertaking the act with Constance backed up against a tree trunk, Mellor’s penis surging in and out of her wet sex, her white skin getting green not from grass but the bark of the tree. The old gentleman’s hand movements mirrored his thoughts of the sexual intercourse imagining himself as Mellors rather than an interested observer.
The telephone rang interrupting the vivid thoughts in the old man’s mind. He rose with a look of annoyance and walked out into the hallway, his dressing gown open and his organ standing. He could see himself in the tall mirror opposite the telephone table as he answered the call. An old man with a rugged and turgid penis.
He agreed that it was him and listened as Doris Swann explained that her radiators had gone cold and there was no hot water.
In the mirror George Crombie watched his penis descend; his pleasant, erotic evening now spoilt.
“I’ll be around in a jiffy, Doris… Not a nuisance, I can assure you… No, I’ve nothing on this evening… Really, it won’t be a bother at all.”
He sighed as he replaced the receiver. In the mirror his wilted cock hung reproachfully. He seemed to be on call for half the old dears in the district, but, alas, not for them to use his cock, rather to deal with their plumbing and other problems.
Ten minutes later George Crombie was striding up the road in his long, woollen coat, hat pressed down on his head. It was too windy for an umbrella. It was a filthy night. It was very much a bother.
The work at Doris’ did not take that long. Had Doris any idea how the central heating and hot water worked then she could have sorted it out herself. But she didn’t and he did. Despite his desire to return to his ‘reading’ he could not refuse a cup of tea and, of course, Doris did like a chat. It was perhaps an hour later that George Crombie found himself retracing his steps. He had finally managed to convince Doris that he really must get back home, what with the weather and everything but, even then, he had been five minutes at her front door before she had opened it.
The night was no better. The rain got under his collar despite his hat and despite his tie. He grimaced. He did not like that feeling of water creeping down his neck. Beneath his overcoat his trousers were soaked and flapping at his ankles. There was rainwater in his shoes. As he neared his house, he fished in his pocket for his keys noting a rather old and battered car under the streetlamp outside his house. In the car, through the rain washing down the windscreen, he could see a face watching him. He did not like that. Perhaps an irrational fear but whilst he had been in the army and knew how to look after himself, he was no longer a young man.
The old gentleman’s idea became to get into his house as quickly as possible and shut the door. He turned suddenly for his gate and was through it as he heard behind him the car door open.
“Excuse me.” It was a young woman’s voice, not a man’s as he had feared. He had to stop. He turned.
Standing by the car stood a rather bedraggled and sad little figure, bare headed in the rain,
“Might I borrow your phone?”
Was this some sort of scam to get into his house, would a couple of burly male burglars rush past her as soon as he opened the door? But the light of the streetlamps showed no one else in the car. Nor could he see anyone crouching behind other parked cars – and would anyone really be waiting like that on such a night?
“Yes, yes of course.”
“I’ve broken down you see.”
The key went into the lock, “Not a night for that.”
Inside he could take a proper look at the girl. Her ginger hair was plastered to her scalp by the rain and he could see her clothes were wet. Her face seemed unnaturally white and she was shivering. Moreover, her red and watery eyes betrayed she had been crying. It did not look good; it did not look like he was going to be getting back to his ‘reading’ very quickly.
“Would you like me to make you a cup of tea, whilst you ring… the AA?”
“Oh, please and…”
She was crying again.
“Look, sit down.” He led her into the kitchen switching on the fluorescent light which made her blink. It was a harsh light. He pulled out a chair from the table and she sat, wet jean clad legs together, not really very sensible shoes on the black and white chequered lino floor. George Crombie picked up the kettle, filled it, and turned on the gas. “What’s up?”
“Oh,” Ivy said, looking up for the first time and taking in who she was talking to. An old rather upright gentleman, a full head of white hair, neatly parted though wet from the rain around the edges, a bristling near white moustache and rather dramatic white eyebrows to match, dressed in tweed jacket complete with possibly a regimental tie. “I… have you just been out to dinner?” He did seem rather formally dressed.
“No, just been sorting the heating out for a friend.”
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