by Edward Lee
“Darling, what’s come over you?” she said with not much disapproval.
Lympton’s trousers were down at once, and since he was far too overweight to proceed in a “missionary” manner, he turned her over his globose belly, then up went her skirt and off went her underlinens, and the rest can be inferred, only to say that the “bird on top” configuration was employed, and quite gustily at that. Lympton’s thrusts upward into her loins were anything but dainty; instead they might best be described as impulses of greedy violence, yet there was no indication whatever of displeasure on Mary’s part. If anything, she widened her thighs all the more for it was greed on her own part with which she instituted herself as the recipient of her husband’s primal lust. The noises of pleasure that escaped her throat, and her facial gestures, would be too difficult to reproduce here.
Lympton’s upward thrusts took on the nature of rising mechanical actions, and he went on like this in a manner of endurance which hardly seemed possible for a gentlemen of his age and weight. For the fourth time of that day, then, his climax detonated—in tandem with several of his wife’s own. Her nearly insane shrieks of pleasure—as well—are not duplicable in print form.
Ah, what a wonderful ‘nut,’ he thought, for he believed the term to part of the parlance of the men in the shipyards. He lay back grinning and heaving, much akin to a beached sea beast. Meanwhile, Mary had sidled over; evidently the tenor of her own climaxes had left her momentarily unconscious. “Sweetheart?” he inquired, nudging her. By George, he jested, I would certainly be the talk of the club! ‘There’s Reggie Lympton. Word is the bloke fucked his poor wife to death!’” However, another nudge sufficed to rouse Mary, who looked back at him cross-eyed. “Reginald! Whatever’s gotten into you, I must say… I like it! What a lucky woman I am!” You’re damn right at that, he thought. He continued to lie there in the pleasant stupor. Mary, on the other hand, actually had to move off on hands and knees to get to the love seat so that she might stand. As she did so Lympton glimpsed the expenditure of his orgasm running down the insides of her thighs onto the—
Not the carpet! his thoughts bellowed. It’s an 18th Century St. More!
Mary remained dizzied as she stood, ploddingly rearranging her mussed attire. Slack-jawed, she looked down and actually gasped. “My wonderful dear Reginald, your…member— It’s…it’s…”
Lympton remained on the floor, pants down, and the referred-to “member” was still quite erect and big as ever. “Huge, I know, sweetheart. Seems larger than it’s ever been, and, my word, it becomes fully hard at a moment’s thought. It’s that Lympton constitution, I suspect!” and he laughed aloud. Indeed, it stuck up straight as a yard post. He flexed it twice, winked, and said, “Care for another go, my dear? The Captain’s quite randy today.”
A cry of joy escaped her lips. “In the name of the great martyrs King Charles and Lord Falkland, I must return to the kitchen and oversee the evening meal, and I must say I need a rest after that! But mind, Reginald, you must please keep your exquisite ‘Captain’ ready for later, hmm?”
“Of course, darling.”
“Gracious me! After all your wonderful lovemaking I’m afraid I’ve completely forgotten what it is I came in to tell you. Oh, well, it’ll keep!” and then she whisked away.
Lympton released a satisfying “Ahhh…” and thought, That’s quite the pranging I gave her, yes? It’s like I’m twenty again! And I dare say, if that Emily woman walked in here this moment, she’d find herself at the other end of a good pranging herself. Perhaps I’d do her a service and give her one in the arse this time. It would make earlier today seem like infants playing with blocks; and, oh, my, what I do with Leventhorp’s girl! How do you like that precocious tart flashing me her pantie-hamster this morning? Teasing the fat old man next door, aye? Lympton smiled through a stream of thoughts that amounted to a perfect distillation of carnality. Why, John Thursday and I would leave her bow-legged like a horseman. I daresay Leventhorp might even have to push the fickle bitch round in a wheelchair for a week!
Eventually (and in movements that most would find comical), Lympton did manage to re-hoist his trousers and rise to his feet. When he turned back to his business, the image that faced him seemed like a serendipitous reward, even after the tetrad of luxurious climaxes and the satisfaction in the knowledge that even at his age and in his current physical condition, he could still “lay some heavy timber,” as the men in the shipyards would say, and “fill the hairy font”; for what faced him now, of course, was the Patten Doll House, its front raised, and all those wonders of 17th Century workmanship. And the next several hours he occupied by outfitting the interior: the furniture and decor, much of which had had to be removed for transport; the tiny furniture, kitchenware, appurtenances, and various oddments; the placement of the minutely crafted residents, house staff, maids, and so forth—in all, an intricate task but also a task of the most delightful sort. And I do not think that anything else occurred that evening which bears any pertinence to the story.
Except, it might be, the insidious notion that assailed him during his slumber. Did I aforemention that Lympton and his wife did not share a bed? Each enjoyed a separate bed chamber, while Lympton had had installed a half canopied Victorian day bed (itself a valued treasure) in his collection room for such occasions wherein he felt a disposition to sleep amid his most valued possessions. This was one such night.
Several tall sash windows allowed the issue of angled slats of cool lunar illumination, for it was a splendid moonlight night. Lympton’s eyes slowly opened when the clock struck three, but it entailed a few moments’ time for his brain to calculate three salient elements of incongruence with that aural observation.
One, there were no belled or chimed clocks at all in the house.
Two, a consultation with his wristwatch showed him it was the better part of quarter past one.
Three, he’d heard that clock before… “Of all the—”
He assigned the matter to the most prosaic of explanations: the backwash of an unpleasant dream. He closed his eyes to relapse back into sleep; however—
Of a crackling sudden, there entered into his ears—as of some unspeakable ooze—the malefic progression of chimes he’d heard previously at Brown’s—indeed, immediately after he’d also heard the clock strike three when in fact it wasn’t three.
That maligned disharmonious sequence of warped chime-like notes, that blasphemous, unlistenable composition of musical diablerie. It was quite reasonable, then, for Lympton to exclaim, “But this is utter madness!” for no other word could be rightly assigned to this situation. The wretched, caecodemoniacal harmony seemed to follow him as he fled the room. Twice in one day was more than he could stand, so disgusting, so loathsome and so absolutely and ineffably nauseating was this iniquitous succession of notes. And how could this be? Was he dreaming the sound? Thoughts and images of the most heinous nature roiled up in his psyche: thoughts of Satanic carnality and images of torture that could curdle the stomachs of Nero, Count De Sade, and Gilles de Rais alike. It occurred to Lympton that if he could not shake the images from his memory, he would never sleep again.
But then the hideous cacophony stopped at once. Lympton leaned against a paneled wall in the hallway with a hand to his heart. He calmed himself and tried to reckon how that obscene, stomach-prolapsing bit of harmonic clamor that he’d heard early that afternoon (from a seven-foot-high, three-hundred-year-old Longcase grandfather clock, no less) could have been so precisely duplicated here. “For the love of!” Lympton began aloud. “Yes, yes, we oughtn’t panic—of course, it was just a dream.”
Still, though the post-effects of this “dream” had dwindled, he felt unnerved by all the observations one likes least when alone in a nighted hallway: he felt spied upon by the eyes of the family portraits adorning the walls, he thought face-shapes in the clotted dark were surely looking at him, and not with any pleasant intent; he thought someone might be standing behind him but when he spun ro
und—naturally, nothing.
A need to use the water-closet and the short trip down the hall proved useless in dispelling his unease. “Let’s get rid of some kidney juice, eh?” he said, recalling the childhood idiom. Whilst duly engaged in this process, his gaze turned left.
He was looking through the modest window which commanded a view of Leventhorp’s house—a stately manse build in the tradition of Queen Anne’s time, though not half as grand as Lympton’s abode. Only a single lit window returned his gaze as well as…
Movement?
He squinted, as the release of his “kidney juice” had run its course, and—yes!—movement was indeed framed within the window without. “Leventhorp himself, no doubt, likely pissing out all that Medoc I heard he drinks. That old simpering troll. Well, I’ll wager doubloons to Navy lime-peels that my cock is double the size of his!”
However, the next glance proved an entirely different happenstance. It was not Leventhorp in the window across the way, it was Leventhorp’s daughter, who’s name, by the way, was Jane. This titillating recognition came at a moment just before Lympton was able to stow his “tallywhacker” back into the recesses of his under-linens. And of an instant—will you be surprised to hear it?—it grew hard as a the haft of a hickory pick ax. If anything, it felt even larger than earlier, when he’d used it to impale and slop up Mary’s loins, much to her ostensible pleasure.
Across the way, the prim, proper, and ever-the-dignified Miss Leventhorp (surely the reader will decrypt the author’s sarcasm here) exposed her bare breasts to the gaze of her on-looking neighbor, kneading them, and tweezing the nipples with some deliberation.
A lovely vision indeed!
Although, an obviously discrepant component had not yet alerted itself to Lympton’s mind: that though Jane Leventhorp’s display of her upper body was taking place in a small window some fifty meters away, Lympton saw her as if she were but five meters off, and he saw her in a level of detail so concise he could’ve been viewing her through a telescope possessed of a quite high-caliber lens.
The organic distraction, as I’ve said, caused this fact not to register. The image so aroused our protagonist that immediately he considered trotting off to his wife’s room and treating her to more of his husbandly prowess—ah, but what powers were truly at work here? Before he could even turn to leave, Miss Leventhorp elevated herself on some such presumed object—or step stool or what have you—and now brazenly displayed her “private plot” to Lympton, whom she obviously knew was watching. Using printed words to render details of this plot would hardly be couth for the respectable reader; therefore, I’ll say only that what Lympton beheld was potent enough not to permit of his racing off to Mary’s room and seeing to the proper release of his desires. Instead, he was left at the mercy of the “here” and the “now,” and (gracious, I’m certain you will have already guessed) follow the example of Onan in the Book of Genesis and take matters into his own hand, if you will, or “beat his willy like a red-headed stepson” as our friends in the shipyards would say.
Lympton moaned and groaned quite ludicrously, rising off his heels, and, with a pumping hand, effected in no long time the sought after spending of his loins. One spout after another flew from his member’s slitted tip, besmirching the cross-hatched wallpaper. But Lympton’s satisfactory smile turned to a revolted grimace a moment later, when there rose to his nostrils a—well, an odor so noxious it seemed abrupt as a flying brick colliding with his face. In the name of Heaven and Earth, what IS that? he thought, gagging. To say that this inexplicable stench was a hundred times worse than that of the slime at the bottom of a garbage hopper, or a butcher’s scrap can left out in the sun would fail utterly in reflecting a suitable parallel. Beyond that feeble attempt, then, I’ll only say that the stench is not to be described any further.
Stupefied, Lympton turned the night lamp up to ascertain the odor’s source, suspecting a backup in the commode; however, quick inspection proved him wrong. What his eyes targeted next were the copious strings of semen he’d released to the wall, and—
Now that’s a rum thing!
These “strings” were not of semen; they were a blackish, brownish, sickish color, and Lympton didn’t need to lean over far to identify them as the source of the stench.
Whereupon he vomited violently into the commode, after which he felt a bit better in the physical sense, but quite a bit worse in the sense of the not-so-physical. Indeed, when plumes of blackish, brownish, sickish, horrific-smelling slop fly out of one’s penis upon the instant of orgasm, one might be wise to suspect some incipient malfunction of the reproductive tract.
Why, I’ll bet that whore daughter of Brown’s infected me with some pox! he raged. Then a hateful glance back across to Leventhorp’s, but the window the girl had used to display herself was dark.
And then?
Lympton heaved a relieving sign. In re-examining the offending “plumes,” he found them not to be discolored or fuming with that vile stench but instead nothing more than normal spurts of semen.
Hence, again, the most prosaic explanation of all: just the backwash of a dream! Yes, the tainted ejaculation, those Tartarean chimes, and perhaps even Jane Leventhorp’s window-show—all a figment of mind!
Lympton lumbered downstairs for a wee-hour consultation with the ice-box. Just a smidgen of something, he commanded of himself, but the command evaporated when he spied the foot-wide tin pan of Cottage pie awaiting him. He made not long work of it. (And it you’ll pardon this impertinent erudition, the pie knife he cut it with was one of a treasured cutlery set manufactured in 1768 by the lauded Hewitt & Swan silversmiths. Lympton spared no expense for what he eats, nor with the instruments with which he ate it.)
Back upstairs a figure presented itself, that of Collins who was of a typified class of elderly, silent, stubble-chinned men know as night porters. It was his duty to oversee the house in the nighttime, and to report to master or mistress whenever summoned. “Beg’n your pardon, Master Lympton, but there may be dirty work afoot I’m much afraid.”
“In what manner, Collins? All seems in order to me.”
“Well, sir, ‘twas on me rounds as usual when I see a shape leave the water closet, sir, so I go to have a look and, well, sir, I haven’t the savvy to phrase it in an upright fashion, but see, sir, what I discover, was, well—”
“Have out with it, man!”
Collins glanced down at the floor, a redundant observation because if he’d glanced down where else could he have glanced but at the floor? “I find great gouts of well, jism, sir, b’smirching the wall…”
Lympton’ plump face became incised by an amused frown. “Collins, was it really on your mind that a rough customer broke into the house just to masturbate in the hall commode? Mayn’t a squire take himself in hand when the disposition suits him, wherever and whenever he likes? In his own abode?”
The answer startled the man-servant. “Oh, I see, sir, so it was you, sir! I wouldn’t’a thought, sir, that…uh… Many apologies, sir, but felt I bound to name it on account of the hour and all.”
“Fine, Collins, fine. And I think I can reply on my confidence in gentlemen to feel certain that none of this matter will ever pass your lips”—Lympton slipped a 50 note into the servant’s tweed jacket, with a chuckle. “We can’t have the missus becoming aware of this, now, can we?”
“Oh, no, sir, we most surely can’t. You can rely on me, sir.”
“Good, good, Collins. Now be a good man and make a job of cleaning that bit of mess up, will you?”
“I’ll dispatch myself to it right away, sir…but…” The elderly man paused with an irresolution, scratching his head.
“What is the matter, Collins?”
“’Tis a hodd thing is all, sir. My meaning is, well, the figure I see coming out the water-closet—”
“Yes, yes, Collins. It was me. We’ve already established that.”
“Just so, sir, but my point is, well, the figure—the shape—I see my
self didn’t seem nothing a’tall like you, sir. A very thin man, this was, sir, dreadfully thin, it seems.”
This observation only reminded Lympton of his obesity, which left a bad taste in him. “Collins, it’s late, the hallway is dark, and at this hour the mind can have a way of making mischief with our sensibilities,” but next—
Horror filled the night.
A scream of such tenor as to pierce one ear and exit the other—a female scream, I’d be remiss not to add—thrilled through the previously silent house.
“Mary!” Lympton exclaimed.
Now he knew how tawdry novelists could devise such modifiers as “blood-curdling,” “soul-searing,” and the like. The sparse hair on Lympton’s head did indeed stand on end. Toward the source of the scream both men ran—er, Collins ran and Lympton kind of plodded forward with a rushed limp. It was the collection room where he finally caught up to the porter. Collins knelt, tending to a swooned Mary, clad only in her shift whose sheer fabric made no secret of the size and details of her bosom—pardon yet another digression.
“The wife come into the way of a bad turn, Master Lympton,” said the old man, lifting her to the day bed while Lympton huffed and puffed in the doorway. “Shall I fetch the medical man?”
“She appears to be rousing, Collins. Give it a moment.”
Lympton’s prognosis turned out to be the proper one. Sidled over next to Collins, Mary’s eyes fluttered and the color came back to her face. “Lord Almighty…” she uttered.
Lympton stepped forward, arranging his robe tactically because—need the reader be told?—the sight of his wife’s plush body beneath the gown instigated, indeed, another raging erection “Mary, sweetheart, whatever is it that gave you such a scare?”
“Oh, dear,” her breath gusted; she brought an errant hand to her bosom. “It was dreadful, Reginald, but of course I realize now it must have all been a dream. Do you want to hear it?”
