by Timothy Lea
‘Good girl,’ says Nuttibarm. ‘You do that. I’ll slip into my new nightie. It’s going to clash with my night-cap but you can’t have everything.’
‘What do you want us to do?’ I say.
Nuttibarm tugs his beard and smiles. ‘Why don’t you tidy up in the Cuddle Chamber?’
I glance at Jean and she holds my eyes for wicked moment of madness. ‘After tea break,’ she says.
When we leave Professor Nuttibarm — or Ron Figgis — or whatever you like to call him — he is fast asleep on the air bed. It is still expanding and now covers half the room. I ask if I should disconnect the air supply but Jean says that it is all right.
‘It can’t go too far with the leak.’ Those are the words she uses.
I am feeling quite frisky as we trip across the yard. Jean has nipped away for a few minutes and this is something that birds always do when a spot of nooky is on the cards. Nothing has been said but I feel that this is the moment when our smouldering passion could catch flame. We have two hours until dinner so there is going to be no problem about having to do it in our own time.
‘Have you ever been in here before?’ I ask as the door creaks open.
‘Not officially,’ she says. ‘I mean, not in a testing capacity. I came to look once — I mean, there wasn’t anyone here.’
She is getting herself in a right old muddle and I nearly have a go at her on the spot. There is a nasty side to my nature that finds flustered ladies a right turn on. I never go a bundle on the ones who have themselves under control all the time. Cool, calm and collected doesn’t collect with me.
‘What are they testing at the moment?’ I ask.
Jean avoids my probing eyes. ‘Professor Nuttibarm has designed this batch for maximum comfort when in the dormant position. It now remains to be seen how they will respond to other demands that may be made on them.’ To listen to her, you would swear that she was reading it all from a prompt card.
There are four beds in the room, two doubles and two singles. They are all on the bulky side and full of padding as I find when I sit down on one for a moment. ‘Squidgy,’ I say.
Jean looks the other way as if I have said something very wicked. It occurs to me that she may be a bit on the inexperienced side. Kindly Uncle Timmy will have to take her in hand.
‘How does the test work?’ I ask.
‘There are meters underneath the beds that record the degree of — er, stress. After use, the beds are dismantled and their constituent parts examined and subjected to further bench tests.’
‘It seems very thorough,’ I say, lying on one of the double beds. ‘Can you see anything?’
She glances at the front of my jeans and blushes. Percy always gets delusions of grandeur when I lie on my back.
‘No,’ she says.
‘I meant, on the meter,’ I say.
‘Oh — er, well, no. I wouldn’t. You have to do more than just lie on it.’
‘How much more?’ I stretch out my mitt and draw her towards the bed. It is not the kind of dialogue that would have made Noel Coward jealous but, as I have said many times before, it is not what you say, but saying something and knowing when to translate words into actions. If you think back on all the best bangs of your life, I bet you can’t remember what you said to each other before you got on the job. Both your minds were on what was going to happen, not what was happening. Once you have started then it is a different matter. You remember the words — at least, I do. I am not so sure about the birds. I think that they can be a lot less sensitive in the sack than some of those books lead you to believe.
‘What are you doing?’ she says.
‘I’m trying to get you on this bed with me. Come on, what have you got to lose?’
I hold my breath while I wait for the answer to this one because I don’t fancy pointing Percy west over virgin territory. Despite all the work that has been done, the incidence of virginity in the British Isles has not been completely stamped out.
‘I hardly know you,’ she says. This is the classic response and nothing to get alarmed about. It can be easily pointed out that sexual intercourse is a way of getting to know somebody better — and a very pleasant one to boot.
‘I feel I know you,’ I say. I deliver this line with great sincerity and my gaze levelled straight into the centre of her minces. This bird has enormous peepers so there is room for error.
‘Somebody might come,’ she says.
‘You never know your luck,’ I say.
I tighten my grip on her wrist and yank her on to the bed. Once they have suggested the possibility of interruption you are home and — well, not dry exactly. You have established the course of action to be followed and are working out details. I lean across and kiss her gently on the north and south. She sighs.
‘You knew, didn’t you?’
‘Knew what?’
‘That I fancied you.’
‘Do you?’ I try and sound as if the thought had never occurred to me but is a nice surprise, and wrap it up in another Swiss Miss.
‘It’s soft, isn’t it?’ I say. My germans are crawling all over the place so the remark could apply to a lot of things.
‘Do you think it’s too soft?’
‘I don’t know. We’d better find out, hadn’t we?’
She is not wearing a dress under her white coat and I fold my right hand under the top of her tights and burrow southwards.
‘You don’t waste any time, do you?’ Her hand closes around my wrist but not to push it away. Instead, she plucks at the hairs on my wrist. ‘I like men with hairy wrists.’
I kiss her again and indulge in a little hair tweaking of my own.
‘You are wicked,’ she says. ‘I like it when you do that.’
‘How about this?’ I say.
My digits dive down Rudey Valley and play a couple of piccolo solos. The lady obviously cares for that kind of music because her back arches and she pinches the skin on the back of my hand. I kiss her again and lean across her so that I can feel her bristols ruckling against my chest. The elastic on her tights is beginning to cut into my wrist and that is bad because I have a feeling that I am going to need all the circulation I can muster. If my breath is going to come in short pants, her body had better come out of long ones.
I raise myself on to my shapely knees and guide her tights down towards her ankles making sure that I don’t have to dynamite her panties before I set off. The two garments make ideal travelling companions and the journey is uneventful except for a certain amount of resistance from the bed. It really is a bouncy number. If you turned over quickly you would stand a chance of doing it via the ceiling.
Whilst I am clearing the decks for action, Jean is making playful grabs for parts of my body that would not normally be unveiled at the vicar’s tea party unless Miss Bracegirdle had put too much sherry in the trifle. My action man kit is never slow to respond to this kind of interest and lunges forward like a coach load of alcoholics hearing the bolt slide back on the pub door. Jean has no sooner broached my breeches than woman’s best friend bounds playfully into her eager fingers.
‘Oh!’ she gasps. ‘He is big, isn’t he?’
In fact, Percy is dead normal size-wise but he does try awfully hard sometimes and now seems the wrong moment to be modest.
Incidentally, ladies, if you can find the strength to lob out a compliment about your friend’s dick, you stand to do yourself a favour in the long run. You don’t have to say it’s big. Tensile, beautifully marked — anything like that will do. Just as long as you don’t say it’s sweet — unless you mean taste-wise. “Sweet” is OK for your kid sister’s miniature dachshund but it is not going to coax the last ounce of dynamite out of a love-hungry giggle stick.
I am glad that Jean is happy with her new toy and something about the way her fingers are gambolling over the surrounding countryside makes me feel that my fears about her virginal state were groundless. This girl is no stranger to hampton courting. Normally I might proc
eed to a spot more thread shedding but passions are running high and I reckon that all this foreplay is very overrated. Stick it in and wave it about a bit, that’s the best idea. All these books and articles go meandering on about how to arouse birds who just want a good shaft. The poor devils lie there being messed about like a toddler’s dinner when they really want to shout “Get on with it!!” Chances are that by the time the bloke has done a chapter’s worth, his dick has lost interest and packed it in for the day. Whack it in, not pack it in, that’s my motto.
Carrying the principle into action, I kick off my jeans, do a quick back bicycle to get rid of my pants and nuzzle my way in between Jean’s accommodating legs. Percy stands poised at the portal and I savour the moments to come. Six inches of throbbing tonk about to sort out God knows how many inches of pulsating pussy. It must be the match of the century, mustn’t it?
Jean clearly thinks so. ‘Put it in,’ she says.
Who could refuse such a request? Percy leaps forward, jerking the rest of my body with him, and disappears into her snatch like a ferret down a rabbit hole. Jean crosses her legs behind my back. What could be better? Well, the bed could be better. The fault I have previously diagnosed is even more pronounced once you start bashing out love’s old sweet melody and it is clear that Professor Nuttibarm has not produced a Humpers’ Special Mark I. Jean and I bounce up and down like we are having it away on a trampoline and, on one painful occasion, even separate in mid air. I try getting a firm grip of her back bumpers but that puts the mockers on the long piston stroke which is so much a feature of the Lea style. You have got to have the manoeuvrability.
‘Get on top of me,’ I say. This is not one of my best ideas. You know what birds are like — well, I hope you do! They are always slipping off or getting the rhythm wrong and on this bed it is a complete disaster. At the first flick of my hips, Jean sails into the air and damn near puts the kibosh on the whole morning’s entertainment. It is fortunate that Percy is a creature of muscle and spirit otherwise he might have needed a splint.
‘Ooh dear. Is he all right?’ says Jean. ‘I’d better kiss him better, hadn’t I?’
As it turns out, I don’t think anyone could have kissed him better better, if you know what I mean. It is funny how birds change once they are in the sack. I wouldn’t have reckoned this chick to be able to suck an ice lolly without blushing but there she is— well, I’d better not say exactly what she is doing. You want to preserve a bit of mystery, don’t you?
‘Turn over,’ I say. I like the kiss of life as much as the next man but you can’t be a taker all your life, can you? She scrambles over on to her hands and knees and I bounce up behind her like we are playing shunting. Once again I direct Percy towards the appropriate quarter and she reaches a hand between her legs to make sure that Clapham’s Blue Streak is on target. Contact is made and I soar into space.
Jean does not have big knockers but they dangle temptingly like hanging fruit. I squeeze them gently between licked finger tips and unleash a few practice thrusts. Jean makes contented noise and leans forward so that her head rests on her hands. With her in this position I have something to work against and for a few moments of unsullied ecstasy I hear the satisfying “thwack!” of my body against hers. We are still bumping up and down but the situation is under control.
Then I make the mistake of taking my mitts off her tits and grabbing hold of the bedhead. I should have learned from my experience — or rather, lack of it — at Mrs Collier’s. The moment I really start getting a grip, the bedhead unslots and comes away in my hands. For a moment I hang in space and then — crunch! I dive off the end of the bed and collect a faceful of floor. Thank goodness that Percy is able to demonstrate his elasticity otherwise I might have taken Jean with me or ended up auditioning for the Vienna Boys Choir. As it is, I scramble to my feet and dust my kneecaps — they don’t get a lot of credit in these reminiscences but they do a wonderful job of dividing my legs into two parts and I would like to take this opportunity of saying a sincere thank you to both of them — come on, fellows, shuffle out here and genuflect … Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Don’t applaud too loudly or they’ll demand kneeling pads.
I am very upset about falling off the bed. Not so much because of the pain but because of the danger to the romantic mood I have so carefully nurtured. The more sensitive of you will realise that it is difficult to maintain a high level of emotional contact if you keep acting like Charley Drake working piece rate in a custard pie factory.
‘Are you all right?’ says Jean. I notice that she does not offer to kiss my kneecaps better. It does not break me up because they have never been my favourite erogenous zone — I’m sorry, fellows, I couldn’t keep hiding it from you for ever.
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘No thanks to your boss. Has he ever heard of nuts and bolts?’
‘Oh yes,’ she says, very dead pan. ‘He’s a bit nuts and he bolts every time something goes wrong.’
I always wondered who wrote all those mottos in Christmas crackers. Marvellous, isn’t it? Every one is a comedian, these days.
‘Let’s get on another bed,’ I say. I don’t wait for an answer but sweep her up in my strong arms and dump her on the next of Nuttibarm’s death traps. Luckily, she is light as a feather so it is no problem. In fact, I could run up and down stairs with her all day — which, when you think about it, would be one hell of a waste of a good woman.
There is a look that could be fear, reproach, or wind in her eyes but I am not taking any chances. I must immediately set out to recapture the rapture that was ours. Pulling back my joy stick I soar into the air, bank, and dip my nose sharply into a steep love dive. Kami Kaze Lea they call me.
‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!!!’
Like Michelangelo painting the ceiling of the Cistern Chapel — always struck me as being a bloody strange name for it, but then these wops are a bit funny like that — I dart a few electrifying colours on to the walls of her spasm chasm. Her back arches like a hump-backed bridge and her digits plunder my barnet like she fancies me doing a Yul Brynner imitation.
‘Come on, come on!!’ she screeches. When you have been doing this kind of thing as long as I have you soon catch on as to what they are getting at. The lady clearly favours a return match with the old Socket Rocket. Drawing myself up on my faithful knees I enter myself for the lady’s open invitation and set off like hell for the winning post.
Surely, nothing can now interfere with the ecstasy that we both so richly deserve? If it was anyone else but me in line for a half share of the ecstasy the answer would surely be no, but what chance have you got with a moniker like Timothy Lea? No sooner have we applied ourselves to each other than the bloody bed starts squeaking like a field full of mice. Professor Nuttibarm must have supplied all the beds in the Cromby Hotel where I used to work (Confessions from a Hotel). You only had to sit on one to take your shoes off and the noise drove you spare.
‘Oh gawd!’ I say.
‘Go on, go on!’ The lady is obviously going into orbit. In this condition birds don’t care about little things like squeaking bed springs. They wouldn’t notice if all the walls fell down or if the Black Dyke Mills Brass Band started playing “Oh for the wings of a dove” in their earhole.
This bird doesn’t even notice when all the legs fall off the bed. Yes, that’s right. All of them. I suppose I should be grateful. One, two, or three would have been more of a problem. At least I am still in the saddle.
‘Oh!!! That’s fantastic!’ She must believe that it was something I did. Her minces are tight closed so there is no reason why she should think any different.
‘It’s nothing,’ I say — believe me, that is what it feels like too: nothing. How much more is Percy supposed to take? I am all for giving a girl a good time but not at the cost of total rupture. There are two more beds in the room and as far as I am concerned they can get somebody else to test them. I believe they still have a few gorillas at London Zoo. Maybe they would like to risk pe
rforating their pectorals.
‘Go on, go on!’ Jean digs her nails into my bum and jerks her head back.
In this situation there is only one thing to do — give Percy his head — he has already had Jean’s and he can’t have mine because I’m not double-jointed. Furious that they are denied the opportunity of further disintegration, the remains of the bed creak sullenly as I brace myself on my knees — I knew that once I gave them a plug I would never be able to keep them out of the narrative — and drive into Jean like she is the finish of the Monte Carlo Rally. Thousands of cheering people line the route, the bunting billows, Plantagenet Rightberk stands in the doorway — wait a minute! I knew this was too good to last.
‘Loafing and fornicating!’ he snarls. ‘Nothing else ever seems to happen in this place.’
‘We were testing —’ I begin.
‘Don’t bother to tell me,’ snaps Plantagenet. ‘You’re the pervert with the washers, aren’t you?’
‘Not any more,’ I say.
Plantagenet turns away with a contemptuous wave of his hand. ‘Either way, I’m not interested. Where is the chief parasite?’
‘You mean Professor Nuttibarm?’ I say.
‘Correct.’ Plantagenet is watching Jean pull on her tights behind a packing case and he taps the ash off his large cigar thoughtfully. Probably a good idea to get him out of here.
‘He’s working next door,’ I say.
‘Working? You amaze me.’ Plantagenet peels his eyes off Jean like Mum finding a stamp that hasn’t been franked and stalks towards the door. ‘Come on! Don’t just stand there with your shirt tail flapping. Open the door.’ Of course, I should tell him to piss off but thousands of years of conditioning as a serf have made it difficult for me not to respond to the orders of my so-called superiors. Obediently, my hand sneaks out for the knob and I practically touch my foreskin as he sweeps through.
‘Peasant!’ he snaps.
I watch him stalk across the yard, hoping that he will fall flat on his mush, and he turns when he reaches the door of the Development Centre.
