not to save your marriage
By our man who is no stranger to buttering up a tasty crumpet, Derek Tree
|A remorseful Peer of the Realm pleads with his wife to take him back and give their marriage another chance|
Sir Percival Mountjoy, KCBE., MRSA., Bart.,
Ballshover Hall, Deep Bottom, Hampshire
|To: Lady Jane Mountjoy,
My Dear Jane,
I know the marriage guidance chappie said we shouldn't contact each other during our 'cooling off' period, but I simply couldn't wait any more. The day you took the Bentley I swore I'd never speak to you again, but that was just the wounded prep school boy in me talking. I never wanted to be the one to instigate a reconciliation. In those dreams that you found so disturbing (the ones where I always wear nanny's frilly drawers and you dress up as a policewoman ) it was always you who came crawling back to me for a jolly good spanking. But now I see that my pride has cost me a good deal more than the loss of the Bentley and your domestic services. Even for a chauffeur, Scrotum's cooking leaves much to be desired and that sex toy you gave me for our Wedding Anniversary still doesn't fit properly. What's more, it now appears to have given me a very nasty rash! That tomfool of a quack, Stockley, seems to think that some malicious person dusted it with cayenne pepper when he called today to look at Scrotum’s boils. Who would do such a thing?
Frankly, I'm tired of pretending I don't miss you, my angel. I don't care how big your bottom looks in the blue taffeta anymore, or who sleeps in the wet patch, I just want you back, cooking and cleaning and bringing me breakfast in bed as you used to. Perhaps we should let our hearts speak and bugger the hurt and recrimination over who set fire to the east wing and incinerated Uncle Montague's priceless collection of early Victorian whalebone corsets? I look for you between the thighs and breasts of every woman I see, but they're not you. For starters they seem incapable of ironing a shirt cuff properly and will insist on me removing my socks in bed—a request which has never passed your pretty lips, my darling.
Only the other day, when I popped down to the village to collect the rent from Timkins at the Cock in Hand, some foreign filly serving behind the bar who had heard (probably from that interfering old arse, Greebling-Gusset) that I had the largest library in the county, insisted I bring her home with me to improve her English. I don't say this to hurt you, but to illustrate the unfathomable depths of my desperation. She said she was nineteen, with one of those taut, exquisitely proportioned bodies that only youth and a childhood spent training for the World figure-skating Championships in the Ukraine can give you. The sight of her pert bottom wriggling beneath the risible excuse for a skirt she was wearing as she reached up to take down Haversham's Grammatical Primer, is not a vision I am ever likely to forget. Nor, for that matter, is Scrotum. The wrinkled old retainer entered the library with my afternoon tea as Katya (Did I tell you her name was 'Katya'?) was bending over to retrieve the book and clumsily tripping over the ottoman, spilled milk down the back of her blouse! Naturally I insisted that Katya take it off at once as it was sopping wet. It was only when I took her onto my lap to finish drying off her firm, jutting breasts that I fully appreciated what a perfect body she had.
But what does a perfect body mean? Does it make a woman better in bed? Well, in Katya's case, yes, it did. In point of fact she did things to me that even I, with my wide experience of Eastern European gymnastics, found surprising. Did she call 'foul' when I potted the brown before the pink as you invariably do? No, she did not. Nor did she complain when I used her breasts as a rest for my stick after Scrotum broke the metal thingie you always insist on using for those difficult shots into the back pocket. But I digress. Does it make her a better person? Does she have a better heart than your moderately attractive self, my angel? I doubt it. I confess that I'd never really thought about our marriage in that light before.
Perhaps I am finally maturing? Later, after I'd tossed about a half a pint of cream down Katya's lovely, young throat, I found myself thinking, 'Why do I feel so drained and empty?' It wasn't just her perfect teeth, her flawless technique or her incredible suction, but something else. Some nagging feeling of loss. Why did it feel so incomplete? And then it hit me. It didn't feel the same because you weren't there to watch. Do you know what I mean? Nothing feels the same without you, my darling. Even muffins no longer taste the same as when I used to toast them between your cheeks before a roaring fire in the library. Everything Katya did reminded me of you, except when she lay on her lovely, flat tummy on the billiard table and we had a little wager on how many balls I could pot between her widespread thighs.
Do you remember the time Phillida Snogworthy, came to stay with us last year? Well, she dropped by last week with a pot of Boef Bourguignonne. She said she was worried sick that I wasn't eating properly without a woman around. I didn't know what she meant until Scrotum had served the port and we retired to your bedroom to look at some old family snaps of you and Philly at St Angela's College. Well, as you can imagine, we were both pretty well-oiled by then and those pictures of you playing Badminton in your gymslip made Philly decidedly frisky. Before I knew what she was about, her dress was around her waist, her knickers had unaccountably disappeared and I was munching on her beef curtains for dear life. I had no idea the thirty-eight-year-old daughter of an Archbishop could be such a thoroughgoing slut in the sack.
Philly gave me her all, you know, like a real woman does when she's not fixated about her weight or her career and whether the servants can hear us. Then, all of a sudden, she spotted that hideous, antique tilting mirror you insist on keeping on your dressing-table. I'm sure her squeals of delight could be heard in Chortling-cum-Hardy as she put it on the floor between us and straddled it, so that she could watch as I took her roughly from behind. And do you know what was going through my mind as I dumped my load deep inside her wonderfully tight, pussy? 'Why didn't Jane ever put the mirror on the floor?' We've had that old thing for what—fourteen years? Why did you never use it as a sex toy when I was pounding your, very much looser, love tunnel?
This Monday, your niece, Shelly, popped round with my copy of the Judge's restraining order. I know you don't like the girl very much on account of your sister Virginia letting the family down by running off with that dreadfully common little oik she met on holiday in Marbella, but I'm glad to say that Shelly takes after Ginny and not her appalling father, Wayne. For a sixteen-year-old teenager who dresses in those hideous hooded, track suits and Burberry caps young people seem to wear nowadays, she's surprisingly bright and she's been a real brick to me during this very painful time.
Shelly has given me lots of jolly good advice about you and about women in general, despite the fact that she has her own, ten-month-old baby to look after and another one on the way. She's an absolutely super kid who is really pulling for us to get back together, Jane, she really is. Anyway, Shelly was a trifle unsteady on her feet when she called on her way home from the pub, probably because of the enormous bun in her lovely, round tummy and tripped over that hideous stone gnome you insisted on putting in the kitchen garden and fell head first into the compost heap. When I tried to help her up, I fell in on top of her and we were both pretty mucky by the time Scrotum found us and pulled us out with the tractor.
So naturally we took off our filthy things and I joined her in a hot bubble bath while we chatted about happier times. And do you know what struck me as I soaped her heavy, milk-filled breasts? Here was this gorgeous teenage girl with the same DNA as you and all I could think about was how much she looked like you when you were sixteen. Well that made me cry I can tell you. And Shelly too. My goodness, how she cried when I spread the pink cheeks of her lovely bottom wide apart and I tentatively slipped inside her exquisitely tight chimney. But her tears soon gave way to squeals of unalloyed delight as my hands travelled further down her swollen tummy and I began to caress her throbbing love button. Who would have thought that your sixteen-year-old niece would be so keen on being bowled from the pavillion end? It was quickly apparent that she was enjoying it just as much as I was because she shamelessly pushed her bottom towards me and urged me to plunge deeper into her.
Shelly told me that teenage girls simply adore taking a load up Cadbury Alley nowadays because it means they can enjoy full sex without the fear of getting pregnant or having to use those filthy rubber johnnies. Not that it seems to have worked in her case, possibly because after I'd creamed her chocolate chimney, she eagerly invited me into the front door and begged me to give her a second helping, which I was more than happy to do. Well that got me thinking about how many times I pressured you into taking deliveries via the tradesman's entrance and how that may have fueled some of the bitterness between us. But do you see, how even when I was thrusting deep inside your baby niece's cinnamon ring, all I could do was think of you?
In your heart you must know it's true. Even when you caught me with the paper girl last year it was your name that was on my lips when I poured myself into her gaping throat. Don't you think we could start over? Just wipe out all the grievances away and start fresh? I think we can. If you feel the same my darling, please, please, do let me know. Otherwise, can you let me know where the bloody hell you hid the keys to my Aston Martin?Your loving husband,
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