A VISIT TO LADY CYNTHIA ST JOHN-STEVENS (Akind of Clockwork Orange revisited)
(...Life is a cabaret old chum... Come to the cabaret...)
I have much and many fine words to say to you my sisters and brothers for I am the great-niece of my great-uncle, Alex Delarge. His good work had hardly begun before those nasty little government-driven malochocks got hold of him and twisted and polluted his mind out of all proportionates and good reason, using all manner of unjust tortures and dishonesty to change his behaviour and natural characteristics. How could such good evil be turned into such evil good? It beggars belief. And so, my dear sisters and brothers, your humble narrator has taken it upon herself to resurrect the soul and purpose of Alex Delarge and complete the good work my great-uncle had only just begun all those years ago when the 60s were in the full of swing.
And so off we went in the Grand-Theft-Auto to the not-so-humble abode of Lady St John-Stevens to have ourselves a nice bit of the old ultra-violence and rumpy-pumpy, for it had been a while, you see, almost a week since we last addressed our latent desires and left our mark. Not to put too fine a point on it, we were positively gagging to viddy yet another smutto scene.
My faithful droogettes, that is, Georgie, Pinky, Jojo and my good self, Toby, were all bedecked in our finest scrummy Minnelli uniforms complete with the bowler hats which we had only recently acquired. Lady St John-Stevens lived in the leafy suburbs in a dirty-great posh Dez-Rez with her disgusting pots of ill-gotten spondoolicks and three Persian cats and such dirty riches as to make us all spumey, my God, and we knew she would be alone this weekend, apart from her housekeeper, but that was but a mere detail and so small an inconvenience as to be of no consequence and anyway, it might be good fun to entertain her too if she tried to interfere with our best intentions.
Sir Hugo St John Stevens was to be away on a golfing weekend. Very convenient for what we had in mind. His wife was a big-boned mare of some fifty summers with powerful thighs and fine fetlocks to boot. Her chestnut hair was greying and pinned in a tight bun giving her the austere look of an ancient headmistress. The dear old dear was in favour of sturdy brown brogues and brown stockings and thick brown tweed suit you see, this being her most usual uniform and not mode-vogue at all. But glory, glory be... credit where credit is due... she had the most glorious, most biggest groody stack one's glazzies could ever hope to alight upon and I and my faithful droogettes could hardly wait to expose her charms to the open air for our delectation and inspection, dear sisters and brothers, o'yes!
We anticipated much stubborn resistance from the old biddy when it came to removing her clothing - horsey women are by nature generally feisty, strong-willed and stupidly brave - but she would be no match for the four of us droogettes under the influence of our demons and in such high-octane spirits to boot!
The housekeeper answered the front door with such obvious disdain. I did not care for her manner and took an immediate dislike to her persona. She was too full of herself and I doffed my bowler only as the merest concession to politeness.
She was a grimchick of about forty bleak and hard winters, with lank, greasy hair and a pink floral housecoat and gravy stains. She smelled of kitchens, steamed fish and greens. Well, either she did, or the Dez-Rez did.
"Hello," I said. "We are here to see Lady Cynthia."
The housekeeper scowled at my use of the familiar. "I don't think Lady St John Stevens is expecting anyone this evening."
She looked down her puggy nose at us. Her face was sort of concave, as if it had already been pushed in by some angry malchovik. Well, I kid you not dear sisters and brothers, it would have been no more than she deserved. Her manner and appearance were instantly dislikeable. I personally had the utmost groogy-urge to flush her head down the toilet and into the sewers along with all the people's poo-poos and our sister's blood-stained panky-hankies. However, I digress...
We looked from one to the other and made our googy-glazzies big in the utmost of superficial surprised countenances. "Well, that cannot be so, my good woman," I said, looking her up and down, with equal disdain. I could smell her much stronger now. "Perhaps she has forgotten our appointment. It is all arranged. You see we have been invited to discuss with her the merits of a certain charitable organisation we are presently involved with."
"Of what possible interest is that to the lady of the house? And why are you dressed like that -- in uniform... like something out of a burlesque review?"
"That is for us to know and you to find out," I replied. "And anyway, I do not see what concern it is of yours however we choose to dress, after all, by the looks of you I take it you are merely Lady `C's personal scrubber."
"How dare you, you insolent little madam!"
I smiled sweetly. It's always best to meet a person's indignation with sweetness and calmness. It has a disarming effect. Actually, I did not see why we sisters should in fact discuss our business with a menial of such smelly insignificance, but I hastened to add:
"Our business is about the protection of the wild horses on the Glenthorpe Park Sink Estate. We believe they are under threat from the local community. As you might know, my good woman... Lady Cynthia is herself very fond of our equestrial friends."
She gave me such a look of disbelief that I felt mortally offended. Of course it was an itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny little fib, I admit, but how dare such a smelly grimchick cast our integrity into doubt.
"I'll go and ask her about it," she said. "What name shall I say?"
"Tell her it's the lovely Fiona von Snatch, of the Wild Horses Protection Racket-- I mean... Society, that's W -- H -- P - S, or just Whips for short. She must remember us."
My three attendant droogettes went: Haw-haw-haw, but the humour was lost on the humourless fat dimchick and she gave me such a nasty sneer that I immediately wanted to skewer her glooby-glazzies with one of my three-inch heels.
"I don't believe a word of what you're saying. It sounds like a load of nonsense to me," she said all snooty and self-important-like.
She stood there, watching us, determined to make life difficult for me and my sisters. She folded her fat pastry arms under her gravy-stained groody-jellies like Old Mother Reilly, thus lending them an arrogant and unnecessary elevation.
She bothered me. I was finding her manner increasingly insolent and offensive. Jojo began twirling her cane like a marching band-leader's baton. She marched on the spot. Clop-tap, clop-tap went her heels. She had been a girl guide, very useful because she knew all about tying tight knots and making lovely fires. I gave the dimchick with the pink flowery, gravy-stained housecoat my very best groogy stare.
"Wait here," she said, and started closing the door on us. But not before I'd stuck my foot in the jamb, got hold of her around the neck and dragged her out onto the step. Pinky and Georgie quickly came to my aid and held the dimchick's arms at her sides while my left hand covered her gobby-wet-cod-mouth. Mmfff, mmfff, she went. My right hand was holding my trustworthy stiletto, in this case a knife, not a shoe, to her throat.
I felt her go rigid in my arms. The dimchick did her best to bite my hand, until I pricked her throat with the point of the stiletto just to remind her who was holding the high card. She stopped biting. I think she was now regretting not being more hospitable towards us. I nodded to Jojo who knew the drill. I stood to the side of the dimchick, but still keeping hold of her, so that Jojo could give her a good clear whack across fetlocks with her stick. The cane fairly whistled through the air before finding its mark behind the tolchock's knees. She yelped into my hand. It was supreme! O'yes!
"As you can see, fat housekeeper lady, we are on serious business here and we are in the business of being serious. Do you understand?"
She nodded into my hand. Now owing to the dim grimchick being rude and dismissive of the importance of our visit, and also of not smelling sweetly I decided that we would not entertain or detain her any longer and I made a snap decision to dispense with her services forthwith.
It was a swift and tidy incision. She went limp in my arms. The dimchick was thus dispatched to an under-stairs cupboard along with a James Dyson dust devourer and an ironing board. Now my beautiful Minnelli uniform smelled of fish and that made me even more petulant and ready for much ultra-violence.
And so we immediately sought the whereabouts of Lady `C' whom we found seated in front of the HDTV in the lounge. There was a quiz show on: Who Wants to be a Millionaire? Why a filthy rich tolchock wanted to watch something like that when she already herself had her own minging millions, I was at a loss to comprehend. She was knitting something in white wool while a snooty Persian cat kept her lap warm. The log fire sparked and crackled in the grate. Smoke rose up the great chimney. She looked more than a little surprised to see us. I wonder why?
She asked us who the blazes were we, so we told her exactly who the blazes we were and the reasons why we had come to visit her, the main reason being that her beloved hubby was conveniently away and probably at this very moment sipping Brandy in the company of a very attractive blonde tolchock, perhaps someone like the captain of the ladies team, and so he would not be in the way for what we had in mind.
"How do you damned well know where my husband is?"
"I didn't say where he was," I said, "only that that we know he's away. But since your impertinence begs the question, I will tell you anyway where he is. I'll even tell you what he's likely to be doing right now."
Lady `C' looked incredulous. I enlightened the inquisitive, insolent tolchock with some factual data:
"Your dearest beloved is away at Wentworth for the weekend and I should think it highly likely that at this very moment Sir Hugo has his cock-a-doodle pogo stick inserted between the luscious red lips of the ladies' team captain."
"Don't be disgusting! Who are you? How did you get in here? I gave strict instructions to my housekeeper not to let anyone in without my permission. Where is she? Who are you?"
"So many questions all at once... tut-tut. Ah yes, the housekeeper... That would be the grubby, smelly fat grimchick what did her best to make us feel unwelcome. I am obliged to tell you that your delightfully impolite housekeeper has eloped and is presently shacked-up with a certain Sir James Dyson. You must not worry about her. She is quite comfortable now."
"What are you talking about? Sir James Dyson. Who's he when he's at home? What do you want with me?"
The blue-grey Persian cat looked at us, full of disdain too, hissed, and then scarpered. We talked with the stinking-rich tolchock for a while about this and that and tried to soothe her nerve-jangles. I sat in the other armchair while Pinky, Georgie and Jojo sat together on the settee. On the TV goggling box the quiz show host was doing his best to be funny and witty. Like: Haw-haw-haw, I don't think. There was strained laughter in the audience. Chris Tarrant isn't funny at all.
We sat as demurely as our short-skirted Minellies would allow, took off our bowlers and set them on our laps to hide our pretty pinky-pankies which may have become visible as a consequence. I suppose we were all showing a lot of leg, stocking tops and Pretty Polly suspenders and this caused Lady `C's' eyes to occasionally pop and linger on our expansive flanks. She looked, and then looked away, looked and then looked away. She may not have approved at our boldness, but you could tell it made her feel much hot and botherment and itchiness too. Her face looked shiny hot. I bet she was feeling the burn for something naughty. She couldn't keep her eyes off our sleek flanks and fetlocks. We stretched them out for the benefit of her jealous glazzies, making them long and shimmery in our black fisher-meshers. O'yes, my sisters and brothers, she was hot for something alright. And so were we. Yum-yum-yum! Such fun!
I told her for what we had in mind she would need to take her clothes off. "You look a trifle warm, my dear," I said. "You'd feel so much more comfortable without all that cumbersome attire weighing you down. You must be sweltering in that big flop-flop jumper, sitting by the fire. Come now, let's have you."
She had on horrid red slacks, fluffy slippers and a bold-knit shapeless white jumper with a roll-neck. But her lovely groody-stack was still a prominent force to be reckoned with. It was, or should I say, they were magnificent. I could not wait to feel the weight of them in my hands and perhaps even give them a little pinching therapy for good measure. We do so love a little groody-pinching to make the glazzies run with water.
She looked amazed and it was... amazing... the look of total horrorshow on her face. She refused us. "I won't," she said. "What do you think I am?" "Oh dear," I said. "What a shame."
I told her that if she did not undress for us then we would do it for her. "We don't mind either way," I said. But you might find it a more dignified if you did it for yourself."
She gave us the look of a stubborn, crusty old tolchock, all hardness, and darkness like she was ready to call our bluff. But of course we weren't bluffing. She suddenly got out of her chair and made a dash for the door. Her knitting went all over the floor, needles clicking and clattering, balls of white wool unravelling and rolling like snowballs across the floor.
But young Jojo was ahead of her - all sixteen years of her - already barring the exit, holding the cane in two hands across her tight little groody-nubs with the braless pointy tips. She ushered Lady C' back to the settee, tapping at her big, wobbly bottom with the cane as she went. "Now you just sit down there, you naughty girl... you naughty, naughty girl." She said this in a sugary-sweet voice and then suddenly cracked the cane across the grotty-botty which was perfectly presented for such an opportunist event. Lady C' shrieked a shriek in an ear-piercing timbre. "Now sit quietly between Pinky and Georgie, and please behave yourself. We want no more of your silliness. We have business to attend to."
I said: "We were rather hoping you would be more agreeable than this, that you wouldn't give us any trouble. It would be better all round if you complied with our wishes."
"What are you going to do with me? Where's Mrs Smythe?"
"Who?"
"My housekeeper!"
"I've already told you about her so I am not going to waste my breath telling you again. And as for what we are going to do with you... I'm afraid that's for us to know and you to find out, which you will very soon. Anyway, I would have thought that our wanting you undressed might have at least given you a clue."
"I won't undress. I want you out of my house this instant. I'm going to call the police. This is absolutely outrageous, you coming here uninvited like this."
"I couldn't agree more," I said. "But we can't have you calling the rozzers, can we? My goodness, all those fuzzy-wuzzy bluebottles buzzing all around us and interfering with everything... whatever next? Oh no, we can't have that. It would spoil a lovely evening."
Sensing she was going to make a beeline for the remote handset I immediately got to my feet and got there first. It resided on a small coffee table next to the armchair where Lady `C' had previously been sitting. I sat down. The cushion was still warm under my panky.
"Now, just in case you have any further thoughts on calling the local constab, I'll keep the phone over here with me. I think it's for the best."
The old tolchock made to get up in a last ditch attempt to get to the phone but she was checked and immobilised immediately by my able lieutenants.
"Oh dear," said Georgie, "You are being so naughty for us. This just won't do... It just won't do!"
"Quite right, Georgie," I said and waited for Lady `C' to calm down. "That's better, now we're all nice and friendly again and that's the way we like it. Now listen, my good woman, if you do not start taking your clothes off soon, in fact, before I've counted to five, my lovely sister droogettes will do it for you, and don't expect them to be gentle with you. I can see they are getting very impatient and agitated. You won't like them when they are agitated. You are a very stubborn tolchock, I have to say."
"Tolchock? What is tolchock?"
I did not answer the pointless question. I began counting: "ONE... TWO... THREE... FOUR... and FIVE!"
And so we all pitched in, mercilessly going about her person, stripping her systematically, fondling her bits and piecs and pinching her here and tickling her there in between items of clothing we thus disembodied her from until all her milky-white flesh lay bare and gloopy before our glazzies and her groodies wibble-wobbled like such bountiful beauties. Pinch-pinch, tickle-tickle we went, making little pink and red floret marks all over her great white gourds, pretty as roses in the snow. "Don't!" she cried. "Yes, yes!" we cried. "We want to." Pinch-nip-pinch, we went in turns. "Leave them alone, leave me alone, you're hurting, I'm so tender, no more... please let me go... Oh, oh, oh, please don't!" she went. "I can't stand it. I shall be sick!" But we said, "No, no, no, not yet. You must endure it, Cynthia. We love doing it to you while you're all outnumbered and defenceless; you must allow us to have our wicked ways with you." And we went on doing spiteful things just because we loved doing spiteful things. And then finally we got down to her starry panky, which was all oil and glog by this time, she being all excited and vengeful. We yanked at the ginger-brown curly-whirlies until great tufts came away and until she fairly shrieked and hollered and kicked like all blue murder, o'yes! Pinky even had to sit on Lady C's face to shut her up such was Lady C's fretful yap-yap-yap all the time. It was real horrorshow and exultation and much excitement too. She was very strong and spirited and it took all our resolve to hold her down.
But thus subdued we were able to experiment and perpetrate upon her naked body various more advanced torture techniques and licentious acts as were the products of our wild and fanciful imaginations and enjoy her muffled entreaties - into Pinky's smothering botty, no less -- and her discomfort and her writhings. We ignored her requests for leniency and went feverishly about our work while our mood propelled us into ever-merciless and savage debauchery; and until her voice became husky and faint...fainter and fainter...
...Down, down, deeper and down Down, down, deeper and down I want all the world to know... Again, again, again, again Deeper and down Down, down, deeper and down
Francis Rossi, Deeper and Down
And so I and my faithful and beautiful sister droogettes gave Lady Cynthia the good old work-over we had promised ourselves, until all our ultra-erotic violence and murderous lustings and desires had been sated and afterwards we one-and-all released much pent-up passion and emotion between us and laughed like all gay girls laugh:
Haw-haw-haw, hee-hee-hee...
The dear old tolchock lay spent and throat-gurgling and oozing her finest ruby onto the fine Persian rug in front of the fine roaring log fire. She bled generously and we accompanied and celebrated her supreme sacrifice with some much loved panky play. Well, we were all very much excited by then you see.
Haw-haw-haw, hee-hee-hee, Thy sisters are not accountable Can thou not see..?