Sunday, 23 March 2014

Kiss The Orchid

Open wide the doorway to your heart.
Let me see the inner reflection of your soul.
Into enchanted dreams I will ride.
Taking flight into eternity's threshold.

~ Roses At Midnight by Rick Ryckman

Mmh, yes,
Then I'd taken the kiss of seedcake back from his mouth
Going deep South, go down, mmh, yes,
Took six big wheels and rolled our bodies
Off of Howth Head and into the flesh, mmh, yes,
He said I was a flower of the mountain, yes,
But now I've powers o'er a woman's body, yes.
Stepping out of the page into the sensual world.
Stepping out...
To where the water and the earth caress
And the down of a peach says mmh, yes,
Do I look for those millionaires
Like a Machiavellian girl would
When I could wear a sunset? mmh, yes,
And how we'd wished to live in the sensual world
You don't need words--just one kiss, then another.
Stepping out of the page into the sensual world
Stepping out, off the page, into the sensual world.

~ The Sensual World by Kate Bush

Orchid by ILoveCloudyDays

Bless Me Father

Heathdene, Kent


A quaint little English village with a community of just over three hundred.

Situated in the suburbs of Kent and surrounded by the River Dene - Heathdene was the quintessential English village.

St Jude's Church.

It resided at the heart of the village.

An old medieval church full of austere character and charm.

Father Andrew.

It was almost a year since the young priest had replaced the ancient Father Thomas.

And already he had caused quite a stir among his parishioners.

The priest had curly blond hair and a handsome chiseled face with clear blue eyes and a cleft in the chin.

Father Andrew had the face of an angel.

His congregation were as taken with his golden looks as they were by his stirring sermons.

And one such parishioner in particular was transported by the handsome young priest.

Daisy Hardwicke.

"Father Andrew is the prettiest man I ever set eyes upon!" Hardwicke declared dreamily.

She and her sister were looking up at the full moon from her bedroom window.

"You shouldn't say such things!" Molly Hardwicke entreated her "It's a sin"

But there was no mistaking the dreamy look in Daisy's eyes.

And there was no mistaking the smile on her glowing face.

Seventeen and flourishing like a May flower in the noonday sun.

Daisy Hardwicke was pretty and sweet with a spray of freckles across her cheeks.

She had long strawberry blonde hair which she loved to plait beneath her bonnet.

The young girl never went far without carrying a small black leather Bible in her pocket and small gold cross at her chest.

"You must have noticed how pretty he is!" Daisy Hardwicke asserted.

"This is nonsense!" Molly Hardwicke replied "He is a priest!"

"And a man too!" Daisy exclaimed.

The Hardwicke's were good Christian pilgrims.

At the head of the family was Edgar Hardwicke.

Hardwicke was a labourer and counted as a pillar of the community.

He was tall and good looking with bushy black hair, brown eyes and a ruddy complexion.

His wife Abigail was a cleaner at the local school.

She was small and pretty with blonde hair and grey eyes.

By the time she conceived Molly and Daisy, Abigail Hardwicke had already buried four children.

Infant mortality was part of life at this time and all four of Abigail's children had died in infancy.

They were buried in the village cemetery.

Molly Hardwicke was older than Daisy by two years.

She was petite and attractive with long black hair and bright green eyes.

Molly Hardwicke was regarded as the brighter sister.

Daisy Hardwicke was the dreamer.

And something had happened to the Daisy.

Something she had never experienced before.


"I am sure the Lord would not begrudge me the appreciation of his creation!" Daisy Hardwicke informed her sister brightly.

"Oh sister -you'll get yourself into trouble for talking like that!" Molly Hardwicke chided her.

But Daisy did not care.

Father Andrew was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

Daisy Hardwicke was of an age when a handsome face could easily turn her head.

And Father Andrew was not like the immature lads of her own age

They were still wet behind the ears.

Father Andrew was young enough to be in her orbit.

And old enough to know what to do with her.

He had eclipsed everyone else.

And when Father Andrew smiled, it was like the sun rising in the sky.

And when Father Andrew spoke his resonant voice sent shivers down Daisy Hardwicke's spine as it echoed around the old church.

His big commanding voice.

His fine white hands - delicate and elegant.

His curly golden hair.

His angelic face.

Although Daisy Hardwicke was too naive to know about sex; she yearned at night for the touch of Father Andrew's hands.

She was an innocent yet she had inklings...

Daisy had observed her parents love play when they thought nobody was looking.

And she had seen couples kissing and heard their sighs.  

Father Andrew was a priest.

And he was also a man.

A man of substance.

The Hardwicke's were a religiously observant family.

And they attended church every Sunday.

Abigail Hardwicke was diligent in giving her daughters religious instruction.

And of warning them of the dangers of the flesh.

"Lest you find yourself with child!" Abigail Hardwicke informed them ominously.

Father Andrew had transformed the community of Heathdene.

His youthful energy and verve stood in stark contrast to his predecessor.

Ancient Father Thomas could not hold a candle to the dashing new priest.

"He is perfect!" Daisy Hardwicke sighed.

At night she dreamed about Father Andrew.

And by day she imagined she was his wife.

Daisy Hardwicke believed that life with the priest must be bliss.

And she pictured herself by his side surrounded by admiring parishioners.

Everything was ideal.

In her dreams.

Daisy Hardwicke would have been a fool to think that Father Andrew was unaware of her attentions.

The priest could tell by the teenager's bright eyed stare that she wanted more from him than a prayer and a communion wafer.

Sunday morning.

Father Andrew was standing on the church steps as his congregation gradually filed out into the bright spring day.

Many of the parishioners expressed their gratitude to the priest for his sermon or briefly requested a prayer for some pressing matter.

"Great sermon, Father!" Edgar Hardwicke pronounced as he vigorously shook the priest's hand.

"It's good to see you, Edgar!" Father Andrew informed him with a smile.

Daisy Hardwicke followed her father expectantly.

"Good day to you, Daisy!" Father Andrew addressed her.

The young girl smiled broadly and blushed brightly beneath her bonnet.

She was beaming brightly as she passed.

Molly Hardwicke followed her sister.

She smiled sweetly at the handsome priest.

"Good day to you too, Molly!" Father Andrew cried with a slight nod.

"My daughters are like two summer flowers" Abigail Hardwicke observed as she stood beside the priest.

"Ripe for the plucking" Edgar Hardwicke added as they watched the giggling teenagers walking ahead - arm in arm.

"Indeed they are!" Father Andrew replied with a knowing smile.

As the weeks grew into months Daisy Hardwicke's infatuation with the parish priest only intensified.

In her mind's eye, Father Andrew was everywhere.

She breathed him.

The fires of passion were burning within her.

And Daisy Hardwicke was convinced that she would die if she could not be with Father Andrew.

She had been regaling her sister for weeks with her dreams about the handsome priest.

But Molly Hardwicke's silence had become eloquent.

She no longer responded to her sister's fantasies.

"Clever Molly"

She would never allow herself to be so disordered.

Molly's reticence only intensified Daisy's yearning.

As the weeks passed the love-struck teenager became determined to express her feelings to Father Andrew.

She was of an age.

And so was he.

Girls of her age were already wed.

Everything seemed ideal.

Daisy Hardwicke could only imagine the joy in Father Andrew's golden face when she expressed her true feelings for him.

He would be gentle with her.

There was always a happy ending.

It was late Tuesday afternoon.

Daisy Hardwicke crept into St Jude's Church.

It was a frequent occurrence for the young teenager who came more for the sight of the stunning priest then for prayer.

Daisy Hardwicke lit a candle and crossed herself.

Then she found herself a pew and sat down; bowing her head in supplication.

Hardwicke closed her eyes.

Hoping that when she opened them again he would be standing over her.

Father Andrew would smile down at her and she would quiver in anticipation.

And then after listening patiently to her, he would express his true feelings to her.

He would be hers.

And she would be his.

Desire (by adeb1113
Every time Daisy Hardwicke saw him, it was as if she were seeing him for the first time.

And the wonder of his smile.

She did not have to wait long.

When Daisy Hardwicke at last opened her eyes, Father Andrew was indeed standing over her.

The light from stained glass windows had caught his brilliant blue eyes.

He looked like the Archangel Gabriel.

But he wasn't smiling.

Father Andrew sighed.

"Daisy Hardwicke!" He said simply.

"Father,  I am here to make confession!" Hardwicke declared earnestly.

There was an unmistakable invitation in her bright eyes.

"Go home, Daisy!" Father Andrew informed her firmly.

Her attentions were becoming tiresome.

The young girl was wounded but determined to proceed.

Father Andrew must be trying her.

"Do you ever have fancies, Father?" Daisy Hardwicke dared him.

"I am a priest!" Father Andrew replied sternly.

"And you are a man, too!" Hardwicke responded "I have fancies!"

"This is not meet for the house of God!" Father Andrew asserted "Come now - go home!"

"You are flesh as well as spirit!" Daisy Hardwicke informed the priest.

Father Andrew was silent.

"You are a man!" Hardwicke added.

"This is an unholy alliance and I demand that you leave at once!" Father Andrew commanded her angrily - pointing to the church door.

"If only you knew how much I burn for you!" Daisy Hardwicke declared earnestly.

She reached out a trembling hand to the priest.

But Father Andrew shrank from her touch.

"I demand that you leave this house of God forthwith!" The priest demanded.

Tears were streaming down Daisy Hardwicke's cheeks as she slowly rose to her feet.

Father Andrew had turned his back to her.

The teenager ran out of the church sobbing loudly.

Outside in the bright spring sunshine - Daisy Hardwicke wept with despair over her unrequited love.

One Month Later

Daisy Hardwicke had fallen gravely ill.

Unable to eat and too weak to rise from her sick bed.

They called for the doctor.

Doctor Drummond pronounced Daisy Hardwicke as suffering from "melancholia".

A series of cold baths and "purges" were administered.

But the teenager was slow in regaining her strength and spent days lying in bed and staring into space.

Daisy Hardwicke was plagued with guilt over Father Andrew.

Only she and her sister knew about the infatuation and it was weighing heavily on her conscience.

She felt ashamed and humiliated and only verses from the Psalms would calm her.

One Sunday afternoon Abigail Hardwicke had a message to impart to her daughter.

"Father Andrew asked after you" Abigail informed her gently "he said to tell you that he is praying for you"

Suddenly it felt as if a candle had been lit in a dark room.

It was dawn again.

Daisy Hardwicke could not hide her joy.

The dark shroud that enveloped her had been lifted.

She was was no longer looking into the mouth of the grave.

As the days grew into weeks - the teenager was feeling stronger and more vital.

Soon she was able to sit up in bed and eat without assistance.

Her life was being restored.

And only one thing would absolve her and set her free.

The forgiveness of Father Andrew.

Daisy Hardwicke believed sincerely that she must request the priest's absolution.

For only then could her troubled soul find peace.

"Bless me Father ... please forgive me Father ... for being a foolish girl who forgot herself"

Three days later

Daisy Hardwicke walked purposefully to St Jude's Church.

It was now Autumn.

And the ground was covered in red and gold leaves.

Daisy Hardwicke was perplexed to find the church door bolted.

This was highly unusual during the day.

She walked across to the old vicarage.

Daisy knocked at the door and waited.

There was no response.

Then she walked round the side of the vicarage and peered through the small latticed window.

Daisy Hardwicke could see the unmistakable form of Father Andrew.

He was standing with his back to her.

When he finally turned round, Daisy could see her sister Molly too.

She was wearing the green dress that she only ever wore to church on Sunday.

Molly Hardwicke had taken off her bonnet.

And shaken out her long black hair so that it was cascading over her shoulders.

The wanton act shocked Daisy Hardwicke.

It was as if she were naked before a man of God.

Daisy Hardwicke suddenly felt ashamed.

She was surprised and bewildered to see her sister this way.

Alone with a man.

The couple appeared to be deep in conversation.

And Daisy Hardwicke suspected by the expression on their faces that it was a matter of some gravity.

Suddenly Molly giggled delightedly.

And it sent an icy shiver down Daisy's spine.

Father Andrew leaned in close and kissed Molly Hardwicke full on the mouth.

Daisy Hardwicke gasped with shock as her hand flew to her mouth.

She looked away for several moments - struggling to comprehend what she had just seen.

"Bless me father"

When Daisy Hardwicke looked again through the small lattice window - Father Andrew was holding her sister in a passionate embrace and kissing her tenderly on the mouth.

Time had suddenly become obsolete.

And Daisy Hardwicke had forgotten why she had gone looking for Father Andrew in the first place.

Just then a large crow squawked loudly as it flew overhead and alighted on a spindly tree.

And They Never Said A Word

The Louvre, Paris.

One of the largest museums in the world and a central landmark in the city of love.

There were over 7,500 paintings in the collection including Leonardo da Vinci's celebrated masterpiece.

Mona Lisa.

She looked out at her audience with her enigmatic expression and mysterious smile - utterly inscrutable.

More than 9.7 million visitors passed through the Louvre every year.

From all corners of the globe.

He noticed her gazing at the Mona Lisa.

She seemed to be drinking in every facet of the 500 year old half length.

An elfin beauty with warm brown eyes and abundant raven hair.

She was wearing a summer hat and was dressed in a filmy green Agnès B summer dress that clung to the curves of her body.

A gamine young French woman cast adrift in a vast ocean of tourists.

Gazing in awe and admiration at Leonardo da Vinci's 500 year old masterpiece.

But the young man only had eyes for her.

He was Scandinavian.

Tall and athletic with flaxen hair.

Square jawed and handsome with a glint in his sky-blue eyes.

He was dressed in a tight blue Bench t-shirt and tight blue Levi's that accentuated his muscled body.

She hadn't noticed him looking at her until she turned to him and caught him smiling at her.

And suddenly everybody else in the gallery seemed to vanish.

It was just her and him.

And the dance of love.

The young man's appreciative gaze caused the young lady to smile back.

A seed had been planted.

And already it had sprouted into full bloom.

The flower of love.

With its intoxicating aroma of desire.

He was looking intensely at her.

Devouring her with his keen sky-blue eyes.

She was opening herself up for his pleasure.

And noticing how toned his taught body was beneath the tight Bench t-shirt.

While he imagined slowly unzipping her Agnès B dress.

There was a frisson between them.

An unmistakable animalistic sexual energy.

The Mona Lisa had all but been forgotten.

And they never said a word.

Within a heartbeat he was standing beside her.

Their eyes were still locked upon each other for the longest time.

The electricity between them was undeniable.

And there was a sultry atmosphere in the gallery now.

Even as a swarm of noisy school children and officious teachers surrounded them - the young couple continued to hold each other with their eyes.

Feeling each other.

And they never said a word.

Desire had a language all it's own.

The Louvre had been transformed into a haven of carnality.

A temple of love

In the city of romance.

And a sanctuary for the thrill seeker.

As one young couple gave themselves over to the promise of sensual entanglement.

A curate smiled knowingly as he observed them.

He had seen it countless times before.

Two people finding love in the great museum.

There was passion in the air at the Louvre.

Eventually the woman moved away and walked slowly over to another painting.

His hungry eyes were following her all the way.

She knew that this was the all important moment.

The young woman closed her eyes.

When she finally opened them - he was standing beside her.

And they were both looking at a painting of a Parisian lady of the night lying upon a red velvet chaise longue with her breasts exposed and her red mouth slightly open with desire.

The couple smiled together at the suggestive old painting.

As his hand lightly brushed against hers.

As he fixed her with hot eyes.

And as she returned his intense gaze with large brown eyes full of longing.

An unmistakable surge of yearning coursed through their eager bodies.

Now they were obliged to fulfil the promise they had made with love.

Or Eros.

He continued to hold her with his gaze as he moved slowly away from the painting.

She obediently followed him as he strode purposefully towards the exit.

The couple were walking on clouds.

Throughout all this time - they never uttered a word.

Red Orchid (by emilymhanson
There was a mysterious smile on his handsome face.

And she was smiling too - as she imagined stroking his firm chest with her hand.

She followed him out into a bright Summer day.

As hot as their desire.

They were walking silently down the street.

Every passerby melted into the sun.

The couple only had eyes for each other.

His elegant Parisian apartment complex wasn't far away.

The beautiful young woman followed him in.

Her heart was beating fast as he took her up in the big silver lift.

Their eyes were still locked.

And their bodies were vibrating with throbbing desire.

They barely noticed who entered or left the lift.

She followed him out of the lift and into his tasteful apartment with its minimalist chic.

And into his designer bedroom.

With its big designer bed.

And they never said a word.

Even as they devoured each other with passionate kisses.

Even as they slowly undressed one another.

Even as he gently led her by the hand to the big designer bed.

And bought her to ecstasy.

And she gave him her joy.

They enthusiastically consummated their love.

In the big designer bed.

Countless times.

In imaginative ways.

With the bedroom window wide open.

As ancient and knowing Lena Marcel sat out on her balcony in the apartment beneath his.

Stroking her silky black cat as she listened to the couple making love from his open bedroom window.

The feline purred with contentment as the couple groaned in ecstasy.

Jonah and Clemence Nilsson.

An adventurous young couple.

Fanning the flames of passion.

Role play was part of their love play.

Meeting in countless venues and make believing it was their first time.

Toys and ploys adding to the pleasure.

Of their erotic rendezvous.

Finally the young couple came away from each other.

It was already getting dark outside.

Jonah and Clemence Nilsson lay naked on the big designer bed.

They were drenched in each others body fluids.

The couple smiled at each other with satisfaction.

And they never said a word.

Kiss The Orchid

Baybary, Oxfordshire


Baybery was a delightful market town situated in Oxfordshire,  England.

Fleurs du Soleil.

A charming little florist in the heart of town and an olfactory haven for all erstwhile lovers and connoisseurs.

A floral experience for the senses.

The refined aristocratic woman had deigned to pay a visit to Fleurs du Soleil that bright Autumn afternoon.

It was her sanctuary.

Leyla Fairfax, Countess of Baybary.

A raven haired beauty with slanting black eyes and full pouting lips.

The Countess had impeccable manners and always dressed with panache in colours that set off her olive skin.

And she always moved on a wave of  Mille Fleurs.

Today, the petite woman was wearing a pretty hat and dressed in a red silk dress with puffed sleeves.

Countess Leyla Fairfax was a sultry woman whose presence commanded attention.

And as she moved quietly among the exquisite flowers at Fleurs du Soleil - she relished every moment.

Sighing with pleasure at every turn.

While her elegant footman waited patiently outside atop the hansom cab.

The Countess mouthed the name of every flower as she passed.

Like a lover remembering their bedfellows.

Every species of flower had its own botanical name.

And Countess Fairfax knew them all.

A visit to Fleurs du Soleil was an epicurean experience. 

And the Countess basked in the unabashed sensualism as she roamed around the shop.

Her hand brushed lightly over the delicate flowers.

As if she were gently caressing them.

And enticing them with her fine fingers.

Occasionally the Countess paused to feast upon the unique resplendence and perfume of a particular flower.

Their petals were open to receive her.

And the dusky Countess leaned in close to gently cup the exquisite flower in the palm of her hand.

As she breathed in their intoxicating scent.

And sighed with pleasure.

Like a lover.

The Countess closed her eyes as if she were momentarily transported to a secret place of olfactory delectation.

She smiled broadly with gratification.

The portly shop keeper's wife observed the illustrious visitor in silence.

As she waited patiently behind the counter.

Alice Goodwin.

A short and plump redhead with small grey eyes and a vivid imagination.

Her husband Aiken Goodwin was out of the shop this afternoon to run some errands.

He was a rotund man with a jovial personality.

Aiken Goodwin had ginger hair and mischievous hazel eyes.

And he was even more transfixed by the sight of the beautiful Countess than his wife was.

Goodwin frequently found himself tongue tied and flaccid in the presence of the stunning and mysterious woman.

She was as inscrutable as the Sphinx.

And her flashing black eyes and sweet tongue rendered Aiken Goodwin immobile with breathless admiration.

The shopkeeper's wife watched the Countess gliding gracefully among the flowers.

She surpassed them all in beauty.

For she was an oriental flower of the Levant.

The Countess had been born in Beirut as Leyla Abadi.

Nobody but the Count and the lady in question knew much about her origins.

The Lebanese beauty spoke with a charming accent that nobody could place.

And her English was peppered with French and Arabic words.

The shopkeeper's wife remained resolutely in her place - accustomed as she was to the Countess's weekly visits.

Alice Goodwin was in complete awe of the captivating beauty.

And not just because she always paid a pretty penny for her flowers of choice.

But because Alice Goodwin was mesmerised by the sight of the exotic Countess wandering gracefully among the flowers in her stunning attire as she revelled in all their olfactory glory.

And Goodwin's overheated mind was filled with romantic images of the exotic Near East with its unexplored and unimaginable pleasures.

The licentious East.

The shopkeeper's wife fanned herself lightly as she flushed at the anticipation.

Alice Goodwin wondered what might be lurking beneath the surface with the mysterious Countess Fairfax.

What might be lurking beneath the French silk and crinoline.

Countess Leyla Fairfax was unfathomable.

And there was much chatter among the chattering classes about the origins of the mystifying beauty from the Near East.

One rumour advocated that the Countess was the daughter of rich Arab sheikh while another suggested that the Count had bought his future wife at a curious Lebanese bazaar.

Still more indiscreet tongues opined that the Countess had once been a "lady of the night" and that the dashing Count had rescued her from a life of vice.

Charles Fairfax.

The swaggering Count.

A strapping and strikingly handsome man with tousled brown hair, clear-blue eyes and a fine curling moustache.

The Count's reputation preceded him.

He was a war hero and an adventurer and many people were secretly in love with him.

Alice Goodwin surmised that the Count must be away on some business matter.

Perhaps he was inspecting the orphanage that he was building in Bulgaria.

"Such a good man"

The Count and Countess were pillars of the community.

Alice Goodwin remembered an unforgettable banquet at Fairly Manor - the huge and rambling abode of the distinguished Fairfax's.

The sumptuous residence had seventy-four rooms and was surrounded by countless acres of land.

Aiken and Alice Goodwin were dressed in all their finery but they felt singularly out of place among all the grandeur.

Surrounded as they were by other more eminent guests - ranging from the privileged gentry to minor royalty from around the world.

Alice Goodwin had stared in awe around the enormous dining table as the servants served them dinner from large silver platters.

All this because the Countess bought her flowers from Fleurs du Soleil.

Alice Goodwin kept nudging her husband and pinching herself in case it was all a dream that she would soon wake up from.

But it wasn't.

And the humble Goodwin's had been invited to one of the most coveted soirees of the season.

Alice Goodwin was struggling to take in all the splendour.

Presiding over it all like a King and Queen were the Count and Countess of Baybary.

The Count was charming and engaging as he held every eye and ear with his beauty and tales of his escapades around the world.

His bellowing laugh sent ripples of delight among his guests.

And ripples of desire.

As many of them secretly wished they could be his Countess.

His hazel eyes were shining fiercely as he regaled them all with his tales of adventure in a resounding voice.

The captive audience were spell bound by him.

By his side was the captivating Countess.

She was elegantly dressed in a yellow silk dress with an elaborately worked gold necklace about her neck and diamond encrusted rings on her slender fingers.

Her thick black hair was piled high upon her lovely head and two intricate ruby earrings glittered in her ears.

The Countess was as Cleopatra.

She smiled knowingly at the shopkeeper's wife as she gazed at her from across the immense dining table.

And Alice Goodwin suddenly noticed how full the Countess's dusky bosom was and how it heaved up and down when she breathed.

Suddenly Goodwin's eye was inexplicably drawn to the handsome Count's crotch.

And the unmistakable bulge between his big legs.

The Count turned to Alice Goodwin and grinned broadly showing his sharp white teeth.

And the shopkeeper's wife felt an abrupt ripple of desire race through her plump body.

Alice Goodwin gasped slightly.

Looking above the Count's head she suddenly noticed a painting of a nude.

A voluptuous maiden with large breasts sitting in a chair with her lithe legs wide open.

Alice Goodwin gasped again as her hand flew to her mouth.

As the mysterious Countess of Baybary kept her slanting black eyes fixed firmly upon her.

Smiling shrewdly all the while.

At the end of the glittering night,  the Count announced to his guests in the huge and tasteful drawing room that he would be donating a small fortune to various charities to rapturous applause and terms of endearment.

"A dozen orchids!" The Countess informed her.

Alice Goodwin was snapped out of her reverie.

"Wild orchids"

The most exotic flower in Fleurs du Soleil.

And the most erotic.

All flowers were said to resemble the female genitalia.

None more so than the wild and sensual orchid.

Open and quivering.

Red orchids.

Red as the Countess's silk dress.

"The scarlet woman"

Alice Goodwin let out a small gasp as a plump hand shot to her mouth.

Countess Fairfax was gazing intensely at her with her slanting black eyes and smiling knowingly at her.

As if she could see into her soul.

As if she knew all her secrets.

And Alice Goodwin suddenly felt naked and trembling before her.

"A dozen orchids,  please"

The shopkeeper's wife diligently obeyed and gathered up the flowers into a bouquet.

As Alice Goodwin surreptitiously wrapped up the orchids in violet tissue paper - she suddenly noticed the footman outside.

He was peering inquisitively into the shop window.

Goodwin had never noticed how striking he was before.

With his sharp green eyes and curling black moustache.

The shop keeper's wife felt a vulgar rush of desire.

Fleurs du Soleil was no longer a flower shop.

But a temple of love.

And the Countess of Baybary was the goddess Aphrodite.

Casting a spell of desire with her slanting black eyes.

Alice Goodwin handed the bouquet of orchids to the Countess.

And she received the flowers as if she were receiving a lover.

"I look forward to seeing you in church on Sunday!" The Countess declared brightly as she breathed in the scent of the orchids.

Suddenly Alice Goodwin felt ashamed.

Red (by iamBlackfox
She felt ashamed for all her crude musings and aspersions.

"We live by faith, not by sight!" The Countess reminded Alice Goodwin reverentially "2 Corinthians 5:7 - good day to you!"

Alice Goodwin blushed brightly.

"Good day, Countess!" The shopkeeper's wife replied quickly.

"I should be ashamed of myself"

Alice Goodwin watched open mouthed as the beautiful Countess of Baybary glided gracefully out of Fleurs du Soleil leaving an unmistakable trail of Mille Fleurs in her wake.

The flower shop suddenly felt very quiet.

Alice Goodwin pondered the exotic Countess for the remainder of the day.

Her effortless elegance and charm.

Her Near Eastern exoticism which left her pale faced contemporaries in the shade.

But above all her faith.

The Countess of Baybary was a good Christian woman.

Leading a pure and blameless life.

Not a heathen after all.

Alice Goodwin sighed with envy.

The Countess was perfect.

And Alice Goodwin could only admire her from a distance.

Within half an hour,  the hansom cab pulled up outside the imposing front door to Fairly Manor.

The Countess descended from the carriage gracefully holding her bouquet of orchids like a precious jewel.

She dismissed her maids and servants for the day and they gratefully departed - beholden to their generous mistress.

The Countess retired to her richly furnished private quarters and placed the orchids in a designated glass vase.

Save for one.

She took up her white Persian cat and nuzzled her nose into its warm coat.

The feline purred contentedly.

As the Countess caressed her pussy.

The sun was setting and the sky was streaked with red.

Soon he would be home.

The Countess opened the Bible and read from the Song of Songs.

While the king was at his table, my perfume spread its fragrance. 
My beloved is to me a sachet of myrrh resting between my breasts. 
My beloved is to me a cluster of henna blossoms from the vineyards of En Gedi

Then she smelt the orchid and thought about his big hands.

And the way he cupped her ample breasts.

The way he kissed her with his full lips.

Sending little ripples of pleasure throughout her eager body.

And the way he rode her like his stallion.

Stay me with flagons, 
comfort me with apples: 
for I am sick of love.

The Countess's husband was away.

And she was waiting for the big Captain to return.

He was out riding his horse across the fields.

The stud.

Captain Edmund Sheraton.

Tall and handsome with sleek black hair and piercing black eyes.

The big Captain with his dark gypsy looks.

And captivating smile.

The Countess was dreaming about her lover as she entered her bedroom with the orchid in her hand.

She carefully removed her hat and took off her red dress and her undergarments.

Then she stood before the big mirror.

As naked as Eve.

The Countess massaged jasmine oil into her thick black hair and every hollow of her body as she imagined his big warm hands caressing her.

Because of the savour of thy good ointments thy name is as ointment poured forth, 
therefore do the virgins love thee

She was remembering his firm muscled chest.

And the way he rode his stallion between his firm thighs.

Then she placed the orchid in her raven hair and lay naked upon the big oak bed.

At 4 pm the big Captain strode into her bedroom.

He entered the room as if her were entering her.

Captain Edmund Sheraton flashed his lover with a sardonic grin.

Her conqueror had returned.

Still breathing heavily from his exertions.

He must have been riding hard.

The Captain's shirts clinging tightly to his taught body.

And the Countess could smell him.

Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes

She held out her hand and it was the only invitation he needed.

The big Captain was home again.

They kissed passionately on the mouth.

And the Countess tasted his tongue.

The big Captain peeled off his shirt.

To reveal his big muscular chest.

The Countess slowly removed his boots.

And the big Captain took off his breeches.

As the sensual Countess gasped with anticipation.

And the swaggering Captain grinned back in compliance.

Within seconds the couple were hungrily pleasuring each other.

There was no need for words.

The big Captain and the exotic Countess gave themselves up to erotic abandonment in the big oak bed.

They bought each other to ecstasy.

And then they began again as if it were their first time.

Countless times.

The elegant bedroom had been transformed into a temple of love.

And Countess Fairfax was it's High Priestess.

Admitting her High Priest to the private sanctuary.

For several hours of ecstasy.

As Dina the Persian cat purred contentedly from her red velvet cushion.

The big Captain and his maiden traversed Elysium in the big oak bed.

Until they were completely satisfied and fell away from one another.

It was already dark outside.

And the Countess was lying in her big oak bed beside her athletic lover.

She was clinging to his taut muscled body with contentment.

As the big Captain smiled down at her with a look of sexual gratification.

Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love

The Countess was remembering the countless hours she had spent in bed with her strapping lover as she nuzzled her face into his big hairy chest.

Then she remembered her husband.

The Count would probably be in bed with his Swedish mistress.

Margta Engberg was one of their maids.

Now she shared the Count's bed.

And gave her master his pleasure.

Anywhere his fancy took him.

And she wasn't the only one.

The Count and Countess of Fairfax were good Christian pilgrims.

They attended church every Sunday.

And read their Bible together.

They gave to the poor and the disaffected.

And said their prayers at night.

The Count and Countess of Fairfax were pillars of the community.

And an example to all.

And by day Captain Edmund Sheraton shared the Countess's big oak bed.

And Margta Engberg shared the Count's.

And all was well in their kingdom of pleasure.

His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me

The Countess and the Captain were looking deeply into each others eyes now.

And smiling knowingly.

The ecstatic moment had come.

Without uttering a word - the Countess took the orchid from her thick black hair and placed it in her lover's big hand.

The Captain slowly and sensuously traced her form with the exotic flower.

He followed the trail where his mouth had been several delicious hours previously.

Then the big Captain carefully placed the orchid in her vagina.

As they always did.

And Leyla Fairfax gave a final gasp of pleasure.

It was the climax of their tryst.

A precious ritual.

The big Captain put the orchid into her orchid.

Unmade bed (by sophieora


Monday, 10 March 2014

Now In Spirit

Fragile (by antrisolja

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep 

Do not stand at my grave and weep 
I am not there. 
I do not sleep. 
I am a thousand winds that blow. 
I am the diamond glints on snow. 
I am the sunlight on ripened grain. 
I am the gentle autumn rain. 
When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush 
Of quiet birds in circled flight. 
I am the soft stars that shine at night. 
Do not stand at my grave and cry; 
I am not there. 
I did not die. 

~ by Mary Elizabeth Frye


~ In Loving Memory Of My Brother Elias

Sunday, 9 March 2014

Wicked People

By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.

Macbeth ~ by William Shakespeare

What a wicked game to play, to make me feel this way.
What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you.
What a wicked thing to say, you never felt this way.
What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you and,
I don't want to fall in love (This world is only gonna break your heart)
No, I don't want to fall in love (This world is only gonna break your heart)
With you

~ Wicked Game by Chris Isaak

Sounds of faded wedding bells (by sidradiggitydangbang

The Kiss Of Death

The big old clock chimes on the wall.

In the massive old mansion with its acres of estate.

As the family of the aged Oswald Chambers keep silent vigil beside his big antique bed.

Dark red roses surround them like offerings.

Blood red roses.

Red as the ancient heart that beats in his chest.

Red as the lips of the black widow sitting beside his large antique bed.

Red as the blood soon to be shed.

The black widow.

Honey Chambers.

Perched by his large antique bed like a crow waiting for crumbs to fall from the table.

A dark shadow hovering over a dying ancient.

An evil spirit in the form of a treacherous wife.

Honey Chambers.

One time exotic dancer.

Now a professional widow.

Dressed in black velvet with a fine black veil.

She carefully applied her make-up and adorned herself with trinkets and baubles.

Like Jezebel.

A thin and birdlike woman.

Anticipating an ancient man's demise.

And dreaming of the riches to come.

A cold blooded huntress.

The black widow waits.

And waits.

Her game plan has been simple.

She seduces her prey with the promise of endless love.

Disarming her quarry with the milk of human kindness.

So that they are barely aware when she pours poison into their ears.

Injecting them with lies.

Oswald Chambers lies in his big antique bed attached to medical equipment - lifeless and flaccid.

Like a wet leaf on the ground.

Grasping onto life with his gnarled hands.

His pursed mouth covered by an oxygen mask.

The beeping equipment - the only signs of life.

As a priest intones from his Bible beside the big antique bed.

Father James.

Guiding the old timer to his Maker.

As his family members pray in unison.

The big old clock ticks away

And the black widow silently prays with them.

"Die you old bastard!"

Honey Chambers desires her husbands death.

"Die!Die Die!"

Circled by family members in a suffocating embrace.

They cling to the ancient patriarch like drowning men clinging to a raft.

His fragile life hanging in the balance - reminding them that they too are mortal.

As the big old clock keeps ticking away.

The black widow fingers her fresh water pearls with her finely manicured red talons.

She licks her thin red lips.

Showing her sharp white teeth.

She is a lioness about to feast on the carcass of her prey.

Everything has gone into slow motion.

Old father time is biding his time today.

And the grim reaper has put up his feet.

As the black widow perches beside his large antique bed.

There is life in the old dog yet.

The thin and birdlike woman hovers over her twisted husband like a vulture.

Waiting for him to breathe his last.

So she can begin to breathe.

The ancient is taking too damn long to die.

And the black widow has never had to act so much in all her life.

She is a praying mantis.

Once upon a time she was Honey Dulay.

A one-time exotic dancer at The Coconut Club.

A calculated manipulator with her eye on the big prize.

Killing her mates with their good intentions.

Using their weaknesses against them.

And sucking the life right out of their bones.

Most of her former lovers have only lasted a brief spell.

Satisfying her lust for money and the finer things of life before being discarded.

The black widow is a glittery eyed seductress.

But old Oswald Chambers is different.

He is the perfect catch.

A billionaire with more money than the others put together.

She licks her thin red lips again.

The black widow is a vampire.

Preying on the living to give her life.

The thin white face and cold blue eyes.

The thin red mouth and blood red nails.

She is the Bride of Dracula.

The big old clock chimes on the wall.

Time is crawling by.

The ancients two strapping sons kneel reverentially beside the big antique bed.

Their heads bowed in reverent supplication.

The black widow has also been on her knees.

But those days are behind her now.

Now Honey Chambers sits stiffly and demurely beside the big antique bed of her dying husband.

Playing the dejected wife with aplomb.

Anticipating his death in widows weeds.

She has paid a high price.

Eighteen unlovely months of marriage to a wheelchair bound ancient.

Acting the doting wife.

A small price to pay for all that wealth.

And the black widow has played her part superbly.

Occasionally the skinny woman participates in the cacophony of mourning and flamboyantly wipes away her crocodile tears with a lace handkerchief.

The touching display of emotion is a soft focus piece of cinema.

For the intermittent time has certainly been stretching her limited acting ability.

Hours of it.

There is nothing standing between the ancient man and eternity now.

But time.

The black widow allows herself to eat luncheon in the enormous dining room as family and close friends eat their pea soup and Southern steaks in virtual silence.

Honey Chambers - consummate actress.

The large eyes.

The baby-woman voice.

The heartfelt pronouncement of undying love for her ailing husband.

A bravura performance.

Enough to bring a tear to any eye.

"He's very close now" Father James informs the family in the vast drawing room.

The black widow can barely contain her glee as she watches everyone silently depart.

Like sheep.

Gradually they file back into the bedroom to wait out the ancients final moments.

The black widow slips away to her private suite.

Other Interests (by Aconitum-Napellus
To collect herself.

To freshen herself up with La Prairie make-up.

And a dab of Coco Chanel.

And to give a great roar of triumph.

The old goat is almost dead.

And she is about to inherit his enormous wealth.

Her feminine wiles have gained her precedence over everyone else.

Including his two sons - the rightful heirs to his vast fortune.

Honey Chambers will soon have enough money to buy silence if she has to.

She has stolen the ancients immense fortune from under his very nose.

The black widow laughs lightly.

All too easy.

She lights up a Marlborough Light and takes a long drag.

Her days as a dancer in lugubrious bars is far behind her.

Once upon a time she was Honey Dulay dancing for money and using sex as a weapon.

Now she is a superannuated Honey Chambers with the world at her feet.

And she has won the ultimate prize.

She has had to kiss many frogs to get her prince.

Oswald Chambers.

A prince too decrepit to bother her in bed.

A prince plenty rich enough to fulfil her every need.

Her daddy-lover.

Honey Chambers grins broadly at her reflection in the big gold mirror.

Her triumph is assured.

She is unaware of the soft knocking at first.

The black widow quickly stubs out her cigarette and pulls down her veil.

She fixes the most mournful expression on her face.

As she summons up the crocodile tears.

"Enter!" The black widow commands in faltering voice.

It is Elena Rivera - the dutiful Mexican maid.

The black widow fixes her with her most dejected eye.

The wan look of grief.

Perhaps the old timer has finally shuffled off his mortal coil?

The black widow anticipates the answer that will change her world forever.

Inwardly she quakes with positive expectation.

"Rich beyond my wildest dreams"

"I am sorry to intrude Mrs Chambers" Rivera informs her breathlessly "But there has been a miracle! Mr Chambers ... he is making a remarkable recovery!"

The black widow gasps as shock waves race through her body.

"It is a miracle!" The maid exclaims "Praise the Virgin!"

Elena Rivera crosses herself.

The black widow is struggling to compose herself at the startling news.

Her castles of imagination have evaporated.

She takes a perfume bottle from the elegant dressing table and throws it against the wall with a roar of anger and frustration.

Then she grabs a hairbrush and throws it at the mirror.

The mirror shatters into thousands of glittering pieces.

Elena Rivera watches with horror as her mistress explodes in a fury of curses and expletives.

She is behaving like a mad woman.

"Get out!" The black widow suddenly screeches at the maid like a banshee "Get out I said! Get the hell out!"

The maid vanishes in fear.

And the black widow is alone again.

She stares at her reflection in the broken mirror.

Her thin face is contorted with rage.

Her red lipstick is smeared across her cheek.

She tears off her black veil with disdain.

Honey Chambers is panting heavily.

There is time enough to retrace her steps.

To put on the show.

Time enough to device a dastardly plan.

To help her decrepit husband on his way.

To rid herself of the pestiferous ancient once and for all.

The black widow smiles darkly as she reenters the bedroom.

She is ready to give Oswald Chambers the kiss of death.

As the old clock chimes on the wall.

Treacherous Bedfellows

"Dude - I'm really sick!" Lester Powers declares loudly.

He is standing in the designer kitchen of his business partner and leaning over the sink.

Powers is copiously splashing cold water on his hot face.

He has already retched into the sink three times and his body is convulsing with pain. 

Walter Boothe has been silently observing his guest for several moments. 

Lester Powers is doubled up in agony as he grasps his stomach. 

His handsome face is as white as a sheet and he has just vomited into the kitchen sink again.  

Walter Boothe invited the man and his wife to his picture perfect Massachusetts abode for a surprise dinner party.

A celebratory soiree. 

The two men can even hear their wives gossipping and giggling from the elegant living room. 

"How long have I known you, Lester?" Walter Boothe asks his guest as he draws a chair and sits at the large oak kitchen table.

The man clutches his chest and winces with pain.

"Since high school I guess" Lester Powers responds as he stumbles to the table and sits beside him.

"And how long have our wives known each other would you say?" Boothe requests thoughtfully.

The ailing man looks at his host with a ghostly white face.

Tiny beads of sweat are forming at his brow. 

"I guess since Marisa first became my secretary" Lester Powers gasps.

The questioning host grins knowingly at him.

He takes out a packet of Marlborough's from his pocket and offers a cigarette to his sickly guest. 

Lester Powers shakes his head.

"That's right!" Walter Boothe declares "Four years! Your wife and mine have become very good friends!"

Lester Powers suddenly jerks out of his chair and rushes to the kitchen sink where he retches violently.

His entire body convulses with each spasm.

The two wives can still be heard talking animatedly.

Walter Boothe calmly checks his watch.

His guest is doubled up in pain at the sink - whilst Boothe nonchalantly takes a long drag from his cigarette.

"Walt - please dude!" Lester Powers pleads "I'm really sick! Please call the paramedics!"

His host slowly shakes his head.

"It's only a little indigestion!" Walter Boothe replies breezily "C'mon - you can take it! It will all be over very soon!"

The guest continues to retch into the sink as his host observes him dispassionately from his chair at the kitchen table. 

Lester Powers.

The handsome one-time high-flyer of De Havilland and Sons

With his inventive mind and ruthless determination - Lester Powers is the favourite son of America's seminal advertising agency.

An object of jealousy for the ambitious.

Including Walter Boothe.

Lester Powers is classically good-looking with bright blue eyes, wavy blond hair and a firm jutting chin.

But his handsome face hides a calculated mind.

Ten years of resolution and application has transformed Boothe and Powers into millionaires before they are even forty. 

The shining lights of De Havilland and Sons.

Leading by example.

Walter Boothe is the complete opposite to Lester Powers.

Neither captivating or charismatic.

He lives in Lester Powers shadow.

Walter Boothe is stocky and unattractive with a ruddy face, grey eyes and black wavy hair.

Everything he has earned he has earned through hard graft and opportunism.

Walter Boothe met his wife among the ambitious secretaries at De Havilland and Sons.

Marisa Francesco.

A statuesque Italian from Milan.

While Lester Powers met his wife at a New York conference.

Corina Radley.

A mousy blonde intern.

Walter Boothe married Marisa Francesco on a bright summer day in Hawaii.

Lester Powers was his best man.

Powers married Corina Radley a week later in Boston.

Walter Boothe was his best man.

Now it was six years and two expensive Boston penthouses later.

Boothe and Powers had now become one of the most successful advertising agencies in the States.

They were riding on a crest of a wave.

And tonight they were celebrating their achievements.

Walter Boothe checks his watch.

"What did you give me?" Lester Powers demands as he stumbles back to the chair.

"Exactly what you deserved" Walter Boothe replies coldly.

Lester Powers is now deathly pale and he is breathing heavily in raspy rattling gasps.

The women are also quiet.

There is an eerie silence in Walter Boothe's expensive penthouse this dark evening.

"We always planned to stop" Powers declares weakly "but our feelings for each other were always too strong"

Marisa Boothe.

A striking Italian brunette with a penchant for the finer things of life.

And one man evidently wasn't enough for her anymore.

Walter Boothe glares at the writhing man as he takes another drag from his cigarette.

"The affair began three years ago" Lester Powers continues "We were careful but Marisa always felt guilty. We were both in too deep"

Boothe continues to smoke as he listens without sympathy.

"We never meant to hurt anyone!" Powers proclaims finally "Marisa just fell out of love with you!"

Walter Boothe and Corina Powers have known about Lester and Marisa's affair for over a year.

It came to light when Lester Powers admitted to his wife that he had paid Marisa Boothe to have an abortion.

She had been having an affair and she was terrified that her husband would find out.

Corina Powers suspicions were pricked - but she never dreamt that Marisa Boothe was having an affair with her husband.

"Strychnine!" Walter Boothe informs his dying guest "I put it in your wine! It will all be over soon!"

"Bastard!" Lester Powers snarls contemptuously - but his strength is fading fast.

He reaches out to grab his murderous host by the throat but his big hand falls limply onto the kitchen table.

Walter Boothe smiles grimly at his writhing victim.

The dying man's last thought as he slumps back in his chair is that he has finally met his nemesis.

Lester Powers twitches one last time and is still.

Walter Boothe stubs out his cigarette in a sliver ashtray and checks his victim's pulse.


Then he calmly walks out of the designer kitchen and into his tasteful designer living room.

Corina Powers is breathing heavily and standing over the body of Marisa Boothe.

The attractive woman is lying spreadeagled on the cold wooden floor.

Her black Marc Jacobs dress is disarrayed and a broken wine glass is still held tightly in her right hand.

The woman's face is as white as the walls.

Her eyes are staring fixedly.

The pretty red mouth is slightly open.

Marisa Boothe lets out a final death rattle and is still.


The murderous couple share a devilish glee as they survey the scene.

Then they embrace and kiss passionately.

Tonight is the culmination of months of planning.

"I thought she'd never die!" Corina Powers declares with a shudder.

"It's all over now" Walter Boothe informs her with a big grin "We can deal with the bodies later! Let's go to bed!"

"Plenty of time for that lover!" Corina Powers replies with a sly look in her eye "Let's clean up"

The two dead bodies are wrapped up in plastic bags and shovelled into the back of Walter Boothe's old Cadillac.

Then they make love with abandon in the big designer bedroom.

"Now a little drink" Corina Powers informs her lover a couple of hours later as she hands him a glass of wine.

"Here's to the rest of our lives!" Walter Boothe declares brightly as they chink glasses and he takes a sip.

Corina Powers is standing before him with a broad grin and hard blue eyes.

Her eyes are like two glittering stars in a dark sky.

The frumpy little intern has been replaced by a devious schemer.

Walter Boothe's smile fades.

There is malice in Corina's eyes.

The man suddenly drops his glass as he clutches at his chest.

"You little bitch" Walter Boothe exclaims angrily as he staggers out of the bedroom where they have spent two hours arduously making love.

Corina Powers is no longer smiling.

The play acting is over.

She watches calmly as her lover convulses in agony.

"Did you honestly think I would allow you to live?" Powers informs Walter Boothe icily "How can I be sure you won't rat on me in the end?"

"We've been having an affair for nearly a year!" Boothe cries weakly as he stumbles towards the large front door "Why would I trick you?"

Corina Powers smiles darkly.

"Because you're a man!" She says coldly.

Walter Boothe manages to open the door - still clutching his heaving chest.

He stands unsteadily on his feet for several long moments.

Then he falls to the ground like an old rag doll.

It is all over very fast.

Walter Boothe lets out a final rasp before becoming still.

Corina Powers towers over his corpse now.

"So long Walt" she murmurs mockingly.

A large full moon has risen in the starless sky.

As the treacherous woman surreptitiously wraps another corpse in a plastic bag and shovels it into the boot of a Cadillac between the other two.

Corina Powers celebrates her moment of glory with a glass of wine in the car.

"Here's to me!" She declares enthusiastically.

Then she tosses the glass away with the flick of her wrist as she hits the accelerator.

By the time Corina Powers has decided what she would like to do with the rest of her life - she is already experiencing severe chest and stomach pains.

Driving in Walter Boothe's old Cadillac - the agonising pains are affecting her capabilities.

"This can't be happening"

It is not surprising that a police car siren sounds behind her.

Corina Powers was clever.

But not clever enough.

She mixed up the wine glasses and drank the wine containing the strychnine.

Excruciating pain is blurring her vision.

The Cadillac veers off the road and tumbles down a hill.

Spinning round and round.

For a brief pain free moment - Corina Powers believes she can see a bright white light.

Then the Cadillac suddenly explodes into flames and she is engulfed in a fiery hell.

The Harder They Fall 

“It is better to live your own destiny imperfectly than to live an imitation of somebody else's life with perfection"

English class at St Martha's Senior School in Ealing, West London. 

Nihal Banerjee is just finishing his reading from Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy.

Mr Graham smiles and nods with approval. 

"Thank you Nihal!" The English teacher declares.

Nihal Banerjee.

A bright Asian lad growing tall with bushy black hair and onyx black eyes.

He has a fierce intellect and capacity for learning that leaves many of his fellow pupils in the shade.

Quietly spoken and studious - Nihal Banerjee is expected to make Oxford University in a couple of years time.  

But he is not without his detractors.

Jeffrey Ashton sits behind the Asian lad.

He is a forceful boy with strawberry blond hair and bright hazel eyes.

Jeffrey Ashton has no pretencions to academia.

"School is for sissies" 

Jeffrey Ashton has quickly acquired a reputation as the best athlete in his year and he has dreams of becoming a world class footballer. 

And he has an image to maintain.

Jeffrey Ashton is cock of the walk.

And all too painfully aware that his prowess on the field does not translate to his aptitude in class.

So Jeffrey Ashton's competitive nature finds its outlet in decrying his academic opposition.

And his animal instinct is to strike down anyone or anything he cannot understand or accept. 

Jeffrey Ashton has spent most of Nihal Banerjee's reading making jokes about it with his best friends.

The prize athlete has been mercilessly mocking the Asian lad since the class started.

Nihal Banerjee is at the top of his hate list.

He is a non-white intellectual with a photographic memory. 

The kind of perfect pupil that Jeffrey Ashton believes deserves to be made into a figure of fun.

Jeffrey Ashton has been launching a brutal campaign of bullying since the Asian lad arrived at the school from Leicester a year ago.

Nihal Banerjee has endured the calculated cruelty with stoicism.

But it is getting harder to ignore. 

"Master Ashton!" Mr Graham declares "Would you like to tell the class what you find so funny?"

"Nothing sir!" Jeffrey Ashton replies - red faced with embarrassment. 

books (by sainthallow
"Then perhaps you'd like to stay behind at the end of the day and write me a little essay about the life and times of Jude Fawley" Mr Graham finishes smoothly.

Ashton shoots Nihal Banerjee a dagger look.

The Asian boy buries his head in his book anticipating the bullies future reprisals.

That night Nihal listens carefully to his father at the dinner table.

'It is better to live your own destiny imperfectly than to live an imitation of somebody else's life with perfection'- the Bhagavad Gita says" Sunil Banerjee wisely informs his son "Racists are all blind. Keep to your studies son because you are forging your future"

"Your father is right!" Aashi Banerjee "One day you will leave all of this behind"

She puts her hand affectionately upon her son's.  

"It  will all pass like a bad dream!" Sunil Banaerjee adds knowingly.

Later in his bedroom, the young Asian boy muses on his parent's words.

He only has to stick it out a little longer.

Nihal Banerjee picks up his elegant copy of the Bhagavad Gita from the bedside table.

He opens the book and begins reading.

It is already daylight outside when he eventually closes his eyes.

Three Days Later

Nihal Banerjee has had a good day.

He even enjoyed the endless cross country run this afternoon and after a quick shower he goes to the locker room to collect his belongings.

It is here that he is cornered by his tormentors. 

Nihal has been unable to evade Jeffrey Ashton.

Suddenly the days achievements evaporate.

He is accompanied by his three cronies; Mike Tibbs,  Russell Weekes and Chris Castle.

Jeffrey Ashton's three dark shadows. 

Three talented athletes who are hardly the brightest sparks in the school room.

All three of them have the same blond hair and clear blue eyes.

Three little pigs. 

Jeffrey Ashton and his acolytes crowd Nihal Banerjee in like a hunted prey.

All the other boys in the locker room whisper nervously among themselves and cower in fear.

Apparently they have also suffered Jeffrey Ashton's taunts before. 

Nihal Banerjee braces himself for another hellish ride.

His tormentors are like vultures circling around a carcass. 

"Look what we have here!" Jeffrey Ashton declares loudly.

He draws closer to the Asian boy - pushing him hard into the lockers.

Ashton's snarling face is just inches away from his.

Nihal Banerjee can feel the bully's hot breath on his cheek as he is pushed up against the lockers.

The Asian lad turns his head and averts his eyes.

"Don't you know it's rude to ignore people when they are talking to you?" Jeffrey Ashton demands forcibly.

"Yeah, paki!" Russell Weekes interjects nastily.

Nihal Banerjee does not respond.

Jeffrey Ashton suddenly pulls away from him.

Then he begins sniffing dramatically around him.

"What is that fucking terrible smell?" Jeffrey Ashton exclaims viciously "Reeks like a hell!"

"It's the shit they eat!" Chris Castle asserts with disdain "That curry shit!"

"The fucking paki stinks of that shit!" Mike Tibbs adds with a look of revulsion. 

All four persecutors burst into gales of laughter.

The other boys have fled the locker room in fear.

This is a show they do not want to witness. 

"You little girly-boy!" Jeffrey Ashton snarls as he rolls up his sleeves "I think it's time I showed you who is king!"

"Beat the curry out of the fucking nig nog!" Mike Tibbs urges him evilly.

"I'm going to fucking pulverise you!" Jeffrey Ashton sneers at Nihal Banarjee "Say goodnight - you shitty paki!"

"What is going on in here!" A strong male voice suddenly booms.

Mr Mackenzie.

The 6 ft tall well built sports teacher.

One of the escaping boys must have informed him of Nihal Banerjee's plight.

Jeffrey Ashton snarls with deflation as he backs away. 

Castle, Tibs and Weekes quickly disperse leaving the Asian lad breathing heavily by the lockers.

"Ashton!" Mr Mackenzie commands as he strides into the locker room "My office - now! You three other dimwits can get your things together and get out!"

Jeffrey Ashton slinks moodily off - closely followed by his three followers.

"Are you alright lad?" Mr Mackenzie asks the frightened youth.

"Yes, sir" Nihal Banerjee replies in his small voice.

"Your time will come, son" Mr Mackenzie assures him. 

And for the moment the tormented young boy desperately wants to believe it.

Three Years Later


Nihal Banerjee has graduated from Oxford University with a first class Law degree. 

He is no longer the timid little Asian boy from St Martha's Senior School but a tall and much more self assured young man with a promising future ahead of him as a lawyer.

Banerjee hasn't lost his integrity or his humility.

He is making his way through life in a principled manner.

The new job is a stepping stone for Nihal Banerjee.

A small part of the bigger picture. 

As he stands outside Meyer and Goldstein's Law Firm and adjusting his Italian silk tie - the young Asian man feels a mixture of emotions.

Expectation and fear.

Nihal Banerjee fresh out of university is about to step into the unknown. 

He remembers the words of Mahatma Gandhi as he stands on the big steps of the imposing building.

"The future depends on what we do in the present"

Nihal Banerjee takes a deep breath and strides purposefully into the building.

Thirty minutes later he is quietly sitting in the big glass office as the man scans his brief yet glowing CV. 

Marty Gould is mightily impressed by Nihal Banerjee's credentials and his endearing personality.

The charming young man is ideal.

And the smartest interviewee that Marty Gould has seen in some time. 

"You are the kind of young man this firm needs!" Gould declares firmly "The kind of intelligent and aspiring young man that will become an asset to this industry. I am confidant that you will do well!"

"Thank you, Mr Gould!" Nihal Banerjee replies politely. 

"The job is yours" Marty Gould informs him "You can start on Monday!"

"Thank you, sir" Banerjee replies enthusiastically "I hope to make you proud!"

"Good lad!" Marty Gould exclaims as he rises to his feet and vigorously shakes the young man's hand "Mr Ashton will show you to your new office!"

Gould motions to a smartly dressed man through the glass.

"Mr Ashton will show you to your new office!"

Nihal Banerjee's throat has closed.

He suddenly feels as if his heart has stopped beating.

And that his blood has frozen in his veins.

It is as if somebody has just walked over his grave. 

Nihal Banerjee turns slowly around.

Standing in the doorway is the man who had once been the bane of his life.

Jeffrey Ashton.

He hasn't changed much - he is only a feet taller and a little more thick set perhaps.

Dreams of a football career are apparently behind him now.

The young Asian man's last experience of Jeffrey Ashton and his cronies was of them flushing his head down the toilet on the final day of school. 

His former tormentor smirks back.

There is still a devilish glint in the sharp hazel eyes.

"Certainly Mr Gould" Jeffrey Ashton cries.

"This cannot be happening" 

Nihal Banerjee realises with mounting horror that this is not a bad dream.

His arch enemy has found him.

"What a surprise" Jeffrey Ashton declares wryly as Nihal Banerjee follows him obediently out of the glass office.

"I am only here to do a job" Banerjee informs him.

Jeffrey Ashton lets out a snort of derision.

Nihal Banerjee has already deduced that Ashton must be an office clerk.

He has already surpassed his former tormentor at Meyer and Goldstein's Law Firm.

Every term of endearment from Marty Gould's mouth must be like a dagger to Jeffrey Ashton's heart.

The wheel of fortune has spun round.

And Jeffrey Ashton is already experiencing the kind of bitterness that will blight his life.

"I am only here to do a job" Nihal Banerjee repeats.

Jeffrey Ashton sneers back at him.

Then he motions the young Asian man to his new office.

"You stay out of my way and I'll stay out of yours!" Jeffrey Ashton snarls.

As he pulls away, Nihal Banerjee suddenly notices a pretty young Asian woman sitting at her desk.

Priya Patel.

She looks up and smiles warmly at him as he walks past.

She must be an angel.

Nihal Banaerjee takes a deep breath as he surveys his new office.

It is spartan but comfortable.

A first step into a bigger world.

Then he wonders how long he will have to spend in purgatory with Jeffrey Ashton.

It already feels like lifetimes.

And Nihal Banerjee is crying out for Moksha.

Monday arrives too quickly.

The young Asian man has several case studies waiting for him on his desk.

Nihal Banerjee is acutely aware of Jeffrey Ashton whispering conspiratorially to several work colleagues by the coffee machine earlier in the morning.

He can tell by some of the cold stares and indifference that Ashton has been filling his work colleagues heads with poison.

There is a decided lack of cooperation from the former bully and a frosty aloofness.

Jeffrey Ashton is like Nihal Banerjee's shadow self - following him everywhere.

And shooting him down behind his back in the pub or in the dark corners of the office.

"I thought you might like this!" A sweet voice suddenly declares shaking Nihal Banerjee out of his reverie.

Priya Patel is standing in the doorway of his new glass office - holding a small potted plant.

"I thought it might brighten the place up a bit!" Patel adds cheerfully.

She is wearing a Marks and Spencer cream blouse and a grey Monsoon pencil skirt.

Her thick black hair is rolled up in a bun and a pair of golden spectacles are perched on her pretty nose.

"Thank you!" Nihal Banerjee responds.

He is more grateful for the sight of his beautiful Asian work colleague than he is for the plant.

Priya Patel has a sweet face and a comforting presence.

She is also fiercely intellectual and innately wise.

Nihal visibly relaxes.

Just then, Jeffrey Ashton walks past the office with another work colleague and they both laugh together as they stare through the glass.

"I see you've already met Jeff Ashton" Priya Patel proclaims with a touch of disdain as she places the potted plant on Nihal's big desk.

"We've already met!" Banerjee replies knowingly.

"I don't think he likes darkies!" Priya Patel asserts with a wry smile and a sparkle in her almond shaped black eyes.

"If only you knew"

"If you need anything - just ask!" she adds.

"Oh - of course!" Nihal Banerjee replies enthusiastically.

"Didn't Mr Gould tell you?" Priya Patel asks with a bright smile.

Banerjee shakes his head.

"I'm your new secretary!" Priya finishes breezily as she glides out of the glass office with a smile.

Nihal Banerjee cannot shake off the broad grin upon his handsome face.

Perhaps he and the soothing Priya Patel can live in purgatory together...

Then he notices a shadowy figure glaring at him through the glass.

Jeffrey Ashton.

The angel of death.

Nihal Banerjee remembers his father's words.

"It is better to live your own destiny imperfectly than to live an imitation of somebody else's life with perfection"

Six Months Later

The entire work force of  Meyer and Goldstein's Law Firm are gathered in the main office as Marty Gould proffers his most promising employees for promotion.

"Lastly I would like to commend one of our newest colleagues at Meyer and Goldstein's Law Firm - Nihal Banerjee!" Gould declares.

The office erupts into enthusiastic clapping.

Nihal Banerjee nods shyly.

"We would like to make Mr Banerjee a partner of this law firm!" Marty Gould continues "And we hope that this young man will be an inspiration to all of you!"

Gould shakes the young Asian man's hand enthusiastically as his work colleagues burst in fresh applause and sounds of appreciation.

"Well done" Priya Patel whispers in Nihal Banerjee's ear.

Then she kisses him lightly on the cheek and the young Asian blushes brightly.

Jeffrey Ashton skulks among the throng.

He is unable to conceal his rage and disbelief.

Jeffrey Ashton has already finished several cans of lager and is working himself up into a fighting mood by the time most of Meyer and Goldstein's Law Firm depart to The Soleil d'Or Hotel in Mayfair for a celebratory soiree.

He staggers out and corners Nihal Banerjee and Priya Patel in the company car park.

"What do you have that I don't?" Jeffrey Ashton demands as he confronts Banerjee by his car.

"I don't know what you mean" Nihal replies simply.

"I've been working at Meyer and Goldstein's Law Firm for three and half years and I'm nowhere!" Ashton continues "You show up and within six months you are promoted and made a fucking partner! How does that work?"

"It's not personal" Nihal Banerjee informs him steadily.

In Love (by nairafee
But the glitter eyed Jeffrey Ashton slowly shakes his head. 

"I've worked so goddamn hard and it's all been for nothing!" Ashton declares bitterly.

"You're drunk!" Priya Patel informs him crisply"I really think you should go home and sleep it off!"

"Fucking pakis!" Jeffrey Ashton growls  "Is it a racial thing? Do wogs get preferential treatment?"

"And now it comes" Nihal Banerjee cries "You just can't help yourself!"

Banerjee and Priya Patel climb into the car.

"Rivers of blood mate!" Jeffrey Ashton shouts as the car pulls slowly away "The English work hard all their goddamn lives only for fucking immigrants to take it all away! Fucking pakis and coons taking our jobs and running our fucking country! Thieving fucking bastards"

He throws the empty can of lager in his hand at the departing car.

"Fucking pakis and wogs!" Ashton rants "Go back to your fucking countries!"

But only his voice can be heard echoing around the empty company car park.

Nihal Banerjee and Priya Patel sit silently in the car for several long moments.

Then they look at each other and then break out into gales of laughter.

Ten Years Later

"I'll be home in thirty minutes!" Nihal Banerjee informs his wife on the phone "Just going to pick up Rohan's present from John Lewis!"

"Hurry!" His wife urges him gently "We can't start the party without you!"

Nihal Banerjee smiles as the phone clicks off.

Priya Patel agreed to be his wife five years ago.

She had always been Nihal's guardian angel.

And the couple were married in a traditional Hindu ceremony in a temple in Leicester surrounded by family and close friends.

Little Rohan followed a year later.

Nihal Banerjee is head of Banerjee & Co.

A successful and expanding London law firm.

Banerjee's time at Meyer and Goldstein's Law Firm is but a memory now.

The timid young Asian boy has been replaced by a confident man who is sure of himself.

Nihal's trials and tribulations have taught him the value of compassion and even-handedness and everyone respects him.

Banerjee can afford to live in a smart apartment in the much sought after Chelsea area and to afford expensive holidays to exotic locations.

Not so long ago, these were just dreams.

But at last Nihal Banerjee has realised them.

He has indeed done well and life is good.

Nihal Banerjee sidles down a bustling Oxford Street with a spring in his step.

The celebrated street is alive with tourists and shoppers this cool evening.

He smiles to himself as he casually swings his brief case.

The young man has plenty to be grateful for.

And it is only the beginning.

Just as he reaches John Lewis, Nihal Banerjee notices a dishevelled homeless man sitting cross legged on an old blanket on the pavement outside the department store.

The man is wearing a tatty black puffa jacket and soiled jeans which are ripped at the knees.

His face and hands are smeared with dirt and his unkempt blond hair is unwashed and matted.

A frayed cap on the ground before him contains a handful coins that have been flung in as charity by passersby.

"Spare some change please!" The poor man pleads.

He has lost most of his teeth.

Nihal Banerjee pauses. 

Something in the man's plaintive cry has made him stop in his tracks.

And suddenly Nihal Banerjee feels the urge to share some of his good fortune with someone less fortunate than him.

Suddenly he is moved to assist a fellow human in need.

His late father would be proud of him and in that moment, Nihal can feel Sunil Banerjee smiling approvingly at him.

But as the young Asian man takes out his wallet he suddenly notices something oddly familiar about the homeless man before him.

Nihal can't quite put his finger on it ...

The homeless man slowly looks up at Banerjee.

And suddenly all time converges into one moment.

Beneath the unshaven and dirty visage is a face that Nihal Banerjee had thought to forget.

"Ashton?" Banerjee cries.

This can't be real ...

Jeffrey Ashton.

Nihal Banerjee stares in disbelief for several long moments at the homeless man before him.

The broken man on the pavement was once his arch enemy.

A relentless bully who fed off the fear of others to cover up his own deep seated insecurities and weaknesses.

A bitter young man who believed the world owed him everything.

He has finally lost it all.

"How did this happen?" Nihal Banerjee exclaims with incredulity.

Jeffrey Ashton smiles grimly showing a few rotting teeth.

"Game over !" Ashton declares bitterly.

But he isn't smiling anymore.

Wicked Game


"I can't marry you!" The bride-to-be declared as her voice echoed around the Gothic church.

A low gasp and sharp intake of breath rippled through the wedding congregation that fateful morning.

St Peter's Church, Cambridge on a bright spring morning.

A small Gothic church on a hill.

Chantelle Burrows.

She stood at the altar beside her intended in an uber expensive ivory Harrods wedding dress with cascading tulle veil.

Burrows was pert, pretty and blonde with large doe blue eyes and rose bud lips.

She pulled up her veil to reveal a tear streaked face.

Her husband to be stared back at her in horrified disbelief.

Mark Andrews.

He was dressed in a black Moss Bros suit replete with a blue Italian silk tie.   

Andrews was tall and slim with chestnut hair and bright green eyes.

Up until a few moments ago he was beaming with pride at the sight of his lovely bride to be.

Now his whole world had been torn apart by just a few fateful words.

Like deadly arrows to his heart.

And the young man was struggling to comprehend what was happening to him.

"Why?" Mark Andrews implored his bride to be with large sad eyes "I thought you were happy?"

"I was happy" Chantelle Burrows answered "But things have ... changed"

"Is there someone else?" Andrews asked her - inwardly dreading the response.

Chantelle Burrows slowly nodded her head. 

Fresh tears were streaming down her face.

Burrows and Andrews were childhood sweethearts where they grew up in Colchester, Essex. 

The two were inseparable from the age of six.

Everyone had been charmed by the two little love birds and it seemed inevitable that they would one day marry.

Until today.

Mark Andrews parents - Parker and Janice Andrews - were glaring from the front row of the pews.

Shock and bewilderment had been replaced by anger.

Parker Andrews was a stocky and good looking man with brown hair and quick grey eyes. 

He ran his own construction company in Colchester.

As a result of Andrews success, the family resided in a comfortable mansion and were able to enjoy frequent holidays to far flung destinations. 

Janice Andrews was small and portly with auburn hair and bright green eyes. 

She worked in the local library. 

On the other side of the aisle sat Chantelle Burrows parents - Garry and Mandy Burrows.

Garry Burrows was tall and thin with blond hair and clear blue eyes.

He ran his own plumbing business.

The family lived in an expensive gated apartment in Colchester and owned a small boat which was permanently moored outside on the drive.

Mandy Burrows was tall and attractive with strawberry blonde hair and bright sky blue eyes.

She worked as a masseuse in the Deluxe Beauty salon in town.  

The couple were staring at each other  in their pew.

Their daughter's rejection of Mark Andrews had come as a complete shock to them.

The best man shifting uneasily on his feet.

He was dressed in the identical suit to Mark Andrews - sans blue tie.

Carl Mathers was good looking and well built with black hair and blue eyes.

He was a keen rugby player and had met Mark Andrews during a game in Manchester.

The present state of affairs was news to Mathers too - and he didn't know where to look.

Chantelle Burrows maid of honour had a guilty look on her face and she was fighting the urge to run out of the church. 

She was the only one in the congregation who already knew that Chantelle would spurn her so called husband-to-be on this bright spring morning.

The burden of knowledge had been killing her for the last couple of months.

She felt as if she was colluding in a crime.

Petula Burrows - the bride's sister.

Pretty and blonde with bright blue eyes and a winning smile.

But she didn't have much to be happy about today.

All the Andrews and Burrows family members were present from far and wide that morning at St Peter's Church.

Except for one person.

The black sheep of the Andrews family. 

Richard Andrews.

Tall and good looking with dark brown hair and bright green eyes.

Dangerous and adventurous.

Richard Andrews had joined the army against his father's wishes.

Then he went AWOL.

And nobody had heard from him in six years. 

"How long has it been going on?" Mark Andrews demanded from his one time bride to be.

"A couple of years" Chantelle Burrows replied.

"How could you do this to me?" Andrews declared with mounting desperation.

"I'm so sorry" Burrows responded with emotion.

"I suggest we continue this conversation in the church office" Father Michael urged the couple.

But the couple were too enmeshed in the web they were caught in to hear him.

All Mark Andrews hopes and dreams had evaporated into thin air.

And the congregation were getting restless now.

It was so tense and quiet in the small Gothic church that you could hear a pin drop. 

There were so many considerations and Mark Andrews head was spinning.

"What about the reception?" Andrews entreated his errant bride-to-be  "And the holiday to the Seychelles? What do we do with all the guests and everything?"

"I'm just so sorry!" Chantelle Burrows responded.

"Will you please stop saying your sorry!" Mark Andrews exploded.

He had been holding himself together by a fine thread.

But now hot rage had possessed him.

"You're not sorry!" Mark Andrews continued furiously "You're not sorry at all! You've been laughing at me all this time! Knowing you weren't going to marry me! Shagging some bloody loser behind my back while we talked about and planned our future together. You're not fucking sorry at all!"

"I am sorry!" Chantelle Burrows cried.

"Was he good in the sack?" Andrews demanded forcefully. 

"Please - don't do this!" Burrows pleaded.

"You fucking dirty slag!" Mark Andrews erupted nastily. 

A low murmur arose among the unsettled throng.

The tragic set of circumstances was turning into a drama. 

"Did you know about this?" Perry Andrews demanded bullishly from Chantelle Burrows parents. 

"This is the first we've heard of it!" Garry Burrows replied. 

"I bet!" Perry Andrews exclaimed forcibly "I always said our son was too good for Chantelle Burrows!" 

"Steady, Perry!" Gary Burrows warned him.

Now the would be in-laws were locked in a bitter war. 

"I'm sorry Mark, I just don't love you anymore" Chantelle Burrows informed her one time husband-to-be "And I can't marry you!"

"I'll change!" Mark Andrews pleaded "I'll be anything you want me to be. Just don't go!"

"Goodbye, Mark" Chantelle Burrows replied sadly.

And with that - the bride strode out of the church closely followed by the maid-of-honour as the wedding congregation broke out into outraged exclamation.

Mark Andrews stood frozen to the spot as his family crowded around him.

He watched with mute despair as Chantelle Burrows walked out of his life forever.

Outside the church,  the one time bride tore off her veil and pulled off her silver Jimmy Choo heels. 

The sun was shining but dark clouds had already filled the sky. 

A small crowd of curious onlookers had already begun to form outside the Gothic church. 

Chantelle Burrows turned to her sister and handed her the bouquet.

"Take it!" Burrows declared "You'll have more use of it than me!"

Petula Burrows wiped away a tear as she accepted the bouquet.

A black car suddenly pulled up sharply beside them.

The window wound down and a man in dark sunglasses leaned nonchalantly out.

"Is it over?" He asked Chantelle Burrows.

"Yes - it's all over!" She replied.

Richard Andrews grinned back at her.

"Get in then!" He cried.

Chantelle Burrows climbed into the car.

She flashed her sister one last smile.

As the car sped away,  Chantelle Burrows caught sight of Mark Andrews running after them and pleading with his arms flailing.

Very soon he was just a distant figure on her journey. 

dear love (by kharax