09 February 2008
The Penny Drops, and the Puzzle is Completed. Also: Breasts.
There is a sexual position well-practiced among a small tribe in deepest, darkest Africa, called ‘The Flaming Blow-Pipe‘. Not much is known about the position, except for one very important thing: out of those who practice it, only a handful survive to live to tell the tale. And even then, those poor damned fools are left either permanently crippled, or psychologically scarred, for the rest of their natural-born life. Not for nothing is The Flaming Blow-Pipe known as the most dangerous sexual position in the entire world.
Despite this, I was more than wiling to attempt this most perilous of positions with the Indian beauty I had shacked up with at the Great Exhibition, but just as I was getting ready to roughly enter the girl’s crystal palace, Mr. Harry Flashman appeared, looking decidedly out-of-breath.
“Ah, yer lordship!” exclaimed the rogue as he beheld my bare buttocks. “I…I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
“Confound it, you scurrilous simpleton!” I snapped. “This is the second time you have precluded me from getting my noble nob-end away to-day! I must say it is a habit of which I am tiring rather rapidly.”
“Well, you can carry on, if you like,” Flashman replied. “I certainly ain’t going to stop you!”
“Gah! It’s no good now,” I snapped, hauling my trousers back up. “You have ruined the mood. I was trying to build up some tension, you know. Some suspense. I was going to try…The Flaming Blow-Pipe on this delectable damsel.”
“The Flaming Blow-Pipe?” Flashman repeated. “That old move, eh? It’s really not as big a deal as they like to make out, you know. I’ve done it before. I think I chipped a tooth, but really nothing more serious than that…”
How I wanted this cock-sure cretin to suddenly spontaneously combust. But, alas, no such event occurred, and so I had to endure the cad’s company for a while longer yet.
“Well, what in the name of Adonis’ gaping anus are you doing here?” I muttered. “Why are you not under arrest? I saw you being pursued by police-officers moments ago – you looked like you were destined for a stint in a cell once more, last I noticed.”
“Well, that’s the queerest thing,” Flashman said. “The ol’ rozzers caught up with me an’ all, but as they were getting ready to cart me off to chokey, that old, thin buzzard-like fellow comes out and tells ‘em to let me go. He goes on about how I’m ‘not the one he wants’ and that these poor old flat-foots should be chasing ‘the small, scruffy chap’…damned if I could figure out what the hell he was on about.”
“‘Small, scruffy chap?‘” I mused. “I don’t suppose he was referring to your rather pathetic todger, was he?”
Flashman swiftly held up two defiant fingers in a terribly rude gesture at my good self, as I tried to piece together the pieces of this mystery. I knew that the ‘old buzzard’ who worked for the Queen was involved in the Koh-i-Noor Diamond‘s disappearance somehow, but what had he done with the damn gem? And why was he so intent on getting hold of this ‘small, scruffy chap’? And where in the name of blue blazes was my interminably wretched man-servant, Botter?
Suddenly, the pieces of this particular puzzle began to slot into place, like…well, like pieces of a puzzle, funnily enough.
“Botter!” I cried out. “This old git is after Botter!”
“Botter? Y’mean your little twit of a man-servant? What does he want with that little bleeder?”
“I’m…I’m not sure,” I answered, my mind still working furiously to get that last little piece slotted into my imaginary jigsaw. “What has that cocking arse-pump done now? Why has he caught the attentions of this ruddy man? Blast it all! We shall have to track Botter down. As much as I hate to admit it, my soap-dodging man-servant may be vital to this entire case. Good heavens, I never imagined he would ever amount to any real importance, no matter how fleeting. Mr. Flashman, where did you last see Botter? Any ideas?”
Flashman shrugged his shoulders absently, as he became transfixed by the half-naked form of the Indian woman I had been so close to penetrating moments beforehand. She was still lying on the floor; her fine, firm breasts fully exposed to the lecherous eyes of Mr. Flashman, who was eyeing her up as one might see a dog eyeing up a particularly tasty bone. A tasty bone with breasts. I coughed loudly.
“Oh! What?” burbled Flashman as he snapped out of his tit-induced trance.
“Botter.” I said firmly. “Where did you see Botter last, Mr. Flashman?”
“I…I can’t rightly say. I don’t think I’ve clapped eyes on the devil since you hurled him through that window earlier, when he was sobbing like a school-boy because that stupid pig-thing of his had gotten damaged…”
I smiled. It always made me chuckle to dwell upon any misfortunes that befell my servant. As I guffawed at Botter’s earlier mishap, however, that final piece of that infernal imaginary jigsaw puzzle suddenly slotted into place. And it made a picture of that ruddy crystal pig.
“The crystal pig!” I exclaimed, grabbing Flashman by the shoulders. “That ruddy, cocking crystal pig! OF COURSE!”
“What?” Flashman asked. “What about it?”
“I shall explain on the way. But we must hurry and find that ball-bag, Botter. I fear he has unwittingly become embroiled in a diamond heist, and could well wind up completely dead in a matter of minutes. Ordinarily I wouldn’t give a tinker’s toss, but good help is extraordinarily hard to find these days. Come on!”
I pelted off down the corridors of the Crystal Palace, but was only a few feet away when I noticed I was travelling alone. I looked back the way I had come, and saw Flashman taking the time to ogle the young lady’s (admittedly spectacular) breasts once more. I sighed, and traipsed back down to my errant companion.
“Excuse me, my dear,” I said, as I pulled Flashman away from the girl. “I mean no offence to either you or your magnificent mammaries, but we really must be getting along. Keep them warmed up for us, though, m’dear. I dare say we shall be back later.”
With that I tipped my hat, and dragged the reluctant Flashman away.
“I’ll tell you something, yer lordship,” Flashman said as we dashed off to find Botter. “This had better be more impressive than those tits, or I’m going to be really angry.”
“Me too,” I said. “Me too.”
- Lord Likely.
Those of you who have not masturbated so regularly so as to diminish your eye-sight completely, will have noticed that there have been a few aesthetic changes around here, as well as the introduction of an astonishing new About Page. Please do take a moment to admire the fresh decor, and do let us know what you think. As long as your thoughts are firmly in the positive, that is.
Many thanks to the eminently-pumpable Claire for promoting his lordship’s short moving picture on her very own web-log. Likewise, we would also like to express our gratitude to Lord Andrew of Goulding for not only sharing his lordship’s cinematic masterpiece with the world on his own web-page, but for also publishing some excellent pictures of a guitar that looks like a cock. Good work you two, and many thanks indeed.
In Memoriam: This adventure is written in tribute to George MacDonald Fraser, the author of the Flashman books who died recently, aged 82. It is not intended to infringe upon any copyrights, but simply to pay homage to Fraser’s excellent work as a writer.
For more about Fraser and Flashman, read Mr. Andy Fanton’s article ‘Flash Men and Likely Lords‘.