The sun was beaming down on Luffley Bappes as the good folk of the village arranged the traditional stalls and looped the colourful bunting around the vicar’s bushes.
The villagers were keen on bunting: Many of them had bunted since childhood. The vicar’s wife was a keen horticulturalator and the garden was a delight to behold. And so indeed was Quintana, who could at that moment be seen reaching over a particularly shapely shrub, in the business of arranging some bunting. Her enthusiasm had overreached her experience, and she was becoming entangled in the cord. Triangles of patterned cotton flapped all over her body while her pink lace bralette became ever more twisted the more she wriggled.
After watching this with great enjoyment for a while, Mr Whack-the-Rat decided he could justify an intervention. He approached wearing, above the neck, a winsome smile, and below it a loose t-shirt which contrived to use the light breezes as a means to display his musculations. There were some trousers involved too, which joined in the general promotional activity.
He approached Quintana, who by this time had temporarily given up on hanging the bunting and was instead focussed on extricating herself from it. Mr Whack-the-Rat’s offer of help was gratefully received. Quintana registered the hard work being done by t-shirt and breeze. He carefully lifted the little triangles of fabric which seemed – possibly out of some innate homing instinct – to have wrapped themselves around her upper shapelings. He adjusted and tugged gently for a few moments, to no effect. Then Quintana looked down at the cords which criss-crossed her entangled volumpticles, (slightly digging into the soft flesh). “This is where it is tightest”, she said.
Mr Whack-the-Rat could see that, and immediately offered to help. His fingers, strong and capable from Rat-Whacking amongst other things, slipped inside the cord and eased it over the heavage of cleavage – taking her lace bralette with it. At this moment had his stall been struck by a bolt of lightning, he would have been oblivious, engrossticated as he was with Quintana’s plight.
“How on earth did it manage to get so tangled?” he exclaimed, inwardly thanking the sky for its windy weather.
“I was just trying to hook it over this shrub!” she exclaimed.
He looked down.
“Hmmm. Nice buxus” he said.
Quintana blushed, and in her embarrassment her chestage heaved winsomely, straining against the bunting.
“You’d have been better using that shrub over there”. He pointed, then looked back into her wide grey eyes, edged in the usual way with lashes, but which seemed to him somehow more luscious and inviting than normal.
“It’s yew” explained Mr Whack-the-Rat.
Quintana blushed even more pinkly. “Yes” she beamed at him. “It’s all mine”
He hesitated. Then he agreed. Yes, it WAS all her.
In a final attempt to free her from the bindage of the cord, he slid a hand inside the tight constrainer, and then left it there for a bit longer than was strictly required, because the warmth of her soft flesh was so charmingly arousilising.
At that moment, the Vicar’s wife could be heard approaching with a tray of tea and biscuits for the helpers. Quintana looked up from her plight into the face of Mr Whack-the-Rat and a hint of a blush returned.
“This is very awkward” she confessed.
“Perhaps we should do this somewhere else” he suggested “Are you OK to walk?”
She nodded. The bunting was trailed round her legs but not tightly.
They made their way across the garden, avoiding the exposure of the big lawn, (filling with White Elephant, Guess the number of sweets in the jar, Lucky Dip and so on) and instead ducked back between the shrubs and headed for the walled garden.
This was much more private, meaning that Mr Whack-the-Rat could leave his hand inside the bunting without fear of judgement, for Quintana didn’t mind at all. In fact, she encouraged him to navigate all the little triangles which enveloped her body, loosening as he went. Soon all the bunting was free, but oddly, some of her clothing, pink bralette included, seemed to have been carried off in the process.
When the villagers arrived, no-one noticed that there was slightly less bunting than usual. A few comments were made that it was a shame no-one was manning the Whack-the-Rat stall. But oblivious to the fete, Mr Whack-the-Rat was manning elsewhere.
Quintana enjoyed traditional pastimes and was happy to check over his white elephant. Mr Whack-the-Rat got a lucky dip, and both of them found the jar was overflowing with sweets.
Eva Feltham is our Fun & Fantasy Investigative Journalist. With a PhD in Double Entendre and a Mistress of the Institute of Innuendo, Eva specialises in seeking out mischievous situations.
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