Thursday, 20 September 2012

Fifty Shades of Beige

Henry flicked the light switch by the door and a slow grin crept across his lips.  She was waiting for him.  Wordlessly, he walked to her and ran his hand over her cool curves as she stood motionless in the dim studio.  'You're perfect,' he whispered;  his hot breath on her slender frame.  His eyes fixed on her, he rounded her and slapped her behind with his palm.  The sharp sound echoed through the room and she yielded slightly with the force, moving closer to the glass desk.  A deep, languid laugh rose in his throat as he walked to the desk and sat down, his eyes drinking her in as she stood stock-still in front of him - just as he liked it.  He could control her; do with her as he wanted...but not tonight.  Tonight he had more pressing matters, and she would wait.
     Coldly, he stood and left, not losing pace as he switched the lights off and left the studio.  The heavy doors sighed closed behind him and he smiled.  She would be still be there later.

'Good evening, Mr Beige!' Terry beamed as he watched him breeze through the security doors.  He received no reply. 'Miserable bastard,' he muttered to his weary colleague behind the reception desk as Henry vanished down the steps outside the building. 
'Aye.  You'd think with all that money he'd be happy as a pig in the proverbial.' Chris sighed, not lifting his eyes from his newspaper.
'What was he doing here anyway?' Terry pondered. 'He's not due in 'til Monday.'
Chris finally looked up and gazed at Terry from beneath his bushy eyebrows.  'The man's a workaholic.  Whereas we'd grab a day off and handcuff it, he sits at home thinking of reasons to come in.  Each to their own, I suppose.'  He shook his head and returned to the sports pages.
'Hasn't he got a bird?' 
'Yeah,' Chris chuckled.  'But women don't earn you money!'

Holding a copy of The Daily Telegraph over his thinning hair, he marched down the path with his linen jacket flapping behind him like a flappy thing that flaps a lot.  His highly polished, Chelsea-boot clad feet clacking on the wet tarmac, Henry Beige scowled at the leaden sky as he ducked into the car park and unlocked his bloody enormous black Range Rover.  His skin tingled as the soft, buff leather of the driver's seat creaked under his corduroy-wrapped thighs.  Rain pattered on the roof and the automatic wipers - with chrome bits on them -  kicked in as he guided his BOFmobile onto the main drag.  His heart thumped heavily in his chest, gaining pace as he imagined the scene waiting for him when he got home.  While the other half was away having her hair done or playing polo or having Botox in her bum or whatever it was she was doing, this cat was going to play.

The automatic garage door - with chrome bits on it - opened and he drove through and parked.  With a cursory glance he made sure it was closing behind him as he unlocked the heavy oak door that led to the hallway.  Once inside, he clapped the lights on and stood in the arch that led to the kitchen.  Warm light from the under-unit LEDs bounced off the chrome sink and draining board.  The chrome toaster shone, reflecting the glint in Henry's eyes.  The kettle - also chrome - did the chrome coffee machine, the chrome juicer, the chrome sandwich toaster, the chrome percolator, the chrome fruit bowl, the chrome tea caddy and the chrome tea towels.  Hold  The tea towels weren't chrome; that would be silly.  But Henry liked chrome.  That, essentially, is what I'm trying to convey here.
     Undoing his tie - which didn't have chrome on it - he padded into the kitchen.  Beads of sweat prickled his forehead as anticipation built in his body, heightening all his senses.  She sat on the work surface, beckoning him.  Even he couldn't resist her.  Henry; the man who liked to command.  His fingers trembled as he reached out to her, her skin glistening as he embraced her naked softness.  'I've been waiting for this all day,' he almost growled.  His passion grew as she hovered for a moment near his lips; teasing him, pushing him into realms of desire that no man could escape from.  She was a temptress...but he was Henry Beige.  He would not let her take the reins.
     He grasped her firmly; her flesh tender and warm in his hands.  'Don't try to dominate me,' he hissed.  'You're mine.  I'm going to destroy you.'  Forcefully, he lifted her to his mouth.

Finally, he was satisfied.  He turned his back and walked out, slumping onto the black leather sofa in his study and sighing contentedly before leaning towards the mahogany table and pouring himself a brandy.  He could still taste her on his lips and fingers.  He sipped at his brandy and suddenly remembered the vision of delight that was doubtlessly still waiting for him back in the studio.  If he drank the brandy, he couldn't return tonight.  He weighed up his options.  No - she wouldn't go anywhere.  Besides, he might get indigestion if he went out now. That was the best plate of belly pork his maid had ever prepared.  And, as alluring as his studio paramour was, it's not as if an Autocue had anywhere else to go.

He belched and switched the TV on.  The Antiques Roadshow.  Splendid. 

Thursday, 13 September 2012

This Time, It's Personal

Up until recently, the BOFs were fairly safe.  To us, they were a breed to be quietly loathed from a safe distance.  However, our semi-pacifistic approach to the linen-wearing, Chelsea boot-polishing, bacon-scoffing ilk has been blown out of the window.  This is the dawn of a new war.

The other day, Coyote was pootling about minding his own business.  The sun was shining and the birds were singing (they like Roger Whittaker songs); everything was right with the world.  Monty was purring happily and Limmy - our dashboard dwelling guard sheep - was enjoying the gentle ride through the countryside when BAM!  A Freelander thundered past hogging the narrow road, taking Monty's offside wing mirror casing with it. 

We are not happy.  Thankfully, Monty will be fixed when he goes to be manhandled by an oil-covered gog in Dolgellau on Saturday; but that's not the point.  The point is that a BOF broke Monty.  

As yet, we're not sure how we're going to seek revenge.  All we know for sure is that the BOFs have now crossed the line and justice will be served.  No longer will we merely shout 'BEOUGH!' and laugh when we see one.  Oh no.  They've unwittingly driven into our battle zone and we will find a way to avenge Monty's injuries. 

In fact, it seems that Limmy's already on the case...

We might have to rein him in a bit, actually.  As much as we like his line of thought, we're not quite as violent as he is.  He had a harsh upbringing, you see.  He was born in the wilds of Mid Wales and had to fight to be King of the Sheep.  He's seen sights that would scar the strongest minds; he's fought in battles that would end the life of an ordinary sheep in the tap of a hoof...and he came out on top with battered horns.  When he moved to Limerick he formed a bloodthirsty sheep Mafia that drove Terry Wogan out of the city in a cloud of blinding fear.  Limmy is a hard case.  As much as we love him and are relieved that he's on our side, we do have to watch him.  He may be small in stature, but his loathing for BOFmobiles exceeds even our black disdain; in fact, we think he must've had a bad experience with a BOFmobile in his past, but he won't talk about it.  He doesn't talk about much, really.  Probably because he's a clay figurine. 

Plotting continues.  Coyote and I have five days coming up in which to formulate our retaliation.  Revenge - however it's sought - will be sweeter than a sleeping marshmallow puppy on a bed of candyfloss.