Dating : Feign Ayres…

This ditty is dedicated to Christianne P.

For if it weren’t for her love and devotion to the classic, Jane Eyre, none of this X-rated drivel would have ever been birthed.

Thank you, Doc.

The coachman whoaed his horses in front of Thistlefield Hall, and the slight-of-bone and waif-like creature named Feign disembarked with carpet bag in hand, and little else. The manor’s housekeeper, Mrs. Forfeits, greeter her with a cold, dry handshake and ushered Feign into the shadow-filled and foreboding home, its Gothic style haunting Feign’s every glance.

The lord of the manor, Mr. Rockpecker, stood at the top of the stairs, still, unannounced, looming, leering, and targeting Feign’s every move. He hadn’t been laid in quite some time, for he had run out of mistresses to boink, so his meandering, petting and pawing mind wondered at what secret treasures lay beneath Feign’s many skirts.

Several days and nights calmly came and went while Feign tutored Mr. Rockpecker’s children — some legit, some not — having them experience adventures in the nearby woods and under the estate’s swaying willows, teaching them about the birds and the bees and that incest was okay if you were rich and regularly attended Church of England Sunday services.

Sounds, skin-chilling sounds, nearly every night and day, could be heard on the manor’s third floor — such banging and screeching and wailing reports. “Don’t go there. Don’t listen to that,” barked Mrs. Forfeits. But Feign deigned to listen if ever her heart held no courage to explore.

Free from her chores, Feign would recline under the swaying willows and crochet lace — round lace, square lace, long lace and short, in lacy patterns Irish, Welsh and Scotch, to lay upon every surface of Thistlefield Hall as a torrent of silk snowflakes burying all who dared enter. Besides, it took Feign’s mind off of never been laid, and the activity was less noticeable to the household than moaning masturbation in the bathtub or caterwauling wet dreams in bed.

Mr. Rockpecker smelled fresh horny. He always had. It was a gift he had since birth. “Hornydar” — radar with sex appeal — got him into that wretched marriage all too many years ago with his absent wife, and now it forced him to follow Feign’s lacy trail like a dog looking to hump its steamy owner. Mr. Rockpecker found Feign under the swaying willows and watched with amped-up eyes and a salivating mouth her heaving breasts.

“Your breasts are heaving, Miss Ayres.”

“I have asthma.”

“Oh, so you’re not hor — “

Feign leapt into the air and wrapped her hot legs around Mr. Rockpecker’s groin and the pair collapsed under those swaying willows and humped like cloistered nuns let out on a day pass.

Viewed from the third floor window, a silhouetted beast screamed and screeched and banged and thrashed.

That night, Mr. Rockpecker was lit on fire, his bed chamber engulfed in flames. A dark, hairy figured cackled and howled with glee and ran to the third floor staircase just as Feign awoke and rescued her lord. Dragging his smoking hot body into the safety of the hall, Feign humped him like there was no tomorrow, just in case there wasn’t and he croaked. She had to get in her last luscious licks before grieving his loss and resigning herself to a life thereafter of making lace, which didn’t jerk her off nearly as well.

A love-lust pact was born, and Mr. Rockpecker revealed his secret. The beast was his mad, mad wife that he had sequestered on the third floor. He’d tried going to Las Vegas for a quickie divorce but Victorian society frowned upon that, so jail her he must to wantonly hump as he would.

Madness and jealousy overtook Mrs. Rockpecker, and that night, she did herself in on that wretched third floor, which was pretty timely, allowing the lord to marry Feign, their warm hands lovingly entwined as they scrubbed away their DNA from the mad wife’s neck, so the Inquiry went swell.

Today at Thistlefield Hall, Mr. Rockpecker smokes his burled walnut pipe under those same swaying willows as the new Mrs. R crochets an eastern seaboard snowstorm full of lace. Rarely do they hump anymore and Mrs. R has acquired a physical tick.

The End