Dear Diary,
July is upon us already and as if it was aware it is synonymous with 'summer' it indeed turned up the heat. It has been some time since I have sweltered so.
I called at Cobbler's End, upon the ladies therein, at their insistance, for a trim. I was mindful of what I said for I fear I always offend them in some way. I simply smiled and nodded, though not when Miss Lott was tending my locks, or simply said "Indeed!" in suitable breaks in the intercourse. However, as I was leaving and thanking them for their trichological attentions, I could not help but point out the rash around Miss Lott's delicate lips and hoped it would soon lose some of it's redness. She gasped, clasped her hands to her face and dashed indoors leaving me to close the door behind me.
Such sensitive, yet kind ladies.
I entered Cobbler's Bottom and as I suspected, upon such a sultry day, Sam was shirtless and bent over his anvil. I hailed him with all the gayness I could muster even though my mouth was quite dry and then watched as he ran his hands over my Python, his muscular arms glistening in the sunlight. Whilst he was bent over examining the hooves I became transfixed by a drop of sweat that slowly travelled down his spine. It moved, hesitantly at first, as if unsure of it's path and kept pausing as if to scan the way ahead but gradually it gained speed and moved more purposefully and before long fairly raced across his skin and disappeared into the slight cleft that peeped atop his breeches. I quite startled Sam as I thrust my head into his butt and allowed the cold water to chill my fevered brow. There was an uncomfortable silence after he informed me that Python was in fine fettle but modesty prevented me from stepping out from behind his butt just at that moment and so I just stood there smiling and holding onto it until the moment was right.
Kristin Chenowith - Home
14 years ago
8 comments:
Dear Wayne,
Excellent weather by the sound of your report and a tidying to ones locks is a wise decision at this time. Perhaps if things continue to warm we will be treated to a description of a trim to a patch of filaments known for their more short and curly nature.
From your extremely observant description of the journey taken by a fortunate droplet of excreted moisture I would be willing to wager that Sam was not the only one experiencing some moistness in the breeches.
Momentarily remaining seated,
B.
My dear Mr Moose,
I blush!
Yours uncomfortably,
Wayne Austen
Sam? Have we met Sam before? Does Ned know Sam? Has Sam known Ned?
So many questions! One should have a large bowl of strawberries at one's side, and ask a question for each bright and shiny fruit that one takes between one's lips.
-h (in a better mood, as you can see)
My dear distant 'Humphrey?'
Pish Tush! Sam is the village blacksmith. Have you been paying attention at all or just too occupied fingering your plums...I mean strawberries?
Yours exasperatedly,
Wayne Austen
I forgot, dearest Wayne. My poor head retains so little anymore.
My dear distant 'Hugh?',
I forgive.
Yours remmittingly,
Wayne Austen
My dear Mr. Austen,
I was so sad to hear of Miss Lott's red rash around her mouth. My guess is that she may have acquired a gentleman friend ( at last! ) with a beard?
Alternatively, it could be an allergic reaction - perhaps she has been eating something that disagrees with her?
If I were you, I would ask for Miss Noring's opinion of the subject. As Miss Lott's closest confidante, I expect that she has a good idea of how it came about.
Yours caringly,
Sir Studly Buckwell
My dear Mr Buckwell,
I may leave the exploration of the rash's origin's to Fanny.
I thank you.
Yours self preservationally,
Wayne Austen
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