To avoid discovery, Mewsy had hid where one wouldn’t first think to look for a Woman of Gawd: Finch-Marie Fung’s legendary Bordell.
“Marigold and Sundry: Haus der Damen” was Mewsy’s old haunt. There, in another life, the Belle de Jour had got herself right stuffed.
Spilling over with the Spirit now, those days were behind her – but friends who had put her on her back would help her get back on her feet.
“Anna Axenputel!” declared a slight (albeit topheavy) strumpet in an ‘I declare’ voice. “Ilsa Mae!” squealed Mewsy. She was still sooo nude.
“Anna, we wasn’t expectin’ you! Ya know the clientele come a-stampedin’ when yer on the menu!” Ilsa Mae giggled, and her jubblies jiggled.
“I see yer all ready to go. Now who’s rarin’ fer a pairin’?” But Mewsy had put out an alabaster hand. “Ilsa, I’m not here for a puss party.”
“Well gee golly jiminy, Anna honey, what ARE ya here for, and in such an advanced state of undress?” Ilsa Mae Mopp was a klassy proz.
Mewsy sighed, heaving her munchable momma-mountains. “It’s a long, hard tale, Ilsa – and I’m ever so sticky. Mightn’t Rex and I overnight?”
“Yam-pie, y’all knows I loves ya, but Finch-Marie she got herself a stric’ policy regardin’ accomodatin’ the sexually unemployed!”
“But darling, I’ve nowhere else! Nary a mat ici-bas whereon to lay my weary minge!” Mewsy’s family were Staunch Agnostics, and ugly besides.
The hippy hussy crossed her arms. “Anna Axenputel, yer m’bitch sure as shortcake but beggin’ to break protocol is downright discourteous!”
“This ain’t no Mission,” she added, huffily, “Less’n yer mission be missionary.”
Mewsy knew she was in a tight spot.
“All right, Ilsa.” – it was as if Saint Theodora herself spoke through her – “How many? How many through this chalice before I rest?”
“Two or three oughta do it,” she was pleased, “‘Pendin’ on length of encounter ‘n’ other various factors.” Ilsa Mae had a head for numbers.
“Bring them.” Mewsy raised one arm, dropping her chin to her chest. No martyr could have exhibited better poise – or perkier breasticles.
In trotted a contingent of prosperous-looking types, whose brazen searching looks twitched over her, in time with their pulsing glowsticks.
Mewsy gave thanks that none were handsome. The cudgels of the handsome, she shamefully knew, demanded the filthiest love grub.
There were three of them. New Woman or not, there are some skills we cannot unlearn; Mewsy read these pasty pervs like so much pulp fiction.
“Right then, gents: one in each. Fatso, you in the conch, gob’s for baldy, and I’m betting YOU’LL just be chuffed up the chocolate twister.”
The last remark fell on a blondish fifty-something with shrublike mutton-chops. He seemed familiar to her but, well, there had been so many.
The jolly-belly johns swarmed her as they might pudding. It could’ve thrown a less worldly damigella, but Mewsy knew just where to put ’em.
The roundest, allotted the silken slit, lay perpendicular underneath. This left both ends of her Human Gastrointestinal Tract open for biz.
And busy they became! Fung’s place didn’t truck with amateurs; in a trice the operation was up and running like a well-oiled steam engine.
(Mewsy had to admit that this Gomorrah wasn’t PURE Hell. She was still running at high enough lubricity to slick both front and back.)
Doughboy down under finished first, then fell out, snoozing. And Mewsy knew her Famous Fellatio’d make magic soon enough. But Blondy…
She’d certainly been right about him. He was chuffed as puff pastry out back, at it like the Energizer on fast-forward, and no end in sight!
Without much ado the gentleman up front did his wet spasm past her glottis and wandered off to Marigold’s snack room.
Now she was left propped up in downward-facing dog by the generous mound who snorted beneath her. And still Ol’ Sideburns pickled on.
“Gosh, this is rather dull,” thought Mewsy, “Even my mechanical Ladies’ Aide back home has a little more personality than this!”
The minutes passed slowly, and Mewsy’s well-worn mud rut began to chafe ever-so-slightly, for the first time since her tender youth.
That unfamiliar sensation in her undercarriage sent our sultry St. Stone careening back, down the open elevator shaft of time.
By 15, Mewsalorca Fran Stone had welcomed her broad, hot-blooded man numberless times into every orifice, and friction troubled her no more.
Heady times they were. Fucky times. Before Tybalt had left her sweet vaj untended, his thoughts turning from husbandly husbandry to Empire.
Then Collier had swooped in: dear, dark Purchase. His chode could not top Tybalt’s beef roll, but he was cleverer by half, and he was there.
The two had squabbled over her. All the Sideways Stuff got muddied too. So she found herself in M&S one sleety eve, hungry for simple screw.
How wet she’d been – damp with precip down to where knickers shoulda been, and thrilled! Her bones trembled within her – and theirs did too!
A chiding jostled her from reverie: “Ottoman Fixup, you old so-and-so! I won’t say it again: no more buttbump til you’ve paid your tab!”
“And Anna Axenputel, dear heart, what in heaven’s name is this I hear about you aiming to cajole a no-hump stay out of our Ilsa Mae?”
For once in her life, Mewsy felt relieved to see Finch-Marie Fung in all her sweaty, overbearing glory. Gee whillikers was her tush sore!
Fung muscled the still-pumping Fix out of the Situation. (Hearing his name, Mewsy now recalled a session that had ended… more messily.)
“Now Anna,” she bustled once she’d smacked his buttock and sent him off, “You come give me a hug. Then get those holes hygienic, y’hear?”
Finch-Marie Fung was a pre-operative M2F transgendered woman, a once-legendary trapeze daredevil, and a whoremonger to boot.
“I go out to smoke and come back to find a Clydesdale tearing up the tulips and a loitering layabout running roughshod over my best merch’!”
Mewsy knew a ‘smoke’ meant the opium den in town. “I’m not merch’, any more, Finch,” she began, scraping out her crevices, “I’ve changed…”
“Well pardon me, Cheeks,” Finch-Marie got right up her colon with a wet-wipe, “But it’s no big shake-up, y’know, you getting all saturated.”
Mewsy’s head hung with shame. Her old peccato bound an albatross round her haunches – how could she ever be clean, so He could enter her?
“F-Finch-Marie,” she stammered, roses stained with hot tears, “I’m not who you think. My real name is M-Mewsy Stone and I – I’m a Believer!”
Fung guffawed. “Mewsy Stone! Worldly Socialite and Toast of The Upper Classes? You’re a great breeder, baby, but you’re not that well-bred!”
“But look…” Mewsy reached for proof, but remembered there was no pocket for keeping ID in her birthday suit. “You have to believe me!”
“All right, sweetheart. Now go and get slicked up for Mr. Agopolos.” Mewsy gasped, “Futkas has come? But I’ve already shagged off my rent!”
“I’m sorry, m’love, but a quick how-de-do with the Ottoman crew wouldn’t cover the cost of your laundry! Not at Fung’s.”
“But I can’t see him!” She was en fondant en larmes, “I can’t *do* Futkas on the very day I’m Spiritually Reborn! Oh Finch, send him away!”
“Anna. Futkas Agopolos has dibs on your duffel whenever you’re here. Scorn him and you can peddle your sweet honkers elsewhere.”
Mewsy was square in a fix. She couldn’t go back home yet, to a life rife with sweet, creamy adultery. But Futkas – Futkas could destroy her.