Chapter X

Mewsy’s eyelids fluttered bewilderedly. “Tyb. You’ve come.” Was it true? Yes. His ruddy jodhpurs were wicking up sex gush as she spoke.

“Difficile est longum subito deponere amorem,” he reassured. Her woman’s mind raced with questions. But she was safe. “Big Boy,” she sighed.

“Muffy,” he nuzzled. Now Mewsy became aware of a spat underway nearby between the rapey seduttor Agopolos and hard-nosed, ferocious Fung.

 

“I’ll get what I paid for,” the libertine menaced, “Anna Ax’s abyss will submit to my ministrations, and I’ll dine tonight on skin taco.”

“Mr. Agopolos,” Finch said, firmly, (though, as a woman, she was not impervious to the charms of this clunge magnet) “Anna is a free whore.”

“No slot-for-hire contravenes an Agopolal decree. I’ll have this shambles torn down.” His naturally perfect muscles stiffened with fury.

 

“Darling Tybble,” Mewsy whispered meanwhile, “I’ve been a common devious tart. How could you ever forgive me?” “Amor vincit omnia,” said he.

“How did you find me here?” “It’s a long story,” he began, “We rode into Barebones at moonrise…” But a skull-rattling screech broke him off!

 

At the sound, Ilsa Mae in a leather cat’s mask burst in, leading Purchase (hooded, and hobbled by a leash attached elsewhere than his neck).

In the corner, the stranger could be seen struggling to extricate himself from the attentions of an amorous fire extinguisher.

Finch-Marie and Futkas wheeled around to face the interruptress, and the demi-god’s studly mug exploded with shock. “Regatta? How dare you!”

Tybalt felt a stab like an icy willy in the heart. It couldn’t be! But here she was, wizened by motherhood, but Regatta Caption nonetheless!

 

She was obscenely pregnant, and stood conniptive in the antechamber of Fung’s mingery, quaking and yowling. Agopolos was plainly implicated.

“FutKAS!” she banshed, “You’ve done it! I WON’T bear Futty XXVI to a rent-a-cunter, no matter how beguiling his ‘tween-the-sheets manner!”

“Goodness, she’s lost none of that youthful vim,” thought Tybalt, “The years may not have freshened her temper, but… eminently beddable.”

In a barely audible hiss (which suited him) Agopolos commanded, “Regatta. Get your swollen headlights back to the kitchen and wait for me!”

“You don’t tell me nothing no more!” she spat. Her grammatical slips had always been aphrodisiacal for Tybalt. Regatta C.: C-cup C student.

“I won’t say it again.” Futkas brandished a well-groomed fist, and the onlookers gasped, shocked that such a studmuffin should turn so bad.

“No sir, not at Fung’s!” Finch declared. “Genius Joe, kindly show these folks the door.” Mewsy felt a pang of gratitude in her overused maw.

The yokel took Fut’s hot arm (even he couldn’t help noticing its alarmingly pleasing proportions) and set about escorting him off the prem’.

 

In turning to tail them, Regatta’s mantis eye fell on Tybalt. It flooded back: his sopping ovipositor intubating her over and over and over.

“Big Boy?” Mewsy’s hackles went up: her pet name from another woman’s throat? Who was this fertile cock holster? And why had Tybby gone wan?

“Gatsy!” Tybalt’s voice broke. Regatta felt her clitty waken. Futkas’ eyes narrowed (a lady fainted in Cameroon). Mewsy sharpened her claws.

Just then, the stranger, having extracted the exxxtinguisher with an audible POP, cut in: “Ms. Stone, DID I mention our Tuesday Bible Group?”

 

On her deathbed, years on, Mewsy was to recall the ensuing scene with radiant clarity. “I knew that polecat cov’ted my Tyb,” she would rasp.

 

Stahl shoved the stranger aside, going for Gats. Bold striding suited his build; all eyes rode the elevator from solid calf to resonant ass.

Futkas seized his wife’s arm, force to which Tybalt, the consummate gent, objected: “You get your manicured mitts off her.” Fut: “Or what?”

“Or I’ll make a Juan Gris out of your Dorian Gray,” he quipped. The situationally inappropriate mix of wit and bravado made everyone squirm.

“Mind who you stab with those overeducated barbs, Muscle Mitch.” The hunks were circling each other, nostrils flared. It was rutting season.

 

Regatta made no bones of a primal arousal. The two fathers of her young, at it like rival roe? Yes, please! She fairly oozed with pheromone.

Old Mewsy, Mewsy of the Flesh, would’ve drooled too. “But,” she thought rather smugly, “I’ve had my Road to Damascus right here at Fung’s.”

Purchase attempted, “Fellas. Curb your animal passions and you’ll boast of the triumph of reason.” Sadly, only “mmmph” got through the hood.

The stranger meanwhile, since the proceedings did not concern him, retired to his chaise to explore a certain extinguishing spray function.

 

The studs pawed the floor, flexing their delicious bods. Tybalt, readying his todger for a victory spearing, reared back and ran into Mewsy.

As his brawny back hit her, so did an awful realization. “He’s not champing battered wymyn,” she gasped, “He WANTS that schwanger cuntflap!”

“Look at her,” she scowled, “Frothing at the gash for it.” Regatta was panting, “Yeah! Tear his pecker off!” at both baby daddies at once.

 

Mewsy hollered, ironically, “Basta! Bastards! Has no man respect for the sanctity of marriage? Is everyone just out to get his woody wet?”

“What would you know about the sanctity of anything?” Regatta countered, “You, who still reek of the lust custard from numberless chubbies?”

“You dare cast aspersions on my honour?” Mewsy the tigress awoke, “If your morals are as loose as your fetus chute you must be sociopathic!”

“That’s a laugh,” shouted Regatta, “Ha! Ha! Ha! I’ve heard about you. ‘Hide your husbands and sons!’ they say, ‘Mewsy Stone is walking by!'”

“Why, you…!” Mewsy went right for the mammaries, but found herself kicking and screaming in Tybalt’s arms instead. And not in the good way!

 

“Release me, philanderer!” she flailed. “How can you defend this walking sperm converter at the expense of My Christian Dignity?”

“Cave quid dicis, et cui,” he cautioned. But Mewsy wept, saying: “Say goodbye to my fish pie, Big Boy. Sister Stone I shall henceforth be.”

It all happened so fast. “Brother stranger,” Mewsy said to the popsicle on the divan, “I’m ready to devote my body to servicing Him alone.”

The stranger rose with difficulty, composed himself and waddled to Mewsy, ready to put out any blazes that might appear directly behind him.

“Come, Sister,” he beamed, beatified, “You will never know betrayal in the loins of our LORD.” And they quitted the beaver shack.

 

NEXT CHAPTER!

 

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