Tybalt Onan-Stahl had a weary John Thomas. The pork hock on his pelvis was begging for relief, so chafing were the demands of its new life.
We rejoin him crouching behind the hothouse, sucking on a cigar and soaking his fat tubby in a soothing dish of jelly. He felt his age.
Decades may have dulled the keen edges of his desire, but neither their passing nor motherhood had slaked Regatta’s inhuman thirst for dick.
She was napping now, thanks be. A man has his limits. Certainly he could stall her when next she… But, hark! the echoes her silvery voice!
“My love, where have you vanished to?” Spring breeze bore the airy tones to his ear. Tybalt was transfixed, he knew, and bound to her will.
“Here, my Venus!” he sighed with ardour and resignation. He emerged from the shadow of the greenhouse and immediately she fell upon him.
“I was having such a dream,” she crooned into his shoulder, “But I woke up too soon! Now I need my sweaty beefcake to fill in the blanks.”
“Do ut facias,” he managed, with what could’ve been mistaken for a moan of desire. She took him by the Schlang and led him to the hothouse.
“We were spread out among the ripening tomatillos,” she began, laying him, junk up, across the rough table strewn with fruits of the vine.
“Your humping rumproast crushed the plump orbs. How their staining juices mixed with the heady scent of your manstank to intoxicate me!”
At that Tyb’s tommy-gun roared to life, reiterating its complaints of abuse when – “Nnggh!” – her she-clamp fastened over its tender wood.
Surely Mewsy had never been so implacable? But Mewsy was no more; into her place had seamlessly slipped this bewitching cocknivore.
Regatta had come so quickly (regrettably this couldn’t be said of her general climactitude) that Mewsy’s absence scarce registered at first.
Tranquility had gone from Triolay when the sphinx arrived with her 25 scions in tow. But oh! one’s steel, it slid so sweet into that sheath!
The grounds were overrun with children and their staff, though Tybalt had barely noticed, caught up as he was in tending to the lady garden.
Come to think of it (it must be noted here that Tybalt pondered best “mid-nasty”) perhaps it was unusual, her behaviour regarding “things”.
Yesterday at lunch he’d thought nothing of it when, after a rumpus post-salad pre-soup, she’d bid him churn another load by hand “to save”.
Yes – he supposed while he avidly pinked her – the request could be taken as odd. But then again, no; reserving a dose is a lover’s prerog’.
“In the dream,” Regatta grunted as he trans-vaginally nudged her spleen, “You so soaked me inside that your spumoni seeped from my pores!”
“Octuplets bloomed in my womb. The continuation of our race! Oh! Oh! I bred a tribe for you of thick-thighed warriors with heldenwangs!”
That broad sure knew how to talk.
Regatta’s form, richly transformed by multiple motherings, gave over spasmodically to the rampage of physical love’s inevitable fruition.
Tybalt, too, squeezed closed his eyes and emitted his customary eruptive squeal. The two bodies came to a rest among ruined produce.
Regatta, though, who’d rid’ him as if trying to dislodge a tooth, remained in saddle, staring down at a face reddened by juice and exertion.
“Why didn’t you squindle me?” she asked breathlessly. Her wrung-out baster replied, “I did, my love, and it was heaven.”
“Richard,” she accused, her breathy voice dropping a full octave, “Don’t bullshit me. I know your O, and that was not he.”
“Why would you call me that?” rasped the straddled, dried-up husk, with wounded eyes. But Gats, unfazed, spat out, “Because it’s your name.”
Nothing is so tender as a big man’s pride. He HAD resorted to Lover’s Artifice, but what recompense was this? “Et tu, Brute?” he managed.
“Your real name is Richard Spall and you can’t speak Latin,” she retorted. “I can hold my peace for a dependable breeder, but you’re spent.”
Richard Spall. How that name sank to the bottom of his belly like pebbles in soup. Rich the country bump, whose banger had never seen mash.
Day one at Ambass, Rich’d got an eyeful of the dip-n-bulge girlie parade and resolved: I gotta get a new me. So Tybalt Onan-Stahl was born.
With little more than a cheeky hyphen and a Latin phrasebook the newly-minted playboy wangled himself into the choicest furrow in the place.
Now here she was again, all these years later, and her scorn cut to the marrow. He was nothing. Just a husky farmboy too big for his britch.
“If you don’t like the hard treatment Rich Spall doles out, well, there’s the door!” he lashed out. In our pain we hurt others, don’t we?
“You’re not man enough for big talk like that,” hissed Regatta. “Maybe I oughta call up Purchase Collier to pick up where you left off!”
“Do what you like!” he bellowed. “With all the traffic through you, this thunderstick’s the only thing that’ll even touch the sides anymore!”
“I’d be better off with a butternut dipped in Vaseline. At least it wouldn’t lie to me!” “See how your squash fares on sixteen fucks a day!”
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” said a timid voice from the doorway, “They said I’d find you here. It’s a matter of some urgency.”
“What do you want??” roared the sparring pair in adorably perfect unison. The silhouette in the doorway advanced. It was the stranger.
“Excuse me sir,” he said to Tybalt (his bumdot twinkling at the sight of him) “It’s about your wife, Mewsalorca. I believe she’s in danger.”
“Mewsy?” Tybalt sat up, ousting Regatta from her pee-pee throne. “What is it?” “It’s a long story. We must hurry. We can talk in your car.”
“We should take yours,” Tyb said. “I’ve only got horses.” “But I’ve taken a walking vow,” replied the stranger, “Or I’d have come sooner.”
“You two ridicken me,” snorted Regatta. “Horses and walking vows! I’m calling Purchase. A girl can always count on him for a good sliming.”
“Someone say my name?” It was that smug rogue Collier. “Pardon the intrusion. I happened to be in the neighbourhood.” He glanced behind him.
“Rosie?” Regatta inhaled sharply. Her eldest girl, a college dropout with tremendous tatas, was slinking across the lawn doing up her bra.
“‘Scuse me for sayin’, ma’am, your daughter is exceptionally handy with a riding crop.” Regatta took dutiful offense, but felt rather proud.
“Purchase!” crowed Tybalt, “Amicorum communia omnia, eh?” Purchase’d never seen such a sincere smile ‘cept when something was wanted of him.
“Have you by chance got your car nearby?” It was a cloying, puerile charm the lug au naturel put on. “Depends who’s asking,” said Purchase.
“Mewsy’s in danger,” said Tyb. “There’s a bad nun on the run,” said the stranger. Collier stood erect: “In danger?! Lead me to her!”
Collier and the stranger made for the car with the air of two fellas ignoring a shared dalliance with the donk that dare not speak its name.
“Room for one more?” Tybalt asked, falteringly. Purchase set eyes of cold chrome on the supplicant. He had not forgotten their horsie ride.
“You can tag along,” said Purchase, “If you’ll do some things for me.” “Anything!” “Anything?” “Anything!” “Then hop in. Come sit in front.”
“I’m coming too!” hooted Regatta. Purchase shot back, “Yes, I imagine you will be.” They four drove off. Things were looking iffy for Tybby.