FIFTEEN SHAGS A DAY.

When university graduate Anastasia Iron goes to interview entrepreneur Christian Day she gets more than she bargains for.........

I guess that I shouldn't have entered his office on my bum, biting my lip in that silly way I do when I'm not sure how things are going to turn out. I can't help the accident. I just trip over my virginity and find myself at his feet, his piecing grey eyes looking down at me saying I want to tie you up , I want to bite your lip, I want to gag you, I want to tickle your arse with a feather.


But steady on. Things have got to take their time and nothing of any sexual consequence can be allowed to happen until at least one hundred pages have been scanned. Actually about a hundred and ten and then I have my first orgasm when Mr Day does something to my nipples that my metabolism simply cannot resist. I've never heard of a girl coming like that when a guy she's only just met gets a bit intimate with her ferrets' noses. I know that he only wants me as a play thing. When he shows me his playroom, the red room of pain he calls it, with all the trappings of an Ann Summers back room and some, I realise that Mr Day is into more than just what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this.


I roll my eyes at him and the next thing I know is I'm trussed up like a Christmas turkey with my hands tied around one of the four posters to the red bed so that Mr Day can get on with what ever he wants to at my exposed rear end. He uses that ghastly tie, the one that looks like the sort of thing a doorman would wear round his fat neck. Once again I experience an orgasm.


I'm not even allowed to touch the man who has just done far more than touch me up. He's had my cherry for goodness sake and even though I must admit he's the best looking male I've seen on two legs, I'm not sure about his motives. What I want is a deep and meaningful relationship but what he wants is deep and painful. Never mind aye. Grin and bear it. Literally.


He's got this thing about food and how I shouldn't leave any for Mr Manners. It's a clean plate or a smacked bottom. Any excuse I guess. I simply hate Shredded Wheat for breakfast so I guess it's going to be an over the knee experience before I can say please pass the butter and I'm right. He puts me across his lap and, surprise surprise, I come again. Not eating the crusts on my toast and marmalade brings another punishment. I have to lie naked and flat on my back, spread eagled across the vast breakfast bar (there's a great view of down town Seattle over my right shoulder). Mr Day empties a pot of Actimel (one a day) on my tummy together with a blob of Manuka honey on each nipple and then he tucks in to the unusual snack. Once again I can't really control myself and am forced to come with the result that Mr Day is left looking something like Coco the clown with a lot of yoghurt spread all over his face, it having being forced off my stomach with all the writhing I do when I have that double orgasm. Yes two and this was before the coffee.


Obviously Mr Day has to go and get cleaned up, wipe the health food from his face, but he returns wearing his black trousers, the ones that hang so provocatively from his hips, and that white shirt that just about covers his splendid torso. His hair shines like copper and I want to wipe away the trace of honey I can see he's obviously missed in his beautiful locks. He won't let me and when I bite my lip and roll my eyes at him that is it. Before you could say Vibrating Rabbit we are back in the red room of pain.


This time I have to kneel in the corner like some female Buddha while he goes off and changes into a pair of old jeans. He approaches me with a leather riding crop in his right hand an a green apple in the other. I feel like a bloody horse. I have to call him Sir which is quite difficult with the apple in my mouth but I am determined not to be beaten. Actually I am. He whacks me rather hard with the crop and the apple shoots out of my mouth and catches Mr Day a flying blow, a direct hit, right on the end of his erect manhood. His piercing grey eyes cross and he staggers backwards through the correction room and falls against the large wooden cross perched against the far wall. Even though it looks secure, for a brief moment nothing happens, but then ever so slowly like a falling tree, the thing starts its journey. Mr Day doesn't see it as it comes down on his beautiful head even though I try to warn him by pointing furiously at the thing behind him, he never looks back. As he lies there unconscious on the floor I think that it would be a pity not to take advantage of the unused erection. It is fun bouncing up and down on the out-for-the-count Mr Day and while he has absolutely no idea what is going on, I know precisely and enjoy another orgasmic experience, my sixth that morning and it isn't even time for elevenses.


I cannot find my knickers anywhere. But hey that is the least of my worries as I run off to find the blonde housekeeper to help me restore Mr Day to his pre-wooden cross encounter. The two of us struggle to lift the heavy cross off the billionaire. He comes round but must be delirious as he issues a slurred command for both of us to drop to our knees immediately. What follows is something that a house keeper should probably receive overtime for. The obedient blonde performs her extraordinary duty at one end of Mr Day while I hang about at the other. This again produces an orgasm, actually two as the housekeeper has one before returning to the ironing.


Mr Day isn't feeling his best as we jump into his helicopter to go and have an early lunch with his mother. I still have not found my knickers but I am not going to say a thing. The guy helping me on board gets a bit of a shock what with the updraft and everything but Mr Day doesn't bat an eye lid. Maybe he knows I am not wearing any.


The lunch is an informal affair and it is nice meeting Mr Day's family although quite hard trying to make polite conversation at the dining table while Christian has his hand hovering over my undressed sex. If that isn't tantalising enough, when he grabs a stick of celery as we tuck into the stilton and he tucks it into me, the look on my face must be a picture. I come between cheese and pudding and am just about able to smoother the event by exploding into my napkin with such conviction that everyone round the table blesses me after my enormous and prolonged sneeze.


After lunch the trip to the boat house at the end of the garden gives me another good rollicking and sees Mr Day perfecting a very steady stroke. His little sister nearly catches us at it but Christian is so masterful and tells her that we are just looking at his rowing trophies. If only she'd known.


We return in the black SUV with Tinker driving. Tinker is a real good sport. He does everything for Mr Day and always seems to be on hand. I feel that having met Mr Day's family, I might be winning a place in his affections rather than being just a simple plaything. I try to talk to him but all he wants to do is take me on the back seat of the car in such a way that I'm sure Tinker can see and hear me reach my tenth orgasm of the day.


As we take the elevator to the top floor Mr Day produces my knickers from his suit pocket. I start to say that he can stuff them up his, but before I can finish the sentence he is stuffing something else up mine. He likes doing it in lifts apparently and I can't help reflecting as we go past the eleventh floor that I am having my eleventh that day.


When I come back from the bathroom I can hear the sound of a piano playing. The tune is slow almost mournful . I stop in the doorway and watch as Mr Day strokes the keys. When he sees me the tune changes to "How much is that doggy in the window?" and I know that something is up. As I kneel on top of the grand piano with my naked bottom in the air, I know that something is indeed right up.


The contract he's drawn up for me to sign seems fairly straight forward. He can do to me what he likes and if I don't like it I can tell him to stop. I tell him that I have to discuss things with my mother. She is on husband number three or four and understands these things, how to deal with men. Mr Day doesn't look too happy at the idea and I know that I shouldn't roll my eyes at him again. But I do. He chases me round the big room and before I know it he's caught me and handcuffed me and is marching me off to his red room of pain. This time it is the cat 'o nine tales but not before he puts a blindfold over my still rolling eyes. Each lash makes me squeal with pain, or is it delight? I can't really tell. When the flogging eventually stops I can hear his breathing and the familiar sound of tearing foil as yet another condom is being forced into action. The familiar smell of burning rubber wafts around the two of us as he finds his mark and I eventually reach my thirteenth.


As arranged Mr Day's female doctor arrives to examine me. I explain that I've been through quite a lot already that day. She prescribes a contraceptive pill and I hope that it wasn't a bit like shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted. She also suggests I get a tub of Canisan as thrush can be an irritating and unwanted distraction for any girl.


Mr Day looks pleased as he writes out the $5,000 cheque for the doctor's time. He is nothing if not generous.


The evening lights of Seattle glisten like so many bright candles lit at a concert when people hold up their cigarette lighters when that tune "candle in the wind" is played. What a view it is as we look down on the early evening rush and have another shag standing against the vast plate glass window so that when the next orgasm arrives my outstretched palms squeak down the cold hard glass like a window cleaner's squeegee.


It is time for me to go home. My flat mate must be wondering where on earth I am. I have promised to go out with Jose my old friend although I am not going to tell Mr Control Freak Day about this.


We kiss in the lobby and armed with the uncalled for gifts from Mr Day, my two first editions, my new lap top, blackberry, the keys to my new red Audi sports car and the good doctor's prescription, I step into the elevator. What a day! What a man!


Jose is pleased to see me. He is so different from Christian Day. He's ugly and as poor as a Mexican church mouse.


"Fancy a shag?" he says to me as he drops me off after our drink.


"Ok then," I reply. May as well says my inner goddess to herself as she limps into the flat rolling her tired eyes for the fifteenth time today.

AUNT'S LEGACY

When Blakelock’s aunt is cremated, she goes out with a bang. Not one of her friends or relatives know that she has been fitted with a pacemaker and the loud report that it makes when the furnace fires up isn’t quite drowned out by the electric organ. The few who have come to see her off are trying to sing along to its music in the crematorium chapel. The half hearted nature of the congregation’s effort is more to do with the choice of hymn rather than unwillingness to partake. “Onward Christian Soldiers” or “Fight The Good Fight” would both have diluted the bang. “What Our Father Does Is Well”, a rather obscure harvest hymn with a difficult to follow tune, does not promote a natural harmony or the vocal gusto to muffle the unexpected sound. The undertakers from the Co-op are given the blame for the pacemaker oversight and its resultant small explosion but no mention is made to the bereaved about the unfortunate incident and how it interferes with Blakelock’s aunt. The operator of the fiery furnace, the guy at the coal face so to speak, gets a nasty shock when the lid of Blakelock’s aunt’s coffin takes flight and the dead aunt herself tries to vacate her last resting place by suddenly sitting up just as the flames are taking hold. The operator needs a cup of sweet black tea to help restore his equilibrium and he is allowed to go home early entrusting the rest in line that day to one of his colleagues. Some say he will never be quite the same again. The explosion of Blakelock’s aunt’s pacemaker is attributed by the congregation to a coincidental vehicle backfire on the busy road outside, where life carries on as normal as Mohammad, the driver of the A1Lawn At Bargain Price van (“green shoots r us”) speeds past the crematorium gates unaware that Blakelock’s aunt is being burnt to a cinder and her pacemaker is about to explode. The six year old green van is long overdue its service and as Mohammad pushes his booted foot to the floor, the tired engine responds with a noisy and fume fuelled hick-up that sounds like an old blunderbuss being fired. Mohammad curses as Blakelock pretends to sing the words, “Though nor milk nor honey flow, in our barren Canaan now,” and the Good Lord takes the exclamations from both men in His stride as Blakelock’s dead aunt briefly sits up, shocked in her tracks, on her way to meet Him herself.


Blakelock hasn’t really bothered with his aunt and so it is a surprise to discover that she has left him a bequest of £100,000. Blakelock decides that his inheritance, his aunt’s gift, should be marked in some appropriate way. The old lady would probably have liked that. So Blakelock thinks about the various options that are now open to him. He could purchase some rather fancy piece of antique furniture or a work of art with which to commemorate his aunt. He could invest in some fine wine, something he thinks that would have been close to and given succour to his aunt’s heart. It was said that she had enjoyed the better part of a half bottle of red Burgundy every day and that had, together with the pacemaker and the pills, kept her heart condition on the right side of wrong until the very end. Blakelock considers the leg of a racehorse but agrees that this might lead to bad money after good no matter if the leg he invests in decides to be the fastest leg there is. If the other three or just one of the other three is slow then the whole project is doomed from the start or indeed collecting ring.

After about two and half weeks after receipt of his late aunt’s money Blakelock decides on a Hummer. Of nearly all the things he might have chosen to spend his aunt’s money on, a Hummer is not the most obvious. The Hummer is not just an ordinary vehicle but a rugged statement that tells everyone who sees it that here is a car that is much more than a car. Blakelock is not concerned about miles per gallon. He jokes that it is more a case of gallons per mile. The Hummer wags two rude fingers to the carbon footprint and on the basis that Blakelock’s aunt hadn’t apparently shown any signs of believing in the existence of global warming, Blakelock justifies to himself that his aunt would be pleased with his choice of how he should spend her money. Blakelock’s aunt had lived in an old house without the benefit of many modern trappings. Insulation and double glazing were just words as mysterious to Blakelock’s aunt as Higgs Boson or Quantitative Easing. Her old radiators were left to rumble on, Winter, Spring, Summer and Autumn, at a steady sweltering eighty degrees and the coal fires that burnt furiously in her various grates added their considerable pollution to Blakelock’s aunt’s personal volume of greenhouse gasses.

As if to add further arrogance to the Hummer statement, Blakelock chooses a brand new red vehicle which is in marked contrast to the old green van driven by Mohammad of the A1Lawn At Bargain Price franchise (“green shoots r us”), a vehicle which doesn’t let the grass grow under its wheels because Mohammad (Mo the lawn to those that know him from the local Mosque) runs a busy business assuring weed free lush swards for his satisfied clients whilst trying to fulfil the increasing demands of his more fundamentalist brethren. The green van is being used to stock pile a dangerous amount of fertiliser without attracting any undue speculation from nosey neighbours, lawns and fertiliser being natural bed fellows.

The thing about a red Hummer is that it does attract attention, some of it unwanted, a lot angry, some of it jealous and quite a lot based on envy. Blakelock secretly likes the more favourable attention, the head turning looks he can see in the vast wing mirrors as he hums passed. He particularly likes it when the swivelling heads are pretty and female. Blakelock hasn’t enjoyed so much attention from the fairer sex and his new red Hummer brings him a ticket, a ring side seat, to a whole new experience that he finds difficult to resist. Sophie is one such but not content with just looking, she wants to touch and in getting closer to the rugged vehicle, she could become closer to its owner.

"Would you like a go in it?” Blakelock says to the young woman when he returns to the new shopping centre car park and sees her stroking the bonnet of his big machine.

"If that’s OK, yeah I would,” says Sophie very excited at the prospect of being let into this brash new world of petrol head heaven. She has enjoyed a Truck Fest or two and the Battle of the Monster Machines at the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff sent her into an unusual trance for several of the following days. Blakelock takes her for a spin and enjoys showing off around the car park. It is as though the Hummer is patrolling the lines of parked vehicles inspecting them rather like a general might review his troops. The Hummer looks down on most of them, is the king of the lot, loud and proud and majestically red as it rides through the rank and file.

"Wow,” says Sophie when after having cruised most of the lanes Blakelock brings the big machine to a screeching and rocking halt in one of the parent with child parking bays.

"You should see it off road,” says Blakelock and immediately Sophie wants to. She agrees to meet Blakelock again the following Saturday when Blakelock promises to take her for a decent run with a bit of off-roading thrown in as well. Reversing out of the parent with child parking space Blakelock doesn’t see the A1Lawn At Bargain Price van and the red Hummer slams into the side of it with the sort of force a fast rhino might employ when hitting a slow poacher. There isn’t a big smash but more of a dull crunch and the sound of thin metal being bent and torn. The A1Lawn At Bargain Price van suddenly has a new tattered logo. Several of the letters have disappeared into the gaping holes in the van’s punctured side. The strap line is distorted and doesn’t read any better and the new message seems to be saying something it shouldn’t. Mohammad looks like a wild rabbit caught in the headlights as he springs from his assaulted van to confront what ever it is that has interrupted his progress through the big shopping centre car park.

"What in god’s name are you doing?” Mohammad shouts at Blakelock who is already inspecting the rear end of his Hummer. The damage to the big machine is minimal and it does seem incredible that Mohammad’s van has sustained such scars without as much as a scratch on the Hummer.

"You’ve buggered my van right up.” Mohammad protests loudly.

Sophie is full of mirth. She has seen the whole thing and is probably the cause and distraction for the incident. Blakelock was showing off in front of the new admirer by revving the several horsepower under his foot’s control into a fever pitch before de-clutching and sending the red vehicle lurching backwards into the passing van.

"Ha, ha,” laughs Sophie as she reads the new description on the damaged vehicle.

"Alla at Bar.” She pronounces the strange new words as they have been arranged. She reads them out slowly, in an uncertain childlike manner with no understanding of their meaning. Mohammad spins around as though he’s been hit by lightening. He cannot believe what he is seeing.

“It’s Alla ak bar. Not Alla at bar,” he exclaims incensed at the female’s ignorance. He squints at the letters, takes in the full meaning of the battered new inscription. The letter K could be a letter T, but there is no doubt in his mind about the new message. He looks as though he has seen God and certainly feels as though God is at this very moment speaking to him.

“Shoot us.” Sophie sings out rather more positively, relaying the only two words in the new strap line on the green van.

Quick as a bird with a worm Mohammed wrenches open the rear door and pulls out a twelve bore shot gun which he levels and fires at Blakelock and Sophie in such a casual manner that it looks for all the world as though Mo the lawn is about to perform some top dressing rather than simply comply with his treacherous training.

“Allah ak Bar,” he shouts his battle cry as the little balls of lead shot start their hurried journey towards their unfortunate quarry.

The two blasts at such close quarters splatter into the recipients like sugar on pancakes and they dance and spin like bleeding puppets in an extraordinary enactment. The sound of the first shot is, thinks Blakelock, similar to the noise he heard at his aunt’s cremation. He doesn’t hear the second, but as his and the young woman’s dying blood drips almost unseen down the red paintwork of the peppered Hummer, Blakelock thinks that he really should have gone for the antique, the wine or even the leg of a horse rather than the big American beast.