Only Red

The mailman approached the house and Jazz (Jasmine) opened the door hurriedly thinking this could be the day. The mailman smiled wearily and muttered, "Have a nice day."

"You too," Jazz said when taking the mail, noting three bills on top of the heap. But beneath them was the long official envelop she was waiting for: notice of the dissolution of the marriage between Jasmine Eva Young and Archer Rex Young known to Jazz as Scumbag since the evening she caught Archer and her former best friend and bridesmaid Wendy in bed screaming their heads off.

Jazz opened the envelope and checked -- yes, dissolution had been granted.

"As from this day," she announced to the bed of petunias, a hand over her more than modest chest, I revert to my maiden name of Jasmine Eve Pennyfeather.

It was Friday and she went off to work very happy, returning nine hours later and stopping to look proudly at her petunias; until she'd planted them she'd not been aware she had even a light touch of 'green fingers'.

There was an horrendous screech of tires and a red something burst through the picket fence fronting Jazz's small house and slammed its front through the landscape window that looked out on to the oak tree.

Smoke appeared from under the bonnet.

Jazz rushed forward. "What can I do?" she cried helplessly.

"Pee on the fire -- save the damn car."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard."

"If you think I'm going to climb up there and squat you've..."

"Doesn't matter; it's almost out -- just the wiring shorting I suppose."

"How can you tell if wiring is short or long from where you are sitting and the lid is down?"

The guy in an awful striped jacket and a stupid cloth hat and goggles hitched up on top of his hat looked at her. Thank God he didn't have a mustache.

"I say, could you please pull this shard of glass from my throat?"

"Yes of course; what is a shard?"

He didn't have to tell her; she's seen it by then. An eight-inch long narrow piece of glass from the shattered window stuck from the right-hand front of his throat.

"Just pull it straight out darling. Oh my, what lovely tits. Don't twist the shard -- pull it straight out the way it went in and you won't cut an artery."

"An artery," Jazz said weakly.

"Yes little darling -- they are..."

"I know what arteries are. Shouldn't we wait for the medics?"

"No, I need to clear out before the police come and decided to breath-test me; I've had a couple or four or eight; wink-wink."

Jazz went up to him and was instructed to be careful. "Take off your panties and wrap them around the shard where you'll grip it."

She tore a big piece off her dress.

"God, you don't know how to give a guy a thrill, do you?"

She jutted forth her jaw to demonstrate she was not a woman to be trifled with but a blush flooded her face.

"Ah, virginal are we?"

She reacted firmly. "Shut up about me and tell me what to do."

"Grab it with two hands like you usually do."

"I've never had a shard..." The fiend; she turned scarlet.

"That's good darling -- now keep a steady grip and walk straight back without tripping or twisting or cutting my damn throat."

"Oh God."

"Nice tits -- allow me to squeeze them."

Jazz stepped back hastily and found he no longer had the shard in his throat. But blood poured from the hole.

"Oh God."

"It's fine, don't faint on me. If it were arterial blood it would be spurting. Give me your panties."

Jazz glared at him defiantly and handed the piece of dress she was still holding, unwinding it from the shard.

The guy in the stupid little car with no top and a folded-down windscreen bunched the fabric against the wound.

"Sorry about the damage to your house -- take me to your bed honey," he said, eyes glazing.

Bossy Miss Roberts from across the road came charging over. "What's his status?"

"Too rude to be married I should think."

"No child -- fractures, head injuries, what is your assessment?"

"I pulled this piece of glass out of his throat. He called it a shard."

"Oh God child -- in pulling it out you could have severed an artery. It should have been removed in theatre."

Jazz said well it was too late; he asked her to do it and she'd obeyed.

"Never accept what men say; it's always wrong," Miss Roberts said, pulling the man's hand away to inspect the wound. "Ohmigod girl, you were the width of a piece of paper away from cutting into the common carotid artery."

"I guess I was lucky, right?"

"Yes -- he's okay but needs four stitches and antibiotics. I'll call the paramedic service."

"No, please don't. He's drunk and doesn't want to be arrested for drunk driving."

That shocked Miss Roberts. "Good heavens girl, why are you protecting him; do you know him?"

"No -- I only met him five minutes ago."

"He should be jailed and then shot; he could have killed someone."

"But he didn't, I feel some responsibility because my window almost killed him."

"Oh darling, you are so sweet; brutes like this fiend will have a field day with you."

"Miss Roberts -- please. Take him to your medical centre and have him fixed and bill me."

"Well..."

"Please, I can hear the siren. Take him and I'll attend to the police and call my insurance company and have the car moved. Don't tell me where you're taking him so I can honestly say you didn't tell me."

"But you know where I'm taking him."

"But you didn't tell me."

"Oh, I see. You are not as dumb as you look, are you sweetie."

An hour later Miss Roberts returned from the medical clinic where she worked weekdays and introduced to Jazz -- reading from her notebook -- Arnold Thomas Guy, thirty-one, bachelor, of Parklands Crescent, Parklands Estate . He looked pale but otherwise okay and could have been mistaken for a clergyman because of the white bandage around his throat.

"Hi, call me Arnie."

"Hi," Jazz said shyly.

Arnie turned to Miss Roberts. "Cilla, this is the young woman who wouldn't take off her panties to save my life."

"So you've told me -- that's the third time now. Play another track Arnie."

"Sorry Cilla and you too Mrs Young; it's the alcohol talking. I can be almost shy at times."

Jazz said shyly, "My divorce came through today -- I've reverted to my former name of Jasmine Pennyfeather but please call me Jazz, and you too Miss Roberts."

"Call me Cilla please Jazz -- what a weird name."

"I used to play drums in an all-girl jazz band."

"I see -- I didn't realize the rowdy guy always shouting at you was your husband when you shifted in here more than two years ago," Cilla said. "You did the right thing tossing him away. I though he was abusive of you."

"He was but it was the drugs. He landed in with a bad crowd. I had to let him go so ratted on him; he and his crowd were busted and jailed for manufacturing and possessing banned substances."

"Oh dear -- will he and the gang come back seeking revenge?"

"I shouldn't think so -- it was an anonymous tip off. All of them are English and face automatic deportation when they come out of jail. Jake consented to the divorce and our joint possessions were legally divided so he'd have no reason to return. The social worker told me he'd now be only interested in men after being incarcerated for a minimum of three years."

Arnie looked quite concern. "A shard into the throat is nothing what you've been through."

"Thank you Arnie, that was sweet of you to say that. I sent your car to City Motors and they called and said there's little damage to your vehicle so call in tomorrow to discuss the two small dents and repainting the dents and lid-err-hood. Damage to the wiring is easily replaced. My picture window was floor to ceiling, fortunately for your car -- just a four-inch sill to bounce to hit the glass. You were just unlucky to be caught by that flying piece of glass."

Arnie looked at the covering over the window. "That temporary weather shield is very flimsy," he said. "Perhaps for protection I should stay until the glass is replaced."

"Jazz can stay with me," Cilla said firmly.

Poor Jazz, it was such a difficult decision.

"Come on dear," said Miss Roberts, holding out her arm.

"Wait."

Arnie and Cilla looked at Jazz as if expecting the announcement of World War 3.

"Let my ask you this Cilla: If you were my age, twenty-four, which of those two offers would you have accepted?"

Cilla sighed. "I'll call over in the morning to replace your dressing Arnie. Don't do anything to place pressure on your sutures."

As Cilla walked away Jazz said very firmly, "I'm not taking off my panties."

Arnie entered the house feeling a little unsteady. He stopped staying something mid-sentence and Jazz slammed her shoulder against his chest to stop him falling.

"You're coming to bed," she said firmly.

Arnie was a little too disoriented to make a lewd remark.

It was dark when Arnie awoke -- 9:15. He switched on the bedside light and touched gently the sore side of his throat, noticing his clothes in a neat pile on the bedroom chair. He reached down and made immediately contact with a warm slab; obviously his briefs were somewhere in that pile. He sighed and murmured, "Modern women."

The door opened and a bright face offered a cheery "Hi". Do you require pain-killers?"

"No, the pain has disappeared at the sight of you."

Jazz bit her bottom lip as the smile spread.

"Cilla called to check on you and then brought over a bottle of rum and copied out a recipe for eggnog. She thought you should only have liquids tonight and perhaps have an omelet for breakfast."

"Eggnog -- what's that?"

"You'll just have to wait and see, won't you."

"I'll only have it if you have one with me."

"Okay."

They ended up having two eggnogs each and a little later Jazz admitted to being "warm and fuzzy."

"Come to bed."

"I'll be sleeping in the guest room."

Instantly recognizing the complications that presented Arnie clutched his throat and groaned.

"What?" She rushed to his side.

"Pressure on the stitches; I hope they don't burst during the night."

"Oh God -- you should have stayed with Cilla -- she's a practice nurse."

"We can call her if anything goes wrong."

"Oh yes, of course. Then perhaps I'll sleep in here on the chair."

"A good idea," said the man with a wolfish smile.

It was a straight back chair so Arnie waited fifteen minutes as she moved one way, then the other and back again in relentless agitation until he switched on the light.

"What is it?"

"I'm worried about you," Arnie said smoothly. "You're not doing very well over there. Come over her with me; it's important that you have a good sleep."

Arnie didn't explain why that was important and it didn't occur to Jazz to ask. She would have been thinking 'He's in the nude!'

"Yes, bunk down beside me but go over the top sheet to keep that between us."

"Oh yes but please avert your eyes -- I only have my sleeping panties on."

Arnie of course remained looking in only one direction and his eyes widened as she scampered over, breasts bouncing. There wasn't time to also notice the lovely camel-toe.

"Are your lips dry?" she asked, noticing him licking his lips.

"No, everything but the right-hand side of my throat is in good shape," he yawned, turning off the light.

"Goodnight," she said sweetly.

He gave her two minutes. "Back in against me Jazz -- I'd appreciate knowing I'm in safe hands after my harrowing experience."

"Oh you poor man," she said, backing in against him with the safety of the sheet between them.

Arnie gave her another two minutes once they'd stopped chatting before pulling his right-hand free and steered it between the sheet and blanket to stop dead on her tummy.

She stiffened.

His hand remained absolutely still.

She relaxed and Arnie waited like a tom cat, ready to spring. When Jazz had settled into a steady breathing rhythm Arnie's hand moved from her belly to her right hip and he pulled the hip towards him, drawing his hips away. She rolled and provided just enough access for him to make it to her pussy -- shaved -- and to the entrance.

Damn, it was dry.

Arnie pulled his hand on to the soft pad over her pubic bone and massaged it lightly. A little later the hand moved back to the opening and bingo, evidence of moisture. The more he gently probed the easier it became: one finger eased in and as the lube increased he inserted a second. Her breathing stopped but he didn't.

"Arnie, for God's sake, what are you doing?"

He didn't answer. If she didn't know then she hadn't been married to a drugged up jerk in a band.

Arnie imagined the huge frown on her face softening and turning into a smile. Slowly her hand would have crossed to her right breast to begin a soft massage...

Well, he hadn't answered, she hadn't demanded he answered and she hadn't pulled away from him. This was consensual sex. He thought about a third finger but decided not to push his luck. He maintained rhythm and expected she'd almost fall to sleep again.

There was no problem of dry friction -- her wetness was oozing around his hand and she now smelt of sex. Probably that same primeval odor of arousal was reaching her nose. The bed clothes about his cock tented even more as that sexy thought rocketed through his brain.

Just as Arnie wondered had she fallen asleep her breathing rate began increasing and slyly she eased her under-leg out farther to widen the gap. The bed clothes moved and her arm brushed against his and she reached for her clit.

Ignition!

She stiffened, moaned and drummed her heels. The increased wetness flowed over Arnie's hand as her voice rasped, "God that was out of this world."

He didn't answer, she relaxed. He dropped off to sleep thinking he should have found a towel and a fresh pair of panties for her but, yawn, she was a big girl and when she awoke in the morning with her slime sticking her panties to her she'd realize in growing wonderment it hadn't been a dream. He grinned and thought he heard her say something...it sounded very much like "You mother-fucker." No, that couldn't be -- she was a lady. Wasn't she?

The swish, splatter of the shower awoke him after 7:00 and he found it difficult to breath. Breathing was back to normal once he removed her smelly panties she'd thrown on to his face. He smelt them and felt his cock spring into life. Although his wound hurt Arnie stretched and smiled; since the mutual decision to divorce he'd almost worn his cock to the bone -- a joke he grinned -- in the quest to find a new companion for his bed but had come up short.

He appeared to be too boisterous for them and his brand of humor failed to appeal as did his irreverence towards sex and tendency to treat women like...well like one of the guys. Usually the breaking point came when he'd dash them madly about in his 1930's re-built British MG -- that stood for Motor Garage but none of them would believe that. Their hair would be blown about, even when tied down with a scarf because he drove with the windscreen folded down on to the hood and he drove with glee if it rained, making no attempt to pull up the soft top.

They'd complain about their hair being in a mess; he'd laugh and say get it cut off. Usually they demanded to be taken back to his home immediately where crying or cussing or both they'd pack and call a cab.

None, absolutely none of them, had been worth fighting for but was that about to change?

Stroking his erection Arnie conceded her was in the bed of a Princess. All that was required was for him to convince her he was her Prince. He suspected he faced a hill climb.

Jazz walked from the bathroom drying her hair, clad only in a pair of sensible panties -- too large to be called panties really -- they must belong to her mother.

She bared her teeth at him and almost snarled: "You broke my trust last night and interfered with me."

"Yes I did, and wow did you go off into a biggie. Was that the best since your wedding night?"

Her toweling hands stopped and she gaped. Finally, "I can't believe this" and hair drying resumed.

"What part can't you believe?"

"Well, how about these for starters. You didn't deny it. You didn't apologize. You accused me of enjoying it. And...and...you grinned!"

"Oh dear me -- forget to grovel did I?"

"Yes, leave this house instantly."

Attempting to look crestfallen Arnie slipped out of bed. She gaped.

"Is that all you?"

Arnie looked down. "All present and correct ma'am." He then clutched at his throat and howled.

"Oh Arnie, what is it?" she cried, completely suckered.

Oops, he had to think of something and definitely not a joke. If he failed he was out on his ear.

The Prince croaked: "The stitches, they are pulling like hell."

The Princess said: "Oh my poor injured man. Here, let me assist you back into bed."

A lovely sweet-smelling and very firm breast covered his mouth as she bend over to help lower him on to the bed. With an iron will Arnie made no effort to lick, suck or bite the tit and that made him worry in case that indifference may have disappointed her: one never knows with women.

"Stay there my sweet man. I'm off to cook your omelet."

A couple of minutes later she came in with the phone wearing an apron, the narrow top of which had pushed out her breasts to either side. Arnie swallowed and his cock jumped to erection. "It's City Motors -- Mr Childs says the cost of reinstatement is not worth making an insurance claim and then being penalized at renewal time. They can work on it today provided they have your okay."

Arnie, sitting up, took the phone and circled her waist with his arm as he began talking to Mr Child, feeling her preparedness to break free subside and she began stroking his hair; there was quite a lot to stroke up there as well.

* * *

Three years earlier Jazz Pennyfeather had gone with three friends to a punk rock concert and they pushed to the front pretending to act like groupies. Their antics caught the eye of the stage manager and he sent his assistant to invite the four girls to meet the band members after the show. They accepted, nervously, because none of them had ever had anything more than one-on-ones; they weren't even sure what groupie girls did -- was it just all-in with the band members, or band members and their girl friends and did management and the roadies also join in?

The girls had been drinking so decided to give it a go, saying they could always withdraw if the action became too steamy for them. As they entered the room guitarist Duke Liverpool also known by the name on his British Passport of Archer Rex Young grabbed Jazz's arm and said, "Listen babe, you look a bit cool to be in for a groupie, come with me and remain safe."

"Like a drink?" asked The Duke as he pretentiously called himself when they entered his luxurious RV; he must have dropped something into the drink because the next thing Jazz knew it was morning and he was fucking her.

She had a huge headache and surprisingly quickly found the sexual stimulation seemed to ease it, so didn't complain. After he completed the third session that she knew about he asked her to stay on tour with him: "Be my Duchess." She was tempted -- she had been a senior sales clerk in a dress store but chances of entering management or becoming a buyer appeared slim as people only a little older than herself held those positions and seemed firmly entrenched.

"Where are we?"

"Dunno," he answered. "Possibly two hundred miles from where we were last night when we climbed aboard."

"I have no chance of making it to work on time."

"I wouldn't think so -- here, take my phone and call your mates to say you have joined the tour and call your job boss and tell her you've quit."

Everyone makes bad decisions during their lives and for Jazz this was one of them. She decided to stay, partly influenced by the fact this seemed like an adventure and partly because The Duke was not big, perhaps a tad less than six inches, which meant they fucked without her feeling bloated. He also had incredibly long fingers and although the nails were long they were well manicured for guitar playing and his played her clit and vagina as if playing a guitar. So she made those calls vaguely recognizing those moves as bad decisions but she was seduced by the role offered as Duchess.