For all you perspicacious permanently petulant pedanticists out there, a divertissement of hyperbole and somnambulistic diction with sesquipedalian affectations designed to tickle your taste buds with superlatives galore.
A feast for the ophthalmic organs and a laxative for the brain in stunning monochromatic detail, good enough to slow the indecent haste of an elephant with diarrhoea looking for a private privy.
A simple tale of love, lust and the riotous sex that binds them together.
Any correlation between this and my biography is purely incidental.
(All names have been changed to protect the guilty.)
Beatnic Jazzman.
Love is a peculiar affliction; we suffer its symptoms gladly only to suffer its pain when it's gone.
We begin the beginning
I had just arrived in work and was looking forward to my day; the simulations on the final tests were finished yesterday and confirmed the theoretical side. Now I had to somehow translate that into an engineering reality.
My thoughts were rudely interrupted when my computer finally fired up. There, on the screen, was a message from Brian, the production manager. I was to report to him as soon as I read it.
Brian, it seems, had received a request with the weight of the MD behind it. Some VIP was asking us to come look at a complementary machine we had given him some six months ago. It appeared I was to be the sacrificial lamb who's 'gonna havta' solve the problem.
Brian handed me a slip with a name and address on it. I was perturbed to see that they had set up an appointment for ten am. It was after nine now and the address was at least a half hour away, near where I lived.
I rushed to my lab and gathered my scattered tools swiftly into my bag. I was on my way within five minutes, giving me 40 minutes to get there. And I hadn't even had my morning coffee yet.
The address was two streets from mine, a detached six bed roomed house similar to my own. I parked in the drive, noting that both garages were empty.
I pressed the button, and somewhere in the back of the house I heard the bell ring. The door was answered by a dowdy looking young woman, who was almost as wide as she was tall, a size 20 dress at least.
If it were her using the sybian machine then the answer to the problem was obvious. We had a little notice on the side that gave the weight limits, and she sure looked over. For a VIP job I'd have to take it back and strengthen the frame.
"I'm from Viagan Solutions; I've come about your machine."
She looked at me, puzzled for a moment.
"Ah, yes. Miss Saffron said someone would call. She's up in her room. Please, if you'd follow me."
She opened the door fully and I followed her through the hallway and up the stairs. The decor and paintings on the wall reminded me of my grandmother's house, my inheritance and current roof over my head.
The maid was puffing and panting when we reached our second floor destination which was a landing painted in antique cream and hung with military portraits. It felt gloomy, like a haunted house.
We approached a door and she knocked, announcing my arrival. We waited perhaps a minute before a melodious voice called "Come in."
The maid left me to go in on my own.
The room was a girlish pink with posters of yesteryears' popstars stuck to the walls. It looked like a teenager's bedroom pasted over by time.
The inhabitant, though, was definitely a woman. She looked to be 20- something, quite pretty, her raven hair worn in two long plaits over her shoulders. She was still dressed in her nightclothes which consisted of a shortie nightdress with a pair of lacy shorts and fluffy bunny slippers.
When she saw me she gasped, her pale blue eyes widened in surprise, and she ran to the wardrobe door. She reappeared from behind it with a bathrobe on.
"Oh, are you Francis?" she asked.
"Yes, though I usually answer to Frank."
"Oh, I thought you were a woman. When daddy called to say they were sending someone over he used the name Francis. Sorry."
"It's alright. I'm definitely a man, and I've been sent to fix your machine."
She looked a bit flustered. She had clearly been expecting to explain her problems to a fellow female, and here I was bold as brass in front of her.
"Is your machine here?" I asked.
"It's in there." She waved her hand vaguely at another door in the corner of the room.
"Shall we have a look then, and you can tell me what's wrong."
I saw her blush, the pink creeping into her cheeks.
"There's nothing wrong with it, I want you to change it."
I pulled the note from my pocket.
"You've got a Migscaor model, that's one of our best," I stated.
"No, no, I want you to make it different."
Now I was puzzled.
"Go on," I prompted.
"Well, I want to use it in different ways. Like in the films."
The puzzle got stranger.
"And...," I prompted again.
"Well, so I can lie down and do it."
The comical picture of a Sybian, on its side, fucking her, came into my mind.
"And do it from behind as well."
My imagination couldn't cope, her with a Sybian on top of her.
"I've done some thinking." She walked towards the door, me following.
"If we cut it up, and hinge it, I think it will work." She opened the door to what was the bathroom.
There, in all its glory, was her fucking machine. The stains on the leather pad showed it was well used.
"If we cut it here, and here." Her hand measured a third and two thirds of the length.
She was venturing into my territory; this was my bread and butter.
"And then we turn it on its front." I helped her turn it onto its nose.
She moved the shower carpet next to it.
"Then I can lay like this to do it."
She was on her back, legs wrapped round the body of the machine.
"And the other cut?" I enquired.
"Ah, like this."
She rolled over and presented her ass to it. Her bathrobe fell open; I could just see her breasts gently swaying.
Her face flushed red again. She scrambled from the floor tying her robe tightly.
I continued on normally, trying to rescue the situation by pretending I hadn't seen. "We have different machines to do that. If you come back to my office I'll show you."
Her face blanched, "NO! I can't go outside, I've got agoraphobia."