Such Stuff

Part 12

There is nothing...

Lizzie woke from the most awful dream. Even worse, and that had been bad enough, worse than being raped by Captain Jas. Hook, she had dreamt she had been captured by the odious Conrad and locked inside his strange fantasy of a novel. A children's story he seemed to consider it, yet, the reality had been dis­tinctly adult, obscenely adult in nature. She snuggled down in the warm bed­clothes drawing her knees up to her chest, "There's nothing like home, is there Dorothy?" she whispered.

"You are home, you know," said a voice a little above her. Lizzie's eyes opened wide in alarm. The panic got worse as she took in the strangeness of the room, the ornately carved bed, the strange furniture and the small figure wearing a blue cap and perched on one of the corner posts of her bed. To her horror Lizzie realised that her entrapment had not been a dream at all: she was very much inside Conrad's mad erotic fantasy and it was none other than Puck sitting on the corner post of her bed.

She ripped the bedclothes to one side and shot out of bed and stood pant­ing, her chest heaving, her eyes wide with fright, feet on the cold tiled floor. Not a good awakening. Her eyes shot to and fro across the room as she took in her surroundings. It was a terrifying experience. But she did not run, she did not scream, she did not burst into tears. No, none of those things.

"Good... good morning Robin Goodfellow," said Lizzie after a few mo­ments, having commendably pulled herself together. She was not some silly girl. She was made of sterner stuff. Puck smiled at her.

"I like you Elizabeth Sherrell," he said.

"How d'you know my name?" demanded Lizzie.

Puck wrinkled up his face as if thinking and then smiled at Lizzie, "How long, Lizzie, have I been around do you think? Am I mortal or am I faerie? I do more than curdle milk!"

"So I noticed. Such as sticking your cock, without so much as a by your leave, in girls you meet."

"Ah, but what a jape, you tumbling over in the Tempest you had raised up, or there again perhaps it was me you raised," Puck laughed at his pun, "A bit of jollity. It's in the nature of this place, this wonderful place; it is what hap­pens here all the time. I may, possibly, have mentioned I like being here. Would you like another jape?" The little man lifted his limp manhood, shall I set this to work, shall YOU set it to work or does perchance the Writer set it to work? Now what do you think?"

Before Lizzie could answer, there was a knock at the door, it opened and in came a maid. Lizzie was not surprised to see the maid was wearing the classic 'French Maid' outfit.

"She's not actually a maid," whispered Puck, laughing again at his own joke.

"No, I suppose not," said Lizzie looking at the girl.

"Mornin' Miss Lizzie, some tea?" Lizzie did like a cup of tea in the morn­ing and was not going to let the strangeness of her new home upset that. The maid poured tea from a silver teapot into a bone china cup. "Milk, sugar?"

"None for me then?" queried Puck. The maid gave him a look.

"No, I thought not."

"Shall I run your bath Miss Lizzie?" It was only then that Lizzie realised she was standing completely naked beside the bed.

The bath was run and Lizzie slipped beneath the warm water. A lovely scent of jasmine filled the air. She closed her eyes and just lay there in the warm water. Physically she felt almost relaxed and comfortable but her mind was churning. Was she trapped, what would her parents do, was time the same here as at home, what did Conrad plan, was the Chevalier, the man with the codpiece, and even Puck a friend or in league with the odious Conrad? Puck had said he liked her... but did that mean anything after what he had done? She opened her eyes and looked across at Puck. He was still sitting on the bedpost watching her but his penis was limp no longer. "Probably foe," she thought. She was wrong.

The maid pulled open the doors to an enormous wardrobe, a wardrobe in a French style built of walnut. It contained a great number of dresses, a choice many a girl would have envied had they been rather more traditionally cut without the absurdly plunging necklines.

"Breakfast will be in the Yellow Morning Room today," said the maid. Mr. Worrity especially asked for you to join the company at eight-thirty. It was nearly time but Lizzie resolved to be late and took her time selecting a dress. Puck grinned,

"It is not best to upset the Writer. He might make a note and write things differently—differently for you. Not a good idea I think."

Lizzie opened the door out of what seemed to be her bedroom and stepped into a long corridor lined with doors, she turned, practical as always, to check on the number on her door so she could find it again. But there was no num­ber, it was after all not a hotel, but instead a small piece of yellow card an­nounced 'Miss Lizzie's Chamber' in black ink. Had she been a guest visiting a wonderful mansion in the country as a houseguest at some Edwardian party she would have been delighted. But whilst she was no doubt a guest—or a pris­oner - she was anything but happy. She shook her hair and wondered if to turn right or left? Which way lead to the Yellow Morning Room?

She assumed this Morning Room would be on the ground floor and facing east to catch the sun. But that presumed the sun rose according to normal laws and that people here expected to dine on the ground floor. But that, Lizzie already realised, was a great presumption in the strange, frightening place she now found herself. Nonetheless she was quite correct in her assumptions and presently, after one or two false starts or, rather, wrong rooms, she walked into a room full of sunshine, yellow paint and breakfast. The large dining table al­ready seated at least two dozen persons and all eyes turned to Lizzie as she en­tered. Conrad in a yellow hunting jacket leapt to his feet and bowed deeply to Lizzie, "My dear, you come to grace our table and are not really very late." He smiled just as if he was in the bookshop back home, "I, of course, forgive you today! Come sit, what will you have?"

Lizzie sat. She had thought of starting a blazing row with Conrad but after yesterday, all the people around and her recent frightening awaking she thought discretion the better part of valour and just sat.

"Kippers, smoked haddock, bacon?" Conrad lifted chafing dish after chaf­ing dish revealing breakfast after breakfast. Lizzie found she was indeed hun­gry and ate greedily.

The Chevalier was present and he smiled kindly at Lizzie across the table, "Bonjour ma chérie, I trust you slept well and are refreshed?"

He seemed so friendly, so unthreatening and kind that Lizzie could but smile at him and admit, despite the manner of her arrival, she had indeed slept well.

After a time Lizzie, feeling replete, decided she would have to challenge Conrad.

"I do not understand, I want..."

But she got no further. Conrad jumped out of his chair and brought to Lizzie his black bound book and opened it with a flourish.

"See I have written!"

She read,

'Lizzie was not best pleased by Puck's deluge. The dark cloud of the tem­pest had blown over her making it seem black as night. Did the merry prankster cause the rain to fall in drops as big as marbles stinging poor Lizzie so and making her dress as wet as could be?'

Conrad smiled in his irritating way, "did that sum up your experience, did I get that right: or did I write that first of all? What do you think? Go on you de­cide."

Lizzie was unsure, unsure of everything. Where was she, was she truly awake here, somewhere completely weird, somewhere not home at all? Her anger against Conrad mounted. Had he really brought her to this place, this world of his imagination? Could it be that not only had he insinuated himself somehow, and she had no idea at all how, into her mind and seemingly taken some control of it but had now actually transported herself into his book. How then was he here too - in his book? Could perhaps he enter and leave his strange fantasy at will? Could she therefore find a way of escape?

"I want to go home," her insistent thought was spoken as a demand be­fore she realised she had made the thought audible. It sounded rather childish and immediately Lizzie wished she had not said it.

Conrad did not laugh at her but nodded as if in sympathy, "I am sure as the days pass in pleasure and comfort you will feel very at home here and be grateful I wrote you into my story. You will be so happy that I chose you hav­ing watched you and wanted you. Surely it is already an adventure and excit­ing? You will find it a delight and simply love the river and picnic I have organ­ised today and as for the morrow..."

"You have no right," shouted Lizzie standing all at once. The others looked at her, startled from the dignity of the breakfast.

The Chevalier coughed, "Time for the boating expedition I think."

"Well reminded, Chevalier, well reminded," said Conrad, "I have already written today, Lizzie. It will be a delightful day. I have planned it so."

Lizzie really did not know what to say or do. Should she run off again? That had not been her best plan the day before. Not at all. She settled into sullen thinking and followed as the party stepped out of the French windows, onto the lawn and down to a landing stage to which were moored any number of rowing boats, painted in bright colours and looking very much like a collec­tion of boats for hire. The sort of thing you might find at a boating pond or at a popular river. They were even numbered.

"Which boat would you like Lizzie? They are all so gaily painted!" Conrad was his jolly self, all smugness and bonhomie.

Lizzie pointedly avoided any of the boats painted yellow and black, of which there were quite a number, and stepped into a boat in quite the loveliest French Blue. It was No.6.

Lizzie was not expected to row. Instead Conrad followed her into the boat she had chosen—she would far rather it had been the Chevalier or indeed any­one else—and he sat amidships taking up the oars. Soon they were leading a flotilla of rowing boats up the river, Conrad with his legs braced and arms pulling firmly at the oars powered the boat on up the river. Occasionally he glanced behind him to steer.

"Perhaps, Lizzie, you would direct me to ensure I don't run us into the bank."

Lizzie looked at him. He had cast off his hunting jacket and was dressed in an Edwardian swimming costume—the type intended not just to cover the loins but the chest as well. The Edwardians were modest. Topless bathing for men was inappropriate: let alone topless bathing for women—quite impossi­ble. But of course Conrad's was not a simple Edwardian costume. The material was predictable—it was in bright yellow with black horizontal stripes but, much more strangely, an area of material was missing—a rather crucial piece was missing - allowing his penis and scrotum to hang free and visible. He caught her looking at his manhood and he smiled as it began to stir.

"Perhaps, Lizzie, you would rather suck than direct me? I do not mind at all." His cock lengthened and bobbed up and down as he pulled on the oars. Lizzie's reply was an emphatic negative and she folded her arms and looked anywhere but at Conrad. He, however, merely chuckled.

The day was perfect. Warm, tranquil and a sky of glorious blue. It was dif­ficult for Lizzie to stay cross whether this was real or she was dreaming. She soon unfolded her arms and turned to look and touch the water as it bubbled by. The softness and clarity of the water surprised Lizzie as she trailed her hand behind the boat and gazed down into the river's depth. Small fishes dart­ed here and there, their scales flashing gold and silver in the sunshine.

She wondered if there would be an opportunity for swimming. Certainly she was very warm in her dress. A trickle of sweat ran down between her breasts—a very visible trickle given the absurdity of the plunging neckline. Conrad was watching.

"Perhaps you would like to bathe? I am ready dressed for a swim."

"I haven't a costume," she snapped.

"I don't think anyone would object," he replied grinning.

A dilemma for Lizzie. Should she strip off and swim naked, which was evi­dently what Conrad wished—to judge by his once more lengthening cock, or should she sit there and swelter?

"I should like to swim."

Conrad shipped the oars and no sooner had he done this than the other boats stopped as well.

Having made her decision, Lizzie now had to carry it out. It was not so easy to take her clothes off not only with Conrad watching but the rest of the party as well. She looked at the water. It did look so clear, cool and refreshing. Reaching behind her to undo clasps she began to take off the rather full dress slipping it from her white shoulders and pulling it downwards. Raising her bot­tom a little Lizzie tugged the dress over her hips. Glancing up, she saw Con­rad's eyes drop to her sex and his penis rear up to its full height but she tried to ignore him as sitting down once more she pulled the rest of the dress off leaving her naked in the boat, the warm wood against her bottom. It was not easy, actually it was not possible to slip into the water without giving Conrad an even more intimate view of her body. As she got up the boat rocked and she planted her feet more firmly but inevitably rather more apart and then turning to ease herself over the side she presented her bottom to him. His grinning, irri­tating face told Lizzie he was enjoying the experience.

The water was as refreshing as Lizzie hoped and she swam happily around enjoying the feel of the sweet fresh water on her skin, still marvelling at its clarity. Some things Conrad undoubtedly had got right with this world he had created—if that was what he had done with that pen of his. Lizzie swam strongly over to the other boats and away from Conrad and found she was soon not the only person in the water. Some of the party were dressed in strange and apparently pointless swimming attire. Why had one of the ladies on a costume of a stunning turquoise colour which covered her legs up to the top of her thighs, her stomach, back and arms but left her breasts and shaved sex completely exposed? Why had one of the gentlemen a pair of very tight trunks with a hole cut in them to allow his scrotum to protrude where, being particularly generous, it floated in the water waving around as he moved like some pink wrinkled seaweed washed hither and thither by the current. Others of the party had no costumes and like Lizzie entered the water completely naked. Lizzie found herself swimming amongst a small shoal of bodies her hands and feet occasionally brushing against their sexual attributes.

"It is very difficult to have intercourse whilst swimming you know," said a voice close to her. Conrad had swum up by her. "Very difficult. If you put your feet down on the bottom it is, of course, much easier: but to perform whilst trying to float is difficult. Have you tried, Lizzie, would you like to try?"

"No."

"Would you like to see others try first? It would be such fun. We could have a competition and award points for style, for time joined whilst swim­ming, for not having to disengage to breathe due to going under, for..."

"No I wouldn't, I just want to swim. GO AWAY."

But there was immediate and evident enthusiasm for Conrad's idea from many of the other swimmers.

"Well done, Worrity, what a game, what sport!"

Lizzie swam away but turning back she saw the game was already in full swim. There was a slight regret in not joining in. It is never a pleasant feeling not being part of a group but it was her choice and, in any case, it was a very silly game. She swam to the bank and climbed out through the reeds and looked back. She was right; it was a very silly game and was not working. If one of the men tried to get on top of a woman she sank and quickly came up spluttering. If a woman tried to mount a man her weight pushed him under with a similar effect. Another couple would try to join swimming alongside each other but would fail with a great splashing and tangle of limbs. Lizzie tossed her head in contempt and set off along the path. She had thought of walking back to the house but she was curious to find out what lay down the river.