Bodice ripping, & other non-spectator sports . . .

It was a dark and storm night when out of the distance a dog barked. Slowly I turned, step by step, inch by inch, to seek my revenge. She was a wholesome girl.

Amélie gazed languidly out at the mirror-like waters of the Gulf, and wiped beads of persperation from her brow. She gripped a fold of fabric of her pelisse, and pulled it back and forth to fan a little breeze on her bosom. She almost heaved another sigh, but stopped in time. She narrowed her eyes and glanced over at Tante Hortense, thinking of another lecture about how she could dispell her boredom by improving upon her needle-point skills, which would inevitably lead, by some torturous path, to another lament for her departed father, former officer of la Garde Française, and martyr to the holy cause of monarchy. This would of course lead Hortense into another tirade against Napoléon, and the vile Americans living about them, and then blubbering regrets about the cruel fate which had deposited them all in Alabama.

She was fortunate that l'Oncle Eduard was an attorney, and they weren't obliged to live on one of those vile plantations. But an old maid of nineteen, she despaired of ever finding an escape in this town of mincing fops and "no-account" sons of jumped-up merchants, with their awful French and their incomprehensible English. She swallowed her sigh, and turned back to look at the Gulf waters, steaming in the July sun . . .

heeheeheeheeheeheeheeheehee . . .


them wholesome girls can really be hot, in the right circumstances . . .

lifting her left double D hammer-toed and well cleaved foot from her high-healed sabot, she toyed with his affections. He played with her ears. He was funny that way but she was not amused. "Lower" she said. "I only sing castrato" he replied.

[really Dys; you must brush up on your 'reading skills' - a total lack of continuity (damn the story, full speed ahead!)]

... of 2130 (A.D.).

Theirs was a small colony, on Titan, dedicated to the historic period of the French revolutionary times on the planet Earth; but that did not play well with her evolving intelligence, and emerging passions.
.....

"Damn the french" he cried, knowing full well he was in a southern state of mind. Following a short pause he echoed himself "Damn, the french" he uttered realizing he had been torpedoed. Sinking slowly into the morass of a sea of molasses he reached out for her cleaverage only to grasp at straws. She was not as wholesome as he had once thought.

echoes of the scarecrow'ess' from Wizard of Oz!

[er, "he" Dys.? When was Amelie's sex change operation; did i miss something?]

'He' is the guy in the story, so oft forgotten ;D.

'What is this?' he said, looking through the straw with a dead wallaby expression.

'Because I do not hope to turn again,' she said, dramatically; 'because I do not hope.'

At this moment, he realised she was a quasi-strawcreature programmed only to speak the lines of seminal American poems. He was sleeping with the enemy. -- What a fight in his mind ensued.

too many questions spoil the plickening of the thought. Have you neer bean to Sverge my friend?

Young in years, but steeped in vice and Lapsang Souchong with artful additives, Sir Buckmeister backhanded his valet.

"You blithering booby," he fumed. "I wanted the Properri snuff box with a picture of mayflies courting on the lid and the secret, second compartment."

Inwardly fuming the prostrate valet crawled back to Sir Buckmeister's dressing room, reminding himself that not only did the Evil Earl hold his valet's dear, grey-haired old mother as hostage, the Evil Earl paid very well and the Evil Earl's orgies gave the valet contact with the Best Levels of High and Low Society.

As his plickening thought slowed to pouring molasses, Sir Buckmeister sensed he was on the verge of Sverge, ever witty and clever bi-lover; unaware that the valet not only dragged his way to the Evil Earl's dressing room, but that he would come back in drag, as Sverge, much to the the Evil Earl's delight.

Amélie swung her parasol to the other shoulder, and harmuphed at the babble eminating from the General Jackson tavern. What sort of nonsense was that? Surely these Americans are all mad!

Stepping carefully so as to stay on the planks thrown across the mud that passed for Main Street, she did no mincing--these walks were only tolerable when she could leave Tante Hortense well behind, puffing like one of those new-fangled steam engines in the midday heat. She held her breath so as not to imbibe any of the aroma from the hog pens behind the market at Muhlenberg Square--these Americans seemed to be completely oblivious to the foetid stench of their city, which did not surprise her in the least.

She raised her nose and chin higher as she passed the Courthouse; all of those idle young men, with too much of "Daddy's" money, and barely sense enough to come in out of the rain. She knew they were ogling her, and she tasted with pleasure her indignation, mixed with a piquant sense that her "just-arrived-from-Paris" light-weight, silken summer shift allowed them to clearly note the lines of her sleek legs. Certainly a word such as "leg" never crossed her mind, she was not that kind of a girl . . . that is, old maid. But the heady mix of a pleasant sense of power over these want-to-be-rutting human swine, combined with her moral righteousness drove from her mind the persperation staining her back.

An altercation suddenly broke out by the carriages at the side of Court House Square--one of these over-fed ruffians was lashing his coachman with a buggy whip. Amélie thought: "Oh to be a man, and take that whip to give him a taste . . . " when all at once, a stranger materialized as if from the very air, and, taking the buggy whip from the cowardly dog, over whom he towered, knocked off his hat, and began belaboring him about the shoulders. Amélie's firm and ample young bosom heaved involuntarily beneath her bodice, and she felt a melting within at the same time as a sense of righteous justification spread through her.

He was . . . he was a god . . . he was . . .


(Jeeze, i cannot believe you jokers got this far without the obligatory use of the term "bodice" . . . )