Letitia climbed onto the Royal Yacht, a glass of champagne in one white-gloved hand. It was a splendid occasion, and the rear admirals and all of royalty had turned out: Elizabeth the Virgin Queen, Elizabeth the less virginal Queen, and Boadicea.
Such respectable society, thought Letitia, popping a cocktail sausage between her lips. She noticed a dashing young Highland Guardsman, resplendent in his kilt, with just a hint of dirk showing in his hose. He was gazing at her with the puppyish eyes of love. At least, his feelings were clearly of great intensity.
She smiled at her gallant, and took a plate from one of the tables. “La, sir, may I offer you finger food? Or some other tit bit?”
He seemed overcome, but when she offered a cream pie, he coughed ferociously, face as red as the swollen underparts of a lady baboon in the more friendly part of her cycle. “Nay, madam, it is not food I seek from you, save only the fruit of love, the elixir, as it were, of your lightly forested Paphian grove.”
“Do what? My what?”
“Your dark delta of mystery. But first, madam, I dream of… Nay, I am unworthy.”
“Sirrah, I’m sure ‘tis not so! How may I make your dream a happy reality?”
“Well, I would like to osculate the tenderest pinkest crowns of your firm, and proud, and, ah…”
“Avast!” cried the First Mate, at that moment.
“… womanly endowments.”
Letitia frowned. “You want what?”
“And ‘twould be an honour, ma’am, to oscillate those cupola’d hills of Cythera. So glorious a manual mammary memory! Mwah!”
“No, I’m still not getting it, sorry.”
The young man cleared his throat, his face still crimson, and tried again. “And interpose between the ripest, melon fruits of your feminine beauty my doughty staff of manhood. Oh god, yes.”
Letitia wished the man would speak English. Scots dialect was very charming, no doubt, but …“Doughty? You can’t mean ‘dirty’? Dotty? And what do you need staff for, anyway?”
“And run, in those bounteous hills of pleasure, the instinctual race of love. Oohhhh!”
“You can’t want to race me?”
“Nay. Madam, I would bedew these most voluptuous slopes with the pearly tribute of my love. Unff!”
“But, cried Letitia, bewildered, “what are you saying?”
Desperately, he said, “Madam, I want to lick your cunt like an icecream. But first, I want to fondle your tits, which are incredibly hot, and kiss your nipples till they, and you, are wet as a two-child paddling pool. Which, believe me, is fucking wet. And then I want get my cock up in between those tits, and hump you till I come all over them. Perhaps we could get a room?”
The slap was heard in both Shoreditch and Brighton, though as Brighton was 47 miles away the sound did not arrive to puzzle them for another 10 minutes.
The young man’s face was now considerably redder on the right side than the left. He seemed puzzled.
“Why sir,” said Letitia coldly, “I quite fail to understand you.”