A Pair of Tits
“We could put on the white robes.”
“What white robes?”
“Those titty inspection robes that
massage attendants wear. Then we can see more pairs. We can offer to free them
for medicinal purposes.”
“Free them?”
“You know. Heh, heh, heh.”
“Is there such a job as a ‘titty
massage attendant inspector’ anyhow?”
“Probably there is not. There are
no robes anyway.”
Sam’s mouth expressed a milky sigh
of disappointment and he touched his trunks without meaning to. That can
happen. Even the most well-meaning of us can touch trunks. It’s not ever
something you think about. A rub of the stubble here, a twist of the double
chin there, a quick cock correction. It happens.
“Chekov’s cock,” thought Sam. Not
that he was sure his thoughts meant well.
Jump in the pool?
Cool off.
No.
The thing is, though, as Sam
considered his sticky predicament, if you find yourself by the pool, and you’re
thinking tits and it’s haram, well normally you try not to look. Mainly you
might see that they are racked up underneath a black cloak. Well, unless
they’re foreign ones. But what is foreign these days? You look around, trying
to observe without being observed and once suspicion is aroused, carry on as
though scanning a middle distance skyline. If the observed catches the
observer, as it were.
Sometimes you look without
realising you’re looking, too. Like some kind of mesmeric miasma you are
hooked, lined and stinkered. This time, though, Sam had more reason than usual.
“They seem to be everywhere today, Mr Niven.”
“Mr Sam,” Niven replied, “We
should go into the pool. Inspect them. You know that inspecting boobs ten
minutes a day can prolong your life by as much as ten years. It was in The
Sun.”
“So, you get in the pool, saying
‘excuse me, it’s my job to inspect all boobs’, poke around and leave? You can’t
even swim.”
“I do not need to.”
The sun, the real one that is, not
the red top, was so hot it was melting the distant desert into glass. Beside
the curved rooftop pool, Sam looked up at the blazing ball. It wasn’t so much
beating as going twelve rounds with Anthony Joshua and coming out on top.
Points decision. Probably. He wandered from their deck chairs, noticing his
armpits were starting to stink, and looked across the Kwatar skyline. The
scrapers thrust skywards. Thickly scrapers, in a manly show of scrapery metal.
Appearing to throb in the pulsing haze.
Sam touched his trunks again.
A woman in a lemon coloured
bikini, with a slight but well-proportioned figure, was reclining on the tiled pool
surrounds. Her legs wilted like palm fronds in warm water. She leant backwards,
arms supporting at the rear, pushing her frontage towards the man talking to
her from below; submerged and earnest. Another woman, older, in a brown and
white camouflage two piece affair lolloped casually from the far end towards
him, bouncing in time to her steps.
She didn’t even look at him. Just
eased herself into the water and stroked back the way she had come.
Damn.
Sam now scolded himself for
wearing a rather slight and clingy-when-wet pair of swimmers. He placed a towel
over his lap when he sat down again.
“Hot. Must stop knees burning,” he
muttered to Niven, who was nowhere near fooled.
He nudged Sam in the ribs. “Look, Mr
Sam,” he grinned in a salacious tone. Sam did not immediately turn his head in
the indicated direction. He was transfixed by Lemon Bikini, who was now using
both hands to tie her hair into a bunch with elastics. Her companion was practically
being tickled with forward thrusting boobage. Niven poked him again.
A contented looking middle-aged
lady, blonde streaked hair, was raising herself out of the pool in front of
them, pushing down with her arms. She smiled at nothing in particular as she
heaved herself up. Well, of course her boobs flopped forwards, affording a
decent view. Niven chortled under his breath. “A fine show. A bit soggy.”
“Well, that’s a couple of added
minutes, then,” hissed Sam, thinking ticking life clocks. He lit a cigarette
and sucked in smoke through his teeth.
“We have to do better. I’m not
sure that soggy ones count.”
“Does The Sun have any opinions on
soggy ones?”
Niven consulted the tabloid and
skimmed through article. “Soggy ones aren’t mentioned.”
Sam frowned, creasing his
burnished face. He looked like a gargoyle for a moment. “This isn’t good. This.
Sitting looking out for tits. Here. We’ll get sent home on the plane of
disgrace. It’s a level 42 offense”
“Ah, shaddup.” Niven scoffed.
“You’re only sore because your girlfriend left you, Mr Sam. Left you. Er…for
another woman.” He sniggered again and watched as the middle aged woman got
back to her reclining lounger. She eased herself on, rump skywards for a minute
and then turned over. “An ample portion,” muttered Niven, in approval. “We like
ample portions, here in Kwatar.”
Sam was stinging, though. “It
wasn’t her fault it took her 45 years to discover she was a lesbian, was it? I
fully understood her decision. And supported it. Stupid tart.”
“Ah, shaddap. If you were there
now, you could see two pairs for the price of one.”
“Would that be four minutes of
extra life, then?”
Niven scratched his chin.
“Probably it would, Mr Sam. Probably you would be very healthy with ten minutes
on one pair followed by ten minutes on the other.”
Both men sat momentarily silent in
thought, gazing at the pool. Residents and guests plodded up and down,
oblivious to their scrutiny.
Niven’s phone buzzed intrusively
and he glanced at it. “It’s school. It says here that ‘three man Ofsted inspection
team arriving early from UK. Make sure all lessons and classrooms are prepared
for inspection on Sunday morning.” he frowned. “They should have to inspect
boobs, Mr Sam. They don’t need to waste their time with lessons. They should be
‘Inspector Boobs’, ‘Inspector Bottoms’ and ‘Inspector Knickers’.
“Yes, Mr Niven. But then their
lives might be extended. We don’t want that to happen.”
“No. We do not want them prolonged
in any way. Why they are coming to us, anyway?”
“Who cares? They are going to give
us some kite mark seal of approval for International Standards or something
like that. Why we should need any sort of approval from the UK is beyond me.
The place is bankrupt of ideas, money… or teachers.”
“Yes. We are all here.”
“Looking at boobs.”
“Those fools in England. Letting
their breast teachers go, willy-nilly.” Niven’s voice dribbled. “Now they will
see the mistake they have made.”
“How do you intend to get nearer,
Mr Niven? For full life lengthening, you need to be as close as that man there.
He’s practically got his snout in between them.” Sam slyly indicated at Lemon Bikini.
“Yes. Soon he will begin to
munch.”
Sam drooled into his beard; anticipating
extended life. Probably. He watched as Niven whipped out a pair of black-cool,
mirrored sunglasses.
“See, Mr Sam? With these shades,
nobody can see where the eyes are. I can look anywhere and nobody will know.”
“Yes. If you had a white stick
too, you can even pretend to be blind. Get right in close. Then stumble and get
your nose right in between them.”
“Wait. That gives me an idea.” Now
Niven took his copy of The Sun. He ripped two small holes through the pages in
line with his eyes. “And now, Mr Sam, now I have this extra protection.” He
demonstrated by raising the newspaper in front of his face so that the two
holes where in line with his eyes. The newsprint shielded the face, but the two
holes provided a line of sight. “Heh, heh. If I keep this in front of my face…”
“You’ll look like a Russian spy.”
“No, Mr Sam. I will not be
poisoning anybody. My intention is to lengthen life, not end it”
“Good point, Mr Niven.”
“Wish me luck, Mr Sam.”
As Sam looked without looking,
Niven began to stumble past deck chairs clustered at the pool’s edge,
blindsided by a combination of shades and tabloid. He had to admire Niven’s
choice, though – he was heading for a right pair of whoppers. Not too soggy,
either. Clenched together and sprouting from a tight black one-piece, these
were the most certain crown jewels of all on show today. But surely he couldn’t
see where he was going? Could he? Yes. No. He tripped, blundered downwards,
face first and his head, as predicted, pitched forward into the gargantuan
cleavage which wobbled, rippled and threatened engulfment.
Sam seethed in envy. “Lucky, lucky
bastard.”
The splash soaked Sam to the skin
and his phone clinkered to the floor as he instinctively covered his face. A
hefty right hook and left palm thrust combination had cartwheeled Niven backwards
into the water in a fluster of newspaper, crumpled shades and spinning phone.
For a moment he was on the surface, stunned. Then slowly, like a hull breached
ship, he began to sink.
The first choking mouthful of pool
revived him. “Help. I cannot swim.” he spluttered. Then added, “and I’m blind.”
The crowd who gathered now by the
edge didn’t seem to think so, anyway. Some looked sceptically at Niven’s
flailing limbs whilst others were downright hostile. There was something nasty
in the air there was no doubt about that. Most of them were women so,
remembering he was on a mission, Sam couldn’t help himself. He retrieved his
phone, took a few snaps and blundered his way to the front. “Let me through,
I’m a doctor.” Then he added, for the sake of verisimilitude, “with a double
degree in helping the blind suffering pool
water toxaemia.”
“He’s making that up.”
“There’s no such thing.”
Most of the muttering was
distinctly English and Sam cursed his luck. There was no fooling this audience.
That their next declaration was along the lines of, “How can the pervert drown
in two feet of tepid pool water anyway?” capped it off. It was time to scarper
and the devil take the hindmost. But first to recover the incriminating
evidence.
Niven’s copy of The Sun, with the
two peepholes, was floating tantalisingly close to his feet. Niven himself was
now upright and standing at the pool’s edge up to his knees in water, face to
groin with black one-piece. He stretched out a hand.
She wasn’t inclined to help,
however, as you might imagine. Instead she aimed a slap which he deftly
avoided. The movement was enough, and Sam grabbed the newspaper and made for
the exit with all speed.
Too late. Security had arrived.
They looked grim and menacing as they hauled Niven from the water. And no towel
was offered.
It was perhaps 12 hours later at
Al Waab police station, that the attorney turned up. Both Sam and Niven were,
by this time, thoroughly pissed off, having had all their possessions
confiscated. They had been given endless cups of karak, to be fair, but if this
was an example of living The Sun’s extended, they were ready to let it set.
Still, she breezed in, all flouncy
and confident with an eighties bouffant and a tightly buttoned suit.
“We’re innocent.”
“We’re teachers.”
“Innocence and teachers? That’s an
oxymoron, surely?” she countered, all business and schmooze.
“I’m not a moron.”
“No, he’s the moron.”
The attorney, who preferred to be
anonymous, but we’ll call her Jane, because that was her name, laughed lightly
and plonked herself down. A middle aged lady, with hefty buttocks, she noticed
her clients’ gazes drawn to her chest, but, unlike most who would instinctively
cover modestly as if in afterthought unbuttoned. “Hot, isn’t it?”
“It is now,” sniggered Niven, then
regretted it, because it was such a cliché.
Still, she smiled politely as she
riffled through her brief case for an I Pad and then through the bag of
confiscations the police had passed her as she’d entered.
First out was the peephole
newspaper, which had received the thorough Kwatari sun-dried treatment. She
placed her fingers through the holes Niven had torn, like some cougar version
of doubting Thomas. She wiggled one in his direction. “Now, you see, it is
pretty damning, though, dears. These resemble eyeholes. Your phone has several
pictures of bikini poolside ladies. Not just a random poolside, you understand?
The very one.”
Sam blushed. “What can you mean?
Surely you are not insinuating that two of Her Majesty’s teachers, ex patriated
to this scepter’d peninsula, this blessed desert, this oasis of palmic
civilisation, two such as we, us two, were at the pool perving at boobs?”
Niven added. “I’m gay.”
Which of course is forbidden, so
he retracted immediately by saying, “Well, I normally am, but it’s hard being
happy in a police station.”
Still, Jane took it in her stride,
being English. “You speak as though you are proud of your nation.”
Sam nodded and coughed. “Of
course, of course.”
“Yes, however, I spoke to several
poolside accostantees…”
Niven coughed, being no slouch,
oh, by no means. “Is that actually a word?”
“It is now.”
“Sorry.”
“…who said that you felt that the
UK was a place morally and financially bankrupt, bereft of all dignity. And
Ofsted could fuck off”
Sam coughed. “Did we say that?”
“Well, I do hope so. It’s absolutely
spot on.”
Niven was now sensing the some
kind of strategy and, if he had still had his ice cool shades, would have, by
now, whipped them back on. He was cock sure. “Ah, probably you are on our side?
Probably you know that we are innocent?”
“Well, of course I am gentlemen.
After all, what chance would you have, coming from such a place? That will be
our mitigation.”
Sam coughed hopefully, “So you
think you can get us out of here? It’s nearly the end of happy hour you know,
and we were hoping to have a couple of lagers before bedtime.” Then, in
afterthought, “You could join us.”
“How kind.”
“Well, you know, you’ve had a busy
day and you’re thirsty I expect.”
“Well, perhaps.” Jane glanced at
her phone, looking at some recent message she’d received, no doubt. Then she
looked at the two men who were somewhere between relief and squirming
embarrassment. “Perhaps, if you told me exactly what’s what, as it were, I can
talk to the officer and we can get going? You know, the truth. Unembellished.
If your story was a…er…cocktail, then leave the garnish to one side. Give me a
straight up and down experience. Chop off the celery stick. Leave the gherkin
out”
Now Sam liked the cut of her jib.
This was no nonsense plain talk. “Leave the gherkin out?”
“Yes, gentlemen. Gherkin’s have no
place here, do they?”
“Well, probably, miss, probably
they don’t, probably you are right. What are gherkins?”
Jane arched her eyebrows, stared
at Niven and thrust her chest forward. “Penis shaped mini cucumbers. Scarcely
worth putting your lips around. And you choke on the vinegar.”
And her eyebrows continued to
resemble an Isambard railway viaduct as the woeful tale unfolded.
Of course, it was dark by now,
because the sun sets quickly. That did not mean it was cool, though, and the
sweat was soon running down Niven and Sam’s cheeks in rivers.
“Probably we should call a Karwa.”
“Definitely we should, Mr Niven.”
Both patted their pockets until
they realised their fatal blunder. “She’s still got our phones!”
“Oh no,” Sam groaned, “that attorney has
walked off with them.”
“Ah. Probably that was typical of
her; a man would not have made such an error.”
“Well, why didn’t you say
something?”
“I was looking at her melons. They
were bountiful.”
But all was not lost. The attorney
was now leaving the building, clutching the evidence envelope in her fist and
her eyes now swept the yellowed building site. “Gentlemen! I can offer you a
lift?” She waved at her yellow sports car. “I call it ‘The Banana’.”
Once safely interiored, there were
some mutterings about heading to the nearest hotel, but, in truth, happy hour
was nearly over. Now, Niven and Sam were thirsty, but prices to become somewhat
prohibitive, don’t they?
Jane put her foot down and soon
they were speeding around the orbital road towards the coast. “Gentlemen, how
about my club?”
“Your club?”
“Well, not exactly mine, as in I
don’t own it, you understand, but I’m a member. I know you’ll enjoy it.”
“Probably we will, but can we have
our phones back?”
“What is this club of which you
speak?”
Jane fixed her eyes on the curving
road ahead, glancing occasionally at the overhead signage as she sped under it,
cat’s eyes flashing past in a long yellow streak of lightning. “I think we’ll
be just in time for this evening’s meeting.”
“Will there be booze?”
“Boobs? Oh yes.”
Her car executed a sharp right
turn, bounced off a road hump, smacking Sam’s head against the ceiling, threw
up some gravel and braked, just avoiding concrete sleepers.
Somewhat shaken, Sam and Niven
opened the rear doors. They scanned the surroundings for points of reference. Very
likely somewhere towards the end of the old airport road and the warm sea
lapped gently on the cast iron shore reassuringly, unseen but nearby. The
illuminated scrapers twinkled in the distance, miles away, but always visible.
In front of them was a hangar.
Jane was already marching towards it. Aware that she was not being followed,
she swung her head and her hair swayed in beautiful precision like a curtain
closing at the end of act one. “Come on, lads!” About to push the door open in
a singular push, she froze, mid thrust and waited for them to catch up. “Now,
there’s something you should know. This is a club of…er…exhibitionists.”
Now just behind her, Sam coughed. “Exhibitionists?”
Jane’s eyebrows furrowed a little
and she sucked her cheeks in. “Ah, yes. How can I explain. We’ve been doing it
so long, it seems normal now.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, lads, not to put too fine a
point on it, you might see some boobs.”
At this declaration, Niven
certainly perked up and almost pushed Jane aside. “Boobs?”
“I think she meant booze.” Sam
pursed his lips with the air of an expert.
“No. Boobs. Quite frankly, if you’d
only telephoned, you might have saved yourself rather a lot of poolside bother.
Still, as I always say, you can drag a horse to water…”
“Water? You mean the pool?”
“Shut up, Mr Sam. You’re only
delaying the inevitable.” Niven licked his lips. “Now, Mr Sam, now we shall
munch. Soon, it will be munching time.”
“Indeed we shall, gentlemen…” Jane
paused. How to break it too them? “There are…some rules. You see, it’s mainly
girls in there. Well, apart from some eunuchs, it’s all girls, actually.
Topless. And bottomless.”
“Soggy ones?”
“Well, I suppose so. I mean, my
own can look…er…soggy without support. It is the way of it.”
“But can we touch?”
Jane still refused to push the
door open. Niven was practically dancing with joy at what might lie beyond. For
his part, you might say Sam was aroused by the possibilities, but was still
slightly askance, remembering the radio advert for Viagra he switched off in
contempt. Damn. Still, even at his age, miracles can often happen, though.
Certainly they can.
“Before we go in, there are some
rules.” She smiled.
“Ah – Mr Niven? How long are we
going to be locked in this box?”
“Your eyes deceive you. It is not
so much a box, as a cupboard.”
“You can tell that, can you? I can’t
see a bloody thing.”
“Yes, Mr Sam. This is a cupboard.
We are upright. There are hinges here and here. Soon, this trapdoor will open
and we will see the marvellous sight of dozens of lovely boobs. Each pair
thrust into our faces as promised. We will munch and our lives will be
extended.”
“Well, speaking of that, what can
I feel against my right leg, anyway?”
“It is not my fault, Mr Sam. It is
this hole of glory that caused it.”
“Ah. I see. Well do you think you
might move to the right a bit? It’s tickling my leg.”
“Probably I could, Mr Sam, but
movement is somewhat restricted in here.”
“What’s that?”
Now, outside, they could hear
excited voices, whispering. It was a titillating sound. A few giggles. Even Sam
stiffened.
However there was also another
noise, incongruous in context; definitely the hard rasp of steel on steel.
Well, Sam reflected, strange in that, when you are expecting at any minute to
be smothered in soft fatty flesh, pillowed by bountiful fruits, then the
grating set your teeth on edge and caused the naked neck hairs to prickle.
The trapdoor opened.
But not the one that Niven
expected.
Light flooded into the tight
coffined environment from below, not at eye level at all. Sam heard voices as
the hand reached in and grasped his tightly, just before he fainted. “You see,
eating these extends lives by as much as ten minutes.”
“It was in ‘Take a Break’.
“Was it?”
“What if they’re soggy?”
“Soggy ones weren’t mentioned.”
“Who’s first?”
“I’ve got the pan on.”
Then a pause.
“They actually walked into these caskets?”
“They always do.”
“Hmm. What a pair of tits.”
