Second Snippet, 'Expanding Feminine Dominion at the Phipps estate'

Taylor Phipps - A Prospect

I hear the first few bars of Tchaikovsky’s first piano concerto. It’s my cell phone and it distracts from an entertaining display... my enjoyment of obectifying the male appendage.

I have aspiring lawyer Redmond Richards, naked as always, kneeling on the floor of the enclosed sun porch of the Phipps mansion. Feet and legs folded beneath, elbow bands secured together behind his back, at my command he leans back, lowering until his head touches the floor. He’s gloriously erect of course, such a priapic reaction to women of authority well ingrained. And his ten plus inches strive to touch the ceiling, prostatic fluid streaming as would the lava of a simmering volcano.

But this is a volcano which will not erupt. His summer employment at the clinic mandated certain injections by the noted Dr. Gehorchen which have obviated that... for the time being.

Having to address the distraction, I take another sip of wine then pull the phone from the pocket of my riding breeches. 

“Redmond, stay!” my sharp command turning my toy into a living sculpture.

Yes, objectification, the engorged male phallus surrendering to a woman’s lustful viewing.

“Hello.”

“Taylor, it’s Marsha.”

Another aspiring attorney, one with brains, assertiveness and fortitude, Marsha has completed her summer of clerking and will soon begin her second year of law school.

“Marsha, I trust my credit card is not over extended,” having lent it to the girl just hours ago for clothes shopping.

I jest of course, Marsha could purchase an entire chain of stores before her shopping efforts would be abridged by any financial constraints.

“Had to tell you, Taylor, I just spoke to Todd Jackson... you know the boy in our study group.”

“Yes the shy one... the farm boy who declined to visit us.”

“Yes. Well, his circumstances have changed. And he was kind of hinting that... well... he could use some financial help. And though not a direct request, he brought up our situation... your gracious help with Zoey, Redmond and me. So to be direct, would you consider another... ah... protege. Male?”

“So no visit... he’d be staying?”

“I assume so. Said something about hoping he could find someone who could offer the same... ah... support as Redmond.” 

That is considerable. Room, board and the tuition at Cancadia law school amounts to thousands per year. But then in thought... all boy toys are expensive... and a woman of my means can afford expensive toys. 

I know this Todd is aware of the ambiance of the Phipps Estate... some aspects of the ambiance... that Redmond is under strict feminine supervision at all times. So he must either be desperate... or like Redmond has secretive cravings... perhaps both.

“I’ll need photos, Marsha. You saw the poses that I demanded of Redmond... his stepmother quite responsive.”

Nude photos of the well built and well hung Redmond were most determinative in the decision to extend my generosity. And so it shall be with farm boy Todd.

“And if acceptable we should meet. I assume he’ll be returning to school soon. Set up a luncheon. But photos first. You can arrange that?”

There comes a pause, the cerebral cortex of the acuminous Marsha I am sure smoldering in thought.      

“I’ll get a phone number for his oldest sister. She’s... ah... one of us, as you like to say. At least I have every reason to believe she is. And she along with the entire family are more or less sacrificing for Todd’s benefit.”

“Tell her she can crop the facial features.”

I smile thinking of the last time I so instructed. Redmond’s face and head were plainly depicted in every nude photo sent.

An excited Marsha signs off, calls to be made, things to arrange. And I too am excited, my reign to be extended.

“Redmond, you may be finally sucking some cock here. It’s been an unfilled promise, I know.”

My well bound toy squirms in revulsion, gagged as always, no verbal reply possible.

'Expanding Feminine Dominion at the Phipps Estate'

Back to the Phipps Estate.

The sixth short story, extending the series.

'Transformed', 'Maid Service at the Phipps Estate', 'To Reign at the Phipps Estate', 'The Gynecocracy of the Phipps Estate', 'Summer at the Phipps Estate' and now...

*****

Expanding Feminine Dominion
at the Phipps Estate

Copyright 2019

by Chris Bellows

Prologue - Todd Jackson

“You used to serve us breakfast just wearing an apron,” my oldest sister Danielle chides.

“But now that you’re going to be some big shot lawyer you’re all dressed up. Hot in the kitchen, Todd, you sure you don’t want to take off some clothing?” sister Jackie joining in the sibling raillery.

Both my older sisters break out in laughter, reminding me of my younger days when, given the authority to supervise and punish, they would have me serve just about in the nude, frilly pink apron my only covering.

‘Near naked boys in girly clothes don’t make trouble,’ sister Danielle would solemnly advise.

Plus, such conveniently presented my buttocks for both playful smacks and more relevant chastisement if correction was deemed appropriate.  

The summer break is ending. I have been helping out about the farm since June, resuming my household duties, my labor somewhat compensating for the vast sums expended by my family in enabling me to attend law school.

Mom’s long gone off to work. Dad headed out to the back pasture of the farm before dawn. I make breakfast for the working help, as my father has deemed my sisters, constantly reminding that my efforts on the farm have consistently been deemed insignificant.

Yes, Danielle and Jackie help work the farm, mainly keeping things organized in the barn where hundreds of sheep need to be cared for and fed. That includes shearing the herd in early Spring and neutering the offspring June through August... the latter task bringing squeamishness in my adolescence. Thus since an early age I have been relegated to a position of domestic servitude... law school seeming to be my only escape.

I pour more coffee. Sister Danielle gently places her hand on my right cheek.

“Been awhile Todd. Want to join us in the barn, drop your pants, lie on the bench and spread for us? I think you miss it.”

In silence I turn and pour more for Jackie. They know me... too well. Deep within, I guess I do... miss it... the long walks to the barn, head down, knowing that Jackie was snipping slim branches from a birch tree while Danielle was readying a makeshift whipping bench.

Thighs widely parted, why did they insist on such a position of extreme exposure? I could feel my developing gonads swinging about while gaping at the elastrator, hanging on the barn wall, at the ready for the squeeze of a firm feminine hand, the release and snap of a small but life changing castrating ring of rubber.

Yes, her words bring the memories to cascade. Trauma... or quirky delight?

Thereafter, sans a shred of clothing, they had me complete my household chores... bearing their markings as I cleaned house and did laundry... while I hoped for an early return of either Mom or Dad to curtail their mischief. Or did I?

“You could have just run off, Todd,” Jackie reminds. “But you never did. You just walked into the barn and handed over your silly apron.”

“You thought Mom and Dad would intervene... I know you did. But did you really want them to? You never told them. Never said a word. What does that say Todd?” sister Danielle extending the derision.

Such does provoke thought. Am I grateful when sister Jackie changes the subject?

“Feed costs are up, the market price for lamb is not, Todd. Sheep ranching is getting even tighter. So you better get your degree and start making a living. You’ll never be productive here. You can’t handle the herd... more of a wether than a ram when it comes to a man’s work... though you’d probably like to put the apron back on forever.” 

“And nothing else,” Jackie again mocks, bringing Danielle to cackle.

I am aware of the dire economics, Dad having counseled me last night. Two more years of law school will require comparatively huge outlays of cash.

‘Find anyway you can to conserve funds, son. There’s no such thing as half a degree... not in the legal profession. So if we run short... another bad year in sheep farming... all we’ve invested in your education will be worthless.’    

So with my sisters forcing memories of feminine dominion, there comes a confluence of thoughts... of my assertive classmates Marsha Devine and Zoey Roberts. But more particularly of Redmond Richards and his circumstances at the Phipps Estate... room and board provided... and driving about in a flashy BMW.

But then I think about his forced silence... being gagged. More reflections rapidly unfold, Marsha’s invitation to visit... and her words...

‘It’s a special environment, Todd. A gynecocracy... women rule. Boys obey. You will not wear clothing... that provides dignity and can be a symbol of power. Things with a penis do not have such at the Phipps Estate.’

Have I not been subjected to such here at the farm? Then come Marsha’s further words of inducement...

‘Being a farm boy you can work the gardens. Yes, we’ll work you hard... have you sweat for us in the sun... make you feel happy that you are denied clothing.’

The visions bring attraction. Is it the prospect of free room and board... perhaps saving my parents from financial duress... or the so termed special environment? Which entices?

My thoughts are distracted when Danielle and Jackie arise from the table.

“To the barn... get some real work done. Clean up the dishes, Todd, tidy up the kitchen and do some laundry,” Danielle commands in a tone further spurring memories of being so long under her auspices.

“And take off your clothing if you’d like,” Jackie giggles in exiting the room.

I ignore the taunt, recalling that I have the cell phone number of classmate Marsha. I shall call her. Talk more of the Phipps Estate... talk about more than just a brief visit... learn of the benefactress Taylor Phipps... possible room and board.

And for some reason, during the conversation I feel inclined to take off my clothing.

'Submersed' Third Snippet

This will be the last posted snippet.

A Captive

“Arrgh,” the indiscernible noise emanating from a naked form kneeling on all fours, tummy propped up by a short wooden bench. 

“He’s coming to, Pansy. Water please.”

Aida Benson sets aside her precision tools, taking from her servant a squeeze bottle of water. First she douses the head of her kneeling charge, stimulating more consciousness, then inserts the straw into a yawning mouth to hydrate. Her captive sputters, some liquid imbibed, some spewing to the stone flooring.

“Whaa...” the well trussed man attempts to speak.

“Stay still for just a little longer and I’ll remove the molt gag. Don’t bother trying to talk,” Aida’s tone smooth yet firm.

Hands return to her tools. There comes the high pitched screech of a small drill, the bit approaching the captive’s mouth.

“Just one or two more teeth for today then we’ll talk and I’ll finish tomorrow.”

The drill pushes past a mouth forcibly opened by the steel jaws of the molt gag. There comes pain, there comes heat, there comes the pungent odor of enamel greeting the sharp rapidly spinning bit. The captive spasms, legs and arms flailing... attempting to flail. This triggers more pain.

“You’ll find that to be futile... mister whomever you are. You’re well bound. Let me finish and we’ll exchange information.”

The steady hand works, another bicuspid is ground to the gums.

“Your smile will be... ah... rather ungainly. But there will be few who will notice,” Aida’s flippant observation so aloofly uttered... considering the abhorrence of the deed.

“There... more tomorrow,” smiling in assessing her efforts.

In removing the molt gag, Aida surveys four front teeth, ground away, flattened to the point of uselessness in terms of masticating food. But more importantly in terms of biting.

“So... I’ll talk... you’ll listen. Then you will talk... answer questions... and I will listen.”

“Fuck you,” the invective comical in being hissed through missing teeth.

“Tsk, tsk. Such nastiness for the woman who saved your life,” a hand reaching forth, fingers gathering up the man’s nose and twisting. “I’m sure you’ve already realized you’re not only well restrained. But you’re also naked and quite vulnerable,” twisting convincingly, smiling with the resulting outburst of agony.

The hand retreats, the smile turning to a wicked grin in seeing unavertable tears of anguish rolling to the cheeks.

“That’s better. Silence. My name is Aida Benson. You were in an accident, driving your vehicle into the river. You were knocked unconscious. Blunt force head trauma. You’ve been in a coma for two days. Really, seat belts do save lives by the way. I rescued you, brought you to my home. It’s a good thing you float, otherwise I would have had to swim the width of the river.”

“Hospital?”

“No. I’m medically trained. You’re in capable hands. And I did not think you’d want to alert the authorities.”

The captive attempts again to move, his effort bringing more pain.

“I’d be hesitant to do that... Mr. Whomever. For reasons which you’ll come to understand. If you have not already guessed... I’ve got you restrained. While unconscious, I took the liberty of assuring you’re in bondage... inescapable bondage... and bound in such a manner that you’ll not need to be freed for quite some time. So move about, but be forewarned, too much motion... sudden pulling... will bring cramping.”

With that the captive mightily tugs at his right arm, a futile attempt to grasp or punch his interrogator... and a painful one. His action brings a sharp and agonizing cramping to his arm muscles.

“Yes, sometimes actions are more convincing than words. Slow and easy... you’ll learn. While you’ve been in la la land, I’ve been busy. You’re bearing some rings for me. Best described as surgically implanted. At your heels, deeply inserted to snare the Achilles tendons, and at your elbows, snaring your medial epicondyle tendons and thus the ulner nerves. As a child you were probably told it was your funny bone when you banged yourself there. Well, with your harsh attempt to strike me, you just triggered your funny bone. Different tendons in your legs, but you’ll endure the same type of pain if you were to try to kick me or otherwise try to stand.”

An arm extends to pat the man’s cheeks, the tenderness incongruous with the size and strength of the hand. 

“To the rings are attached steel cables. Such end with a foot or two of elastic cording which are in turn secured to floor bolts. So mercifully, you’ll be able to move a little and stretch... stay any cramping. But sudden motion... punches and kicks will aggravate some very large nerves. Just think, you can instantly punish yourself for any untoward attempts to become physical.” 

Aida stands from sitting on a low stool. The man is astonished to see that other than an attractive bodice of white cotton, she is uncovered... completely naked from just below breasts of size to her feet. Just as astonishing is the tone... the muscling. The woman has the physique of a well exercised Olympian, abdominal muscles rippling, shapely thighs of granite. He finds himself gawking where a man seeks to take his pleasure. Little pubic air, thick meatiness of dark brown yield to peeking deep pink labia... seeming to beckon for attention. Above is a clitoral hood, fleshy, the man’s imagination envisioning beneath a pearly bud of wondrous size.

“It tends to be warm in these parts. And with the seclusion, I keep myself comfortable... and readily accessible for pleasure... my pleasure,” noting his lascivious gaze. 

“Where...” speech faltering.

“You’re at my home, as I said. Along the river where you nearly killed yourself. You’re in a sub basement, dug well underground, beneath the original basement, before the Civil War. Supposedly as a wine cellar. But at the time the owners of this house were abolitionists and this hidden chamber was to shelter escaping slaves... the first stop on the so termed underground railroad... transporting folks like my ancestors to freedom in the north.”

A hand gestures to a far wall.

“You’ll note the many hanging artifacts. Chains, collars, shackles... forged from wrought iron. Much sweat and labor expended in assuring a man was well restrained for working the plantation. After escape, here is where they were freed... the bonds broken. I’ve left the stuff in place as mementos. Some it was probably worn by my ancestors. Ironic that sometime after the war, my great, great grandfather made a good living trading cotton... what the slaves long toiled to harvest in the hot sun. So when the plantation ran into hard times during the Panic of 1873, he bought the place. When things got better he sold off much of the land to make a tidy profit and kept this house. Family’s been here ever since.”   

Aida signals to her servant Pansy.

“Bathe him... and remove his hair,” reaching to tug a clump at the back of his head. “Curious that you have not inquired about your passenger.”

Aida steps back. The naked Pansy, clothing rarely permitted, works to the kneeling man’s rear side, unraveling a spray hose. Within a moment, the man is showered in comforting warmth.

“Now, what is your name?”

'Submersed' Second Snippet

Military Training - Corrections Career  

Poverty left Aida Benson with few options despite excellent academic achievement in high school. For her it was the army. And once again her achievement excelled. Out of basic, it was into medical training, trauma surgery. There her efforts were noted, competency at the top of her class. But it was her cool confidence that most drew the attention of superior officers.

‘We need those who can function while being shot at and under attack,’ noted one officer.

Next step, ranger school, training with special forces, bonding with those most in the line of danger... and most likely to be in need of her skills. Her ultimate assignment was to be at the front lines of combat, treating the wounded at the place of battle... ostensibly.

Yes, ostensibly. Her tour was a cover. Indeed, Aida Benson went to the front lines... the middle east... the battle lines of terrorism. But it was not so much her wounded comrades... potential wounded comrades... who became the recipient of her skills.

Working with the Central Intelligence Agency, she was to tend to prisoners... committed terrorists... killers of innocent women and children. The goal... keep them alive for questioning... and make them eager... to tell their stories... to talk... to confess... and for those who didn’t... to have them begging for a merciful end to their lives.     

Surgical nurse Aida Benson assured such an end was not to come.

Many tours, many years, Aida mustered out and returned home to Alabama, all records of her service were sealed, despite her valor, despite her meticulous efforts to assure retribution came to the deserving... slow and unending retribution.

Job opportunities for her sophisticated skill set were rare in the rural south. With the prospects of an ailing mother facing the end of life alone and with limited access to care, Aida Benson returned home to the large, Civil War era decrepit house on the Mobile River. There she offered care and found employment at the only local facility in need of her skills... the nearby state penitentiary... the hospital ward.

It was there she encountered Pansy... a part of the story to be later told. And there once again her cool confidence in a challenging environment... amongst killers and rapists... impressed her superiors. For after years in combat, proximity to terrorists, her cool confidence had been augmented by insouciance for the male. The machismo was all superficial, she learned... not a terrorist under her purview failed to break.  

‘I’ve squeezed my share of testicles,’ Aida Benson offered in response to a question posed during her job interview with the penitentiary’s warden... the question being her ability to handle threatening male brawn.

Warden Grace Addison stopped the interview. Aida Benson was hired.  

Some three years into her second career, mother passed on, leaving the mansion to daughter Aida. With its run down condition, Aida looked upon the bequeathment as an ironic opportunity to exhaust any excess funds from her modest government salary. For on her deathbed, Mother Benson beseeched her daughter to keep the house... and if sale needed in financial desperation, to first return the architectural gem to its antebellum splendor. Aida nodded her consent... yet knowing that restoration would require many years and much cash.   

Months later, on a Saturday afternoon, refurbishment beginning with a spare bedroom, there came a discovery. In preparing to remove ancient wall paper, Aida noticed that a patch which was behind an armoire was relatively recent. Someone had replaced the decades old covering, poorly attempting to replicate the design, the armoire positioned to cover the feeble attempt to match the pattern.

‘Pansy, let’s start here.’

They did. Peeling away, they found that an old closet had been covered up, the door hastily replaced with cheap wall board which quickly yielded to hammer blows. Sunlight revealed some steamer trunks. The illumination of a flashlight revealed the contents.

Someone in the family of Aida Benson robbed banks... or houses... or both. Cash and jewelry, a treasure trove, Mother Benson most likely aware yet too shamed to utilize the small fortune for household needs and medical care.

Thus her deathbed request... if in need... restore the house before sale.

Aida Benson kept her reason. She thought about her impoverished upbringing. The lack of funds for college. She both cursed her mother’s memory for withholding the benefits of such a stash, yet admired her integrity... the refusal to sully her hands with ill gotten gains.

Still she allowed the small fortune to remain in place. Not to be revealed, not to be turned over to the authorities. Mother Benson lived a life of conflict... guilty silence... yet silence of self sacrifice.

For Aida Benson, there had been enough self sacrifice.

No flashy displays of new found wealth. She instead slowly siphoned... weekly depleting the steamer trunks. A bank deposit here... the purchase of savings bonds... a brokerage account there... occasional visits to far off jewelry dealers. The latter effort was the most precarious, she realized. But after some half dozen trips to major cities, she concluded the presumed burglaries were many years in the past... no buyer suspecting or reporting her stash as potentially stolen. Yes, Aida Benson was cool enough not to press for immediate cash... never taking a low offer which would signal to the buyer an insignificant investment in what otherwise appeared to priceless rings, bracelets, earrings, watches, and necklaces. Instead she patiently bargained, maximizing all sales.

The task required nearly a year, but when all was turned to liquid accessible assets, she had a seven figure net worth. Not yet age 40, Aida Benson retired, humorously explaining to Warden Grace that she had milked her last prostate gland.

‘You’ll be missed, Aida. Your efforts calmed the prisoners so well.’

'Submersed' published

I have published the referenced story.

19,000 plus words. $4.50.  Also available from me direct in PDF format $3.50. Email chris_bellows@hotmail.com for Paypal instructions.

Enjoy.

http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/submersed/24944018

'Submersed' First Snippet

New story. Think it has a good plot. Will publish soon. 

Unfortunately there is macabre. A rarity in one of my tales. But remember, probably the largest selling genres of books are murder mysteries. So go figure the moral equivalence when concern over 'consent' versus 'non consent' is now such a significant factor in writing and reading D/s fiction.  

Enjoy 

*****

Submersed

Copyright 2019

by Chris Bellows

Prologue

The battered car accelerates onto the interstate. ‘Not fast,’ the driver tells himself. No speeding. But not slow. He must make it to his next stop in time. At the precise time. Too soon, he will draw attention in lingering about. Too late and the deal is off, his prized acquisition worthless.

Short wave scanner blaring, the drive brings stimulation, adrenaline, anxiety. No soothing music, he must listen for activity... police activity... and watch the road with diligence.

Engaging in his skills in a rural area has advantages. He can move about at his schedule, no traffic jams, limited surveillance. Conversely, the roads are sparse. With alerts and bulletins such can be easily monitored, readily cordoned off.

There comes a moan from under the blanket in the passenger seat. Perhaps not enough sedative, but there is nothing to be done now. The next stop... ten minutes. There, after contact and additional instructions, he will inject anew.

He reaches to his right, under the blanket, his hand smoothing about naked flesh. Ostensibly he comforts.

“Just a few more hours, sweetheart... then to your new home.”

From most, the words would tend to sooth. But not from the gravelly voice of abductor John Anderson Tilly. And his intention is not to bring composure but to instead test the level of consciousness. When his fingers find a nipple and firmly pinch, he is quieted in not hearing a screech of pain. His package is merely hallucinating, the sedative sufficient.

The scanner squawks. There is activity. The interstate highway is being blockaded at the river one mile ahead. Though the abduction has brought attention, there is no panic. There is an alternative route. Easily taken. It is the timing which will suffer.

Off the interstate. A secondary road to the south. A left turn returns the car towards the east. With the local authorities no doubt engaged in the road block, he knows he can speed, make up for lost time. Fast, faster... with pending darkness the surrounding farm fields become a blur. Then comes  a sign, construction ahead.

‘I cannot slow,’ John Anderson Tilly tells himself. ‘The next instruction point. Arrival must be on schedule.’

But the construction is more than minor. The locals are aware. John Anderson Tilly is not. The bridge of the secondary road is out. In approaching a detour sign, John Anderson Tilly’s sense of direction suggests the alternative route will take him north, back to the interstate and the road block. No slowing, time of the essence, he reaches for the Google maps function of his cell phone, swerving around the detour sign, attention occupied in finding another route over the river.     

With the distraction, the speeding car ascends the ramp to the missing bridge. When John Anderson Tilly looks up, the windshield shows nothing but water. He swerves. The car veers to the right. Heavy braking, down the embankment, the vehicle stops not until water’s edge is reached. Then it topples, to the right, passenger side into the river.

John Anderson Tilly, no seat belt, is tossed about, head hitting the steering wheel to join his captive in unconsciousness. Even the cooling water, slowly immersing the car, does not revive him. And his package... doomed. The new home reached is celestial.   

Aida Benson

The mammoth woman of color lies supine on a work bench, legs of power folded, knees at her chest, bare feet pressing a bar of steel above, weighted with some three hundred pounds. She pushes, legs straightening. The bar slowly rises within the stanchions. She smiles. Anyone observing would think the deed to be strenuous. Then she flexes. The bar slowly lowers, knees returning. Pressing again, with force, the weighted bar now effortlessly pops upwards, seeming to be a balloon kicked into the air.

Warmed, the workout begins in earnest. Up, down, up, down. The rhythm steady and fluidly easy, the repetitions many. 

Nearly nude, the seclusion of rural Alabama makes outdoor exercise invigorating for Aida Benson. It is only a tight sports bar, inhibiting breasts of size from flopping about, that is worn. With breezy wafts of fresh air, the quick evaporation of perspiration augments the invigoration. And knowing that subservient tongue and lips wait nearby to cleanse brings ascendant thrill.

The leg lifts end a most exhausting two hour exercise routine and her servant stands, water bottle and towel prepared for presentation. The tall muscular form rises and silently beckons. With adoring eyes glued... her servant obediently responds.

Dusk approaches. The biting flies and mosquitoes of the river will soon claim the night. A warm bath will be drawn. Perhaps she will share it with her servant, offering a rare privilege.

“Enough exercise, Pansy. Come. Kneel for me.”

The nakedness of her servant prances forth, knees bending, eagerly dropping, the water bottle handed over along with the towel. The empty arms reach forth, relatively slim and tender, the alabaster hands lovingly embracing the mammoth mocha buttocks, wet and warmed with vigor.

“You so much enjoy my taste,” Aida letting herself be guided, parting her thighs, her well trimmed uncovered mons to be aligned with an eager mouth.

She towels her shoulders, the height of her six foot frame putting her upper body out of reach. Then feeling the mouth enshroud, lively tongue slithering past her labia to swish at her urethral opening, she opens herself, always marveling at the neatness, not a drop ever to touch the soil... just as with the flooring of her home. Such training... such eagerness to please... self imposed discipline.       

Deed completed, the towel stills and a smiling Aida drinks. The sweat of her thighs, legs and buttocks is reserved for the oral attention of her servant. So cute, the page boy styled hair the only covering, the entire body denuded of hair, the lack of tan lines evidencing the denial of clothing at all times and all places. 

“Quickly, Pansy,’ she admonishes, “the flies will eat more of me than you.”

With that comes the sound of a roaring engine. Down river. The opposing side. With the bridge out, it has been quiet of late, the noise thus drawing attention. Clamor follows. Aida steps away from the lapping tongue. Dashing down to her dock, she catches the sight of the car, rushing down the embankment, into the water, flipping to one side, the mud slowly engulfing.

Retired, yet medically well trained, Aida knows to respond.

“Pansy. Into the house. Have my kit ready.”

Donned only in her sports bra, Aida knows it is no time for modesty. Oars grasped. To the end of the dock. To her boat.

It is a racing scull... for exercise... of limited utility in an emergency, other than that Aida’s arms of steel will propel her down river and to the embankment of the missing bridge in less than a minute.

If there is a life to be saved she has the skills to do it.     

Foreign readership

From time to time I review the stats of this blog. Fairly steady number of monthly page views... about 5,000 to 6,000.

But curiously, many are from Poland and Russia, (third and fourth after the USA and the UK). These are countries where I have never sold a story, according to the Lulu revenue details. 

Anyone care to comment or explain? Can Lulu books be purchased in those countries?