Penance

Okay, so I missed a week because I was writing, but I don't think that entirely justifies the forfeit I was forced to suffer. If you missed the 'challenge' in question, you can find the original post here. In brief though, I had to write a short story using a first line, twist, last line and genre suggested by Unbound's diabolical readership. Of the many suggestions, the 'best' of each were chosen and I have done my best to tie them together here.

I do, however, disavow any responsibility for the contents of this story. It's nothing to do with me, I was simply delivering on those warped suggestions. Consequently, this is not a tale recommended for younger readers or those of a sensitive disposition.

So then, here it is, a story entitled:

Penance

Coming to the sudden realisation that he had never been in a revolving bed, let alone tied to the head board of one, Joe loosed a nervous cry.

“This isn’t going to cost extra, is it?”

From through the haze of the steam-filled bedroom, his host emitted a gruff laugh.

This only served to unsettle Joe further. Hearsay clearly stated that ladies of the night were rarely the fairest of the fairer sex, but gruffness brought to mind stubbly men in cassocks demanding immediate attention and that was exactly the kind of imagery Joe was here to escape from.

“Just because it’s my first time, doesn’t mean you should try to exploit me,” said Joe.

This prompted a husky chortle. He strained at the handcuffs that bound him. He called out again.

“This transaction may be on the shady side of legal, but I’m sure it stills falls under the auspices of the goods and services act, 1768. At the very least I expect a cooling off period afterwards, during which I can claim back my original payment if I decide I’m not fully satisfied.”

In reply came a gruff laugh and a husky chortle, both at the same time.

“Hang on, is there two of you through there?” asked Joe. “I didn’t ask for a threesome, you know! Or… well… okay, I did, but that was only if it was me, you and my cock. By which I mean, me and my cock, plus you, plus my other cock. By which I mean the rooster. But I’m sure I made that perfectly clear when I came in.”

The rooster in question stood by the bed, pecking at invisible grain on the floor.

“And I told you, sonny,” said the lady of the night, waddling into view through the steam, “I don’t do birds, I’m not that way inclined.”

Up close, it was clear she dragged down the average fairness of the fairer sex to a point just below the warthog, but Joe wasn’t one to be picky. He could happily close his eyes and imagine he was making love to Claudia (which wasn’t his pet name for the cock, but you’re forgiven for thinking so, especially given that the cock’s name is Claude, which is quite similar). Joe was just about to close his eyes and do just that when he noticed an unsightly sight just visible under the collar of the madam’s many-layered chiffon nightgown.

“Is that a dog collar I see around your neck?” asked Joe.

“No.”

“No.”

“Did you just say ‘no’ twice?”

“No.”

“Don’t be daft.”

“You did! And if I’m not mistaken, the second voice came from the vicinity of your crotch!”

“It never did!”

“Yeah, it never did, and honestly, if pussies could talk, the world would have more problems than—”

“It’s talking right now!”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Oops.”

“You’re not a prostitute at all, are you? This is a fiendish trap of the Reliquary! I see it now! Remove those false eyelashes, the overzealous application of blusher, and that lip-gloss that really doesn't go with that colour of lip-liner and that’s Brother Hector under there, isn’t it? Which means under Brother Hector that must be—”

“Yes!” cried the madam’s crotch. “It is I, Brother Bonniface!”

“Together, the Reliquary’s midget enforcers of the faith,” explained Joe to his cock, even though his penis wasn’t really interested.

“We’ve been aware of your unholy predilections for some time, but now we have proof! You won’t be shaving the bishop any time soon after we report back this little transgression!” said Brother Hector.

“Pah, I didn’t join the priesthood to serve as a barber anyway!” cried Joe.

“I actually meant the double entendre,” said Brother Hector.

“Oh. So I would still have to shave the bishop?”

“Probably. He’s too cheap to go into town for a shave after all.”

“Curses,” muttered Joe. “Have you finished picking the locks of these handcuffs yet, Claude?”

“Brother Boniface, look, he’s using his cock to pick the locks on his handcuffs!” exclaimed Brother Hector.

“Well, I can’t actually see through all this chiffon,” said Brother Boniface, “but I’m having no trouble imagining what that looks like.”

“Quick! Grab him!” said Brother Hector.

But Joe was already free of the revolving bed and away, following Claude out through an open window and onto the steam-filled streets of Upper Downsey. Visibility was reduced to a minimum, which was somewhat hazardous in a village that floated fifteen hundred feet above sea level thanks to a combination of hot air balloons and steam-driven propellers. No one was quite sure why Upper Downsey spent its time floating around like this, but a lot of other villages did the same thing and not being seen as inferior to your neighbours is a powerful motivation for rural folk.

“Argh!” cried Joe, slipping on a cobblestone and falling off Upper Downsey toward a certain death fifteen hundred feet below.

Fortunately, Middle Uppsey happened to be passing underneath at the time, and Joe fell onto one of its silk balloons and then down into the coal yard of the village’s steam factory.

“What a stroke of fortune,” said Joe to himself. “Those midget enforcers will surely never catch me now. Though I wonder what happened to Claude?”

He picked himself up, dusted himself off and exited the yard. On the road outside, a bus slowed as it passed by and he hopped aboard when it reached the nearby stop. His plan was for the bus to carry him far away, out of the reach of the Reliquary and its moralistic ways, but he only had money to take him to Potting Newton, which was just next door to the Reliquary, but at least had a nice tea shop.

As the bus pulled away and puttered its way into the sky, Joe took a seat without anyone enquiring as to why he was naked or where he had produced the change for his fare from. Eyebrows were raised, however, when a phone rang with an irritating tone and Joe answered it by removing said communications device from his rectum. This was also where he kept his wallet, keys and golfing umbrella.

“Yello?” he said.

“Wemmmllmmmdmo,” said the caller.

“Hang on, a piece of faecal matter appears to have got stuck in the earpiece. One moment. There, that’s better. Now, please do repeat yourself, if you would?”

“We will find you,” said Brother Hector.

“I don’t think so!” replied Joe. “I am already long gone. You won’t be seeing me again anytime… eeek!”

The bus was descending toward its next stop – on Upper Downsey High Street. Brother Hector and Brother Boniface were there waiting, both now dressed in their regular attire of dog collars and black leather jumpsuits. In their gloved hands were two of the Reliquary’s fearsome Saintly Bones of Smiting. A pelvis and a tibia by the looks of it, though the pervasive mist made it hard to tell from this distance.

In despair, Joe pulled the bus cord and, without waiting for it to even slow, threw himself from the vehicle.

He crashed through the roof of a furniture showroom and demolished a sofa made of toast in the process.

Brothers Hector and Boniface were soon at the door. They spotted Joe and began barrelling towards him, knocking aside chairs and futons also made of toast.

If I may be so bold at this point to interrupt the action with a brief aside about the role of toast in the society in which our tale takes place. Wood, alas, is a scarce resource nowadays, thanks to all the villages flying around and using up vast quantities of both wood and coal in their steam engines. Thus, alternatives needed to be found for the crafting of material goods such as furniture. Toast wasn’t many people’s first choice, but that accounted for why this particular business was operating at a loss. Oh, and the owner of the store is called Reg and his favour colour is mauve, in case you were wondering.

Of course, if you find a writer indulging in a bit of pointless exposition is in any way frivolous or annoying, then please, raise your hand and make known your complaint, after making clear that you’re raising your hand to make a complaint, as opposed to simply needing the toilet.

Joe stumbled out into the back yard of the furniture store, then scaled a wall. This lead him through a succession of back gardens, the clotheslines of which provided him with the components of a fiendish disguise.

While the Reliquary’s midget enforcers were struggling to negotiate that very first wall, Joe was smoothing out the wrinkles from the pretty purple skirt and a cream-coloured blouse he now wore. A bonnet completed the ensemble and a glance in a vaguely reflective trash can lid told him he now passed muster as a member of the opposite sex.

Satisfied he could now escape unrecognised, Joe set off once more, whistling to himself. In truth, he found wearing the skirt quite liberating and the fact he was strolling around commando only added to the thrill.

“Argh!” cried a voice from a window above. “You’ll be the death of us all! You and that dead giraffe you happen to be entangled with!”

“Eh?” said Joe, in a manly fashion. “Are you talking to me?”

But the madman at the window had already gone, retreating back inside his house, afeared of the world outside.

“I should be more careful to sound feminine when I speak,” Joe said to himself. “A lapse such as that could have dire consequences.”

He was practicing his effete delivery when he rounded a street corner and saw Brother Hector and Brother Boniface at the bus stop, inspecting passers-by with the skull of St Jerome, who was famed for being able to spot a cross-dresser from fifty paces.

Panicked, Joe darted through the nearest door, slammed it shut behind him and then leant against it, breathing heavily.

“About bloody time,” grumbled the man handcuffed to the revolving bed across the room.

Joe’s mouth dropped open when the man’s eyebrows walked off his face. The eyebrows were in fact caterpillars and they went by the name of Samson and Delilah. Joe knew this, because he was there when the Bishop found them in the Reliquary gardens and so named them. They served as replacements for the Bishop’s real eyebrows, which Joe had accidentally shaved off when he was thinking about Claudia instead of stubbly men in cassocks.

“Eep,” said Joe.

“Already with the dirty talk, eh? At least now you’re here you’re getting straight down to business. Tell me, girl, have you ever shaved a bishop?”

Joe dived out the window, where Claude was waiting.

“What’s that Claude?” said Joe, hauling himself to his feet. “You’ve sabotaged the steam engine so that the village will crash to the earth and obliterate all evidence of my indiscretion, along with the Bishop and his crazy midgets?”

Claude pecked at invisible specks of grain on the ground.

“Claude, you’re amazing! I swear as soon as we get home, I’m going to roger your twin sister Claudia within an inch of her life.”

Claude clucked with distress, but Joe was oblivious. He swept the bird up in his arms and set about sabotaging the village’s lifeboats. He took the last for himself, landing moments before the flaming wreckage of the village fell to earth around him. He gently rubbed his cock and strode into the night, unaware he had left his mobile phone aboard the bus during his hasty exit. A bus which was now standing idle at the depot for the night.

The phone rang, with its irritating tone, but there was no one left to answer it.