John Thomas & Lady Jane

body. He looked at her with
interested scrutiny, and at the fleece of brown hair that hung in its soft
point between her thighs. Suddenly, his mind gave way. He leaned over and
threaded a few forget-me-nots in the golden-brown fleece of the mount of Venus.
    ‘There’s a forget-me-not in the right
place,’ he said.
    ‘Doesn’t it look pretty!’ she said,
her mind had gone, looking down at the milky odd little stars at the lower tip
of her body, among the hair.
    ‘The prettiest part of you!’ he said,
smiling. But then he had myopic vision.
    And he laid his hand, brown and warm,
upon the ivory, silky inner thigh of the woman, stroking it softly. He was
moved to sing ‘Land of hope and glory’.
    ‘You must have a flower as well,’ she
said.
    And reaching over, she threaded two
pink campions in the bush of red-brown hair above his penis which was
semi-erect. It would take another half hour before it went down. Of course two
pink campions stuck in male pubic hairs is absolutely charming. No home should
be without them.
    ‘Charming!’ she cried. ‘Charming!’
Then in the darker hair of his breast she stuck a spray of forget-me-nots.
    ‘Now you’ve got a forget-me-not in
the right place, as well!’ said the demented aristocrat.
    He laughed, and the flowers shook on
his body. ‘Hur, hur, hur.’
    ‘Wait a bit!’ he said. So he waited a
bit.
    The luckless gamekeeper got up and
opened the door. He stepped out quickly into the soft rain and he gathered more
flowers.
    He came back with a mixed bunch of
forget-me-nots, campions, bugle, bryony, primroses, golden-brown oak-sprays and
pneumonia. She watched him running towards the hut with this bunch of herbage,
his knees lifting wild and quick, his willy flying, his red face glistening
with rain.
    He shook the flowers and laughed at
her, ‘hur, hur, hur’, showing a flash of his tea-stained teeth.
    ‘You want to be dressed up,’ he said.
    Coming to the fire, he sat down and
turned towards her. He put sprays of fluffy young oak under her breasts, and
the weight of the breasts held them there. Then among the oak-leaves he put a
few bluebells. He twisted a spray of bryony round her arm, poised a primrose in
her navel, he was moved to sing Old Father Thames’, and put primroses and
forget-me-nots in the hair of the mount of love. There she was, looking like a
bloody scarecrow.
    ‘Now you’ll do!’ he said. What she
was to do he never explained. The lunacy went on.
    He stuck flowers in the hair of his
own body, with a childish interest. She looked at him in wonder and amusement,
the odd intentness with which he did things. And she pushed campion flowers
into his moustache and up his nose, where they dangled down.
    They both looked potty, like
characters in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
    ‘Wouldn’t it be nice,’ she said, ‘if
there weren’t many people in the world.’
    ‘Ay!’ he said softly. ‘Wouldn’t it be
nice if we could squash it all up, Tevershall an’ Sheffield.’
    ‘And Wragby!’
    ‘Ay, Wragby!’ he said with contempt.
    ‘I feel sometimes,’ he said looking
at her, ‘as if I could start out with a sledge-hammer and begin smashin’ the
whole place up.’ Counting on his fingers, starting now it would take him 170
years.
    ‘If people knowed we was like this,’
he said, ‘if they knowed you had forget-me-nots in your maiden-hair, they’d
want to kill us.’ Nonsense, they’d have had them committed.
    He pressed his powerful thighs on her
and held her close. ‘Should you like to go away wi’ me to Canada or somewhere?’ he asked.
    She curled over and laid her face on
his thigh, feeling his penis more curiously. She gave it a couple of pulls like
a bell cord, and waited.
    ‘The world is alike all over,’ she
said. ‘It would be the same in Canada.’
    Of course his willy would be the same
in Canada. Willies don’t change no matter what country they’re in.
    ‘It might be,’ he said slowly. ‘An’
it mightn’t. Sit in my lap,’ he said. ‘Sit in my lap.’
    ‘And Canada is full of trappers and
bears.’
    He closed his thighs, accidently
crushing his knackers. When he finished screaming she said:
    ‘You wouldn’t like me to get a little
farm, and you live on that, and work it? I’ve got enough money of my own.’
    ‘No,’ he said. ‘Doing that would make
a man’s balls go deader than a sheep’s kidneys.’
    ‘Kiss me, and let’s not think of it.’
    She lifted her face and he kissed her
face. The flowers