Lady Chatterley's Lover

his spotty bum became a blur of speed thrusting him in and out of her ladyship, great droplets of steam and sweat fell from his balls, then it was all over. He withdrew from her with a sound of sink pump clearing a drain. She looked down, to look at the mystery of the phallos, oh no! It had gone, the giant throbbing had gone, in its place was a little bit of gristle hanging down.
    ‘He’s gone,’ she sobbed.
    ‘Na’ bither ‘ell be back,’ assured her lover.
    She took it in her hand, it looked for all the world like a three-day-old featherless sparrow. ‘And now he’s tiny...’ she said, isn’t he somehow lovely! so on his own, so strange! (Eh?)... so innocent, you must never insult him (it used to be an it, but now it’s him). He’s mine too, he’s not only yours, he’s mine!’ 57 (a fifty per cent controlling interest). She gave ‘him’ a squeeze to activate it.
    He laughed.
    ‘Blest be the tie that binds our hearts in kindred love,’ 58 he said. Computed that means ‘thars a good fuck lass!’ She stroked his pubic hair, a shower of scurf fell out. ‘That’s John Thomas’s hair not mine,’ he said. 59
    Oh the sparkling Wildean wit of the man. ‘John Thomas! John Thomas. A rose by any name would smell as sweet,’ she crooned with the prick pressed against her cheek. Actually, it didn’t smell of roses, rather it reeked of vaginal lubricant. Suddenly the prick surged and filled up like a party balloon, bigger and bigger it swelled, would it explode? In fear Lady Chatterley sprang back.
    ‘Hur Hur,’ laughed the oaf. ‘There! take him then! He’s thine!’
    He’s thine! Wonderful Biblical parlance. Silently she lay on her back, opened her legs, revealing the crow’s nest. ‘Oh’ was all she said when the great thing entered her and worked away like a piston on a steam train. Oh, why hadn’t she brought the Vaseline!
    He heard the seven o’clock hooters of the colliery. With his face between her breasts he pressed her soft breasts up over his ears, he just grabbed one in each hand and stuck them in his ears.
    Bloody nerve using her tits as earplugs. ‘What’s the time?’ she said.
    But with her tits in his ears he couldn’t hear. Pulling them out she asked again. He didn’t answer, he ran his hands through the hairs on her crow’s nest. As he did they twanged like plucked harp strings.
    After a while he reached for his shirt and put it on. How lovely he looked in his shirt with just the tip of his prick showing, oh how she loved him, he put one sock on. With his shirt, the tip of his prick and one sock on, he was her Adonis! Adonis went on to put his trousers and boots on. She heard him clumping around downstairs, it was like music to her ears clump clump clumpity clump! Ah Delius!
    She had not heard the hooters. She lay perfectly still, her soul washed transparent without the aid of washing powders. She came mincingly downstairs, her crow’s nest a bit sore, she’d have to camomile it when she got home.
    He was washed and fresh, but last night had taken its toll, he kept having to sit down with dizzy spells. There was a fire.
    ‘Will you eat anything?’ he said.
    ‘No. Only lend me a comb.’
    He gave her one, she ate it.
    ‘I would like the rest of the world to disappear,’ she said in a state of ecstasy.
    ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘That would mean goodbye to the Lewisham Hippodrome and Billy Bennett.’
    She didn’t care, all she wanted was, she clasped her hands together and breathed the word ‘us’. But alas! one of ‘us’ had to go and feed the chickens. In a phallic trance she went back home in her Helen Wills Moody tennis clothes, she carried a net of tennis balls, but having seen Mellors these meant nothing to her. Back at Wragby she climbed the stairs.

FIFTEEN
    -------------

    T HERE WAS A letter on the breakfast tray. Strange — usually it was porridge. She opened the envelope in case there was any breakfast in it. It was a letter from Hilda saying her father would call for her on the seventeenth of June, she hoped she would hear him.
    Most days Clifford was at the pits, sometimes it was a colliery, but most people called it the pits. Conversation with him was difficult, all he did was to listen to Christopher Stone on the wireless.
    She told him at length she was leaving on the seventeenth.
    ‘I’m telling you at length I’m leaving on the seventeenth,’ she said.
    ‘The seventeenth,’ he repeated. ‘When at length will you be back?’
    ‘At