Lady Chatterley's Lover

clothes and ran after the woodland nymph. He caught her by the forget-me-nots. She gave a shriek, lying her on her back among twigs, slugs, snails, bird-droppings, he screwed her. The rain streamed on them till they smoked. He gathered her ‘lovely’ heavy posterior, one in each hand and pressed them towards him in a frenzy. The dog Fred stood by barking encouragement. Then wham bang! it was all over. He stood up with this huge thing steaming, gradually starting to droop, the rain running off it like a leaky gutter.
    In the splendid surroundings of Buckingham Palace dining-room, enjoying their dinner, did King George V and Queen Mary dream that two of their devoted public, one an aristocratic lady was lying naked, being screwed by her gamekeeper with a twelve-inch-long phallos, during which they slid a hundred yards from their starting point. They now stood up covered in slugs, worms and frog spawn. As they ran back, his willy shrank till it looked like one of those strap hangers on the tube train. He was totally baffled, did all landed gentry females run naked and fuck in the rain? He realized why most gamekeepers never left their job.
    The lovers sat drying themselves by a post-coital fire. He stroked her.
    ‘Tha’s got the nicest arse of anybody! And if that shits and pisses I’m glad (He’s glad!). I don’t want a woman as couldna shit nor piss.’
    He had been an officer and a gentleman. He admired her body, the roundness of her buttocks! And in between, folded in the secret warmth, the secret entrances. He really was a dirty devil. With quiet 60 fingers he threaded forget-me-nots in ‘the fine brown fleece of the mound of Venus’. 61 These were early days of flower-arranging. He stuck a pink campion among the hair.
    ‘There,’ he said, ‘that’s Moses in the bulrushes.’
    That Moses should be reduced to this.
    ‘You don’t mind me going to Venice?’ she said cautiously.
    His face went inscrutable, there was no sign of a scrute. There was silence. He put another log on the fire. The fire flared up showing his silent strong face. A large spark shot from the fire landing on his bare foot.
    ‘Ow Christ!’ he screamed, leaping around the room holding the burnt foot.
    ‘Quick, run it under the tap, she said.
    A man does not look his best from the back with one foot up in the sink with it all hanging down. Calm was restored. He made some cheese sandwiches. There came a terrible crack of thunder. With a cry of ‘Duck’ he threw himself face down on the floor. It was a throwback from shellfire during the war.
    Constance didn’t understand. ‘Duck?’ There was no sign of duck as he lay prone and a spark flew out on to his arse. He shot up with a scream.
    ‘Quick, run it under the cold tap,’ she urged.
    Will she ever forget the sight of that man trying to get his arse under the cold tap. She had seen acrobats putting their heads between their legs and looking at their own backside. Now here was her lover doing it. When it was over he was reduced to sitting on one buttock, so he was at an angle of forty-five degrees.
    She put her arms around his neck and he toppled over.
    ‘When I come back from Venice, will you take me away?’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Well, your aunt in Bargery Road, Catford.’
    ‘We couldn’t stay there long.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘She’s a sado-masochist: every hour you have to tie her down with a gag in her mouth.’
    She paused, then in a fresh tone of voice said, ‘Don’t make it difficult for me to go to Venice.’
    A little smile, half a grin, came over his face, the grin spread round the back of his head and reappeared round the front again.
    ‘How did you do that?’ she asked, it’s a trick of the light,’ said the oaf.
    He changed the subject: ‘My divorce is going through, the papers are being sent to my wife. If only it doesn’t bring her down on my head.’
    ‘Then,’ said Constance. ‘Then you must keep a look out, when you see her coming down you must step to one side.’
    The rain had stopped. He went out still naked and barmy with sex, he brought back columbines and campions, new-mown hay, oak-tufts and honeysuckle, he put oak sprays round her breasts, sticking in tufts of bluebells and campion — straw in her hair. In her navel he placed pink campions and in her pubic hair forget-me-nots. Bird’s-eye speedwell and woodruff. 62 She looked a mixture of a flower bed and a scarecrow. The Oaf was well pleased.
    ‘That’s you in all your glory,’ he