The Continuing Erotic Adventures of Allen Ruskin, Headmaster of Educational Aid
Ruskin, the rapacious rapscallion, reclined in his rascally rectory, remembering his repugnant rut with a rubbery resurrectionist he'd met along the Royal Road. He watched the trees outside his window.
"I am bored as the Devil," sighed Ruskin. "It has been hours since I have had some relief! I need some resupinate resuscitation to relieve my restless reseda reptile before it ruptures and requires a requiem or a requiescat. Bart, get in here! I have some scrivening for you to attend to!"
"I would prefer not to," called his embattled employee from the front hall.
"Bah! I should never have let Gingernuts go! He was good for something!" snapped Ruskin.
Suddenly, a woman darkened Ruskin's doorway. Although older, she was not without her charms.
"And who may you be?"
"I am Miss Havisham, of Scotland Yard," said the woman.
"I've never met a bobby with boobies. Do you have a stick? Or perhaps handcuffs?" asked Ruskin, sitting up in his chair. He rubbed the top of his mahogany desk. Somewhere, he heard the wild drums of heathen Africa in the distance. Women policemen? The wheels of his wretched wickedness turned with thoughts of new witchery.
"What?" snapped Miss Havisham.
"I am sorry -- I mispoke. You caught me at a loss. It has been a very hard day. My days are always very hard. Very hard. How may I help you?" asked Ruskin, slowly slithering around his desk with the relentless surety of a tree root tearing down a stone wall to get to some forbidden water on the other side. "Bart! Get Miss Havisham a drink. Perhaps some cool port on such a hot day?"
"It is not so very hot," answered Miss Havisham. She was still cross. Even so, as he passed from behind his desk, she couldn't help but be mesmerized by the manifest manikin that manfully molded his mesomorphic mesothorax .
"Is it not?" leered the lusty legator. "I feel some heat coming on. Bart!"
"I would prefer not to," called Bart sadly.
"Damn it, you blackguard! I should have never let Gingernuts go -- you see ..."
"We really should get down to business . There's been some rumours going around campus about you and some of our sensitive young students," said Miss Havisham.
"What kind of rumours?"
Miss Havisham blushed. "I really couldn't repeat them."
"But you could, you really could," said Ruskin, his eyes scanning Havisham's decotellage as if they were two blue ticks looking for the best place to attach and begin sucking. "Perhaps someone has provided a sketch?" asked Ruskin hopefully.
"Sir, I must ask you what you have been up to with your students. You must give me a straight answer."
"I would love nothing more than to give it to you straight," declared the cocky counselor. "I was simply helping the young ladies practice their Latin."
"You were? I am learned in Latin."
"Does your tongue not trip over its tintinnabulations?"
"Doesn't everyone's?" she asked timorously, as Ruskin's tentacles reached out to her.
"My tongue does not. My tongue is always as sure as the anteater seeking the Queen at the center of the hill -- and it will stop at nothing until it gets there. Would you like to see?" he asked with all the delicacy of a voluntarious daemon.
"My -- maybe I would like a small glass of port," said Miss Havisham. "I suddenly feel as if I might swoon."
"Scotland Yard is no place for a woman. Not until the helper monkeys are finished. Come, recline for a while in my office." The door closed with a soft click.
A moment later it opened again. The indelicate inquisitor's face was red from inebriate.
"Bart -- Get me some port ... and Miss Havisham's horse ... and a barrel of lamp oil!" The door slammed again. It was soon followed by the curious cries of those cradled and coddled by Cupid's connubial carresses.
"I would prefer not to," sighed the sad scrivener to the empty room. He readjusted the padlock and chains he kept wrapped around his groin and went back to work.