Archive for the ‘Sense & Nonsensibility’ Category

Sense & Nonsensibility (VII) Mandolin Song For A Holes’ Man

September 4, 2009 Leave a comment

Episode VII: Mandolin Song For A Holes’ Man

Tom Holeman was trying to fish a dead rat that had drowned in his best barrel of ale when he noticed an elegant black leather purse that somebody had forgotten on one of the tavern’s wooden tables. Finders keepers, loser weepers, he thought. He grabbed the purse and felt very disappointed when he found not a single shilling inside. It only contained beauty products and a letter written in a foreign language, although he didn’t notice that because he was illiterate as a horse and written English was to him not less indecipherable than Hungarian. He didn’t even know English could be written in spite of the fact that his inn was called The Grazing Shakespeare. He decided to keep the purse and take the letter to the pastor of who it was said that he could read because he was always staring to a big black book with a cross on the cover.

He remembered very well the elegant foreign lady of prodigious jugs that had spent the night at his best room and paid in cash. The purse had to be hers because she was the first woman to set foot in his tavern in four decades. Tom could not forget the mysterious woman he had spied through a hole in the wall of her room. When he had seen her undress to take a bath his nose had begun to bleed and his hears had felt like burning coals. Carried by the memories of her bulging enormous breasts his hand descended towards his bloated penis that was already raw from the masturbatory excesses of the previous night. Repressing a scream of pain Tom lowered his pants and tried to alleviate the burning pain by introducing his sore member in the humid beer barrel faucet. At that precise moment  two strangers opened the door.

The foreign travelers were perplexed once more. In the woods they had stumbled with hysterical Charlotte and she had urinated herself. Now they were greeted with the sight of the hairy white buttocks of a man trying to rape a barrel. The count and the priest were befuddled by the stranger customs of the English people and wondered how such a nation of perverts could have become the mightiest empire on the planet.

‘ Good evening gentlemen ‘ said Tom while carefully extracting his penis out of the faucet and then added ‘ Would you like something to drink? Beer maybe? ‘

‘ No, thanks you, we want a clean room. ‘ said the count.

Tom showed them his best and only room but asked for extra money for the sack they carried because it was kicking and screaming and in his opinion it counted as a guest. They agreed to put the girl that was in the sack inside the well because it was cheaper and they retired to their room to wait for supper.

That night the strangers conversed at their table in muffled tones. Tom could see they were plotting something but could not hear a word. After supper he spied them through the hole in the wall but couldn’t understand a word either because they spoke Hungarian. The only thing he achieved was to recall the lustrous body of the countess in the bathtub and he began to masturbate again. Then he remembered the beautiful young girl with significantly smaller breasts who was inside the well. He had caught a glimpse of her when she had been dropped into the well. She had the appearance of a corpse salvaged from a pond but with a good bath she would look rather alluring. The idea of the young captive taken a bath gave Tom an idea. So he masturbated a little bit more while waiting for the visitors to sleep.

Later in the night he went to the backyard and looked down the well but it was so dark that he couldn’t see anything.

‘Are you in there?’ he asked

‘ Yes! Help! ‘ cried Charlotte ‘ Who are you? ‘

‘ I am Tom, the owner of the well ‘ he said keeping his voice as low as he could not to awake the guests ‘ I am going to help you, but you have to promise me one thing first ‘

‘ What? Do you think I am damn fairy? Let me go! I am hungry and there is no frogs left. ‘ she protested.

‘ Wait. Listen, I just want you to promise you will take a bath if I let you go.’ he said and added ‘ You need one believe me ‘

‘ I have been submerged in water for hours! I am beginning to grow goddamn gills.’

‘ I have a tub full of hot water. ‘ said Tom.

‘ Hot water! We have a deal sir. ‘ answered Charlotte. Then a rope ladder descended from the mouth of the well and landed on his face.

Tom showed her to his room where he had placed the cooper tub full of steamy water. He left Charlotte alone and ran to the adjacent henhouse where years ago he had carved a hole to spy himself while masturbating, although he never used it any more because after years of trying he never had managed to catch himself in the act, although he saw himself one day eating an egg. He leaned his eye against the hole and watched how young Charlotte submerged her naked body in the foamy water.

She let go a sensual moaning of pleasure mixed with pain at the contact of the boiling water. Her body relaxed and slid very slowly into the liquid that fell like millions of invisible little hands caressing her. She used a sponge soaked with soap to carefully remove the slime and dirt that covered her skin The breasts that had looked like mud cakes emerged out of the foam as glossy domes of white flesh. The warm water flowing down her body aroused her imagination and her hand moved slowly down her waist towards her pubis. Her fingers began fondling the pink tender labia with expert strokes, for there was something that Charlotte liked more than any other of her pastimes, more than running under a storm, more that reading romantic stories, more than running naked in the woods, what she liked most was to play her mandolin. She used to play her mandolin every night and had learned to play vaginal sonatas that lasted for hours. She closed her eyes, reclined her head and she launched herself into the first movements of a particularly passionate sonata for five fingers and vagina. With her bare back pressing against the wall her body began to shake in spasms of pleasure unleashing a violent tempest in the foamy water. She expertly massage the fleshy strings of the vulva and felt the harbingers of ecstasy running in her blood like a pack of wild wolves of fire chasing the white rabbit of fulfillment and leaving a blazing trail of pleasure in their wake. Oblivious of her surroundings she couldn’t hear the panting sound coming from between the thin planks that separated the room from the henhouse. Her body arched and she felt the white light ball of pleasure about to explode. And then the ball exploded and a loud bang was heard. ‘ What the hell was that? ‘ she tough, and then she said ‘ Shit! ‘

She had been as close as you can get to come without coming, hence the curse. She looked towards the origin of the disturbance and saw a hole in the wood plank. Charlotte jumped out the water and ran to the henhouse and what she found there horrified her so much that the memory would haunt her in nightmares for the rest of her life. Tom was naked and his head was gone. It had exploded and was scattered all over the place and splashed against the walls. His rigid dead hands were still clutching on the chicken he had been raping when his head blown in ecstasy.  Blinded by pain the impaled animal was batting its wings trying to fly, unaware perhaps that chickens can’t fly.

Charlotte ran back to the room and opened the wardrobe looking for a shirt but found instead a collection of used women garments, mostly stolen underwear from Tom’s private collection. She grabbed a nice robe and under it she found a black leather purse more expensive than anything she had ever been able to afford. She took it, opened and almost cried of  joy when she saw all the shiny boxes of expensive beauty products. She felt almost vindicated for her missing orgasm. Free French perfume was  better than an orgasm, and she still could play her mandolin later. Then her eyes laid on a little white envelope and her heart nearly stopped when she read the name written on it: Vladimir Andreassi. She opened the envelope that had been already opened and read the letter. It said that Vladimir was the green dog eating bark on a bath with his ankles tied down for a mirror. ‘ This doesn’t make any sense. ‘ She though and she realized the letter wasn’t written in English. She put it back inside purse and pressing it again her chest she ran outside.

Outside it was dark and only owls could be heard. She hoped her captors hadn’t heard the explosion of the pervert’s head. She moved slowly along the bushes avoiding the main footpath. She didn’t see the two black gloved hands that came from the shadows and snatched her. She tried to fight but to resist she should sacrifice the black leather purse and decided it was better to faint and go with the flow. She went limp and the hands dragged her unconscious body into the darkness with the black purse still pressed against her breasts.

To be continued….

Who is the mysterious owner of the gloved hands that had snatched our heroine? Do they really belong to somebody or are they just a pair of malicious rogue hands that find amusing to snatch people in the middle of the night? Is that even possible? Will we ever find out what is written in the Hungarian letter without having to take Hungarian lessons? Answers to these and other questions in the next episode of Sense & Nonsensibility.


Sense & Nonsensibility (VI) Encounters In The Forest Of The Broken Noses

September 3, 2009 Leave a comment

Episode VI: Encounters In The Forest Of The Broken Noses

Charlotte ran and ran followed by the angry mob that after a sleepless night spent searching for her felt at that point ready to lynch anybody . The woods were thick with tall trees hidden in the morning mist and that were really difficult to see. Her pursuers zigzagged through them as well and fast as they could but one after another began to bump into the trunks and smash their faces. Very soon the forest ground was littered with unconscious villagers with broken noses and Charlotte found herself running alone. She had the advantage of practice because her hobby was running naked through the forest with her eyes closed. She knew the trees never would hurt her because they were her friends. In spite of the trees friendliness she got completely lost and trees couldn’t  give her directions. She tried to make small chat with a with an old oak and although he was good listener he didn’t speak too much.

She walked through the misty forest wearing an oversized dirty shirt that she had snatched from Vladimir’s laundry basket but both her and the shirt were in a sorry state after the chase through the woods. Her hair was entangled with leafs and branches one of them with a cuckoo nest still on it. Walking around covered with mud and sweat she looked like a rape victim, which unfortunately, she thought, was not the case. She wanted to go back to Vladimir’s hideout or he would surely starve to death, or worse, he might get out by his own means and leave. But to rescue him first Charlotte had to find out where she was.

She walked through the woods all day and it was already early evening when she sighted a road. She followed the road and not one hour had passed when she saw the most peculiar thing she had ever witnessed. In the distance she spotted two riders coming in her direction. One of them was tall and had a beard almost as long as himself. The other was fat and round. Seen from the distance they looked like Don Quixote and Sancho although she couldn’t see that because she hadn’t read the book. The riders neared and she had to repress her laughter because seen from closer they looked totally hilarious. They stopped in front of Charlotte and the fat round man removed the red scarf that hide his face revealing a exceptionally comical shiny pig snout.

‘ Tell me young lady…’ started the pig man, who was of course count Malamilk

When Charlotte saw the piggy-nosed man beginning to talk she could hold no longer and bursted into laughter and urinated herself. The riders were perplexed. A woman with wild dirty hair and covered in mud coming from out the forest to urinate in front of them. Where those the manners of English ladies, they wondered.

‘ What is this? Why is this woman laughing? I think she is crazy. ‘ said father Vladivicious

‘ Those might be an English form of greeting. Some sort of local peasant tradition to welcome foreigners.’ said the count to the priest, and then addressing Charlotte that was suffering  a hysterical fit on the ground he asked ‘ Listen Lady, we are foreigner from a faraway land and we are looking for a friend of ours, also a foreigner. Maybe you have heard of him? His name is Vladimir but he is known as Dick Turnip in this lands. Do you know him?’

The mention of Vladimir’s name stopped her hilarity in it tracks. The man with the golden nose could be no other than the jealous count of Vladimir’s story and it was unlikely they were here to deliver him a lottery prize. She would have to do again what she did best, she had to lie.

‘ No. I don’t know the man you just mentioned sir. In fact I don’t even know the name you mentioned. I am just the poor innocent daughter of an innocent local landowner who grows innocent potatoes. ‘ she said in a passable rendition of innocence.

The tallest man smiled and looking into her eyes asked ‘ Is that a fact young lady?’

‘ Oh yes sir ‘ she said staring at the ground not daring to return his gaze while playfully scratching the earth with his left toe.

‘ Then you will have to explain me why I dreamt of you last night. You were in a house in this woods, talking to the very man we are looking for. And why you are you wearing a shirt with the name Vladimir Andreassi embroidered on it? Catch her, you idiot! ‘ yelled the priest

Charlotte had tried to run away but the men on their horses were certainly faster and more in number. They tied her and put her inside a sack on the back of the priest horse, because the count’s horse certainly couldn’t take any extra weight without faltering. They checked in a nearby inn but the owner wanted them to pay six shillings more for an extra bed for the screaming sack, so they throw her into the well and only had to pay a storage fee. They left her there, in the dark bottom of the well with water to her breasts and the only company of frogs that turned out to be quite tasty later. Now Charlotte was locked in the dark inside a well while Vladimir was locked in the dark in a closet. The intermingling of their destinies was inevitable, they were made one for another, she thought while beheading a frog with her teeth.

At that very moment Vladimir was chewing some papers inside the closet. He had spent the day there and had begun to lose hope of ever being rescued. He thought that it was a suitable tragic final for his sinful life:  to be found dead inside a closet with his bones scattered among other discarded objects. The darkness and lack oxygen had begun to play tricks with his mind and once he had thought to see the face of his brother in the dark but had turned out to be just a missing sock he had lost weeks ago. The evening light had died and now he was in complete darkness ripping the most palatable pages of a magazine for his dinner when he heard steps on the room outside.

‘ Vladimir? Are you at home?’ said a female voice.

He recognized that voice instantly in spite of not having heard its sensuous timbre in five years. It was countess Velma Malamilk and when she unlocked the closet door she was already naked and motioning him to the bed.

He kissed her on the velvety crimson lips that were glossy and rich while his strong hands caressed the smooth  curvy surface of her voluptuous body leaving a track of fire sinking into her pale skin. He lasciviousness grabbed her breasts that were like pomegranates the size of watermelons and squeezed them as if expecting to obtain some juice to extinguish his burning desire. Her lustrous starved mouth restlessly wandered the rocky landscape of his chiseled torso and powerful limbs until it found his proud bloated member and swallowed it with voracity.  When finally his powerful spear pierced her she screamed in an orgiastic rapture of pleasure that propelled her eyeballs across the room and they have to stop for a minute to look for them. They made love furiously until the bed caught fire and then they kept making love with renewed vigor on the carbonized blackened bed frame. Their naked bodies were covered with cinder and sweat but they didn’t stop until she banged her head against a beam and the roof collapsed.

After hours of passionate lovemaking they rested, their exhausted bodies laying on the ruins of the house. When they finally recovered their ability to speak Vera informed Vladimir about the arrival to England  of her husband in the company of the mad priest. She told him they would leave that same day and sail to America where the wide open spaces would allow her to scream even louder every time they made love. She told him about her intention of buying a big ranch in the Wild West where they would raise stallions and watch them copulate to get more excited to make love every evening under the starry sky and later again in bed and before breakfast, and during breakfast. And after breakfast. He would have to do all the heavy lifting of course, because she had to rest from all that lovemaking. Vladimir was too busy trying to catch his breath to listen to her ramblings, but then she said something that caught his attention. She told him about how a few days ago an old peasant woman had approached her on the streets of Budapest  on her way to a fund-raising for a charitable Christian organization. Her first though had been that the woman was a beggar but just when she was about to hit her with her umbrella the woman had placed a letter on her hand and ran. The letter was addressed: Vladimir Andreassi

‘ Did you open it? ‘ asked him candidly.

‘ Of course I did silly! I don’t think an stinky octogenarian beggar is your type, but if it was a woman’s letter I certainly wanted to know. This belongs to me now.’ said her squeezing his penis, softly but with determination.

‘ Well, what did the letter said? You said it was addressed to me. By who? ‘

‘ Oh, sorry l forgot ‘ she said giggling and squeezing harder.

‘ What? Where is the letter? Did you bring it with you? ‘ he asked.

‘ Yes, I did, silly, it was in my purse, but I slept last night at nearby inn and I might have forgotten it there. I was so excited to see you after such a log separation that it might have slipped my mind’ she replied while feeling his member for life signals.

‘ Don’t you even remember what it was about? Do you know who sent it? ‘ he asked

‘ I don’t know sweetheart… I began to read and it was really boring. I saw that it wasn’t woman’s callygraphy and put it back inside the envelope because I began to feel that I was invading your privacy. I remember one thing though. ‘ said her.

‘ What?’ asked him clenching his fist.

‘ The P.S. said Remember, your brother Janos Andreassi will never forget you’

To be continued…

What the hell! What astonishing revelations about Vladimir’s brother contains the mysterious letter? Will Vladimir ever recover the letter and find out what is going on? Will poor captive Charlotte evade his perfidious captors just to end up married to a horse? Will the ravenous sexual appetite of the countess ever be satisfied? We hope not because is fun to write about big tits.

Sense & Nonsensibility (V) The Countess In The Barrel

September 3, 2009 Leave a comment

Episode V: The Countess In The Barrel

Countess Vera Malamilk stood by the window watching the many Hungarians that flooded the evening streets looking for a place to eat a decent goulash. Vera was not Hungarian and she hated goulash, she didn’t even liked how the word goulash sounds. She was not born a countess either, as a matter of fact she was not even born in a family that could afford shoes for sixteen children. She remembered how, as a child, she had to share one used shoe with her fifteen siblings and could only wear it in one foot every two weeks for one day, or for half a day in both feet.

Vera had been born in a destitute family of cow farmers in the rocky Carpathian range, a terrain more suited for goats than cows. The family cows died at an alarming rate, either falling from the cliffs or of indigestion caused by eating rocks, and her family had barely enough gravel to eat. But she had been blessed by fortune with a beauty unusual in a region were most women were systematically mistaken by stacks of boulders. At a very young age she noticed the curious effects her beauty had in other people. Men would do for her anything she asked them, no matter how stupid or dangerous, once he had the blacksmith jump off a cliff just to see what happened. What happened was that the blacksmith’s widow tried to squash her head with an anvil. Women didn’t like Vera very much and would put her inside a barrel full of nails and roll her down the mountain slope on a regular basis. She attended the parish school where she always obtained top grades after threatening the priest to tell the archbishop about their extracurricular activities in the henhouse. It was thanks to those grades that she obtained a scholarship and was sent  to study in a boarding school for ladies in Paris. She left her little miserable Carpathian town with no intention to ever come back and with great relief for the town’s female population that rolled her inside the barrel for the last time as farewell.

She arrived to Paris, the most cosmopolitan and sophisticated city in Europe, just to find herself locked up in a convent with not a single man in sight. The nuns and their unattractive  pupils very soon began to appreciate her talent and beauty and put her in a barrel full of nails and thrown her rolling down Montmartre. It was after one of those spinning outings that she met her future husband. Count Malamilk was eating breakfast on a restaurant terrace when the barrel crashed against his table causing his soup to rain over the startled customers and considerable damage to the furniture. The courteous count captivated by her beauty offered to pay for the damages and invited her to join him, although they should eat on the floor because the tables had been smitten to bits. Vera accepted his invitation after a few minutes of doubt spent thinking she was being invited for breakfast by a giant meatball wearing a suit that turned out  to be the count. She thought she had suffered a concussion in the crash but a closer inspection revealed that that was exactly the appearance of the count: a giant speaking meatball wearing a nevertheless expensive and fancy suit. She accepted his invitation and they ate breakfast together that morning on the sidewalk of the cobbled little Parisian street.

The count fell immediately subjugated by her beauty and exquisite manners, and by her huge breasts clearly visible through her generous collar and where persistently drops of the count’s saliva happened to sink. Vera though the count looked like a fat pig from the very first moment he saw him, but decided to seduce him to scape her life of imprisonment in the convent with its tedious barrel-rolling routine. She planned to obtain as much as she could from him so she played her virginity card although that was certainly a bluff. She managed the count to rent for her a fancy residence in the courtesan’s quartier.  She took many lovers and spent the money of the count with the kind of efficiency of which only women are capable. In two months she managed to deplete the total of the Count’s travel budget intended for two years, contract syphilis and get herself arrested for drunk swimming in the holy water basin of Notre Dame. She would have stayed in Paris but the French authorities released her only on the condition she would leave France not to ever come back and that she would marry the count, otherwise she would be sent to the French Guiana penal colony on a life sentence of forced labour. The judge based is sentence in the scientifically accepted theory of French alienists that marriage was the only feasible form of  woman domestication. Vera found herself in the position of having to decide between a lifetime of forced labour in Devil’s Island in the company of jews or getting married to pig-man.

She chose the second option and as soon as she arrived to Budapest as the flamboyant countess Malamilk she embarked herself in a series of romantic affairs that left her always unfulfilled but were fun to have. Then she had met young and passionate Vladimir who fulfilled her completely many times every night and from all directions and now she found herself in her living room watching through the doors and waiting for her chambermaid to arrive and tell her that everything was ready for her trip to England.

‘ Madame, everything is ready. The carriage is waiting for you at the door. ‘ said her chambermaid who was twenty year old boy dressed as a maid.

‘ Thanks, Fred. I left you some leftovers in your cage, you can go an eat. I will be leaving. ‘ answered the countess and looked to his chiseled buttocks as he left in all fours.

The countess Malamik descended down the stately staircases in a dignified manner and elegantly entered her white carriage thinking if she might had forgotten to turn the gas lever.  Bound to start a new life with the man she loved but she still had the serenity to think about the gas bill. Her only worry was that her husband and the lunatic priest might find him before, but they had still to find him while she knew exactly were he was. Although she was clueless about Charlotte, otherwise she would had packed bigger scissors. And she didn’t know it yet but she had an ace up her scarlet velvet sleeve. She had come into possession of  a letter with information that would change the course of this narration in the most unexpected and bewildering manner.

To be continued…

What contains the mysterious letter that the countess hides in her black leather purse? Well she arrive to Vladimir before he runs out of air inside the closet? How will him explain her his presence inside a closet if she makes it on time? And if it no? Then what? If you are literate, read answer of all these questions in the next episode of Sense & Nonsensibility.

Sense & Nonsensibility (IV) Love Letters From A Closet

September 3, 2009 Leave a comment

Episode IV: Love Letters From A Closet

‘ What is it? What did you do?’ asked Charlotte to her captor who would not stop stuttering while trying to find words to describe whatever was tormenting him. He had been like that for the entire length of the previous episode and a pool of saliva had formed at his feet on the earth floor of his lair and she was beginning to lose her patience instead of her virginity.

‘ No! I can’t tell you! Such is the enormity of my crime. You are too pure to hear of such wicked things.’ he said sobbing.

‘ I wouldn’t be so pure if you had acted like a proper bandit and raped me. If you rape me maybe you will feel better telling me about it later ‘ she said while subtly rubbing her breasts against his face.

‘ I don’t want to rape anybody! ‘ he said jumping away of the bedside causing poor Charlotte to fall and smash her tender naked breast on the dirt floor. She stood there and began to cry reckoning she had fallen in love with a total moron. He felt ashamed and thought he should rape her after all, but instead decided  to summon all his courage and tell her about his terrible crime proving he was indeed a moron.

‘Listen Charlotte’ he said ‘ after killing my mother I met the veterinarian on the road to town. I haven’t seen him in years but he recognized me. He was the family physician because his fees were lower than a real doctor and he had attended my mother on my birth. I wanted to run but he began chatting with me. He told me he was in his way to visit my house because my mother was in her last month of pregnancy. I realized with horror I have killed my unborn nephew AND cousin.’

Vladimir explained her he was very agitated because according to Hungarian folklore the man who kills his nephew and his cousin with the same sword in the same day will give birth to werewolves, although this myth has never been confirmed because such incidents are less common than one would imagine. When she heard that Charlotte realized she was dealing with a very alluring idiot. She was about to refute such an absurd notion by shoving her dusty breast inside his mouth when they heard loud knocks on the door.

‘ Open this door immediatly! Open this door in the name of the Crown!’ said a voice at the other side of the door.

Vladimir jumped with feline agility and grabbing his pistol from the table vanished through the back door that was actually the closet’s door where he got locked. Charlotte covered herself and while wondering why such a handsome man had to be so dumb went to open the door. She unlocked the door and saw a mob of villagers carrying torches and pitchforks, it was a search party that had spent the night looking for her in the hope of finding her dead so they could lynch somebody afterwards.

‘Charlotte! What a surprise to find you here! ‘ said the sheriff who was leading the mob ‘ We thought you had been carried by the windstorm to Porsmouth again. What is this place? What are you doing here? What happened to your clothes? Is there anybody here we can lynch? ‘

Charlotte recognized his father’s face among the angry mob carrying torches. He always joined any angry mob he saw, specially if they carried torches. She realized she should think fast and make up a good excuse to explain what she was doing there or her prospective lover would end up in the gallows.

‘ I was taking a walk under the rain and… I just found this place… and I was tired… and decided to come in and take a nap… and I fell sleep. Nothing to worry. Everybody can go home now. Thanks  for coming. See you later. Bye.’  she said in a not entirely convincing tone because she couldn’t stop giggling and then she began to close the door.

‘ What kind of talk is that? ‘ said his father coming out of the mob brandishing his torch ‘ You are coming home with me now! You are marrying in four days. The shoemaker’s grandfather died last night of a stroke when he heard the news of your disappearance but left you to his horse in his will. You are marrying his horse now. Come here! ‘

‘ I wonder if marrying a horse is legal in this district’  said the sheriff.

‘ Of course it is!’ screamed her father ‘ This is England. The bloody pope has not authority here! You can marry whoever you want as long it belongs to the animal kingdom. Otherwise I would had married a potato already. ‘

‘ Father, you are insane.’ said Charlotte and crying darted into the forest followed by the mob leaving Vladimir locked inside the closet.

Vladimir had heard everything from inside the dark closet and was moved by Charlotte’s efforts and clumsy lies to spare him the gallows. Women could be such a generous and unselfish creatures, he thought. Then he thought it again and realized something was wrong in the sentence, most likely both adjectives. Nevertheless the though of women filled him with an overwhelming feeling of love that manifested itself in the form of a turgid sensation inside is underpants. In the darkness of the closet he felt with his hands under the old issues of Highwaymen Magazine piled at his feet and grabbed a wooden box. He opened the box full of letters and took the letter at the top. He opened the envelope and leaning against the crack of the closet doors that allowed some morning light into the closet he read with delectation the exquisite calligraphy of the woman he loved:

” Dear Vladimir,

I am happy to hear that you are doing quite well in your career as bandit but I miss you. I am sick of my fat husband and I can’t wait to see you again. He always looked, ate and smelled like a pig but since he had his golden snout implanted the resemblance is unbearable. But we must be careful and wait. I am kept under constant surveillance by my husband’s spies and I found one of them under my bed the other night. He pretended to be reading a newspaper but he looked suspicious to me because the paper was upside down and he didn’t seem to notice.

I hope we will meet soon, please be patient, the opera season in Budapest is particularly interesting this year and it would be shame to miss it. Yesterday a very fat tenor fell into the orchestra pit and crushed the second clarinet and for some reason that made me think of you and the crushing way you play your clarinet for me all night long, pausing only to drink some water. But do not fear my love, because we will be together very soon.

My husband had taken into his service a mysterious priest named Vladivicious and they are busied in travel preparations before departing in search of you. As soon as they leave I will flee to England with all my jewels and money to meet you and we will travel together to America to start a new life. We will find an isolated house where you can play your clarinet for me all night without bothering the neighbors.

P. S. With everlasting love I remind you to keep your lovely clarinet inside your pants or I will chop it myself. I hear that England is full women of loose morals that will do better by staying away of what rightfully belongs to me if they know what is good for them.


Countess Vera Malamilk”

To be continued…

Will the sensual countess chop the clarinet of our tormented hero? Will she join Vladimir on time before his chasers find him? Will Charlotte really get married to a horse? Will Vladimir find a way to scape the closet before he runs out of magazines to eat? Does anybody care about all this? Find out in a new exasperating episode of Sense & Nonsensibility.

Sense & Nonsesibility (III) The Man With The Golden Nose

September 2, 2009 Leave a comment

Episode III: The Man With The Golden Nose

We left the tormented Hungarian fugitive about to confess to expectant Charlotte Wildbush his most unspeakable crime unaware of the fact that the bony claws of the ghosts of his turbulent past were reaching for him from the continent. While he struggled to find adequate words to describe his hideous sin whose nature won’t be revealed until the next episode, a man clad in dark cloak was staring at the English coastline from the deck of the merchant skipper Lady Wetwood licking his lips with in anticipation of the sweet taste of revenge. The Lady Wetwood sailed silently along the black cliffs of the Dover coastline which soon would be bleached by a mob of French vandals disgruntled by Napoleon’s defeat.  The man’s face was hidden by a blood-red silk scarf and a fine black felt  top hat. In spite of his expensive and elegant cloak the man began to feel the humidity of the salty sea breeze and walked to his private cabin on the boat’s stern, whose windows were the only source of light in the otherwise deserted dark vessel. He entered his quarters and removed his scarf revealing a horribly disfigured face and a missing nose that had been replaced with a gold prosthetic proboscis. The fat and sinister noseless man was no other than Count Janos Malamilk, husband of Countess Vera Malamilk, the voracious aristocrat that had seduced the young Vladimir in Budapest. And he wasn’t alone in his cabin.

‘ We just  sighted land father ‘ he said staring at his chubby toes not daring to look straight into his guest’s dark ferocious eyes that certainly looked more threatening than his homely and familiar feet. The man in the cabin looked like a demented saint that performed trepanations instead of miracles. He was a scrawny Orthodox priest with a long scraggy entangled bear that swept the floor in spite of being the tallest man we will find in this story. He was sitting on a black chair reading a thick leather volume titled Necromantia Malevolens in spite of the fact that he couldn’t read Latin and had to amuse himself by watching the illustrations depicting the torments of Hell, his favorite pastime. He was known by the name of Father Vladivicious and had traveled from Hungary with the count in the pursuit of unfortunate Vladimir.

‘ I know.’ he answered and putting his book aside added ‘ I can feel it in my blood. The hour of revenge is near.’

After losing his nose in the duel count Malamilk had chased the squirrel that had stolen it, in the vain hope of having it reattached to his face. But the count was a rather heavy man who weighted over hundred kilos and had fallen when the branch he had climbed in pursuit of his nose cracked under his weight. He fell into an open grave and spent the day there until the funeral procession arrived and discovered him submerged in the mud inside the grave without nose and bleeding profusely. Great panic ensued when he was mistaken by a troll and gravediggers began beatting him with his spades until he was recognized by one member of the party. He was rescued and given medical attention but he knew that the next day he the incident would be the gossip of Budapest’s society and he the laughing stock of the country, maybe of entire Europe. And on top it all his nose was lost.

When he arrived to his palace he was in a fit of rage and went straight to his wife quarters. He stormed into her reading room and his fury knew not limits when she greeted him with a candid smile without even noticing his missing nose. ‘ Whore! ‘ he screamed ‘ you have humiliated me and now I have lost my nose ‘

‘ What did you just said? I won’t tolerate that kind of language in this house! This is a decent christian house and I just had the walls painted. ‘ she screamed and retired very offended to her quarters to sip tea and gossip with her girlfriends leaving the fuming count speaking to an empty chair. The count went to the library and summoned the most vicious of his servants, that turned out to be the cook, who had once bitten of the dog’s hear on a dispute for a bone. He gave her orders to find his wife’s lover and kill him in the most painful manner she could devise. She searched Budapest for information about his whereabouts but in a rare display of good judgement the young man had vanished and fled back to the countryside leaving not trace.

The count spent the following years and significant portion of his wealth sending agents all over Europe searching for the fugitive. He spent a small fortune as well to pay for the services of an eminent German doctor that promised him to replace his nose with a  prosthetic one of even better quality than the original. But the doctor turned out to be a charlatan that surgically implanted a pig snout made of gold in his face.

He offered a reward of 10.000 crowns for the head of Vladimir but years passed and he seemed to have vanished form the face of earth until one day he got mysterious phone call from man that refused to identify himself but claimed he knew where to find the man the count was looking for and was disposed to help the count to find and kill him for 20.000 crowns. The count told him that such sensitive matters could not be mentioned on the phone because phones had not been invented yet and they were endangering the historical accuracy of the narration making the author look like an ass. They agreed to behave themselves like good characters and abstain from using anachronistic means of communication from then on. They decided to have a personal meeting that same evening at the very spot where the fatal duel had taken place years ago.

The count was scattering some bread crumbs on the ground hoping to attract the squirrel that stole his nose in the vain hope he could still find the remains to give them a christian burial when he saw the elongated dark shape of the priest coming towards him out of the mist. He felt a chill as soon as he recognized him, everybody in Budapest society knew his name and gossips concerning his recent arrival and quick ascent up the social ladder had topped gossiping about the comical count’s golden nose. Of Father Vladivicious was said he had come from Russia and that was a disciple of Rasputin or that at least he had read his book How To Make Friends And Influence Tzars. He frequented the Budapest salons in company of the cream of society that rewarded him generously for his spiritual advice and were entertained by his necromantic abilities that allowed him to produce rabbits out a top hat. It was said he could speak to the dead although the dead rarely answered him. He had become the most requested medium in the fanciest séance sessions in Budapest that was swept at the time by a supernatural craze, after the archduke of Moravia claimed having contacted and spoken to his dead horse. The somber cleric had rented a mansion on the outskirts of the city where he was said to devote his time to the study of demonology and witchcraft and from where many nights neighbors swore they heard horrible screams and incantations. It certainly was an unusual lifestyle for a man of God but fairly common at the time among the clerical professionals.

‘ Let me introduce myself Count’ said the priest in a resonant voice that seemed to flow out his beard as if it was the beard the one speaking.

‘ I know who you are father. If it wasn’t for your timely arrival and extravagant lifestyle I still would be ranked as the number one gossip of Budapest. I am grateful to you for that. But I wasn’t aware that you had among your many interests and pastimes that of bounty hunter.’

‘ Let’s say for now that I have a personal interest in finding Vladimir Andreassi and the skills to do so. You only will have to pay for the trip and my personal expenses’

‘ How do you know him? Why do you want to see him dead?’ asked the count.

‘ That is nothing of your business you pathetic swine! The only thing you need to know is that only with my help you will obtain your revenge’ thundered the priest.

‘ I am gentleman and I won’t tolerate to be addressed as swine, whatever swine is’ replied the count

‘ Don’t worry, we are all swine in the eyes of the Lord ‘ replied Father Vladivicious in a more conciliatory tone

In the same spot where the tragic lost of his nose had taken place the count made a pact with the Mephistophelean priest who promised to use his power to find Vladimir Andreassi wherever he was.

Six moths later the priest otherworldly powers had led them to the English coasts and they where disembarking hand in hand from the Lady Wetwood anchored in the port of Dover. There they rented horses and rode into the night like ravenous hounds of revenge, although most hounds go on foot. That night Father Vladivicious had dreamt of a bandit’s hideout where a young blonde lady was entertaining Vladimir Andreassi, also known in those lands as Dick Turnip.

To be continued…

Who are these people? What is going to happen next? Who knows? Find the answer if you care in the next chapter of this nonsensical story that will shatter your nerves and wish you were doing something else.

Sense & Nonsesibility (II) The Curse Of The Hungarian Plot

September 2, 2009 Leave a comment

Episode II: The Curse Of The Hungarian Plot

Charlotte laid naked under the thick blankets that were so heavy that she could hardly stand up. She looked to the frozen earth floor that was damp and not entirely clean and decided to wait and see what happened because there was no slippers in sight. A tall foreign looking man entered the room through the door and looked at her. He hair was jet black and long and had two really long and vigorous sideburns that ran all the way to his shoulders. His jaw was squared as a drawer and the lips were sensual like overstuffed cushions giving his face the appearance of furniture. When she looked into his dark eyes she felt them piercing her body as if they were red hot spears, then she noticed the naked muscular torso and she felt the same sensation again but like hundred times stronger. She realized in wonderment that the handsome stranger was the naked rider she had dreamt about earlier that night, although unfortunately he was wearing his pants this time.

‘ Are you feeling better?’ asked the stranger with a deep voice and with an accent that she was not able to identify because she has never left the province, although she was fairly sure it wasn’t Scottish accent.

‘ Yes, I am feeling much better now.’ she replied and added ‘ Who are you powerfully built stranger? Where I am?’

‘ You speak funny young lady. My name is Vladimir Andreassi but everybody calls me Dick and you are in my home. I found you half submerged in a puddle during the storm and I brought you here because you don’t look like a frog and only frogs live in puddles. You are not a frog, aren’t you?’ asked him while busying himself with the coffee pot that was heating over the fireplace.

‘ No, I am not a frog sir, but I can jump pretty high if you want me to’ answered Charlotte flattered by the uncanny ability of the stranger to differentiate between her and a batrachian. ‘ Where are my clothes? Not that I really need them in here. I like to walk around naked all the time. Have you taken advantage of me while I was unconscious? Did I miss something important?’ she asked nervously

‘ I am afraid your  clothes were wet with mud and I had to undress you or you would have caught a pneumonia. I just left them hanging outside to dry now that the storm is over.’ the stranger whose name was Vlad said while passing her a cup of hot coffee. She drank from the tin hot cup and she bit her lower lip to suppress a scream of pain when she incinerated her tongue, not to upset her arousing saviour. The coffee tasted like boiling dirty water, which was a very good sign because it meant he was single. Then he spoke again ‘ I must apologize for the disorder but you can’t expect too much of a bandit’s lailairr and the housekeeper won’t come until Friday ‘

‘Are you a bandit? Oh, my God! You are a criminal! I am naked and helpless in a bed in the company of a bloodthirsty outlaw who has nothing to lose. Are you going to rape me when we finish coffee? I feel so weak that I don’t think I can offer hardly any resistance…’ said Charlotte half joking and coquettishly swallowed the rest of her coffee .

‘Oh, no! I am highway robber, to be a rapist you need totally different training. My stage name is Dick Turnip, maybe you have heard of me, there is  a three guineas reward for my head and six shillings for any other piece of my body. What is your name by the way? You still haven’t told me yet’

‘ My name is Charlotte Wildbush and I am the lovely virgin daughter of a wealthy local landowner. Can you kidnap heiresses with your highwayman skills? I think my father will pay a substantial ransom to have me back… specially if you rape me first ‘ said her trying to steer the conversation to the topic she was more interested in at the moment. Charlotte was a young lady of the Victorian era and spite of her interest in the subject she was utterly ignorant of flesh matters. She was still a virgin and never had seen a man naked down the waist but in her dreams. She had overhead conversations of peasant wives and had a fairly good idea of how the male member looked like but had overoptimistic expectations regarding scale.

‘ What is that obsession with raping? I told you I rob rich traveling merchants and coaches, raping is a totally different area of expertise. I would get in trouble with the rapist guild if I step on their turf. ‘ protested him blushing a bit and she realized how young the bandit was when she stopped looking at his pants for an instant and saw his face. Then he told her how he stole from the rich to give to the poor, a notion Charlotte found entirely uneconomical but that spoke of the young bandit’s altruistic nature and lack of wit. Vlad told her about how he had started robbing the poor to give to the rich but the scheme had failed miserably because the poor had nothing to rob and the rich wouldn’t take used stolen goods that smelled rancid. Then he told her the story of how he had arrived to England, in spite of her protests and suggestions that time could be spent in a more practical manner.

‘ I was born in Hungary into a noble family of small landowners in the poorest part of the country. My homeland is so poor that nobility only can afford enough land to feed a handful of serfs that gaze in their pastures for a nominal fee. Our family plot was so small that I had to sleep with my feet on the neighbor’s property and that was motive for constant quarrels with the family living there who complained of bad smell.  It was also said that our property was cursed since my grandmother was said to have eaten the heart of a serf to make a pact with Satan. Apparently she was a quite a character my granny. I had an older brother and my father did not want to split the property any further because we only had one serf and he didn’t wanted to be sliced in two halves. I had wanted to be a poet until I found out that I had to learn how to read first so my father sent me to the military academy where they give you free food if you learn how to kill people.’

‘ I went to Budapest and joined a cavalry regiment as deputy horse. After a few years I made my way up the ranks to sergeant horse and later I was promoted to infantryman and allowed to eat people’s food instead of hay. Then Napoleon invaded Europe and we were sent to fight his armies but his armies fought back and we had to run for our lives. Nevertheless I was awarded a medal as the fastest runner of my regiment and promoted to battalion commander until the rest of the army could catch up with me. My rank and a fanciest uniform opened me the doors of the most elegant salons of  Budapest’s high society where I met a countess who fancied military men with large swords. I fell in love with her forgetting the fact she was already married to a count. The jealous husband discovered us one night on their bed making love passionately when blinded by desire I bit the count’s nipple thinking it was his wife’s. He challenged me to a duel in the cemetery next day at dawn and slapped me in the face with his slipper. Next morning he showed up two hours late and with just one pistol. He said it was his pistol and that he would let me shot after he was done. I was lucky because he was a lousy shooter and the pistol exploded in his face on the third round. The explosion blow his nose off and it was taken away by a squirrel that mistook it for a chestnut.’

‘ I had to flee Budapest chased by his henchmen and go back to my family’s property. I had been away for seven years and when I arrived in town I learned about the misfotunes my family had endured during my absence. My older brother had fallen in love with our mother and married her. When he found out she was already married with our father he ambushed and staved him to death only to discover he had killed our neighbor that looked very much like my father in the dark because he was my father’s twin brother. Then my brother had to murder his two little cousins to avoid further trouble. He sneaked into their house, took them from their cradles and drowned them in the swamp. He still found time to club my father to death that same night on his way back from the swamp and be at home on time for supper. You could say many things about my brother but he certainly knew how to carry out a murderous rampage. ‘

‘ The night of my arrival I went to our house at night and find him sleeping in my father’s bed with my mother. I strangled him with my bare hands but he wouldn’t die and kept making horrible gargling sounds. Then I realized that in my blinding rage I was strangling his ankle and he was snoring. I buried my sword in his heart and ran away. I crossed Europe hidden under the belly of a horse and then I stowed away under a merchant sailboat bound to England. I almost drowned but I made it through the Channel. This happened five years ago and I’ve running away and hiding ever since, chased by the remorse and shame of my heinous crime. I wake up at night in cold sweat and… Charlotte? Are you sleeping Charlotte?’

‘ Mmmm? What? No, I was just resting my eyes. What happens? Are you going to rape me?’ said Charlotte trying to hide in vain a big yawn behind her tiny hand. She composed herself and added ‘ The way I see it your brother deserved what he got after killing all those people. You should not be tormented by guilt, you did merciful God’s justice and your wicked brother must be now burning in Hell tormented for eternity. Why do you torture yourself with remorse when you could be giving free rein to your most lascivious desires?’ she asked while discretely lowering the bedcovers to reveal her naked round breasts.

‘You don’t understand sweet Charlotte… in the dark I pierced my own mother’s heart and horrified by my inaccuracy I ran into the night leaving my monogramed sword sticking out her chest. The same chest I had breast-feeded as a child! And now my maddened incestuous brother is looking for me to kill me because… because…’ Vlad interrupted his confession overwhelmed by tears of grief.

‘Because what? What next? What could be possibly make things worse?’ asked Charlotte with delirious expectation while hitting his head with her delicate fists. He spoke again.

‘ Because…’

To be continued….

What darker secret is buried in the depths of the tortured soul of the luckless Hungarian highwayman? Will his sorrow prove an obstacle insurmountable enough to prevent him from raping young willing Charlotte? Will his murderous brother or the wicked Hungarian count agents find him? Will Charlotte ever find the true love she craves for? Will she manage to get rid of her virginity? What about her imminent weeding of which she have completely forgotten about? Find out about that if you dare in the next tragic episode of Sense & Insensibility

Sense & Nonsensibility (I) Daughter Of The Tuberous Man

September 1, 2009 Leave a comment

Episode I: Daughter Of The Tuberous Man

Charlotte Wildbush stood at the top of the hill watching the dying light of the sunset spilling over her father’s state. Her wavy golden hair in the wind was not less golden that the wavy golden fields under an equally golden sunlight that transmuted them into a sea of liquid gold, which was a very golden-like thing to do. It was a certainly preternatural optical ilusion because her father lands were planted with potatoes and potato fields don’t usually wave too much. But Charlotte did not notice the peculiarity and beauty of the phenomenon displayed before her eyes, she was too busy thinking how good her silhouette would look outlined against the blazing sunset sky. After half an hour she concluded she certainly would look romantic and heroic, the qualities she cherished most besides money. She though of spreading some coins on the ground to complete the symbolic tableau she was composing in her mind but dismissed the idea because it probably would look tacky and picking the money in the dark would be certainly unglamorous and impractical. When the sun finally hid behind the horizon she began to sense the enlivening fresh of the evening that preceded the constipating cold of the night and decided to leave.

Charlotte felt a bit disappointed her efforts to look heroic and romantic had been in vain. She had expected a gentleman with fiery eyes and hairy sideburns to ride by on a white stallion and appreciate her beautiful and tasteful staging. What had happened is that she had been spotted by two little rascals that had burst in laughter and thrown her mud balls. She had chased them with a stick yelling and cursing but they had gotten away easily when she tipped on a pothole. She sighted and walked towards her horse Pegasus, that was actually a donkey painted white. She galloped Pegasus towards home but when the animal fainted after galloping six yards she restrained his pace to avoid having to walk all the way to the manor dragging an exhausted donkey.  The manor was a fairly big farmhouse whose more remarkable feature is that it had been built  under the ground by her father. Being the potato crop his livelihood her father had been obsessed all his life with understanding potatoes. He wanted to know how it felt to be a potato, to live like a potato and to think like a potato. So he built his house underground to rise his family as potatoes. In fact so great was Charlotte’s father obsession with potatoes that it was only her mother’s adamant opposition and good sense that prevented him to name his daughter Tubercula as he had intended. Charlotte felt she would never be grateful enough to her mother for sparing her such terrible destiny. But a not less horrible fate awaited her in the not so distant future for her father had told her that same morning during breakfast that he had got himself drunk last night at the tavern and engaged her to the son of the butcher. She had told him she could not marry a complete stranger and her father had replied he didn’t know the groom either and he was not concerned at all. Charlotte had  launched then in a passionate and convincing vindication of love, but her father’s sock full of nails had proven more eloquent and she had run down the stairs to cry in silence in her windowless bedroom in the lower floor.

When she arrive home she crossed the door that was on the ground and entered the dining room that was the only room with windows on the ceiling. The rest of the rooms were all windowless because the second floor was underground. Her father wasn’t at home but her mother was sitting at the piano playing a sonata in spite of the fact that they didn’t own any musical instrument. Charlotte’s mother had some peculiarities but she adored her. She thrown herself at her feet and embraced her legs as she always did.

‘ Mother! ‘ she said causing her mother to stop playing her invisible piano.

‘ Charlotte! What is the matter my angel? ‘

‘ I don’t want to marry the butcher’s son. I don’t even know what a butcher is. ‘

‘ A butcher is a man that sells meat darling’

‘ I don’t care! I don’t want to marry a total stranger. I want to marry a man I love, a gentleman with hairy sideburns and fiery eyes or at least with fiery sideburns and hairy eyes. A man that loves me and thinks I am the most beautiful creature of God’s creation.’

‘ You want to marry a blind man Charlotte?’

‘ Stop teasing me mother! This is serious! ‘ she protested and added ‘ If we don’t do anything I will be married in one week and I will be unhappy for the rest of my life. ‘

‘ It is not so bad Charlotte. If you marry a butcher’s son we can to eat some meat instead of raw potatoes or grilled potatoes or potato salad or potato soup or potato purée or potato jam or potato cream or potato cake or potato chips…  every day eating potatoes for the last twenty years! My face begins to look like a potato and I am running out of recipes for potatoes.’

‘ I am sick of potatoes too mother, but I won’t marry a man I don’t love just for tuberous reasons.’

‘ And what are you going to do? Your father is man of his word. Don’t you remember what happened when he quarreled with the postman over the price of stamps. He gave his word not to use the postal service any more and now I have to swim across the channel every time I write to aunt Molly in Belfast. ‘

‘ I will run away! I will go to America.’

‘ Charlotte you can’t go to America. You can’t swim.’ said her mother and resumed her silent sonata

It was hopeless. Charlotte realized that she wouldn’t get any  help from her mentally unsound beloved mother. Later she helped her to prepare the table and they waited together for the man of the house to arrive with news about the wedding arrangements. They waited in silence for hours, then they ate their potatoes stuffed with potato cream also in silence. After dinner they did the dishes and Charlotte’s mother played the non existent piano while Charlotte at her feet tried to forget about her misery reading a romantic novel, her favorite pastime. She only owned one novel because her father believed money spent in non-potatoe related matters was wasted money, but she read her book incessantly trying to figure out what it was about.

It was already dark night when it began raining and they heard the clattering of raindrops on the ceiling windows and saw a red glare in the dark that turned out to be her drunken father’s red nose pressed against the window pane. He found his keys and came into the house smelling of beer. He told them that the butcher had lost his son in a cards game with the shoemaker and that now Charlotte wasn’t marrying the butcher’s son anymore. Instead she would marry the shoemaker’s grandfather who was a widowed deaf octogenarian war hero that had lost his legs fighting the Ottomans. Charlotte didn’t complain but she cried with despair and ran once more to her room. She dived on her bed with the intention to cry her pain out but slipped on the bedcovers and landed on the hardwood floor smashing her nose. So she cried on the floor unable to muster the strength to climb back to bed.

She fell sleep when she had run out of tears and dreamt of a naked gentleman with a wide hairy chest and powerful shoulders riding a black horse. In her dream she knew instantly that the mysterious stranger riding around naked was a gentleman because he wore a top hat and a bow tie. She was waiting for him laying on a gigantic bed of pink alabaster covered with red satin sheets that wasn’t very comfortable because it was hard as a rock. The alabaster bed was in the center of a large marble bedroom festooned with golden ornaments and tall windows on the walls instead of the ceiling. Through the open windows  she could see the blazing rider galloping towards her through the storm, his muscular torso glossy like a sausage under the rain. She felt a wave of burning heat ascending from between her legs and she realized her underpants were on fire and woke up just when it seemed the best part of the dream was about to start.

It was dark as tomb and as much deep but she noticed that there was a tempest raging outside for the way her room was flooding. She ran outside and began to run against the wind with raised arms and screaming like a demented insomniac  imitating a screaming plane that had not been invented yet. She loved rainstorms because they felt like she felt deep inside: wild and wet. She always ran under any particularly fierce meteorological phenomenon and she had been stricken by lighting many times and once was carried to Portsmouth by a particularly violent windstorm. A lighting stroke her in the head but  she kept running faster and screaming louder with her hair on fire. She ran and screamed like crazy until she fell into a hole and realized she was lost. Then she decided to faint as maids of fine upbringing did on romantic stories.

When she recovered consciousness she was naked under a heavy blanket in a room that she couldn’t recognize. The room was illuminated by a roaring fireplace that casted dancing orange shadows on the walls. The room smelled like coffee instead of potato juice and Charlotte realize she was lying naked in a stranger’s house.

To be continued…

Who is the owner of the mysterious bed in the mysterious room in the not less mysterious house where young virginal Charlotte lays naked and defenseless? Will our heroine find the means to scape her horrible fate of marrying a crippled octogenarian? Will she find true love and passion? Will the release of her long repressed desires be described by the narrator in every salacious detail? Find out in the next episode of Sense & Nonsensibility.