LITMIR.BIZ

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‘I hope I’m not going to get an attack of hiccups. I can’t bear it.’

      But that is just what poor Miss Dunchurch does get and a procession of tit-trembling croaks break from her pretty lips as if set by a timer.

      Fortunately this unhappy state of affairs is one that I can turn to my advantage. I let her hiccup for a few moments and then put forward a suggestion.

      ‘My mum has an absolutely fool-proof method of curing hiccups,’ I say. ‘Trouble is that it may seem a bit rude.’

      ‘Anything, any—hic,’ gasps Miss D.

      ‘Well, first of all we need a key.’ Brilliant swine, aren’t I? Bold as brass I walk over to the door, turn the key in the lock so that Miss D. cannot see what I am doing, and return to my patient. ‘Now, you need to expose your back so I can rest the key on it.’

      ‘Are you serious?’

      ‘Absolutely.’ I pretend not to watch as Miss D. undoes her mother of pearl buttons and slips off her blouse. She is wearing a half-cup bra which does little to conceal her best features and I am practically drooling into my mug of plonk. I notice that already the china seems to be irreparably stained.

      ‘Now, what?’

      I wrench my eyes from Miss D.’s knockers and reject the first half dozen suggestions that spring to mind.

      ‘Lean forward,’ I say. ‘I have to rest the key on your back.’

      Needless to say, I am making the treatment up as I go along and I am comforted to hear Miss D. give a little drunken giggle. Bosnia’s contribution to the undermining of Western civilisation is obviously beginning to perform its prime task.

      Rose Dunchurch leans forward obediently and I place the key in the middle of her smooth white back. Immediately she hiccups violently and it falls onto the floor. This happens twice more and I tuck the key under her bra strap making suitably apologetic noises. Still the hiccuping continues.

      ‘Oh dear, I say. ‘I’ve never known it fail before. Maybe it’s because you back isn’t completely—er, bare. When my mum used to do it I had to strip to the waist.’

      ‘Surely my bra isn’t going to make any great difference?’

      ‘I don’t know. It might do.’

      Miss D. reaches behind her back and being the gentleman I am I move swiftly to offer assistance. I release the catch and her bra joins her blouse over the back of a chair.

      ‘Well?’

      ‘Well what – oh, yes.’ I have been so engrossed in the sight of those lovely bristols hanging down like giant dew drops that I have forgotten about the key. I pop it on her back and immediately it zonks back onto the floor again.

      ‘Your old mother’s recipe doesn’t seem to be—hic, working,’ observes Miss D. a trifle testily.

      ‘I can’t understand it, I really can’t. Maybe –’ I let my voice die away.

      ‘Maybe what?’

      ‘Well there was something else my mother used to do, now I come to think of it, but, but –’

      ‘Oh for heavens—hic! What did your mother do?’

      ‘It’s rather rude, what with you being a girl.’

      ‘Just tell me what she did!’

      ‘Well,’ if Miss D. was not looking at the floor she would be able to see the awful struggle I am having to get the words out, me being the kind of shy, fumbling fellow that I am. ‘She used to rub my chest.’

      ‘What!’

      ‘Yes, I’m sorry. I should have thought of that at the beginning, shouldn’t I. Oh, dear, I am sorry. It’s all so embarrassing, isn’t it?’

      ‘Oh really. This is ridiculous. I must be mad.’ She gives another light-headed giggle and starts manipulating her shapely boobs. The key promptly falls off again.

      ‘You’d better let me do it.’ I put the key back and wrap my greedy mits round her bristols. ‘My hands aren’t too cold, are they?’ I ask thoughtfully.

      ‘No,’ she says. ‘Actually, I think it’s beginning to work.’

      Could she be right? Am I on the threshold of giving my name to science? My pulse quickens as I consider the possibilities. Mum always said she wanted me to be a doctor. One day she may be able to pick up a medical dictionary and find my name, ‘Lea’s Method: infallible cure for hiccups discovered by Clapham’s number one breast-stroke specialist’.

      My dream is shattered by a loud ‘hic’ from my patient.

      ‘Try drinking something,’ I say hurriedly. She draws herself up gratefully and I am swift to pour another cupfull of Bull’s Blood down her throat.

      ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘oh, my goodness. I feel quite woozey. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.’ No prizes for guessing which alternative I favour.

      ‘Get your head down,’ I say, ‘you’ll feel better.’ I return to my self-appointed task and it does not escape my notice that Miss D. is beginning to make contented noises and that her bell pushers are taking on the consistency of armour-piercing bullets.

      ‘I’m drunk—hic!’ she says happily, ‘utterly and completely drunk—hic!’

      Well, I ask you, what kind of swine would take advantage of a girl in that situation? Right in one! It is twenty to two and there is little time left. Adjusting my forefinger under her chin I raise her head and gently brush the hair from her eyes. Her lids are down and I press my lips against them before moving on to her soft warm mouth. She lets herself be kissed without any great display of emotion and seizing one of my hands puts it back on her knockers.

      ‘Go on doing that,’ she says sleepily. ‘I like it.’ I never argue in a situation like that and continue the good work making sure that my probing finger covers the maximum area of flesh. Her eyes are tightly closed and she gives a little shiver of pleasure as I start to nibble the side of her neck.

      ‘What about that washing machine?’ she murmurs.

      Game girl, isn’t she? I have forgotten all about industrial espionage.

      ‘It has a fantastic action,’ I breathe, running my hands over her thighs, ‘so powerful, but so gentle.’

      ‘Tell me more,’ she sighs, ‘it sounds wonderful.’

      ‘It is, it is.’ Like Britain’s gold reserves, we sink slowly towards the floor, and my hands gratefully latch on to the top of her tights.

      ‘Rotating action – first one way – then the other.’

      ‘I can’t wait.’ Still with her eyes closed Miss D. fumbles for the front of my trousers.

      ‘Unique deep thrust action –’ she breaks one of her nails on my zipper.

      ‘High spin speed, big capacity –’

      ‘Front loading?’

      ‘Y-e-e-e-s!’

      ‘O-o-o-o-h.’

      Experienced readers will be aware that my brief acquaintanceship with Miss Rose Dunchurch has now blossomed into something beautiful, if, unfortunately a trifle short-lived. This saddens me as does the fact that her hiccups persist in punctuating our love-making. Even as I tuck my tie inside my jacket and let myself out of the inappropriately named rest room, I can hear them echoing behind me. Still, you can’t have everything, can you?

      Life as a HomeClean salesman is quite a nice little doddle and towards the end of my probation period I am beginning to think that Sidney will have to come up with something pretty good to tempt me away from the dear old company. Unfortunately, fate, as it has a habit of doing with me, decides to intervene.

      It

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