While I move towards the final preparation for my latest anthology (thank you all who commented on the possible covers – i am considering what might be best)  I thought I’d share one small piece from it to whet your appetites. It is slightly, erm, adult in its themes, so you know

Margaret Platt has a secret. Her neighbours in Abbeywell Mansions, a mock Tudor block on the outskirts of Cheam to the west of London, see Margaret as a little old lady, spending her days with her knitting circles and book clubs, occasionally venturing out with her wheeled basket to take a healthy walk into town for some shopping. If any of the tenants wonder about the inside of flat seven, they assume it kitsch, perhaps, be-doilied and full of nick-nacks.

Graeme Rickshaw, at flat number eight, also hides the truth of his existence from his fellow residents. In his thirties, Graeme, they assume, is an accountant or, perhaps an actuary, keen on healthy living, exercise and self-improvement.

Margaret and Graeme’s privacy is maintained because no one pries at Abbeywell. Residents nod on passing, a hat may be tipped and occasionally a greeting exchanged. But rarely are thresholds crossed. It simply isn’t done and everyone likes it that way.

That remained the status quo until today, a broiling hot Thursday afternoon in June. Graeme’s window is open; he is at his workstation, concentrating on his latest task when he hears a noise. But not any noise. It is a cry of pain, a cry at once both sharp and sad. He stops and waits. There is a muttering and then another cry, lower, more guttural, followed by a distinct: ‘Help.’

Graeme is torn. On the one hand he is halfway through his current task and loathe to stop completely and lose momentum; on the other, the sounds are continuing; females in distress. Old fashioned chivalry, instilled by his father, overrides more quotidian concerns. He checks everything is in order and heads for the door.

Graeme has already determined the sounds emanate from Margaret’s apartment. He knocks and puts an ear to the door. Muffled though it is, the sounds of continuing discomfort come to him. He tries the handle and pushes.

Those who see Graeme as a health aficionado base their assessments in part on his physicality. He is strong and the lock is no match for his shoulder; so much so that when the door gives way Graeme hurtles, in a somewhat undignified manner, through the door and straight into the sitting room.

Surprise is but one reaction to this accelerated visitation. Shock, too, is there, as is distress and, at least for two people, a degree of hope.

For Margaret is not the quiet retiree of common myth, nor are her (exclusively female) visitors knitters and readers but those who enjoy the calming relief of group tantric lesbian sex (Wednesdays half-price for the over seventies). Today through a combination of a new position and a dislocated hip, Jemima Newbiggin (train guard and stamp collector) and Sandra Flout (self-employed pig whisperer) are knotted together in increasing agony while Margaret is trying to ease them apart, hindered as she is by the slick sheen of their naked limbs and Jemima’s understandable if inhibiting punches every time the pain increases. While it is not entirely essential for this tale it is worth noting here that Margaret is also sweaty and naked.

Graeme is a man not given to embarrassment in the presence of nudity. He takes in the scene and steps forward.

‘Allow me, ladies.’

Graeme, you see, is an up and coming, if one can put it that way, porn star whose principal asset is his exceptionally impressive wang. He is a keen student of contortion and has been known to carry three actresses across a set so this ménage appears, to Graeme’s eyes at least, as a straightforward challenge.

The three women, however, are less than enamoured of Graeme’s well-meant if a trifle thoughtless approach. But pain dulls articulacy and none are capable of explaining their reluctance to be manhandled by one so patently masculine, even in extremis.

No one is clear whose hand grabs Graeme’s groin and finds, no doubt unexpectedly, a metal weight.

Equally it remains unexplained why that hand does not let go when confronted with something so strange but instead yanks for all it is worth.

It must be noted that, in his time in the industry, Graeme’s wang has been the subject of considerable manipulation; however, never before has this happened when wearing his penile-enhancement weight. As Graeme tugs one way and the weight is tugged the other something delicate is torn rendering Graeme no longer capable of supporting three writhing women. He falls to the floor concussing himself on an ornamental spittoon and pinning Margaret beneath his inert self.

A combination of the screams, the splintered door, the cries of distress and Graeme’s somewhat earthy and Anglo-Saxon reaction to having his foreskin julienned brings more help to Margaret’s apartment.

One would like to report the attendees’ first consideration is to call the appropriate services to help the unfortunate foursome. Sadly there is a delay while pictorial evidence is obtained and shared on social media, as is the modern way. While the old adage that there is no such thing as bad publicity may hold true, the local paper’s headline takes some living down

Slick chicks in tricky dick fix

(More pictures pages 3, 4, 7, 9, 10, and 21)