The Real Story Of 'O" book 5

Not All Cat's Lick Cream

Jul 17, 2023

Good morrow and happy Monday

The sixth book in the Bellydancing and Beyond series, “The Other Side of Yes” is out now but only on Amazon for the next couple of months. I don’t usually do this but it was an opportunity to enter their “Storyteller Competition” which runs until August. The rules are that my book is exclusive during that time.

At the moment it is full price, but just between you and me, it will be 0.99 from 13th August -20th August on Amazon.com and Amazon.uk.

If you are not an Amazon user, don’t panic it will publish on the other books store sometime after October, until then I thought I would tempt you with another $0.99 offering with book five…

“The Real Story Of “O’ “

Chapter One -Puss

George looked at himself in the mirror. He brushed his white hair back, tidied his mustache, and slid a clean hanky into his pocket.

His phone pinged.

“Fancy a dram first?”

He stared at it. “Fancy a dram” was code for many things, “walking rather than driving” being one and “staying over” being the other.

He looked down at his trousers and peered underneath at his underpants. Better change . . . He sniffed. And perhaps . . . a bit of Hugo Boss?

He rustled through his drawer searching for “something different.” George had a drawer full of “something different” which, when he swore he’d never see Beatrice again, he had planned to dispose of, either in a fire or a distant second-hand shop where no one knew him.

He stopped. Was he up for a tussle so soon?

* * *

Beatrice’s jacket was on the back of her chair. She was excited, although if you saw her, you wouldn’t know it. The only emotion Beatrice expressed was anger; anything else was hidden away, rarely seen, except the odd moment when George managed to “get it right in bed.”

George was picking her up for the Aces High Club, and she had the sheets changed.

Beatrice looked at her phone like she had done just seconds before . . . no answer. Bugger him, she told herself.

She stared out of the window.

“Bugger you,” she shouted, and the cat on the sink looked up with a Me? What have I done? look.

“Not you,” snapped Beatrice. “Friggin’ men—he could at least let me know.”

Beatrice slid her hand onto Puss’s chocolate-brown back as Puss pushed her spine into Beatrice’s hand with a purr.

Puss had appeared the night of Amy’s wedding, posed at the door like it was her home.

She had been lurking about the drive for days. No one knew where she came from, but everyone did that “isn’t she cute” stroking as they passed, and Puss knew it was only a matter of time.

She was skinny, young, and always hanging around the outside tap, licking the drips, dozing under the hedges, with an eye on the door and her ear to the ground.

She was an expert of noise, jumping to attention at the sound of Sheryl’s car or Helen’s footsteps and lining up for her “isn’t she cute” pat.

And it worked every time.

The first time Puss made her move, she was stopped by Helen with a breathless “Jesus” skid, the second by Sheryl with a “fucking hell” trip.

The third time it was fate, kismet, and Baby Bea.

It was late at night after Amy’s wedding. Puss watched Sheryl ease a clinking box from the car as Beatrice wheeled herself down the drive with Baby Bea asleep on her knee and Steven, weighed down with Baby Bea’s “I’m staying the night” paraphernalia, trudging behind.

Puss saw her chance; like a silent sphinx by the front door she waited. She had seen the door stick like wet sap, she knew it would need pushing, she had it timed, like trapping a mouse.

Sheryl wrestled with the key and went for a foot push; there was a clatter of bottles; the box almost dropped; she gripped it and went for a shoulder shove and grunt.

“Here, let me,” said Beatrice.

“I got it, Mum”—grunt—“bollocks . . . shit.”

“Let me,” said Steven, pushing forward.

“I said I’ve got it,” snapped Sheryl with a shove of her shoulders.

The door burst open.

Beatrice, pissed off at the “I’ve got it” from her stroppy cow of a daughter, crashed her wheelchair into the hallway, jolting to a stop just shy of Sheryl’s legs.

“Jesus, Mum!” snapped Sheryl.

Baby Bea jolted awake. She began to wail as Sheryl tried to keep her balance with a box full of wine.

“Fuck’s sake,” she snapped.

Steven, hearing the “Jesus” and the “fuck,” pushed the door wide open, stumbling into the back of Beatrice’s wheelchair; Baby Bea’s paraphernalia scattered everywhere.

Sheryl swore, Beatrice cursed, and Baby Bea, starving, wailed like a banshee . . .

Puss, like the black flash of the Looney Tunes Roadrunner, zoomed in.

“The cat,” shouted Beatrice.

“What cat?” said Steven, who had not been to Beatrice’s house for quite some time.

Baby Bea wailed louder.

“The fucking cat in the garden,” said Sheryl.

“There’s a cat in the garden?” said Steven.

“Not now—he . . . she is in here now, probably shitting somewhere,” said Beatrice. “Shhhh, baby darling.”

“I told you—you shouldn’t pat it,” said Sheryl.

Baby Bea let out a louder wail.

“Pat it? You friggin’ fed it,” said Beatrice. “I said shhhh, baby . . .”

Silence . . .

Puss alighted herself onto the hall side table inches from Baby Bea, landing as soft as a ballerina; even the air wick didn’t move.

Baby Bea watched, mesmerised.

Puss blinked at her.

Baby Bea cooed.

Puss whispered a soft meow.

Baby Bea, with an outstretched arm, cooed again, and Puss—the master of seduction—titled her head into the small, round palm of Baby Bea, letting out a low rumble of purrs.

A piece of piss.

After a week of Puss skidding into doorways and staring into windows leaving muddy paws prints, a cat flap was built, bowls of dried cat food filled the corners of the kitchen, and Sheryl now arrived with scraps of chicken.

It was like she had been there for years.

Beatrice stroked Puss, her glass of whisky a few sips down.

“At least you don’t have to bother,” she muttered. “With men and all that nonsense.” She stopped. “Although it’s not really nonsense, is it?” She sighed. “It’s the tits, isn’t it? The absolute tits! The waking up, the coffee . . .” She scratched behind Puss’s ear. “And if I play my cards right tonight, maybe . . . what do you reckon, Puss? Coffee in the morning, maybe some morning-afters?”

Puss purred.

“Though we’re not going to tell him that, are we?”

Puss looked at her bowl; it was empty.

“Treat ’em mean and keep ’em keen . . .” said Beatrice.

Puss mimed a meow.

Beatrice pulled a packet of cat food from the Puss corner and gave it a shake.

Puss landed by the bowl with a soft thud.

“Yes, keep him on his toes, wanting more,” muttered Beatrice, dribbling an excessive number of pellets into Puss’s bowl as George pulled up in the drive.

George, a man who had many pasts in many countries, had been happily single most of his life. He had never planned to stay long in Argyll, until he met Beatrice.

For a man past seventy, he wore it well—he was trim but not skinny, more bordering on cuddly. And he had a sense of humour that expanded the range of just about anything; making him laugh was as easy as turning on a tap.

George knew he was a catch, that he could have any single woman in the WRI, but the truth was, he didn’t care. George was one of those rare breeds who felt comfortable in his own skin, much to the annoyance of many women.

He was a man who liked his own company. He liked the freedom of doing what he wanted whenever he wanted. In the good old days, there were plenty of women happy with a bit on the side, free and frisky—not now. The women he met now wanted to know when and where and if lubricant was required, or as in one case, if sex was absolutely necessary.

Not Beatrice. She was as keen as he was—which was totally undetectable. Beatrice looked that sort who’d slap a penis under the tap and give it a good wash rather than a good seeing-to. But that is the intrigue of Beatrice: she had as many layers as an onion, most involving anger, until the sweet spot was tickled . . .

George thought about the past few weeks without Beatrice. It had been peaceful, like, funnily enough, his army years. Did he really want to go through all that again?

Was the sweet spot that good?

Sure, taming her added a certain spice to his day, and the gymnastics in bed with a disabled woman had added a certain artistic, creative element to lovemaking.

He had surprised himself and Beatrice.

But all this library stuff?

She was like a bull terrier: she just would not let go.