Date: Mon, 26 Jun 2017 10:46:30 +0100
From: Peter Harrison <petermichaelharrison.email@gmail.com>
Subject: Morgan's Organ (incest, bestiality)

Morgan's Organ
By Michael Harrison

Prologue


Cast your minds back to the last war but five. The fighting is over,
for the time being. Up and down the land the streets are shaking to
the sound of marching feet. At last our boys are coming home.
And if those Army boots seem to move with a new and feverish
urgency unknown when marching towards the enemy let us
remember that for six long years many of those men have been
nowhere  near a woman.
 Even wives who had remained untouched by human hand for
months on end before the war have taken on a whole new allure.
All over the land in the coming weeks and months, to the sound of
bedsprings strained beyond their natural limits,  the post-war baby
boom will be launched.
For one of those returning heroes, acting Lance Corporal  Percy
Alcock of the British Army's Royal Army Pay Corps , the
anticipation is to prove almost too much to bear.  For most of the
war he has been engaged on garrison duties,  guarding against the
admittedly faint suspicion that the Germans might attempt to strike
at London through the Outer Hebrides.
The island of Barra abounded in sheep, attractive in appearance,
with remarkably affectionate natures,  and many of his comrades in
arms found the temptation irresistible.  Percy himself had been
involved in a committed relationship with an attractive ewe for
some six months towards the end of nineteen forty three, until the
owner, a local crofter, discovered  what was going on and insisted
that on patriotic grounds alone he was not prepared to be involved
with an English soldier in what in those days people used to refer
to as an eternal triangle.
And so, as he enters by the back gate, Percy Alcock  is in a highly
frustrated state of mind. As the gate opens he is surprised and
delighted to encounter his wife, Yvonne,  standing in the yard,
hanging out the weekly wash.  Barely pausing to introduce himself,
after all those years away ,  Percy seizes her around the waist with
yearning hands and propels her backwards into the outside toilet.
It has been so long since Mrs. Alcock held her husband close that
she has almost forgotten the drill but she soon gets into the swing of
things once more and nine months later, at three o'clock in the
morning, as is the custom with these matters, the midwife,
accompanied by a pupil midwife still undergoing instruction,
comes hurrying up the street  to tend to Mrs. Alcock in her hour of
need.
 Looking back on that eventful night Mrs. Alcock was to reflect
that if it had not been for the presence of the  pupil midwife she
and the midwife might well have had a little all-girls? confab and
come to a decision not to slap the infant into life which, looking
back, would probably have been a mistake.
Nervously, about to perform the essential procedure for the first
time,  the trainee midwife moves towards the infant's lower region,
scissors in hand.  "Wait, " says the midwife, leaning down for a
closer look.  "My God. Don't cut that. "
From up above comes the voice of Yvonne.  "Is it a little girl or a
little boy? "
"It's a little boy," says the State Registered Midwife, with barely a
flicker of irony, adding under her breath : " In a manner of
speaking. "
"We are calling him Morgan, " says Yvonne, lying back on the
pillows with a sigh of pleasure and pride. "It's an old family name
on my husband's side."
Word quickly spreads along the midwifery grapevine and in the
succeeding days leading paediatricians from many great hospitals
are to flock to that little back street bedroom summoned by
rumour, from all over the area. Some of the more sensitive female
specialists hurry from the room faint with surprise and
consternation.
Those who remain are to discuss and exchange many theories
about the physical characteristics of the infant born to Mr. and Mrs.
Alcock.  The most favoured explanation appeared to be that in
some unexplained way the long years of separation and frustration
had enriched the mixture introduced  into Mrs. Alcock in the
outside privy  on the night of her husband's return from the wars.
Percy, her husband, for his part, cannot help assuming for himself
some of the credit for the little chap's Unique Selling Point.
Gazing down at the infant, as Yvonne changed his nappy he would
murmur the prediction that in the years to come his infant son
would both experience and bestow much innocent pleasure. But ,
as we shall see, in that prediction he was not entirely accurate, or if
he was he did not anticipate that before the pleasure would come
the pain. But Life's often like that, don't you think? You don't?
Oh, well I do.
*  *   *

And so the years passed in that humble little back street dwelling
where Morgan had first seen the light of day.  But times were
changing. The great post-war housing boom  was under way and
very soon the family found themselves living in a council house on
a new estate as far away as the architects could locate it from the
houses they personally preferred to live in.
On that new estate there were very few shops. No cinemas. No
dance halls. The buses came only fitfully.  And the only amenity
available to those who found themselves abandoned in this
wilderness miles outside the city consisted of an apparently
limitless  succession of fields endlessly commended to the
residents by the Council but for which  Morgan could find little
practical use.
Morgan, to be frank was bored. And  left to his own devices he
had to do what so many of us had to do in those days before
television and computer games.  He devised his own
entertainment. His sister, Megan, some two years older, was the by-
product of a spot of compassionate leave when Percy's Mum
passed away in '44.
She was  a pretty little thing, looking younger than her fourteen
years  with blonde curls and an  angelic countenance. Deceptively
so , in fact, as is often the case with girls of angelic countenance,
since Megan  had turned out to be pleasingly precocious,
exhibiting tendencies which, with a bit of luck, and some firm
guidance, might just develop into nymphomania.  Which was just
as well with a brother like Morgan.
Her favourite game of all was doctors and nurses and several
evenings a week as they sat together on the sofa listening to Charlie
Chester or Archie Andrews or The Goons , on the radio, she
would confide to Morgan that she was not feeling at all well and
wondered if it might be possible to arrange a home visit a bit later
on.
Later that evening , with their parents safely in bed, Morgan would
steal into his sister's bedroom , in the dark, pull down her pyjama
bottoms , and conduct a thorough  examination.
As the consultation continued,  from the adjoining bedroom where
their parents slept,   they would occasionally find themselves
listening  to the carnal sounds of marital intercourse and Morgan
would investigate his sister's problem  with growing urgency.
Usually, the rhythm of his breathing would increase in intensity
until it concluded with  a sigh of purest pleasure and moments later
he would be gone, leaving his delightful sister, aware even at that
tender age, that so far as she was concerned the evening had an
incomplete air about it.
 But at that stage despite the frequency of these lubricious
interludes Megan  had no other role to play apart from lying there,
with her pyjamas disarranged while Morgan conducted his eager
explorations .
Occasionally, as he rose to his feet, about to depart, Megan would
ask if there was anything more she could do for him. What
seemed to be the trouble? Morgan would mumble that there was
nothing wrong with him. It had cleared up. Which when you think
about it was the absolute truth.  His secret was safe.  No one but
Morgan had ever fondled him .  As a result only a handful of
people knew Morgan's secret. And one of them, of course, of
necessity, since she had bathed him  and gazed down upon him
every day for a good five years, was Morgan's Mum.
Now it just so happened that by that stage of their marriage, despite
her manifest attractions,  Percy Alcock was experiencing a
declining interest in his wife's physical charms.  Oh, from time to
time he would engage a little fitfully in the familiar pastimes of the
marital bed but the early ardour in the backyard privy , as a result
of which Morgan had come into the world, had long since abated.
In terms of leisure activities,  Percy now had a garden at the front
and another one at the back to contend with and  this took up all
his spare time. Yvonne, like most women, was beginning to feel
neglected. It also has to be said that as a result of the strain of all
those years of war and rationing and making do and mending and
air raids and all she had established a little custom of uncorking the
sherry and enjoying an aperitif or two before breakfast.
And so it came to pass that one morning Morgan rose from his
bed and as was his custom went to the window and looked out.
He was not really taking in the view. He was studying the backs of
the adjoining houses just in case there was a girl getting up and
standing stark naked in her bedroom but once more he was out of
luck. Never mind.
Did he have time before going to school?  Morgan decided that he
did and so he reached down into his satchel, took out his battered
and dog-eared copy of Health and Efficiency magazine. And
pausing only to retrieve a representative sample of his sister's
underwear from the airing cupboard he padded along the landing
in his stockings and entered the bathroom.
What he quite forgot, in his excitement, was that he had left the
magazine lying on the wash basin, folded open at a frequently
consulted  page depicting a wholly naked girl rising in the air to
catch a beach ball and apparently unconcerned about her own
manifest nakedness, although to be honest, there did seem to be
something missing about the nether regions, as was the custom in
those days, as a result of it being cruelly tampered with in the dark
room back at the magazine.
A few minutes later, as Morgan concentrated on his tea and toast
his Mother appeared in the kitchen. Now, Yvonne, of course, was
one of a very few people in the know about him. But you have to
remember that he was now twelve years old. It had been seven
long years since she had had the undeniable pleasure of gazing
upon his Unique selling Point.
 She was understandably curious to know how things had
developed and this seemed like the perfect opportunity. In
addition, as I have just mentioned,  it has to be remembered  that
the initial lust which had propelled  Morgan  into the world
following  a tender episode of marital love in the outside privy had
been replaced  so far as Percy was concerned by  a deep love of
the soil.
Holding out the dog-eared Health and Efficiency magazine. she
said " You left this in the bathroom, Morgan."  Morgan turned a
quite startling shade of red. "It's not mine," he said. "It must be
Dad's."
His Mother moved closer and playfully ruffled Morgan's hair.
"Don't be silly," she said. "I don't mind.  Which one do you fancy?"
"I don't fancy any of them," Morgan protested.
His Mother turned over a few pages. "This one's nice.  Look. Big
boobs. And a lovely bum   And look at this one. Come on
Morgan, don't be shy. I'm not embarrassed honestly. It's  perfectly
natural."  She paused. "What you've been doing. Up there. In the
bathroom. "
"I haven't been doing anything."
His Mother smiled again. "Don't worry. I won't tell. It'll be our
secret. OK." "
Young as he was Morgan was experiencing a dawning suspicion
that his undeniably affectionate  relations with his Mother might
just be entering a new and more rewarding phase.
"OK." he said.
His Mother tapped the pages of Health and Efficiency with an
impatient air. "What I don't understand, though, is why they have
to  interfere with  the pictures. It's so...... unnatural. I mean real
grown-up women don't look like that. What's wrong with showing
women like they really are? " She ruffled his hair again. and
pressed his head against her bosom. "You do know that, don't you?
"
Morgan  mumbled that of course he did --- he was twelve years old.
All at once his Mother seemed to come to a decision. A decision
which Morgan was to reflect on fondly in the days and weeks
which followed. A decision which was to furnish him with a great
many vivid and fascinating images to reflect on, as he lay at night in
his little bed with his pyjama trousers wound down to his ankles.
And, it must be said,  a decision which was to finally persuade him
that the charms of his much-loved Health and Efficiency magazine
were thoroughly spurious.
"I'll tell you what,"  his Mother said. " Why don't you stay at home
this morning. And I'll give you a little nature lesson myself. What
do you say?"
Half-heartedly, Morgan muttered a protest that he might get into
trouble at school. But his heart wasn't in it.
"Don't be silly, " his Mother said. "I'll give you a note to say you
were sick or something. It'll be all right. And anyway, it'll be
educational for you."  She looked at him with a new and lascivious
fondness. "What do you say? "  She sensed his growing interest in
the proposition. "Good boy. Now you just wait down here and I'll
call you up when I'm ready."
I don't know how things are today but in those days your parent's
bedroom was a strictly no- go area. It was not like today when
according to the adverts on television kids jump about on their
parent's beds thumping them with heavy pillows  and even get
under the blankets.  In those days you just never went into the
room where your parents slept and presumably did it. Your
parents' room also tended to be the best room in the house.
A few minutes after Morgan's Mum  had gone upstairs she called
down to him in a cheerful voice. "You can come up now, Morgan.
But take your shoes off first "
The curtains had been drawn almost together and the bedroom
was quiet and shadowy. His stocking feet sank into the deep carpet
as he moved across to the bed. And what a surprise there awaited
him.
 Morgan had always thought of his Mother as quite an  attractive
woman , when he had bothered the think about it at all. In fact she
was an absolute corker. Up in the North you often find an exotic
kind of female beauty, quite unlike the general run of women.
One theory is that such unexpected beauty is a sort of residual
trace of intermarriage in days past between English seamen  and
Spanish or Italian women. At any rate Yvonne was of that type.
Long black hair. Dark brown eyes. And an unblemished skin the
colour and texture of  magnolia silk  emulsion.
 She was wearing a fine satiny robe of purest cornflower blue
which had fallen apart at the top so that he could see the curve of
what he thought of with the loving  respect of a lad  who loved his
mother as her bosoms,  curving sharply downwards only to
disappear tantalisingly out of sight under the robe . For some
reason, though, she appeared to be mad at him.
"This is our secret, Morgan. You do understand that don't you? "
Morgan muttered that he did.
"If you ever mention this to another soul  I'll never speak to you
again. And I'll never do jam roly-poly."
Once more Morgan assured her, Scouts' honour.
" I mean for one thing your Father would never understand . "
Morgan agreed that she was probably right there.
Her manner softened. " Come here. " Morgan approached the side
of the bed. "Kneel down." Morgan knelt down. Yvonne ruffled his
hair again. "Now then,  what can I get you?"
"Up to you," mumbled Morgan.
"Well, what would you like to see? "
 Because he was a sensitive lad who instinctively knew the proper
sequence of seduction Morgan's hand first explored the upper
reaches of the gown of cornflower blue. Pleasant enough. But
since he was only twelve he could not help feeling that the plump
little mounds with their lovely rosy tips still looked recently
familiar.  Even so he fondled them with  a  new sensation  which
now had nothing to do with their traditional contents.
Next his Mother took his hand and placed it under the covers,
lower down  at the hem of her gown which had unaccountably
ridden right up her legs ,  and then lifted it up again, under the
material,  until his fingers lay draped across the smooth, warm  skin
of that  deliciously curved stomach. Sleepy eyes strayed to consider
Morgan's grey, uniform trousers where the front was imperceptibly
rising in the air as if possessed of a life of its  own.
"Down."
Obediently his hand moved slowly, inexorably, tremblingly down.
With the leisurely grace and dignity of the sacred portals of
Paradise opening to the Faithful,  creamy thighs opened to his
touch.  His descending fingers encountered divine entanglement.
Downwards he delved. Into the void. Wetness welcomed him.
And  a  rising scent of flowers from the disturbance he had caused
in the arbour, so to speak.  Yvonne sighed.  Eyes closed.
 " There," she said proudly. "Isn't  that better than her ---- better than
the girl in your magazine?"
Huskily, Morgan agreed with his Mother that it was indeed tons
better. It was certainly different.
 For a moment nothing stirred in that shady bedroom. But
although Morgan's curiosity had now been amply satisfied Yvonne
was still  intrigued. She longed to know about the nature of the
changes wrought in her only son by the passing years and the
turbulent onslaught of puberty.
Without opening her eyes, Yvonne signalled to Morgan to stand
up again and groped for the belt of his school trousers. She undid
the belt. Morgan's trousers slipped to the floor. He stepped out of
them.   She opened her eyes. For the first time in seven years there
was her son, Morgan, blatantly naked, standing before her. With
an involuntary gesture Morgan sought to cover his shame.
"No," she murmured, gently removing his hand.
Her eyes filled with wonder. It was just as she remembered. Only
more so. Incredible  If she had not seen it --- she reached out a
hand, both her hands,  --- she would never have believed it.  And
he was her creation.
"Somewhere, Morgan, " she whispered, " waiting somewhere out
there,  there is a girl who just doesn't realise what fun awaits her in
the years to come."  She paused. Was that foreboding in her eyes?
"At least, I hope it's going to be fun."

Those grey uniform trousers which had levitated so dramatically in
the marital bedroom of Mr. and Mrs. Alcock were a shining
symbol of Morgan's exceptional intelligence. They were part of his
school uniform. An indication that Morgan had successfully
navigated the dangerous shoals of the 11+ and come safely into the
privileged waters of the educational harbour represented by the
town's only  grammar school.
The grammar school had been provided to cater for the minority
of children living on the estate who had been excluded from
Borstal,  Reformatory, or prison. It had been built on land
formerly used for agriculture. As the estate had expanded the farm
itself had been left  within a few hundred yards of houses in which
lived people the farmer had never even suspected of existing.
As a result he now lived in a state of siege. The farmhouse was
fitted with steel shutters, especially strengthened  to be resistant to
oxyacetylene burners, and protected with floodlights and an old
World War 2 siren which were activated if they sensed an intruder.
A deep ditch filled with oily water, from which sharpened stakes
could be seen protruding was designed to deter housewives from
the estate who at one stage had taken to organising evening
rambles to dig up the farmer's root vegetables. When autumn
came softly stealing with mists and mellow fruitfulness he was able
to switch on an electrified fence around the apple orchard. The
little riding school established by his wife was protected by high
wooden fencing, and at night all the ponies were brought inside to
be safe from rustlers.
One thing I ought to add is that the governing body of this rustic
grammar school had always taken the view that they were
privileged to have such an educational amenity right next door and
ever since the school opened they had allowed the farmer to graze
his cattle on the playing fields, having accepted his word, as an
expert in agriculture, that this could only benefit the grass.
A couple of years have passed. Morgan is now fourteen years old.
It is the middle of winter. Christmas over. One of those afternoons
you get in the North when everywhere you go you can sense an
atmosphere of impending mass suicide.
All the snow had turned to slush and  by rights soccer practice
should have been called off.  In any case Morgan should never
have been playing for the school Second X1. He was too young.
But he had been drafted into the side for just the one match
because the regular choice inside right was off sick and Morgan
had been spotted by a teacher who fancied himself as a bit of a
soccer scout,  kicking a tennis ball around the school yard.
Like all inside forwards at that time Morgan  was a ball player.
Stanley Matthews who had yet to be knighted for services to
dribbling, was at the height of his powers. He played for Stoke
City, wherever that might have been, and for England, and
everyone was trying to play like him.
This meant that instead of seizing the first chance to lay the ball off
and head in the opposite direction,  away from the prospect of
injury or death , like a smart kid would,  you tried to emulate the
great Stan Matthews, by running directly at the full back,  with the
ball at your feet, with the intention  of publicly humiliating him by
dribbling past him with a gigantic sneer.
Understandably, this caused a lot of ill-feeling. Dribblers lived
dangerously. And on that afternoon none lived more dangerously
than Morgan , more so, perhaps, because the girl friend of the full-
back who was marking him, together with several of her girl
friends, had gone along to the match to stand on the touchline
behind the goal and fantasise about thighs.
  The trouble was that Morgan  just would not give up. Every time
he fell into the full-back's clutches he would spend the shortest
possible time convalescing and then he would be screaming for the
ball and dribbling towards him again with hope undiminished. This
went on all the way through the first half and, even though he had a
good talking to at half time,  all the way through the second.
Morgan 's team lost 13-2. They were nearing the end of the season
and morale in the Second X1 was low. Perhaps too much had
been asked of them in the past. At any rate that afternoon they just
seemed to crack. Several of them so far forgot the elementary
principles of joint team responsibility as to push Morgan over on
his back. Repeatedly. A humiliation made even harder to bear in
view of the contents of the pitch.
 "You stupid bugger," his captain bawled. "I kept yelling: ' Get rid of
it' and you kept trying to go round him. You lost us the bloody
match."
"Who do you think you are? " bellowed the vice-captain. "Stanley
Bloody Matthews?"
Smeared in mud and cow dung, Morgan was not surprisingly a
lonely figure as he trudged towards the showers. An ordeal made
even harder to bear because some schoolgirls who had gone along
to watch the game, pretending to take an interest in football, were
now assembled on the touch line, and holding their noses as his
downcast figure approached.
In the dressing room he tried to defend himself. "You knew I was
a dribbler," he protested. But they were in no mood to listen.  As
he prepared to peel off his jersey and shorts and step under the
shower they crowded around and continued the inquest into his
role in losing them the match. And looking back it is obvious that
if they had not done so Morgan 's Unique Selling Point might
never have been revealed. Or at least not for many years. As
Morgan  tugged at his filthy shorts and peeled them down his legs
and over his feet an awed silence fell on the little group of boys.
Their anger was forgotten.
"Bloody 'ell, Morgan ," breathed their captain.
"You've got a nerve," said another resentfully.
"Cheeky little bugger." commented a third.
Some members of the Second XI continued to study his naked
form from the front while others altered their position in order to
be able to absorb the effect from the side. One of them even
moved behind him and bent down near floor level, in order to
establish if anything could be seen from the back. None of them
seemed capable of speech.
The very fact that Morgan  was of skinny build only seemed to
emphasise the difference between him and the other boys. One or
two of them hurriedly put their own shorts back on. Their
goalkeeper, a lad with golden curls who would go on to take Holy
Orders and play a leading role in a celebrated local court case,
involving the Cub movement, pretended to swoon and clutched at
Morgan  as he fell.
 Morgan  was astonished by their reaction. On such a personal
matter he had of course no standards of comparison. Shyly, he
looked around at his naked team-mates and for the first time in his
life he knew what it was to feel different. Set apart. Unique. And
for the first time also he began to wonder if the disparity revealed
so unexpectedly, there in the showers, in the aftermath of his very
first appearance with the much older boys of the Second  XI, was
destined to change his life.
Morgan  did not have long to wait for the answer. As he emerged
from the dressing room it was clear that someone had talked. Even
though the team from the visiting school had changed and
departed the little group of girls who had gone to the ground to
cheer them on were still there. Morgan  walked past them uneasily.
In the gloom of the winter afternoon he could see their eyes
gleaming. They even knew his name. The cow dung was clearly
forgotten. As he walked towards them they pretended to scatter in
alarm.
"Get away from us," they shouted, "We're too young to die."
Well, we all know how girls talk. I mean we all  know how girls
talk, if  boys have talked first. And so it was only a matter of time
before Megan began to hear the rumours about her little brother.
Could this, she asked herself, be the reason why Morgan  had
exhibited such frustrating modesty during their nocturnal
consultations? She was determined to find out.
A few nights later Morgan's parents decided to go to the pictures.
Now in those days before television in the home this tended to be
an epic experience. Queues would often stretch all around the
sides of the cinema and along the back. People would bring
refreshments to sustain them  as they queued. If they needed the
lavatory or a cup of tea they would ask someone standing next to
them to " keep this place for me," until they came back.
  Buskers would perform to the people in the queues. And
sometimes the wait would last so long that a boy and girl who had
met and started talking at the back of the queue would be engaged
and discussing the wedding arrangements by the time they
emerged into the glittering revelation of the lights at the front
where a commissionaire in full dress uniform, with medals,  was
stationed to prevent rioting. What this all meant,  as I say, was that
if your parents said they were going to the pictures it was an epic
adventure and you could be sure they would be away for at least
four hours.
 Time enough, Megan decided.  Morgan was downstairs listening
to the radio when he heard his sister calling from upstairs where
she was having a bath.
Standing outside the door, listening to the watery sounds from
inside where his naked sister wallowed, Morgan was already
experiencing familiar stirrings.
"What?" he called.
"Come in," Megan said. "It's not locked."
Not locked! Beyond the door the lovely Megan lay on her back in
sudsy splendour and the door was not locked.
"What do you want?" Morgan called once more, suspecting some
sort of cruel trick.
"I want to talk to you."
"I can't come in."
"Why not?"
"You're in there."
"So?"
" Having a bath."
" So?"
 Feeling vaguely encouraged, Morgan turned the handle and
walked in. Megan was indeed, as he had imagined,  lying back in
the bath. A flannel covered her midriff. And her arms were folded
over her cute little breasts, in a strictly temporary gesture of
modesty.
"What?" Morgan demanded, huskily.
Megan gestured at the soap dish and one cute little nipple was
divulged.
"Do my back."
"Now?"
"Come on, Morgan. I can't reach, can I? "
"What with?"
" This."
Megan held out the flannel and there it was. The other missing
nipple. Not to mention the area hitherto veiled from his sight. His
sudsy sister,  naked as few if any  had seen her, and clearly in
friendly mode.
Megan's arch little gaze wandered down to encompass the rising
frontal elevation of Morgan's turbulent trousers.
"Morgan, I'm ashamed of you."
"What?"
But Megan didn't look ashamed of him. " Well, let's have a look
then," she said.
Morgan was nonplussed. "What do you mean?"
"I've heard all about you, Morgan. And I'm  your sister. I have a
right to know."
"You mean here?" He indicated the steamy bathroom.
"Of course I mean here."
"I can't ," Morgan  protested.
"Why can't you?"
Morgan did not reply.
"You're shy?"
Still he did not speak.
"Tell me what happened in the showers."
So she knew about that? Morgan  related the account of what had
happened in the showers at school a few days earlier  And then he
was silent again.
"If you ask me I  reckon I  must be some sort of freak", he said at
last.
"Don't be silly, Morgan. "
"Well," said Morgan . "One of the lads worried me a bit. He said
that I hadn't even finished growing yet. That really worried me."
"Silly boy. Come here".
"Where?"
"Here."
Morgan sidled towards the side of the bath.
"Let your big sister put your mind at rest"
Morgan looked embarrassed.
"Go and put the light off then and come back here."
Oh, how cosy, it was, their parents far away, stuck in an everlasting
queue , out at the pictures,  and just the two of them, there in the
bathroom, dim and steamy,  with only the light from the street
outside to illuminate the tender scene.
Once more, in what was now becoming the family custom,
Morgan's belt was unfastened and his school trousers slid to the
floor. One soapy hand reached out towards him and strayed with
infinite slowness up his naked thigh. Gosh, what a tease little
Megan had become.
Silence descended as Megan roamed freely.
"Well?"
"Not yet. Don't rush me."
Anxious to dispel any impression that he might be growing
impatient Morgan sighed contentedly.
"Morgan ?" she said at last.
"Yes?"
"You're a very lucky boy." It was uncanny. Just what his Mother had
said. There was silence once more and in the silence it seemed
that it was wonder and disbelief guiding his sister's wandering
fingers. "And somewhere tonight, let me tell you,  there is a very
lucky girl." Megan paused, and reached out another admiring
hand. "Now then, Morgan, how can I help? What seems to be the
trouble?"

Out on that rain-lashed, wind-hammered, mud-smeared, mattress-
littered, brick-strewn, bus-starved, shop-abandoned,  tree-less, cop-
spurned, dog-howling, shit-lurking, hope-abandoned, and, let us
not forget,  award-winning wilderness, as dusk fell, and burglars
pulled on their working boots, there was one shining vision of
hope for the blighted young lives doomed to live there, a beacon
of light in their darkness, at least for the lads.
It was the Boys' Club. Here, on long winter evenings, boys would
gather from miles around to drink nourishing Bovril and play a
game called Table Tennis, now confined, so far as anyone knows,
to joyless communes in remote and unvisited regions of northern
China, but in those days amazingly popular in our own dear land,
for reasons it is now difficult to remember.
Table tennis was an unpredictable sort of game. Sometimes a
player would inadvertently stand on the ball and crush it. More
often someone waiting to play would deliberately stamp on it. If
this happened often enough the game would become impossible
because there were no more balls. And occasionally, if someone
was forgetful enough to lean on it, the whole table would collapse
on to the floor.
There were no girls, as you might expect with a boys? club.  No
one knew where the girls were. And no one was more pleased
about the absence of girls than Sydney, the man in charge of the
table tennis bats and the Bovril mugs who had what you might call
a  soft spot for boys. Syd was  middle-aged, tall and gaunt with no
hair and an authoritative manner, acquired during his years spent
in the Special Constabulary in which he was now an acting
sergeant.
It was as a direct result of the decision to build the council estate
that Syd  had discovered his true vocation. Syd had never married
and lived in one of the original private houses on the estate with his
similarly unencumbered sister, Sybil.
In a way you could say that the new estate had fulfilled Syd's
Destiny in Life. It seemed that all this time he had cherished an
unfulfilled ambition to work with young people.
The Vicar, now planning early retirement, on account of suffering
with his nerves, mainly arising from the strain of trying to be good
and  preferring to stay out of it himself, had
gratefully accepted Syd's offer to become the leader of the  boys'
club where most nights he now spent many happy hours .
Syd prided himself on his physical fitness and believed in passing
on his tips to the boys. What he used to do was lurk around the
table tennis tables and single out a boy. Once the game was over
he would sidle up to the chosen one and say : "You're a bit stiff,
aren't you? I can always tell. The way you moved around the table.
The right leg, if I'm not mistaken. You know what you could do
with? You could do with a massage. A proper scientific massage.
None of that monkey business involving girls."
Syd would then suggest that the selected one should call at his
home on a night when Sybil was out visiting, and they would have a
session of proper scientific massage so that next time it came to
table tennis the lad would conquer all who came before him.
 Which is how Morgan came to be sitting in Sydney's living room
one evening talking things over and anticipating with some interest
the thought of a stimulating massage from the ever  warm-hearted
Syd. He couldn't help thinking how warm and cosy it was, just him
and Sydney, sitting there in the shadows, by the glowing light of the
gas fire, since Sydney had thoughtfully turned the lights off, saying
that it was more cosy that way.
Now there is one thing I would like to make very clear,  at this
point, to the simple-minded among you, to avoid any confusion.
Not that I have any prejudices, you understand, one way or the
other. But Morgan was not as they say these days, gay. Or as they
used to say in those days, queer. What he was, though,  was horny.
And there is a difference. A big difference. If you are gay you like
guys. I am told that you even like kissing them. Like the man said
truth is stranger than fiction. But if you are horny like Morgan you
really don't have any preferences at all. Just so long as it's horny.
And let us also remember a fact forgotten or ignored by most
women and it is this,  that even fellers like to be felt up from time
to time.
While we are on the subject  we should also not exaggerate the
magnitude of Morgan's innocence. He  knew what all the lads
were saying about Sydney. Those  were the days when men got
married in order to be able to indulge their  carnal appetites ----
women had their own undisclosed reasons----  and since Sydney
had never bothered with marriage there was considerable
speculation as to what he might be doing about his carnal appetites.
 And so as Morgan sat there in the darkened room with his older
friend and mentor he was looking forward with some quite
pleasurable anticipation to what he trusted might turn out to be an
invigorating and possibly lengthy  all-over  massage. .But apparently
it was not the transforming power of his laying on of hands that Syd
wanted to talk about first.
" So are you going to tell me ?"
"What?"
"Are you going to tell me what it is that's worrying you."
Sydney reached out his hand and laid it affectionately on Morgan's
thigh
"It's a bit personal, isn't it?"
Well, this was a surprise. How could Syd possibly know about
Morgan's secret little worries?
Morgan hesitated.
 "Don't forget, Morgan," Syd continued, "I've been in the Army.
I've seen things. Done things. You can't surprise me. Nothing
surprises me."
Morgan thought to himself that he wasn't so sure about that.
"Listen, Morgan," Sydney went on, " if it makes you feel any better ,
I have heard the other boys talking. I think I know what's on your
mind. What's worrying you." Morgan looked slightly startled. Again
Sydney's hand moved to his thigh, re-assuringly.  "And I think may
just be able to set your mind at rest." He leaned across to Morgan
in that deliciously shadowy front room and said he didn't think
Sybil would be home for hours so that they had plenty of time.
 "I think we'd be more comfortable upstairs. What do you say? I'll
give you one of my official massages. And we can talk about the
other matter at the same time."
"OK," said Morgan, huskily. And I have to say it. He was quite
looking forward to whatever might transpire. It certainly made a
change from table tennis.
"You go up first," Sydney whispered. "The back room. I'll be with
you in a sec. " He appeared to consider for a moment and then he
said : " It might be an idea to slip your things off. Take a towel from
the bathroom to cover yourself."
The back bedroom was clean and tidy and the bed immaculate.
They are quite keen on that sort of thing in the Army, as you
know. Morgan slipped his things off and lay down on the bed. On
his face. It was a bit tricky draping the towel over his own buttocks
but he managed it. And soon afterwards he heard the sound of Syd
ascending the stairs. There was the rustle of clothing on the
landing. The bedroom light went off. And Syd joined him in the
bedroom. For some odd reason they were both speaking in
whispers. I mean why whisper? Sybil, thoughtfully, was miles away.
"Warm work, massages, " Syd whispered throatily. "I usually slip my
top things off as well. Is that all right?"
Morgan grunted his approval and next minute he felt the hand of
the qualified masseur sliding expertly and oilily up and down the
back of his thighs.
 "Massage oil, " Syd whispered. "No good without it."
Oh, what a fine and lovely sensation it is being massaged and even
more delicious if you are not quite sure about the massager's
intentions. Up and up, higher and higher, nearer and nearer,  Syd's
oily hands moved. Is there a sound in the world more wicked than
the slap of oil on flesh? I for one doubt it.
"I'll just move this out of the way for a moment, that all right ?" Syd
inquired in official masseur tones and Morgan grunted his consent
again as the towel was lifted to reveal his undoubtedly charming
buttocks, and in my case, of course,  I speak of them in the strictly
aesthetic sense.
 "Have you by any chance heard about the anatomy of the muscle
known as the gluteus maximus ?" Syd murmured.
Morgan said he didn't think so.
 "This is the gluteus maximus." Syd squeezed Morgan gently, even
affectionately on his  buttocks, with a romantic tenderness seldom
exhibited by members of the medical profession unless the patient
just happens to be a young female who has climbed on the table
with a boil to be burst.
"This area," Syd went on, " is of special interest to us masseurs since
it's now established that toning up the gluteus maximus is the key to
fitness. From this area ( he stroked his hand over Morgan's bottom
)  all the nerves of the central nervous system radiate and if you get
the gluteus maximus right the rest usually follows."
Now Syd's hand was illustrating the point, roaming freely over this
crucial aspect of Morgan's anatomy. Toning things up. At times his
movements took on an almost  dreamy quality as though it had
momentarily slipped his mind that  the purpose of the exercise was
to get Morgan's gluteus maximus fit for table tennis.
 "Turn over, " he commanded. "Time for the front. "
Obediently, Morgan turned  on to this back, just  managing to
adroitly keep the towel in position to preserve his rapidly
diminishing modesty.
Syd paused only to replenish the oil from the bottle and went to
work again, this time on the front of Morgan's legs, up and down,
slap, slap, up and down, slap, slap. It was no use. What was a lad
supposed to do? Morgan at the best of times had only limited
jurisdiction over his own rebellious parts. This was too much.
Imperceptibly, things began to stir. To awaken from slumber.  Syd
was among the first to notice the sudden animation of the towel
only inches from his fascinated gaze.
Even Syd who had more experience of these matters than most
was overcome. His reaction was that of a man all at once thrust into
the Holy presence of the Risen Lord. Awe. Amazement.
Admiration. Even Love. All these emotions sped across his
features and his hand moved inexorably upwards. Syd knew he
would be in big  trouble if anyone ever found out.  Three years.
Minimum. But he was powerless to stop now. His hand coasted
silkily under the towel. And up again. His fingers claimed their
prize. He sighed with joy. Happily for him Morgan did not object.
Quite the reverse. He also sighed with pleasure. Would you have
objected? Really? You do surprise me.
"Morgan., " he breathed. "Oh, Morgan. You lucky lad."
There it was again. First Megan. Then his Mum. And now Syd.
Morgan's habitual anxiety about his own anatomy , it must be said,
was now  being replaced by something else. Could it be a dawning
sense, at last, of his own unique and exceptional qualities ?
There in the dim light of the little back bedroom with the
respectable presence of Sybil far away and the whole house silent
and tremulous with expectation there was a pause. Then a rustle as
Syd's underpants hit the floor. He gave a low moan of purest joy
and pleasure and laid himself tenderly on top of the unresisting
boy. Their loins joined. Their loins moved. In unison. Syd, the
gay, and Morgan, the horny. Faster and faster they moved together.
And then...... Ahhhhhhhhhhhh......what bliss.....what sensual and
simultaneous bliss.  What an outpouring of affection. Morgan lay
there gently panting with Syd equally breathless on the bed beside
him.
But let us not in the excitement  of the moment overlook one
important fact ----   with the best will in the world, as you might say,
Syd remained  anatomically suspect when it came to the task of
putting Morgan's mighty charms to their ultimate test.
In that moment what Morgan did not appreciate was that for him,
as you will, see,  that evening of health-giving, gluteus maximus-
enhancing  massage from a master of the craft was to have wider
and deeper consequences. You see, in addition to table tennis,
and some of the more exotic pleasures associated with it, Syd had
another hobby. Cinema-photography.
I am not exactly sure how things used to work in those days before
video tape but I understand it was a system called Super 8. Syd
loved nothing better during or after a health- giving massage than to
take a few moving pictures, just to remind him I guess, of happier
times if he should find himself feeling low which he frequently
was, I don't know why.
Naturally enough he could not wait to get Morgan's assets down on
celluloid for posterity and Morgan who had always rather fancied
being in the movies was happy to oblige. As I say those little home
movie sessions were to have far-reaching consequences for
Morgan. But are we salmon in the mating season, to leap ahead
like this? Back to Morgan.

For him the years passed uneventfully. I mean in the sense that he
enjoyed very few female favours. Hard to believe but that is how
things were in those days. There had been a few feels as dusk fell
across the fields around the estate and a succession of longer-term
relationships  but since they were merely with pictures of girls in
magazines of the Playboy type it couldn't be described as sex in the
true meaning of the word.  Morgan's Unique Selling Point had still
to be put to the ultimate test. It was to happen in a way he had
never imagined and certainly not with one of the busty, tormenting
young things currently driving the local lads mad with longing.
Eventually Morgan left the Grammar School  with what used to be
called the School Certificate, in seven subjects, and at the age of
seventeen, to the pride and joy of Mr. and Mrs. Alcock , the first
one in the family to go to work in a suit, even though it was off the
peg with sleeves that came down almost to his finger tips,  he took
his first job as a junior librarian at the local branch of the municipal
Public Lending Library. There he found himself under the
supervision and instruction of Miss Carter, the head librarian.
Miss Carter was the kind of spinster you look at and you just
cannot imagine what her body might look like underneath.  If
there is an official uniform for librarians then you could say Miss
Carter wore it.  Brown stockings, medium heeled sensible shoes, a
severely cut two-piece suit, and, underneath, a high necked satin
blouse, with gleaming mother- of- pearl buttons, usually worn with
a large cameo brooch nestling between her invisible, unknowable
breasts at the end of a long gold chain. What made her even more
impressive was the fact that she was quite tall and carried herself
with a stately dignity. Some people used to say that Miss Carter put
them in mind of the Taj Mahal.
From the conversations Morgan overheard between her and other
older female  members of staff he came to understand that until
quite recently Miss Carter had lived with her mother but the older
lady had recently died and she now lived all alone, quite alone,  in
a nice detached house in one of the smartest parts of town, well
away from the council estate, and thankfully, she used to say,
upwind of it.
I have no proof but I think it can be said with some confidence
that Miss Carter was a virgin. About that there was probably no
doubt at all. Everything about her suggested a complete lack of
experience about bedroom matters. For one thing she
embarrassed very easily. If one of the younger assistants made any
kind of remark which was even vaguely suggestive Miss Carter
would blush.
All that being said there was something about Miss Carter that
Morgan soon found  was disturbing his slumbers.  As you will have
gathered by now his horny demeanour meant that just about every
woman he met he found exciting. But she was especially intriguing.
 Everything about Miss Carter suggested that nakedness was not a
condition anyone had ever caught her in. She must have been
naked from time to time. It stands to reason.  But try as he might
Morgan couldn't imagine the sight. And try he certainly did. In the
long watches of the night when he groped downwards into his
pyjama bottoms in search of his most precious possession.
 And  as he lay there in his empty bed, groaning with pleasure,
Morgan kept thinking that somewhere buried deep in that
buttoned down exterior there  were breasts. There were buttocks.
There were long pale thighs. A belly, rounded and warm. A body
unseen by man and the way things were going likely to remain so
until the day she died. And thinking like that and gasping ever
onward he would finally clasp a purloined towel to his loins and fall
asleep dreaming dreams of Miss Carter lying in her cool and
virginal bed.
During the working day Morgan would stand there alongside Miss
Carter at the library counter stamping books, issuing them to
borrowers, and inhaling the  restrained  aroma of some expensive
fragrance discreetly applied to some secret place that he could only
imagine. Morgan would talk to her quietly and respectfully while
all the time wondering  about what might lie under that satin blouse
rising and falling so imperceptibly beside him as Miss Carter
breathed, first in, then out.
Once or twice in the fever of his desire Morgan would brush
against Miss Carter's body in the narrow and confined area behind
the counter where they  worked and during those encounters he
would be throbbingly aware that despite all the evidence to the
contrary Miss Carter was indeed the possessor,  possibly
unwittingly,  of  a ripe and authentic female body.
Things would probably have continued, however,  in this highly
inactive way until Miss Carter's retirement had it not been for the
unforgettable day she made her shy and rather touchingly awkward
request. Because the library remained open until  nine 'o clock
several nights a week they were alone together,  on the evening
shift, sitting  in the little staff room in the  basement area of the
library, sharing the early evening meal break.
"Morgan," she said. "Do you mind if I ask you a favour?"
"Who me?"
She laughed. " Yes. You."
"A favour? Why no. Of course not, Miss Carter."
Miss Carter explained that something had gone wrong with some
piece of electrical equipment at home and she had not the faintest
idea how to fix it. And as he probably knew she lived alone. There
was no one else to ask. She thought that it was a simple case of a
wire coming loose in a plug but she confessed she had absolutely
no mechanical knowledge and hesitated to ask a workman to call
for something so trivial. Would Morgan mind having a look at it
for her one evening?
"Of course not," Morgan said. "Any time."
"What about tomorrow night, then," Miss Carter said. "I see from
the rota that we are both free.  Shall we say about seven? And
please, don't mention this to anyone here. I feel so foolish about
being so..... impractical."
The following evening Morgan arrived to find Miss Carter looking
almost exactly as she looked all day long at the library, with just one
detail different. There was the same long skirt covering the same
healthy brown stockings but because she was now at  home Miss
Carter had removed her jacket and the ample curve of those
forbidden breasts was even more evident under the shimmering
curve of her satin blouse.
Miss Carter explained that in fact the switch she had requested
Morgan to fix was connected to a bedside lamp in her room. She
showed him the switch and asked him if he thought he could
repair it.
"Sure," Morgan said. "I've brought all the tools I need. " But these
switches can be a bit tricky. It may take a little while. Why don't
you wait downstairs?"
It was indeed a case of a loose connection. It took only a minute
or two to strip out the wire and reconnect it to the live terminal.
And then Morgan lay back on one elbow and allowed his eyes to
wander lasciviously around the room.
 Miss Carter was his superior at the library. Their relationship had
always been formal and cool.  And here he was, alone in  her
bedroom. The place where Miss Carter undressed. The place
where she lay down on her back. And sometimes you could
practically bet on it opened her legs.
Morgan crept to the door and listened for a moment. Some
tasteful tune was wafting up the stairs from the hi-fi. Otherwise the
house was chapel silent. Quickly he crossed to the dressing table
and pulled open a drawer. It was full of neatly folded jumpers. The
one below contained blouses in pastel colours, exactly the same as
the ones Miss Carter always wore. Exactly the same as the one
against which her mature and untouched breasts were straining
down there just below him.
The next drawer contained what he was looking for. Miss Carter's
underwear. Quickly  Morgan rummaged through the contents. A
treasury of female attire. Brassieres. Underskirts. Bodices.
Stockings. And about a dozen pairs of what  Morgan, though not
Miss Carter, that's for sure, thought of as panties.
For a moment Morgan fondled a pair of them, satiny, in palest
beige, with an elasticated waist. Roomy but sexy, in a mature and
untouchable sort of way. For a moment he pressed them to his
face, inhaling the faint aroma of ........ what? It was time to go. He
thrust the garment in his pocket and went downstairs.
Miss Carter was sitting on the couch. "All done," Morgan said.  Miss
Carter flashed him her wintry,  librarian smile but Morgan saw that
she was holding a glass of something or other. Her face was flushed
and the topmost pearl button of her satin blouse  was unfastened.
And maybe it was his imagination but he could have sworn that her
respectable skirt had risen a little higher up her legs.
"Now you must join me in a little toast," she said. Her eyes
narrowed sternly. "You're not driving, are you?"
Not driving? Morgan hadn't even passed his driving test and in any
case those were the days when kids like him just didn't own cars.
Morgan assured Miss Carter that he was on foot and she beckoned
him over to the drinks table in the corner of the room.
"Now, then what would you like?"
 As they stood there looking down at the array of booze Morgan
felt her fingers tightening on his arm.  And then a gentle and
almost absent-minded stroking of the flesh beneath his shirt .
Morgan was not acquainted with drink so he allowed Miss Carter
to choose.
"You're a fine, strong, young man," she said, " and perfectly able,
I'm sure,  to appreciate what my father when he was alive always
regarded as the world's finest brandy."
And with that she poured him a slug of amber coloured liquid that
even Morgan could tell was going to be pretty potent. Oh, how
cosy it felt sitting there on the sofa, just the two them drinking her
father's brandy,  as Morgan explained,  in terms as technical as he
could manage, how he had solved the riddle of the plug, and all
the time Miss Carter's  eyes were boring into him with total and
unstinting admiration.
And then it happened. Flushed from the effects of Miss Carter's
Dad's brandy,  he reached in his trouser pocket for his hankie.
Wrong pocket. Morgan wanted to burst into gigantic red flames
and die on the spot. Because there he was, in public you might say,
clutching Miss Carter's undies.
"Those are mine, surely?" Miss Carter inquired,  in the softest
possible voice.
Morgan stammered  an apology, something about needing to clean
up the floor after doing the repair.
"You found them in the drawer?"
Morgan confessed that he had.
"Don't be silly, Morgan. " Miss Carter's eyes were gleaming and
knowing.  "It doesn't matter."
"Oh."
" I thought you might be tempted."
"Oh."
"We women always know.  Don't we?"
Morgan muttered that he supposed they did.
"Finding yourself alone in a lady's bedroom. After all, you are an
adolescent male, aren't you?"
Morgan agreed that that was what he was.
"And we all know what they are like."
Morgan said that he supposed they did.
"So......... lusty."
Miss Carter patted the place on the couch beside her.
"Come and sit down. Here. Beside me. And let me show you that I
really don't mind."
Morgan shuffled along the couch towards her. She took his face in
her hands and kissed him.  Unbelievable. Unprecedented. A
historical first. Miss Carter,  stern and unyielding chief librarian,
kissed him. Right there. And then. On the mouth.  Then without a
word she rose to her feet and turned all the lights down so that only
the glow of the log-effect fire lit the room. She returned to the
couch and sat down.
"Was that nice?"
Devoid of words, made reckless by brandy, and just to answer her
question,  Morgan leaned across to her and put his left arm around
her shoulder and this time pulling her into his arms he kissed her
back. I don't mean her back. I mean on the mouth. For a moment
Miss Carter's lips remained tightly closed and Morgan thought I've
blown it. Then her mouth opened and softened and engulfed him.
Miss Carter sighed and snuggled up. Morgan gazed down. There,
in the mellow light from the flames, just a few inches away,  lay the
gently rising curve of Miss Carter's satin covered breasts.
"Morgan?"
"Yes". Morgan could hardly breathe.
"I want you to promise me something."
"Anything."  And he meant it.
Miss Carter's hand rested briefly on his thigh and moved up to
within a millimetre of Morgan's Unique Selling Point. Where it
came to a standstill, tauntingly.
"Promise me you will never say anything to anyone about this
night." Her voice was strangely soft and vulnerable. "Promise. "
Morgan solemnly promised. At that moment Morgan would have
promised to sell his sister to the highest bidder in the Marrakech
market place. Never before in his short and uneventful life of
public service had Morgan been so close to the forbidden
matching glories of Miss Carter's sacred bosom. His hand reached
out and very softly, very gently, very courteously,  Morgan stroked
the satin curve and felt under his hand the wonder of Miss Carter's
full and established breasts.
For a moment Morgan froze. This time had he really gone too far?
Then Miss Carter reached up and unfastened a few more buttons
at the top of her blouse. Looking down Morgan saw the apparatus
of her bra and, spilling out from under it,  the pale gleam of her
creamy, bulging breasts,  and the shadowy valley between.
 Miss Carter's hand reached out and placed his hand on the top of
her bra and then she seemed to breathe in to make space and
gently moved his hand down inside the bra until Morgan was
cupping the breast, soft, and warm, and unbelievable. For a
moment or two Miss Carter and Morgan concentrated on kissing
and fondling. All the time she was sighing and wriggling and
moaning. And then all of a sudden she broke away.
"I fancy another drink. You too? "
With uncertain steps Miss Carter navigated her way to the drinks
table and returned with two full glasses.
 "Excuse me one moment, darling."
Darling. Whatever next. Miss Carter left the room and Morgan sat
there in the firelight unable to believe that all this was happening.
He was in Miss Carter's home. Sitting on Miss Carter's couch.
Kissing Miss Carter. And fondling Miss Carter's two lovely and
respectable breasts. Morgan could hear her moving about upstairs
and then a few minutes later she joined him again on the couch.
Again that wintry smile, through wet and gleaming lips.
"Here."
 In her hand she held a bra . Of purest white. "Another garment
for your collection." Again her eyes narrowed. "Fresh from the
wearer.  See. " Up to the blouse went her hand and another button
bit the dust.
Morgan moved a little closer. The brandy was continuing to do its
magical work. He looked down and saw that the stockings had also
gone. Gently, he pushed Miss Carter's  skirt a little higher and
there for the first time in his feverish adolescent existence, at least
so far as anyone outside his own immediate family was concerned,
Morgan was gazing down at the pale gleam of the upper level of
naked female thighs. Miss Carter's thighs.
 With a romantic inspiration belying his tender years,  there was a
brief pause in Morgan's plans, as he leaned forward and kissed her
gleaming flanks as calmly and tenderly as he could manage in that
state of almost terminal excitement.
"Just a minute, " Miss Carter said, in her practical librarian's voice.
"Let me make things a bit easier for us."
She disappeared behind the couch. Morgan felt her grip the back
of  the couch as though balancing herself and then there she was
back again,  standing before him , in that beautiful light. Her
blouse was disheveled and her skirt had gone, fallen to the floor
behind the sofa, to reveal her  ripe female body, so white and so....
substantial. Miss Carter, his superior at the library. The woman
who had always scared him half to death with that harsh voice and
bossy manner, there she was standing before him. In a blouse and
panties. And bra-less, remember.
"Oh, Gosh, "  Morgan heard himself say. "Gosh, you do look
lovely."
Smiling proudly Miss Carter resumed her seat on the sofa, sighed,
threw her head back against the sofa, and submitted once more to
Morgan's tender appraisal.  Imagine a little lad left alone and
forgotten by his mother in a shop filled with toys and no one to
restrain him. That was Morgan.
With the bra now occupying an honoured place in Morgan's
collection of Miss Carter's undies, the blouse now gaped open,
unresisting to his searching hands. Next, moving on, or rather
down,  as though programmed,  he pulled the panties down an
inch or two on the gleaming curve of her belly and  kissed it.
Burying his face in the soft folds of flesh. Miss Carter gasped as
though burned to the bone. He moved his hand behind her, as
she lifted to his touch, and pushing down cupped her splendid
buttocks. Pressing the flesh in. Feeling it. Exploring it. Finding the
crack of her buttocks. Miss Carter's buttocks, for Heaven's sake!
"Stand up," she commanded, bossy as ever.  Morgan obeyed. Her
fingers began to fumble with the belt of his grey trousers. The belt
parted. With hands which now seemed tentative and shy she
pulled down gently on the zip. Morgan could see that her eyes
were tightly closed. Like a child awaiting the full disclosure of
some promised delight. Miss Carter tapped him on the leg.
"Take them off."
 Morgan stepped out of the trousers. Next her hands moved to his
shirt. This she removed for him.  Miss Carter's eyes were still tightly
shut. Now her hands were in the waist band of his  shorts.
"Morgan?"
"What?"
"I have never seen a naked man before."
"Oh."
"Can you believe me?"
"Yeah,  of course I can, Miss Carter. If you say so. "
"Oh, I've seen pictures, of course. But it's not the same, is it?"
Not on your life, thought Morgan. Already he was starting to feel a
certain anxiety about the impending event.
"Morgan, I want you to wait here for five minutes and then join me
upstairs. Is that OK?  Five minutes now. Give me time to.......
make things nice. And bring my father's brandy."
As though on impulse, she suddenly knelt down before him and ,
in that oddly shy, bold way,  she returned the compliment and
kissed his stomach. Her eyes were still closed.
"Come up naked." And then she was gone.

Softly, respectfully , Morgan  pushed open the door of Miss
Carter's bedroom. Immediately he could see the explanation for
her busy movements upstairs above him. The room was now alive
with the dancing flames of candles.  There must have been twenty
candles dotted all around the room. In the middle of the room,
Miss Carter lay on her back on her bed. Her legs together. She
had now donned a virginal white night-dress which reached almost
to her feet.
"I wanted this night to be a sacred experience for both of us,"  she
whispered.
"OK, Miss Carter."
Morgan stood there at the foot of Miss Carter's bed. but quite
honestly he was feeling at a bit of a loss. Miss Carter now appeared
to be ready for bed. Not to worry, though.
"Morgan," she whispered, "please undress me."
What, again?  OK. If that was what Miss Carter wanted, she was
the boss. And how.  In that spinster bedroom,  now a chapel of
light and silence,  Morgan moved across to the large soft bed
where the Chief Librarian lay.
 Morgan lay down on the bed beside her and slowly, with infinite
patience that was all the more remarkable when you think about
the state of his sex life, he gently raised the hem of her night gown.
Slowly, like a curtain rising on a drama, it rose. Up past her pale
plump legs. Past her knees.  Up along her thighs. Up to the place
where her thighs began to curve in .
"Close your eyes." Her voice was harsh. "Pull my night-dress a little
higher but close your eyes until I say."  Morgan  obeyed instantly.
They  had,  it seemed, been joined once more by Miss Carter, the
chief librarian.
 "All right. Open your eyes."
Morgan gazed down. It was the most wondrous sight he could
possibly in his wildest fantasies ever have imagined. There was
Miss Carter, laid out on the bed  with her night-dress draped
around her waist. Her legs were wide apart. Even as he looked
down they widened still further. And there at the centre of her
whole being , of the whole universe, as it seemed to the junior
librarian, was the large black triangle of Miss Carter's very private
affairs.
"Are you a virgin?" Her voice was soft and strangely husky.
"Yes."
"Then we shall learn things together."
Miss Carter reached out towards the waist band of Morgan's
underpants. "Now, let me look at you."
 You will have gathered by now that over the years whenever
Morgan had heard these familiar words they were usually followed
by a moment of almost mystical awe. Familiar as his Unique
Selling Point was to him it was always with a little thrill of
recognition and affection,  infected by the latest manifestation of
excitement and admiration,  that he would find himself gazing
down upon it, with renewed interest, as though for the first time.
What he had not experienced before was what now occurred. Miss
Carter opened her eyes and gazed upon what was for her  a long-
awaited  sight. Apart, that is, from a two week holiday in Italy the
previous year when she had spent several days scrutinising the
ancient statues of  naked Romans in the Naples Museum, an
experience which, it must be said,  in large part accounted for her
invitation to Morgan to call and repair her plug.
For a moment her eyes widened and  then she suddenly started
back pedalling up the bed towards the head board, the while
yanking down her nightie and thrusting her legs securely back
together again. In passing I have to say they were never to be so
wide ever again.
"What's the matter, Miss Carter?"
"Morgan, whatever were you thinking of?"
"What?"
"Morgan, I can't."
"Why not?"
"Look at you."
"What?"
"I can't, Morgan. I never thought. I had no idea. " Miss Carter's
voice trailed away and she moved even further up the bed away
from him.
"I want you to put your trousers on, Morgan."
"Ah, come on, Miss Carter."
"Trousers, Morgan."
"It's not fair."
" Morgan, I won't tell you again."
"But it was you who made me take them off in the first place. "
"Well, now I want you to put them back on again. Immediately.
And  leave. "
"Why?"
"Why?"
"Yeah".
"You ask me 'why'. Look at you."
"What?"
"What?"
"Yeah."
"Please. Just go. I'll see you tomorrow. At the library. And neither
of us will ever mention this again. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Miss Carter."
"And, Morgan......"
"What?"
"Do try not to be late. It's getting to be quite a habit."
The portcullis was down. The drawbridge was up. And there was
Miss Carter up on the battlements, hurling abuse and eyeing a
bucket of boiling oil, It was hopeless. And after he had been, you
might say, within a hair's breadth. And so Morgan went.
Out into the night. Unrewarded for the repair to Miss Carter's
electric plug.  Home to his lonely bed where his only consolation
in the days which followed was the still enticing memory of Miss
Carter's naked body, as not for the first time ( but you already
know that, don't you?) his hand plunged tirelessly down inside the
much-abused elastic of his striped pyjama bottoms, his Unique
Selling Point, still, at least in the traditional way, waiting to be put to
the test.
The years passed, as they frequently do. By that stage relations
between Miss Carter and Morgan had taken on a new and
unaccustomed formality. Never again was Morgan to be invited to
see to her plugs. And that was how things continued until
eventually Miss Carter took early retirement. No one ever knew
why. Although it was noticeable how nervous she seemed to have
become. Especially in the presence of men. Morgan was
beginning to lose interest in having his gluteus maximus fixed by
Syd, although his interest in table tennis continued unabated.
There was even talk of him maybe getting into the regional team.
So he continued to practice at the boys' club  where one evening
Syd sidled up and inquired if he could have a word.
Morgan looked a bit uneasy. "The gluteus thingummy is fine, Syd,
honest," he  insisted.
But Syd clearly had other things on his mind. With a furtive glance
around the church hall he dropped his voice and said: "What
would you say if I told you that I might be in a position to offer you
some more film work?"  Morgan could not help looking
interested. He had discovered what many international stars of the
silver screen before and since have found  ---- there is something
addictively flattering about standing there under the bright lights
being recorded for posterity. Very good for the ego.
 "For money this time,." Syd explained. And seeing that he had
Morgan's attention he added slyly that there would be girls there.
As you will have gathered the prospect held little appeal for Syd
but he thought he knew where Morgan's interests lay.
"What would I have to do?"
Syd smiled. "Don't worry about it now. I'll let you have all the
details when I've fixed it up."

Let us pause briefly  in our story now, in order to celebrate the
noblest of our race, those visionary men and women who
throughout history have taken our species by the hand and led it
forward into new and undreamt of regions of achievement, the
men and women who have gone before,  inspired only by their
personal dream  of a new and more exciting future for mankind, a
personal vision so often mocked and denounced ----- I mean, of
course, the pioneers. Men and women like Galileo, who was the
first to explain the movement. of the planets, Isaac Newton who
formulated the theory of gravity,  Marie Curie, genius of radiology,
Alexander Fleming, who discovered penicillin,  Frank Whittle,
who invented the jet engine, Albert Einstein who devised the
General Theory of Relativity,  Stephen Hawking who probed the
secrets of Time. And last but not least, Syd, and the Cine club who
did so much of the early pioneering work in the field of the
pornographic movie.
Hard to remember these days just how primitive these movies
were in the days when clubs like the one Syd belonged to were
getting started. These days we are used to feature length hard core
porn movies,  in full colour, with sophisticated sound systems, and
specially commissioned scripts. Syd and the other members of the
cine club worked with one Super 8 camera, a boom mike and
scripts they had written themselves. And let's be honest, sometimes
it showed.
It just so happened that one of the cine club members worked
during the day as a school caretaker at the boys' grammar school
and so a few weeks later Morgan was quite surprised to find
himself paying an evening visit to the school,  the first time he had
been back since matriculating with his School Certificate. The
caretaker had acted for the cine club as producer on several highly
acclaimed movies shot through an aperture he had made high up
in the wall of the boy's changing rooms but this time the movie was
to be shot in one of the classrooms.
Not in the classroom Morgan had actually been taught in but as
you can imagine it still felt very strange. Especially the presence of
the six girls in white school blouses, with school ties, minute gym
slips, and black stockings who all looked to Morgan as though they
had probably matriculated some time ago.
Syd had briefed Morgan that the man in charge of filming would
be the caretaker himself who was called Ron.
 Morgan was a bit surprised to see that Ron had turned up still
wearing his caretaker's overalls. To him it seemed to convey the
impression that that they were  a worker's co-operative shooting a
State-sponsored film in East Germany. But Ron explained that if
anyone saw him walking about the school they would assume he
was there on official business.
"Right, boys and girls," he said, clapping his hands " let's go for a
rehearsal."
For the opening shot Morgan was carrying a cane.. He had a
mortar board on his head, rather like Mr. Quelch in the Billy
Bunter stories. He was also wearing a long black teacher's gown
and in an attempt to convey that he was older than his years Ron
had supplied him with a false moustache highly suggestive of
Adolph Hitler in the early days when it was just bedding in.
The long black gown was tied loosely at the waist and underneath,
defying academic tradition, Morgan was apparently trouserless.
The six girls were already in place, sitting in the front row of desks,
looking up at him saucily.   Morgan pretended to study a Maths
book for a moment, until Ron lost patience and urged him to get
on with it
 "Right,  girls," Morgan announced, banging his came down hard
on the desk, so that several of the girls jumped, " today we will be
having another bash at Euclidean Geometry with particular
reference to Trigonometry, using Logarithm Tables, and I just
hope you perform a bit better than you did last week when I have
to say you were all absolute bloody rubbish." Perhaps I ought to
explain that this just happened to be the time when the Actor's
Studio of New York was starting to attract attention and Morgan
had been encouraged to attempt a little improvisation in his role of
Head of Maths.
"Gosh, Morgan,"  said Melanie, admiringly, "you do talk nice."
"Do you mind?" said Ron.
"What?" Morgan demanded.
"Forget the Euclidian Trigonometry ---"
--"Geometry"--
--" Just say the Class are going to have Sums. And you girls
remember when Morgan turns round and starts writing on the
blackboard you start talking among yourselves. Right?" He paused,
and then: "Action."
"What?" said one of the girls.
"Action," Ron repeated. "It means start."
"Well, " said another, "we didn't know, did we?"
"Well, go on."
"What do you want us to do?"
" I want you to start talking among yourselves. All of you That's the
whole point."
"What is?"
"The whole point is that you're talking. In class."
"What about?"
"Anything. Improvise."
"Can't you talk English, Ron?"
"Make it up."
"But you just told us what to say."
"That's for in a minute. Just for now say anything you like. The
microphone won't be trying to pick it up."
Still looking faintly puzzled, the schoolgirl in inverted commas
turned to her companion and said:" So I wasn't having that, was I,
so I turned to her and said who the fuck do you think you're----"
"No, no, no, no,. no." The caretaker emerged frantically from
behind the camera and confronted his actresses. "You can't say
that."
"Say what?"
"What you just said."
"What did I say?"
"You're supposed to be schoolgirls."
"So?"
" Schoolgirls don't use expressions like that."
A firing squad of six sardonic laughs raked him from the front row
and the girl who appeared to have elected herself spokeswoman
commented that she couldn't see that it mattered if  the
microphone wasn't picking her up. For Ron, somewhere in the
unvisited recesses of memory, something stirred.
 "Say rhubarb," said Ron
It was some time later when Ron, with a hint of despair,  decided
to go for a " take."
"Rolling......... action."
Down on the front row the six began to talk with enormous
artificiality among themselves. Up on the dais Morgan lifted his
cane and rapped angrily on his desk. "Didn't I tell you girls to get
on with your sums?" he demanded. He paused to adjust his
moustache which had developed a tendency to rise up in the
breeze whenever  he spoke. "And  not to talk?"
"Yes, sir," came the sheepish response.
"Well, now I'm going to make an example of you. Melanie......"
"Sir?"
"Come up here. Immediately."
 Melanie rose from her desk and like a tiger on the prowl
approached the dais at the front of the class where Morgan was
swishing the cane  through the air in an experimental and
ominously sadistic manner. He was really beginning to enjoy
acting.
"Oh, sir," Melanie wailed, "what are you going to do?"
Morgan reached for his moustache to secure it. If  it had been long
enough he would have twirled it. "I warned you, Melanie. Now
you're for it." He emerged from behind his desk. The cane
swished through the air. "Bend over."
Melanie's pretty little rump rose obligingly in the air. Slowly,
tenderly, Morgan lifted the hem of the gym skip to reveal
Melanie's cute little bum, all gift-wrapped in cotton of purest white.
 "Oh, sir, no, "Melanie moaned. "Spare me." She, too, was
beginning to take to the acting lark. Unfortunately, as of old , the
sight proved too much for Morgan to bear, and as of old his frontal
elevation began to rise. The girls gazed at the sight, fascinated.
From their lips not a protest was heard. But Ron made up for it.
"No,no, no, no. no. no."
"What's up?" Morgan inquired.
"You can't."
"What?"
"We can't. It's against the law."
"What is?"
"It's against the law to show you in that ........ state."
From the front row of pseudo-schoolgirls came a low chorus of
protest. "So what's he supposed to do when he sees my bum?"
Melanie inquired roguishly,
"He's supposed to keep calm," said Ron.
"I notice you didn't ."
"I'm telling you we can't film him in that state, " Ron insisted. "The
law is very clear.  We are allowed to show the male form as we see
it depicted in statues of the Roman era but not in a state of .........
exuberance. Especially as its Morgan. I hope you realise I could go
to jail."
Up on the dais, Morgan, unsurprisingly, was starting to feel calm.
"Let's start again and I'll try to think of something else."
"That's not very nice," said Melanie sulkily.
But it was no use. Several times Ron went for a take. And every
time Melanie's rear was presented to his admiring gaze Morgan
broke the law.  Once they even reached the stage where Melanie's
panties were around her knees and her cute little pink buttocks,
complete with adorable dimple, were positively quivering in
anticipation of the frightful judgement about to be exacted. But
every time his Unique Selling Point let him down. Although I have
to say you would not have thought so if you had observed the
giggles and occasional applause of the saucy scholars on the front
row.
Now it may come as something of a surprise to some of you when
I say that in those far off days of the Sixties the female sex included
what were known as virgins.  These were girls who had never done
it. Not because they were nuns, or lesbians, or wired up to
ventilators. No,  these were girls who in the jargon of the day were
"saving themselves for marriage".  Strange, but true. And it just so
happens that all but one of the extras in Ron's little home movie
fell into that category. The exception, you will not be amazed to
learn , being the lovely Melanie.
With a decisive air, Melanie now adjusted her gymslip, took Ron
on one side and whispered something. After which Ron rather
wearily announced that they would be taking a short break and
while they were enjoying a nice cup of tea Melanie  would be
taking Morgan on one side to have a word with him,  to see if she
could help things along.
Morgan, who was growing slightly desperate at his inability to obey
the law, agreed to this mysterious proposal and  a few minutes later
Melanie took him by the hand, and escorted him from the
classroom to the sound of loud and prolonged wolf whistles from
the remaining five probably temporary  virgins.

Morgan could not help being quite surprised to observe Melanie's
apparent familiarity with the layout of the Boys' Gym. On entering
the spacious hall she observed to Morgan that they could manage
perfectly well without lights, couldn't they, and led the way across to
the far corner where the apparatus was stored.  There, under
Melanie's instructions, Morgan  manoeuvred a couple of vaulting
horses into position so that they created a  cosy little hide-out. Next
he laid a couple of vaulting mats on top of one another to
resemble something looking remarkably like a bed.  With a sigh of
anticipated pleasure Melanie then laid herself down on her back
on the mat and lifting her delicious little bum from the floor
proceeded with great aplomb and not the slightest sign of
reluctance to peel off her tight little white little cotton panties.
"Now, then, Morgan," she murmured , " what seems to be the
problem?"
It was uncanny. The very words. The very words that Megan used
to use. And apparently the same solution being offered.
But there Morgan was mistaken. I have told you that Melanie was
no tremulous virgin. Melanie, as they say, had been around the
block. And what she now made clear she was offering, purely in
the interests of advancing the art of cinema-  photography, and
obeying the law relating to obscenity, was the full works.
  I have to tell you that despite all his near misses Morgan  at this
stage had only the most sketchy knowledge of internal female
anatomy. When he did think about these matters he sort of
imagined that beyond the pearly gates there was a wide tunnel of
the kind trains use, leading steeply upwards, and
offering virtually unrestricted access, until,  possibly,  you came up
against the bottom of the stomach where probably you had to be a
little bit careful in your movements  in case you  inadvertently
disturbed  the contents and induced an inconvenient nausea in the
beloved.
With this mental picture comfortably established in his mind
Morgan realised that the time had come to fulfill his destiny.  At
first everything went according to plan. The little hussy knew
exactly what to do. Her legs obligingly parted. Her knees came up.
Her feet came down firmly on the floor.  If ever a girl was in a state
of co-operative surrender it was Melanie.
For a moment Morgan loomed above the little minx. And then
exultantly,  proudly,  irresistibly,  he lowered himself on to the
divine surface and proceeded to manoeuvre himself in. Melanie's
next few words sent a chill of foreboding through the innocent lad.
To tell the truth they were words he had been dreading and yet
half expecting all his young life.  Words which were to alter his life
forever. Words all the more remarkable for the prosaic way
Melanie uttered them.
"Ouch."
"What?"
"That hurt, Morgan.."
"How do you mean?"
"How do you think I mean? It hurts. Don't move."
Don't move. Was she crazy or something? How could he not
move? This bliss had been delayed so long a court order
brandished by a chief superintendent of police could hardly stop
him now.
"Ah, please, Melanie."
"Don't please Melanie me."
"You said I could."
By now Melanie had taken matters into her own hands. Literally.
After all, she was a girl with powerful natural urges. It would be a
pity to deprive herself needlessly. Especially at this crucial stage.
Despite her understandable nervousness she was prepared to
enjoy Morgan, just so long as he followed instructions. Her hands
reached down and grasped Morgan firmly and decisively, and with
no discernible tenderness.  To an onlooker it might have appeared
that she was an early Christian martyr trying to resist being run
through by a Roman centurion.
"Don't move."
"What?"
"If you move, Morgan,  I'll pull your balls off, one after the other."
And even that wasn't the full extent of Morgan's troubles. These
days you can get condoms practically anywhere, including for all I
know, in an emergency,  the church vestry. They also come in
assorted flavours. Though who would want to eat one I really can't
imagine.  But in those days things were very different. Condoms
were being manufactured but in order to discourage immorality
they were not available, and even if they had been available the
word condom had not been invented so no one would have
known what to ask for any way. All of which explains Melanie's
next  instruction.
"And don't forget to take it out."
"But it's hardly in."
"I don't care."
What a way to launch a sexual career. There he was. Caught in
Melanie's firm and threatening grip and under orders to abandon
ship the moment things got interesting. No man enjoying the
favours of a woman was ever nagged in the way Melanie
proceeded to nag Morgan.
"Are you coming?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"You are."
"I'm not."
"And I said 'don't move.' "
"I'm not. It's you." And indeed it was. Melanie herself was
succumbing. But you would never have thought so.
"You're coming. I can feel it."
" I'm not."
"Come out."
"I'm not, Melanie. Honest."
"Now!. And stop pushing. "
"All right."
"No. Stop."
"What?"
"Wait a sec."
"OK"
"Ah......Morgan."
"What?"
"That's nice."
"Me, too."
"That's lovely."
"Great."
"But don't forget to......"
"What?"
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Right!"
"What?"
"That's it."
"What?"
"Take it out."
"Ah, Melanie."
" I said take it out. Now. Morgan. Did you hear me? Out."
"But I haven't ----"
"I don't care. Out. I know what you're up to. Take it out now. Or
your balls are coming off. You can do it on me tum. And get a
move on. "

Moments later, Melanie was happy. And relieved. Ron was happy,
too,  since he now had Morgan in a much more malleable mood. .
The other girls were happy since they would be getting home at a
reasonable hour. But even by the low standards of those days it
hardly qualified as sex. Morgan was once more unfulfilled. What is
more, although he didn't know it, his prospects had now subtly
worsened.
Word began to get around. As a little sideline Melanie liked to
gossip. And even though the girls she spoke to found it hard to
believe that Morgan was anything but blessed among men they
began to feel a certain trepidation about what might lurk under his
trousers.
In view of his boisterous manner when confronted by live girls,
and the subsequent possibility of criminal prosecution, under the
laws then current,  for transmitting obscene images, Morgan's
modelling career was now confined to still photographs.
These had proved easier for Ron to control and Morgan was now
making quite a bit of spare cash on the side as the pictures, with his
head discreetly hidden, circulated around the town, and, via mail
order,  to Roman Catholic seminaries,  preparatory and public
schools for boys, and practitioners of the performing arts,
especially  ballet. Morgan, himself, though, was still a young man
whose destiny had yet to be fulfilled.
And in that connection I have to say that the morning when he
opened the door to the postman and took delivery of a bargain set
of three- for- the- price- of- two inflatable latex dolls, of assorted
nationalities, was probably the low point of a remarkably
unfulfilled sexual career so far as Morgan was concerned.
One of the dolls was Asian in origin, one black and the third
Caucasian. None of them came equipped with hair, either on the
head or elsewhere, but they were undeniably anatomically
authentic where it mattered.  A small foot pump was supplied by
the manufacturers in order to assist the illusion of a genuine
relationship.
 Because he was a lad with many delicate sensibilities Morgan had
found the nakedness of his new companions just a little bit
unromantic so he had popped into Marks and Spencers to
purchase some ladies underwear. All the girls now looked good in
the all-white ensemble of panties and deep-cut bras, specially the
black girl.
 Possibly the only positive thing to say about inflatable dolls is the
undeniable fact that they are unlikely to protest at behaviour they
find unacceptable.  But there are more ways than one of
protesting, as Morgan quickly discovered.  First he decided to
inflate all three dolls in order to study the effect.  Fully blown up all
three looked very promising although it had to be said it was the
black one which intrigued him most.  She, he decided,  he would
save until last. After taking the precaution of ushering two of the
dolls into another room, because he felt unaccountably shy about
doing it in front of them, Morgan drew the curtains to shut out the
afternoon light, and laid the chosen doll, the Asiatic one, on  top of
the bed.
After a bit of foreplay involving a sexual position he had never
dared to suggest before, the one known to French participants as
Soixante Neuf, during which he realised with some apprehension
that the doll's undeniably lovely mouth did not seem entirely equal
to the challenge, Morgan laid the doll down on the floor at the foot
of the bed.  With rising excitement he bent down and lifted its
back  from the floor and unfastened the bra.
 ?Let's make you a bit more comfortable," he said. And he could
have sworn the rubbery lips parted a little in anticipation.
He moved his hands to the waistband of her white panties and
slowly peeled them down those two perfect limbs until they lay in a
crumpled heap on the carpet.
Next he took off all his clothes  and gazed down for a moment at
the naked form lying there with its dusky legs now obligingly
splayed wide apart. Any doubts he might have had about the
possibility  of becoming aroused by a latex dummy were quickly
dispelled.
With his Unique Selling Point proudly exhibited, and feeling for
once unembarrassed about the possible reception it might evoke,
Morgan knelt down and with a sigh of pleasure laid himself out
fully stretched on the doll and felt it yielding to his weight in a most
authentic manner.
 He had taken the precaution of ensuring a more comfortable
experience by the liberal application of Johnson's Baby Oil and
was agreeably surprised to find how easy and natural it all seemed.
After a few tentative thrusts, gently and courteously,  he lifted the
legs of the delightful creature and pressed home his advantage.
  How wonderful it felt. For the first time in  encounters of this
kind there were no protests from beneath. The charming Asiatic
features close to his face remained set in a welcoming smile. At
one point he could have sworn that the lips parted in a silent sigh
of sensual pleasure.
In response he pressed his mouth to the rubbery lips and prising
them even wider with his tongue tenderly kissed them.  All went
well until the final moments of this most agreeable encounter. And
then it happened.  His breathing became harder. His movements
more urgent. His thrusting deeper.  Then came one inexpressibly
joyful thrust almost at the very end,  and at that dramatic moment
Morgan  became aware of a faint hissing sound.
 That final lunge had holed her below the waterline.  The effect
was as though his charming Oriental partner had been suddenly
afflicted by a most virulent form of anorexia.  There Morgan was,
stranded on a gently deteriorating female form, as the air fairly
whizzed out of her, from an aperture he did not permit himself to
speculate about, until at last he found himself lying flat on the
carpet,  with his delightful companion of only moments ago lying
underneath him, giving every indication of having carelessly fallen
in front of a runaway steamroller.
 Since he had achieved his aim just before disaster struck Morgan
was not in the mood to try his luck with either of the other two. It
was the following night before he tried again.  The white girl,
possibly made of stouter stuff, lasted a little longer before
subsiding. The black girl gallantly kept her end up, as you might
say, for a good ten minutes, before giving up the ghost, with a long,
lingering, and oddly human sigh.
 Morgan did his best to improve the staying power of all three of
his dolls by applying patches from a cycle repair kit but as fast as he
sealed one hole another would appear. Modern rubber
technology was clearly no match for a man of Morgan's Unique
powers.

 By now, thanks to the additional earnings from his modelling,
Morgan had been able to move out of the family home on the
estate and into a nice little flat nearer the town centre. He had also
bought himself a little car. He still went home quite frequently and
parked it outside the family home, taking the precaution of paying
protection money to the local youngsters to ensure it was still there
when he came out.
 One warm evening, in late summer, after having a nice day with
his Mum and Dad and Megan,  Morgan set off in the car to return
home to his flat.  On impulse, for he had become somewhat
dreamy, possibly as the result of reading too much poetry at the
library, he decided to stop the car and take  a walk out across the
fields lying all around the estate, to enjoy the sights and sounds of
nature.
 Eventually he found himself leaning against a gate and looking out
across a field where the ponies attached to the farm riding school
spent the night in the open in summer. Dusk was falling.
Leaning against the gate Morgan became aware that a small group
of ponies were trotting without too much haste through the gloom
towards him.  Not being too clear about what you do with horses
he made clucking noises with his tongue and then leaned down to
pick a clump of grass. Thrusting the grass towards the group he
was gratified to see that one of the larger ponies took it from his
hand and began to chomp on it with quiet enjoyment.  The others
crowded forward, to await their turn, apart from one pony. This
one hung back, almost shyly and watched what was going on from
a safe distance.
 As I say Morgan was no judge of horse flesh but he could not help
thinking that it was the prettiest of the bunch. Small, light brown in
colour, with slim legs, and a skin which gleamed silkily even in the
fading light.  As he turned to return to the car the ponies began to
wander back to the far side of the field. As he watched he saw that
the  one which had caught his eye was lingering at the gate.
Morgan moved back towards the gate, making the little clucking
sound and all at once the pony kicked its legs in the air and with a
disdainful  air trotted away after the others. Then it stopped again,
and glanced back. And Morgan could have sworn it was smiling.
Coquettishly.
In the weeks which followed, for some odd reason , Morgan felt
an increasing desire to return to the farm. Eventually one Sunday
afternoon  he drove there. This time he did not tell his parents he
was visiting the area. Instead he went straight to the farm.  On
impulse he drove up the winding lane and stopped his car outside
the farm house.
 He knocked on the door and a woman answered, holding the
door on a chain and peering out nervously.  Morgan saw with
some alarm that she appeared to be holding a shotgun. He
explained that he lived and worked in the city centre. He had few
opportunities to enjoy the countryside. He was interested in
learning to ride. And wondered if she thought that might be a good
idea.
"You're not from the estate, then?"
"No. I'm a librarian."
The woman fussed with her hair. "A librarian?"
"I live miles away. I've got a flat in the town centre. "
The woman's relief was obvious.  The door opened a  little more.
She laid the shotgun down inside.  And  suggested that she show
Morgan around the stables. Just to get the feel of the place.   It
appeared to be  feeding time.  All the horses were inside their
stalls.  Now that her anxiety about the visitor had been allayed the
woman became more friendly. She explained that she was the wife
of the farmer.
 The  only visitors she ever saw at the farm, with the exception of
the police and the fire brigade, were people hiring horses.  She
seemed grateful for some company and  chatted away,  as they
walked down the two rows of stalls at the far end of the yard.
Three quarters of the way down the yard Morgan stopped and
peered inside one of the boxes.  A familiar face peered out briefly
and then with a coquettish whirl of the head was gone disappearing
backwards into the dim interior of the stall.
"I'm sure I've seen that one before, " Morgan said.  "Down in the
field."
"That little minx ." said the farmer's wife, "that's Amber. A real
handful."
"You mean temperamental?"
"Exactly.  If she likes you she'll let you ride her. But if she doesn't
you'd just better not try."
For some odd reason Morgan sensed that the horse had moved
forward in the stall, almost as though trying to overhear their
conversation.
"She's really lovely, though. Beautiful colour. And  such warm
eyes."
 From the darkness came a snort. Morgan could not decide. Was it
derision? Or was it delight?
No one in Morgan's family ever knew of his visit to the farm. Nor
did anyone else. In a strange way he felt this should remain a
secret.  He had to admit that although he could never have been
described as an animal lover it was becoming increasingly
important to see more of the little pony who appeared to recognise
him. Not only recognise him but respond to his visits in a way he
could not help thinking of as flirtatious.
It was a  month later. The long warm evenings were continuing.
For days Morgan had been consumed by a growing desire to see
the little pony once more.  This time he made sure his visit to the
paddock was even later than the first one. It was after midnight
when he parked  his car some way from the entrance to the farm,
switched off the lights, and made his way on foot to the gate where
he had first set eyes on the riding  school  ponies.
 Leaning on the fence he allowed his eyes to become accustomed
to the darkness.  Away  at the top of the paddock the horses
continued to ignore him, moving quietly forward, in the gloom,
cropping the grass. But as he watched one of the ponies detached
itself from the party and came trotting gracefully across the field
towards him. It was Amber.
 From opposite sides of the gate their eyes met. Was it his
imagination or was there a new kind of warmth in the little pony's
eyes? As though she was trying to make up for her haughtiness on
their previous encounters.
Morgan leaned over the gate and stretched out his hand.  Amber
trotted sedately towards him. For a moment she surveyed  him
gravely. And then she began to nuzzle his hand,  gently licking his
fingers.  For a moment or two Morgan allowed this to continue.
Then he pulled his hand back and began to stroke the little pony's
head.  Amber stood there in the darkness, appearing to enjoy the
sensation. Was it his imagination or was she breathing  a little
harder? Certainly, the experience had induced an odd excitement
so far as Morgan was concerned.  A deep stirring of emotion.
They might have been alone in the world. Just the two them,
standing there together in the warm gloom of that summer night.
Morgan felt  a dryness in his throat.  He saw that his  hand was
shaking a little as he continued to caress Amber's cheek.
 At first  when she pulled her head away from his stroking fingers
he thought the spell had been broken. The inexplicable
communion between them ended. And then he felt Amber's
beautiful  head come down and move between the bars of the gate
towards him and he felt a gentle probing from her mouth. His
throat grew dryer. He could feel his heart beating faster. What was
she doing? Gently pressing her mouth where he felt he would
explode if she did not stop. And all at once she did. She walked
backwards a few paces and stopped. Watching him. Waiting for
him. Morgan turned to survey the lane. All was dark and still.
Almost uncomprehending he reached up for the top of the gate,
climbed over and dropped down into the field.
Once more, he surveyed the lane, in both directions.  It was as
though in that simple manoeuvre some other unseen boundary
had been crossed. And he was now alone in the world, with
Amber.   The little pony trotted slowly back towards him and
stopped . So close that he could reach out and touch her face. As
though  in a trance Morgan took Amber's head in his hands and
pulled her closer.  Her lovely face tilted up towards him. Her eyes
were closed. He stroked her face, her cheeks, Traced his fingers
around two luminously gleaming eyes. And leaned forward to
gently kiss her mouth.  At the same time he released one of his
hands from her head and reached down to stroke the velvet
surface of her gleaming flank.  Once more Amber's head tilted
down and softly probed his loins. Again they kissed. This time her
mouth opened to his. Her tongue probed inside.  Morgan could
feel her heart pounding under his hand. Pounding in time with his
own.
Even in ordinary circumstances Morgan would probably have
found it erotic to be naked at night in a warm summer meadow. In
the presence of Amber the sensation was  almost too much to
bear.   With the little pony following each move he first removed
his shirt. Amber moved closer and rubbed her silky flank against
his bare skin. He released the belt of his trousers and allowed
them to slip to the grass. His shoes and socks followed. And at last
he was standing there naked, feeling an unaccountable shyness, as
though wondering what the little creature would make of him.
Almost at once he found out. Amber moved closer and her
beautiful head sank down to nuzzle his loins. As you will have
gathered by now Morgan was capable of almost miraculous
transformation in these circumstances and so it proved now.
His arms wrapped the neck of the little pony, gripping the pony's
head ever tighter as he submitted to her gentle attentions. Below
Amber's head there was nothing but frustrating space. It was too
much to bear and Amber seemed to sense it. There was
something almost sadistic about her ministrations. Hardly knowing
what he was doing Morgan released Amber's head and with
mounting excitement  began to move down her gleaming flanks.
All at once he became aware that the other horse had moved
down from the top of the paddock and were standing in a little
group close by watching.
Now he was behind Amber, gazing down at the mysterious curves
of her twin buttocks. His  excitement grew even more intense and
he felt a familiar surge of pride.  He knew his Unique Selling Point
had never looked so magnificent.  But,  he sensed,  never so
uncertain about what to do.  Or where to go.
It was Amber who took the initiative. Shyly, clearly nervous,  she
manoeuvred those  luscious hindquarters around until they were in
alignment with him and moved a step backwards. They touched.
The pony and the man. And two pounding hearts. And then with
urgent decisiveness she edged backwards again. Morgan reached
down and under until his groping hands found the silky tops of
Amber's hind legs and pulled her closer.
All his life Morgan had waited to be welcomed in this way.
Through all the disappointments, the cries of pain and
indignation., the  hurried departures.  This time there was no
resistance.  He was admitted. Enclosed. Smoothly. Comfortably.
Unresistingly. Unprotestingly. Uncomplainingly. And so
completely naturally that it seemed they had been designed for
each other.
 Morgan began to move with greater urgency. Expecting all the
time that as in all his previous encounters there would be some
protest. But no. Amber's delicious buttocks thrust backwards to
enclose him ever more deeply.
Morgan's movements were  slow and steady. He could hear
Amber's breathing growing faster.  He slipped one hand away from
those trembling legs and felt her heart pounding under his hands.
Faster and faster,  and faster and faster. And finally........  relief,
fulfillment, peace. Amber moved away up the paddock, with the
other ponies trailing along behind and just before she disappeared
in the gloom she glanced back towards Morgan, a glance of
affection, and promise.
"Oh, very nice, very nice indeed. "
 Morgan did not recognise the figure clambering over the gate  but
knew at once who he was. "Not only trespassing in my fields but
making free with my very best pony. " With some alarm Morgan
saw that he was carrying a double-barreled shotgun in the crook of
his arm. "Without so much as a by your leave. " He stopped in
front of Morgan and thrust his face towards him belligerently. "And
what is more without doing the decent thing and offering to pay for
the privilege."
"Pay?"
"Why? Did you think it was free?" the farmer demanded.
"But.............."
"That's my best pony I've just watched you having your way with."
"I didn't know you were there," Morgan said, a trifle lamely.
"I'm here every night," the farmer said. "Protecting my property.
Shooting to kill. " He gestured towards the retreating ponies. " And
my stock. So come on. How much are you prepared to offer?"
Morgan could not help feeling offended and resentful.  This
avaricious agriculturist was demeaning the new relationship
between him and the little foal.  It seemed to him that the
suggestion that he should pay Amber's owner was vaguely
suggestive of prostitution.
"You do realise, don't you, " the farmer said slyly, " that what you
just did is  against the law. What if I was to call the police? Eh?"
"I'm really very sorry," Morgan said,  "but paying you money is out
of the question."
"Come on," the farmer wheedled, " it's not as though you're the
first. " He lowered his voice, with a furtive expression. "This is a
well-established farming tradition, you know.  I don't mind telling
you I myself have been known to slip down here from time to
time when the wife's off colour and I'm in the mood. Not with
Amber, though. It wouldn't be right. She's one of the family and
that would be incest.  But the difference between you and me is
that I own those horses and you don't.  So you can just cough up."
"I fundamentally resent and repudiate your avaricious implication,"
said  Morgan whose work in the library had given him a rare
command of English in moments of crisis. "Good night."
"You'll be sorry," the farmer shouted after him.  "I'm warning you.
You haven't heard the last of this."

And so, sadly, it proved.   As was amply demonstrated a few nights
later when Morgan answered a knock at the front door of his little
flat to find two plain clothes detectives waiting on the step.  A
complaint had been received, they explained, from a local farmer
who claimed to have witnessed an unnatural assault on one of his
stock, as a result of which he had taken the details of the offender's
car registration which had been traced to him via the Driver and
Vehicle Licensing Authority.
"We are arresting you, " the senior of the two detectives went on,
"on suspicion of  committing an unnatural offence with an animal,
to whit a pony styled by the name of Amber, on the night of
August 15th last, contrary to Section 12 of the Sexual Offences Act,
1956. You are not obliged to say anything but anything you do say
will be taken down and may be given in evidence.  Do you wish to
say anything?"
"Unnatural?" Morgan inquired,  incredulously.

The press attendance  for  Morgan's trial  was unprecedented.  In
addition to the magazines which might have been expected to
attend, like Horse and Rider, Horse and Hound,  Pony Magazine
and British Dressage,  many other  similar publications were
represented. Among them were Sheep Farmer, Our Dogs,  Cat
World,  Poultry World, and Fur and Feather.   Which goes to
show what a nation of animal lovers the British people are.
The Editor of Parrots Magazine also sought to be represented but
was refused tickets for the trial on the grounds that the proceedings
could not possibly have any relevance for his readers although he
insisted, in a long correspondence with the Clerk to the Court, in
the weeks leading up to the trial,  that they undoubtedly did, and
he had documentary evidence which would prove it.
Morgan was to plead Not Guilty to the charge, on the advice of his
counsel who confided to Morgan, in the cells beneath the
courtroom ,that he would not be challenging the facts of the case
and instead intended to rely on his final speech to the jury.
"But what about that egregious agriculturist, " Morgan insisted.
"Pardon?"
"The farmer? The one who's responsible for all this.  Aren't you
going to cross examine him?
"Ah,  yes, him. " The barristers eyes twinkled merrily. "Don't you
worry, my dear fellow. I intend to make an exception of him.  He,
I guarantee, will end up wishing he could have spent the day
buried to the neck in his own midden."
And so towards lunch time on the opening day of the trial which
was to captivate the nation the defence rose to cross-examine the
farmer whose pony Morgan was accused of ill-using.  These,
according to the transcript of the trial,  are the exchanges which
followed.
Counsel: Would you describe yourself as an animal lover?
Farmer:  Who?
Counsel: You.
Farmer:  Yes. definitely.
Counsel:  Really? Let me ask you this ---- do you ever kill them?
Farmer:  Who?
Counsel: You.
Farmer:  Me?
Counsel: You.
Farmer:  What?
Counsel: Do you kill animals? On a regular basis?
Farmer:  I have killed the odd one.
Counsel: So, you are an animal lover who kills animals? Is that
correct?
Farmer:  Who?
Counsel: You.
Farmer:  I suppose so.
Counsel:  So we have established, sir, that you are something of a
hypocrite so let us now discover if you are possessed of other flaws
of character.
Farmer:  What?
Counsel: When you first approached the accused what did you say
to him?
Farmer:  Who?
Counsel:  Describe for the Jury the conversation which ensued.
Farmer:  I saw what this chap was doing appertaining to one of my
best ponies and I approached him and I said 'excuse me, that's my
pony you are taking liberties with. Be off with you. Or I'll call the
police.'
Counsel: Be off with you?
Farmer:  Yes.
Counsel: I put it to you that what you actually did was to demand
money from the accused.
Farmer:  Who?
Counsel: You.
Farmer:  Never in this world.
Counsel: For the privilege of enjoying congress with the pony in
question.
Farmer: Never.
Counsel; Which would mean you were something of a pimp as
well as a hypocrite?
Farmer: What's a pimp?
Counsel: One who lives off immoral earnings --- in your case the
earnings of a pony called Amber.
Farmer: Not me.
Counsel: I further put it to you that you indicated to the accused
that  you had no ethical objections to people having intercourse
with animals since this was an honourable farming tradition."
Farmer:  Who?
Counsel: You.
Farmer: No.
Counsel: Is it?
Farmer: Is it what?
Counsel:  An honourable farming tradition.
Farmer: What?
Counsel: Intercourse with animals.
Farmer: Not with me.
Counsel:  Did you not tell the accused that on occasion you
yourself, were in the habit of having sexual intercourse with
horses?
Farmer:  Who?
Counsel:  M'Lud would you be good enough to instruct the witness
that when I put a question to the witness , looking in his general
direction, he is the person I am putting the question to?
Judge: The witness will refrain from responding 'who' to counsel's
questions.
Farmer: Who?
Counsel:  Did you indicate to the accused that you yourself  from
time to time enjoyed sexual intercourse with animals selected from
your stock?
Farmer: No, I didn't. I'm married, don't forget.
Judge: Is your wife a pretty woman, sir?
Farmer:  No. Definitely not.
Judge: Attractive?
Farmer:  I wouldn't go so far as to say she was attractive. No.
Judge: Then might she not have agreed to you finding alternative
relief, from time to time,  with one of your stock?  Some animal
more comely than she,  perhaps? If, as counsel suggests, this is an
established rustic tradition?
Farmer: My wife doesn't like to think of me enjoying myself.
Counsel: Tell me this. When you saw the accused and your pony
standing together in the act of intercourse was she exhibiting any
signs of distress?
Farmer: She wasn't there.
Counsel; Who?
Farmer: My wife.
Counsel; I am referring to the pony. Was she in any distress?
Farmer: She was breathing rather hard.
Counsel: Breathing rather hard?
Farmer: And sweating.
Counsel: And sweating.
Counsel: Is it conceivable that the heavy breathing and sweating
you say you observed were an indication of pleasure?
Farmer: I don't know.
Counsel: You don't know
Farmer: Not being a horse.
Counsel: Do you find this case amusing, sir?
Farmer: I like a bit of a laugh.
At this point Counsel paused and looked around the crowded
court room. Almost as an afterthought he glanced down at the
papers spread out on the bench in front of him and selected one.
He turned to the witness and after a long pause, in a soft and
friendly voice,  he said: "Tell me, sir, is it not a fact that before
acquiring your present property you ran a small farm in Wales?
Farmer: That's right.
Counsel: And why did you leave your farm in Wales?
The farmer's eyes appeared to brim with unshed tears and his
voice faltered. "That's my business."
Counsel's voice now dripped with warm sincerity. "May I suggest a
reason?"
"You can do what you like."
Counsel: May I suggest that you abandoned the rearing and selling
of sheep as a result of a rather tragic incident?
Farmer; What sort of an incident?
Counsel: The death of one of your sheep. A ewe, I understand is
the correct term.
Farmer: I don't know what you are talking about.
Counsel: My Lord,  would you be good enough to remind the
witness that he is on oath?
Judge; The witness is reminded that he has been sworn and is
obliged to tell the truth.
Counsel:  I put it to you, sir, that you abandoned your smallholding
in Wales after a ewe of which you were especially fond was
inadvertently sent to market.
Farmer: It wasn't inadvertent. The wife did it.
Counsel:  You were in a long-term relationship with the ewe, were
you not?
Farmer:  You could say.
Counsel:  And your wife arranged for the animal to be sent to
market.
Farmer: She did.
Counsel:  Why?
Farmer: She was jealous.
At this point the farmer wiped at his eyes.  There was silence as the
court waited for him to continue.
"No further questions."
It was quite obvious that these tender recollections had had a very
positive effect on some female members of the jury. After all, love
is love. And don't they say this is what women were created for?
One or two of the male jurors on the other hand looked merely
thoughtful. Even  perhaps a little guilty.
It was on the second day of the trial, after the prosecution had
presented their case that Morgan's counsel, rose to his feet, swept
his gown behind him with an elegant flourish and turned to the
Jury.
"Members of the jury," he began, "yesterday you may have heard
me cross-examining the Crown's leading witness. You may have
considered the manner of my interrogation a trifle harsh. You may
have felt I  had  unnecessarily upset the witness. " Here he paused
and moved forward a pace or two along the bench. "But members
of the jury can any of us have failed to be moved by the testimony
the court heard as to the true and tender feelings there revealed?
"The devotion between man, albeit a rough and ready example of
the species,  and animal. Members of the jury is not that
attachment part of all our lives? We are rightly called a nation of
animal lovers. Usually by nations who have traditionally exhibited
less tender feelings towards the animal kingdom. " Counsel shook
his head gravely. "I am not suggesting, members of the jury, that
these feelings always find a physical expression. Not for one
moment. But what if they did? Have any of you ever taken a
dearly loved pet in your arms, perhaps a little dog, in moments of
loneliness and sadness, and kissed them tenderly?" Two female
members of the jury nodded in affirmation. " Of course you have.
"And have you perchance ? ( for this is the way barristers habitually
talk )  ?perchance, in the dark watches of the night taken that
beloved friend into your bed and held him close. Feeling the
animal warmth. The comfort of his flesh against yours. Enjoying
the stirrings you felt beneath you. " The same two female members
of the jury appeared to redden slightly and look down at their
notes. "Of course you have. "
Up on the judicial bench the Judge also appeared to redden
slightly. " Can we get on?" he inquired ( which is a thing judges
habitually say ).
" My Lord, members of the jury," counsel continued , "I will now
demonstrate, I hope to your complete satisfaction that this is that
classic miscarriage of justice --- a crime without a victim.  A
complaint without a complainant." Here he paused for effect. " I
would like to call Amber to the stand. And then we shall see what
we shall see."
The Judge leaned down, fascinated despite himself. "You are
calling the horse?"
" The pony, My Lord."
"You are calling the pony? As a witness?"
"If Your Lordship pleases. "
"Very well. Er.....call Amber."
"And may the defendant be permitted to leave the dock and stand
in the well of the court?"
Morgan left the dock and took up a position in front of the
barristers? bench. All eyes turned to the double doors.  From the
corridor outside came the softest  whinny  and then with a musical
clatter of hooves Amber  trotted into the court room.
For a moment she looked around the crowded benches , in some
bewilderment. And then she noticed Morgan.  With another
whinny, this time of  purest joy, and the merest suggestion of shy
desire,  Amber  trotted across the well of the court, her tiny hooves
clattering on the wooden floor, and  with  obvious familiarity
lowered her lips to the front of Morgan's trousers.
Despite the inhibiting atmosphere of the court room Morgan felt
himself straining upwards against the fabric of his flies. Amber,
clearly sensing his gathering readiness moved away and turning
completely round moved her hindquarters slowly backwards until
those exquisite curves were pressed firmly, and then peremptorily
against the trousered treasures beneath.
A sigh of deepest satisfaction rolled around the court room. The
jury looked at each other and nodded in affirmation. The Judge
took hold of a corner of his judicial wig and appeared to use it to
wipe away a furtive year.
"My Lord," Morgan's counsel began,"need I say more? Can
there be a crime when the complainant, as the Crown would have
us think of her,  is so clearly . . . uncomplaining?  Is this not love
we are witnessing here? Mutual love. So what if it be a love which
hitherto has not dared to speak its name, is it not time, indeed, I
may say, high time, that the law of England recognised its
existence?"
Here counsel gathered his robes about him and leaned towards
the jury box. "Members of the Jury, and here I address particularly
those of you who are pet owners,  or to put it more accurately, pet
lovers, can you, members of the jury,  go home tonight and
embrace your beloved animal whatsoever it may be with a clear
and untroubled conscience if you do not here and now acquit the
defendant and allow him to leave this court a free man, to enjoy a
similar reunion?"
At this point a small ripple of applause passed along the two rows
of jurors, was picked up in the well of the court where the court
officials sat and then to the public seats at the back of the room, a
crescendo of wild acclamation in which the Judge could be seen to
be wiping his eyes with the strands of his wig.
Morgan allowed himself a little simper of diffident gratitude for this
mass demonstration of popular sentiment. It seemed appropriate.
"Silence in Court, 'said the Judge. But his heart wasn't in it.
"Members of the jury you have now had the benefit of hearing all
the evidence. You have also had the opportunity to hear counsel
for the defence in what I suggest to you was one of the finest, most
eloquent, most deeply affecting speeches of its kind ever heard in
an English court. You must now consider your verdict. Do you
wish to retire to do so?"
The foreman looked along the row at his fellow jurors. As one
man the jury shook its head.  The foreman rose to his feet. " Not
necessary, My Lord. " He took out a red spotted handkerchief and
blew his nose loudly. "We are agreed, indeed we have been
agreed ever since little Amber entered court. "
"Members of the jury," inquired the Clerk of the Court," do you
find the defendant Guilty or Not Guilty of the charge of having
carnal relations, on diverse occasions,  with the pony known as
Amber?"
"Not Guilty," came the reply. At this, the jury loudly applauded
their foreman. Counsel for the Prosecution shook Counsel for the
Defence warmly by the hand which is something barristers always
do at the end of a case even though they may even have come to
blows during the proceedings.
The Judge beamed down on the emotional scenes with evident
approval. And from the public seats at the back of the Court,
hesitantly at first and then with growing fervour arose the strains of
For He's A Jolly Good Fellow, followed by There'll Always Be An
England and the first verse of God Save Our Gracious Queen.
"I need only inform this court," remarked the Judge, once the
hubbub had died down," that it is my intention to contact the
Home Secretary at the earliest possible opportunity to impress
upon him my earnest conviction that the laws prohibiting erotic
contacts between men and women and our animal friends are for
lesser nations to decide for themselves. They have no place in the
judicial system of this great nation of ours.
"I might add that in future,  far from pursuing these relationships
vengefully through the courts,  it is my intention to inform the
Home Secretary that in my respectful judgement the time must
now be opportune to regularise these relationships rather in the
way that queers ---- I am so sorry ---- rather in the way that gays and
lesbians are now empowered to enter upon civil partnerships. "I
will suggest that perhaps a  simple ceremony could be devised
during which these loving relationships could receive the blessing
of the law, in the presence of both human witnesses and siblings of
the animal concerned."
And again the strains of For He's a Jolly Good Fellow rose to the
rafters as the judge, clearly deeply moved, swept from the Court.
It remains only to tell you that the law was changed.  In the years to
come, the phrase animal husbandry was to take on a whole new
meaning. And our hero, Morgan,  was one of the first to take
advantage of these new and more enlightened laws.
His only regret, and, we must presume,  Amber's too, was the fact
that no matter how vigorous, prolonged, repeated,  and fulfilling
their marital relations might be , it was inevitable that they could
never be followed in the fullness of time by the patter of  tiny feet --
-- either two or four, depending on whose point of view, and which
possibility,  we are considering.

The Absolute End