Chapter 1

The Parish Councillors of Little Sprodwell-under-Fosse were having what they all gloomily suspected to be one of their last ever meetings as a corporate body. All had extremely good reason to be convinced that their days of elected office were numbered. The previous year had not been a good one for any of them.

Concillor, Colonel, The Honourable Foxe-Benson-Fortescue had not done his already dubious reputation a great deal of good by being discovered naked and indulging in intercourse with his wife's buxom and educationally subnormal niece.

Councillor Evans-Foster was deeply troubled and fearful as a result of an affair of the heart with a psychopathic and vengeful ex-soldier who was now threatening to reveal all - with a wealth of documentary and photographic evidence, not only to the Councillor's wife but to a very much wider public.

Councillor, Mrs. Jenkinson, the only female on the Parish Council, was in daily fear that compromising photographs depicting her in the course of performing unnatural acts with an Irish Wolfhound were about to be distributed among the townsfolk.

The other two councillors were also aware that their own behaviour, whilst by no means as luridly disgraceful as that of the above three, had, nevertheless, failed to live up to the high standards demanded by the electorate, even though the said electorate consistently and resolutely declined to uphold such standards themselves.

They were meeting to discuss the arrangements for the forthcoming annual village Spring Fete.

This was an occasion which had become widely famous in recent years. Owing to judicious and highly unscrupulous marketing, it had been presented to the world as a relic of a bygone era - a link to the Merrie Englande of old, instead of the carefully devised piece of increasingly vulgar and tawdry show-biz that it really was.

All members of the Parish Council were determined to end their days of office on an appropriately high and sleazy note. If only they could exceed the total takings of last year's event - who knows? - they might even be in with a sporting chance of re-election!

"The "Spotted Lady" tent went down very well last year" said the Colonel. "I thought it a bit feeble, personally, but it's amazing what a bit of exposed female flesh will do to bring in the money."

The event to which the good and gallant Colonel was referring was a tent inside which was a platform, on which had reposed the homely, cheerfully smiling and buxom form of Dorothy Parrish, whose ample ample young body had covered with spots of black paint, which tended partially to conceal much of her strategic area from view. Dorothy was a non-too-clever, and, alas, non-too-pretty lady, whose amiable generosity in allowing all and sundry to experience the delights of her body more than made up for that said body's imperfections. In any case, Dorothy was young and, to the old and middle-aged, youth has its own beauty, particularly when freely available for a modest fee or in her case no fee at all.

"Maybe we could dispense with the tent this time round and have the display open for all to see. It would mean any passing tourist coaches might stop and take a closer look!"

This suggestion from the animal loving Mrs. Jenkinson drew some approval, but the Colonel was not convinced.

"If people don't have to queue to get into the tent, they will see all of Dorothy for nothing - not that they can't anyway, whenever they like! No. Not a good idea, I'm afraid. You know what the townsfolk are like."
The others indeed did know what the townsfolk were like! The local citizenry were as tightfisted a bunch of skinflints as ever walked their mean way on the Earth!

"We could always cordon off the town square so that nobody could get near the platform without paying an entrance fee and we needn't have another "Spotted Lady", but something more imaginative and daring, involving more than one lady. The Raynsford cousins are staying at the Hall - I dare say they could be persuaded to help in a good cause" replied Mrs. Jenkinson.

At the mention of these two young ladies, the Colonel fell silent for a while. These were easily the two most desirable young sirens he had seen at any time in the course of a long and sexually active life, a life which had taken him from the North West Frontier to the steaming jungles of Equatorial Africa, the Far East and countless other exotic locations where many a sultry and dusky damsel had enlivened his leisure hours.

Julia Raynsford was a delight to watch as she walked through the little town, her firm and voluptuous breasts seeming to defy gravity as she strode around, her bra-less condition delightfully obvious to all. The gyrations of her generous and mellifluous young bottom as she went about her daily comings and goings had rightly been described by the Reverend Mr. Scott-Talbot, the town's worldly-wise Rector, as "Poetry in Motion"

Mr. Gregg, the local butcher had reacted in a less high flown manner by describing her walk as "A Fucking Fifteen-Jewel Movement". He had further ventured to express the notion that there was no limit to the sum he would be prepared to pay in order to enjoy what he described as "One lovely fucking night with that gorgeous little prick-teaser."