Short Story
Night At The Opera
Natalie Byng’s oral skills delight Peter Tusk. She is able to tease and tantalise his penis
Peter Tusk is very fond of opera and on Thursday night he is sitting in a private box in Covent Garden giving himself up to the pleasures of Wagner’s Gotterdammerung. Tears of joy stream down his face and as the music swells so does his penis which is firmly lodged in the mouth of one Natalie Byng.
Though this is 2018 Peter Tusk speaks and sometimes behaves as if he is living in the 1950s. His wife, Judy Tusk, who we will come to shortly, blames his middle class upbringing but he likes to think of himself as modern and ‘with it’ and has no qualms about attending open mic comedy nights at his local pub or paying for an escort to join him for an evening at the opera.
Natalie Byng’s oral skills delight Peter Tusk. She is able to tease and tantalise his penis, keeping him on edge until, as the saying goes, the fat lady starts to sing. Eventually, after a worrying period of whining and growling he ejaculates deep into her throat with the anguished cry of a man in his death throes. He is drowned out, thankfully, by Brunhilda.
‘I enjoyed that,’ says Natalie Byng, licking her lips.
‘Yes absolutely. Spot on. One can never have enough Wagner.’
At the end of the week Peter Tusk sometimes buys his wife a present. This particular Friday, as he sits on the overcrowded train home, he wonders if he might have overstepped the mark. His wife is a rather particular woman, and though, like him, only in her late thirties, is as set in her ways as it is possible to be. Her ways are also redolent of the 1950s. Everything has to be ‘just so’.
Whether this gift comes into the ‘just so’ category remains to be seen. Arriving home after his weekly sojourn in London, Peter Tusk places the gift box casually on the occasional table next to the Friday night gin and tonics. Judy Tusk ignores it and carries on drinking.
Their life is measured in pauses. Eventually after a particularly long one she stands up and moves towards the bay window. With a waft of her hand in the direction of the garden she says, ‘I hope you haven’t forgotten we have guests on Sunday. So that tree needs a good pruning and the barbed wire fence, well, it’s a frightful mess. Only when you have a moment Peter. But you’re so good at tidying things up.’
‘Accounts, yes. Trees and fences no.’
‘Well it’s your barbecue. By the way, remind me, why do we have a barbed wire fence? This isn’t the Western Front.’
But as usual Friday night trenches are being dug and any hope of his beautifully packaged present inducing a truce and a game of football in no man’s land start to fade very quickly.
Apart from a bravura performance cooking the Sunday barbecue Peter Tusk has a miserable weekend and no amount of guests asking for the recipe of his delicious marinades can compensate for the pain and suffering he endures.
The busy Monday train is never more welcome and making an arrangement to see Natalie Byng for the evening in her dungeon lifts his spirits.
As she flogs him it all comes out in fits and starts.
‘She didn’t like the present. That lovely red boudoir top. The one you recommended.’
‘Don’t blame me,’ Natalie Byng jokes as she expertly lashes him again.
‘I don’t. If she didn’t like it I would have changed it but oh no she had to throw it away in disgust as if I’d given her a bottle of cheap supermarket gin. Talking of which, by the middle of Sunday afternoon she was absolutely blotto and went off for a lie down, or so I thought. Moments later she reappeared wearing the said item and started to rant drunkenly at our friends and neighbours.’
“My husband thinks I’m a trollop so he buys me this hideous lingerie. Red. I ask you. Thought it would spice up our marriage bed. Fat fucking chance.”
‘I raced up to her and tried to put my apron over her. I mean everyone could see her tits. Thank god she’d kept her knickers on. But she ran off down the garden at quite a canter and then took it off, very theatrically, and tossed it in the air. All the guests departed pretty smartish and I was left trying to console her. The sad thing is she did look rather good in it.”
‘Any chance of a refund?’
‘No, it landed on a barbed wire fence. Ruined.’
‘Rotten luck. Anyway Peter. Fancy a nice cup of tea?’
‘Yes absolutely. Spot on.’
This Story is linked to the Wicked Wednesday meme.
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