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From: "Joris Huysmans" <joriskhuysmans@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} The Sapphic Pirate Miranda, Part the Fourth (sub-part A) (FF, BBW, exhib)
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Date: Fri, 28 Jul 2006 06:10:01 -0400
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Why is this sub-part A of the fourth chapter of this saga? Well, I'm trying 
to get my posting at Storiesonline in sync with what I post here, so this 
one will be divided into two parts for now (while they get a story that's 
already been posted here).  Look for sub-part B next week in both spots, and 
as always, if you enjoy these weekly BBW stories, email me at joriskhuysmans 
(circle-A thingy) hotmail (sppft!) com.


THE SAPPHIC PIRATE MIRANDA, PART THE FOURTH (SUB-PART A) (FF, BBW, exhib)
by Joris K. Huysmans

In Which the Lady Esme Winterblossom and Her Particular Friend Amelia, A 
Comely If Chubby Young Scullery Maid, Escape From The Ship of The Sapphic 
Pirate Miranda And Make Their Way To a Tavern With A Stage Devoted To 
Entertainment of a Female Nature

July 9, 17--

Diarie My Dear,

So much has transpired since last I had the opportunity to commit my 
thoughts to your Pages, dear Diarie, that I scarce know where to begin.  
Rather than relay each event in the order of its occurrence, I shall begin 
with the Peril in which we now find ourselves, and explain how we have come 
to this point.

Late last night Amelia and I escaped aboard a small rowboat and made our way 
toward the lights of the small fortification on the island of St. Roger.  
Only constant activity prevented us from complaining of the cold and damp; 
but it was necessary to make our escape by night.

At last we reached the rock-strewn shore and hid our boat in some bushes so 
that our place of landing would not be detectable in the morn.  We made our 
way quickly to the small village near the encampment and found that, as is 
the way of military men, drunken revelry was taking place at a rough-framed 
publican's house called The Salty Cock.  As we had neither money, nor a 
place to stay, nor food to eat, we shuddered to one another but accepted 
that this Cock offered our best hope for success, if we could but determine 
how to grab hold of it.

Inside, a few dozen soldiers and sailors were watching a toothless slattern 
cavort on stage, singing a desultory ballad while occasionally offering a 
flash of her skirts revealing her veinous calves.  (I daresay the odor from 
her waved skirts would have extinguished any lustful thoughts prompted by 
the display.)  Her animations seemed to be drawing little interest, even 
from so female-hungry a crowd as these soldiers.

"Hello hello hello," said a fellow at the bar, with pomaded hair and 
eyeglasses tinted a dark shade, his shirt open to his chest.  "What can The 
Salty Cock do for a couple of fine, fine ladies like yourselves?"

"This is a place of entertainment?" Amelia asked, tentatively.

"Hey, what's it look like?" said the barman.

"It looks like the wake for a scrofulous wetnurse," said I.  "Is that the 
best dancing to be had on this island?"

He gave me a look of amusement.  "I suppose you pretty ladies think you 
could do better?"

I rolled my eyes to indicate that the question was beneath my answering.  
"What's to be had when we do?" I asked, as the harridan on stage stopped her 
rickety maneuverings, and glared at us hatefully.

"Girls, it is your lucky night," said the barman.  "We're having a dancing 
contest, and the one who most enjoys the audience's favor wins a guinea, 
plus whatever other tips are to be had by performing dances at table, upon 
laps, and wherever else a customer might request that you, uh, perform."

"Then sweep that palsied hag off the stage and get your audience ready for 
something worth seeing," said I, and he shrugged and exited his bar for the 
stage.

"Gentlemen, put your hands together for lovely Consuela," he bellowed to the 
crowd, as the unfortunate wretch picked up her few pathetic winnings and 
scampered off the stage.  "And remember, Consuela will be coming by offering 
a table or a lap dance, you're sure to want to take advantage of that."  I 
suspected a certain sarcastic tone to this last.

There was mild applause, and then a murmur of excitement as they saw that we 
were not the lice-ridden whores they were used to seeing on this stage.  
Though we were hardly at our most presentable, having just labored two hours 
at rowing, nevertheless our youthful beauty, our simple white attire, 
unbuttoned suggestively, and our flowing locks were pleasing in their 
aspect.

I looked at the superannuated doctor of Musick squeezing tunes out of a 
grimy accordion in the pit.  "Do you know any quadrilles by Handel or 
Couperin?" I asked.

"Oi know Lady of Spain," he wheezed.

"It'll have to do," I said, and he started playing something whose name and 
tune can have been but a mystery to anyone but himself.  Amelia and I 
prepared to mount the stage when I found a constable pressing his stick 
against my chest.

"What goes on in the gallery is not for me to worry about," he said.  "But 
on stage, you're governed by the laws of the Lord Chamberlain, same as 
Shakespeare `imself.  And if there's any open display of your womanly 
parts--" and here he tapped at my breasts, and then at my sex, to make it 
clear what he meant-- "I'll arrest you, sure as Guy Fawkes."  And he sat 
down at, I noticed, the best seat in the house.

Well, to tell the truth, that did rather put a Crimp in our plan to win over 
the audience by simply baring ourselves and proceeding directly to a lewd 
display of Sapphic ardor.  We would have to come up with something more 
artful.

"Gentlemen, get ready for a special attraction, making their debut on this 
stage, show your appreciation for Esme and Amelia!" bellowed the barman, by 
way of urging us up unto the stage.

As the aged musician played, we began to dance a quadrille.  With each pass 
we made sure to stroke one another's breasts suggestively for the audience-- 
Amelia tweaking my small buds, I hoisting her fat tit and then dropping it, 
letting it jiggle.  Then we turned and rubbed our bottoms against one 
another, my narrow hips nearly separating her ample cheeks.  We turned 
around and came face to face, planting a kiss on each other while rubbing my 
small flat belly against her rounded one.

Unfortunately, just as we were beginning to simulate the noises of passion, 
the slattern who had held the stage before us was given a copper by one of 
the sailors, and she happily ripped open her bodice in the crowd, allowing 
her dangling mams to flop out like mongeese being let loose after prey.  
Despite the vulgarity of this display, a good part of the audience turned 
their eyes toward it-- and away from us.

"What are we going to do if we can't undress?" Amelia whispered to me as I 
slid a leg in between her skirts and she began to ride her big bottom and 
sex on my willowy thigh.

"I'm thinking, I'm thinking," I muttered back at her, then turned to the 
audience.  "Well, gentlemen," I said, "d'ye like to go gallopin' on a mount 
thin and rangy," and I stretched an arm out and tried to raise my breast to 
the very edge of my open shirt without breaching the censor's rule, "or d'ye 
like to ride o'er round and soft hills," and now I grabbed Amelia's buttocks 
and pressed her hard against my leg, and she let her head fall back in 
simulation of the Tingle, and moaned with each gallop she took upon my 
"steed."

"Oi like `em face down and with old Brown-Eye lookin' back at me," responded 
one of the sailors, and there was coarse laughter at this vulgarity.

"Then return to your ship, Jack Tar," I said.  "Your cabin boy is lonely."  
At this there was more laughter, and though the object of my Jape glowered, 
I saw that the others seemed ready to pay us more credit than they had shown 
the previous dancers on this stage.

I motioned for one of the soldiers up front to pass me a wooden chair, which 
I set up on the stage and motioned to Amelia for her to sit upon it.  I 
straddled her and we kissed, drawing it out so our tongues were visible as 
our mouths separated.  I climbed off of her and now buried my face between 
her breasts, mashing the giant globes and doing my best to draw the fabric 
tight so as to reveal their shape.  At the same time I threw her skirt up as 
high upon her thigh as I could, showing as much of her leg and the beginning 
of her buttock as I dared.

Unfortunately the harridan in the gallery noticed that attention had 
returned to us, for she whispered something to one of the sailors, he nodded 
wide-eyed and enthusiastically, and she pulled up her skirts.  Then, 
grabbing a wine bottle she seemed (or so it appeared from our vantage point) 
to thrust it into her poxy swamp of a cunny, and to make moaning sounds like 
a wounded vole as she swooned up and down, befouling the bottle with her 
excrescences.

I looked at the constable to see if he intended to do anything about this 
lewd and medically dangerous display, but he simply shrugged and tapped the 
edge of the stage, to remind us (as if we needed any such reminder) that 
similar acts were forbidden to us.  Somehow, despite the censor's Ban, we 
needed a way to bare ourselves, and thus draw the attention back in our 
direction through the frank display of our far more attractive bodies.

Suddenly the very solution occurred to me.  At the back of the stage sat a 
bucket for extinguishing fires.  I grabbed it and to Amelia's shock and 
dismay, I poured the cold and far from clean water over both our clothes.  
In an instant our full forms were revealed as our thin cotton garments clung 
tightly to our breasts and thighs.  My slender body, small breasts, and 
erect nipples were clearly discernable; so too were Amelia's large, dangling 
breasts, her fat, drooping nipples, and her broad and rounded buttocks.  I 
forced my mouth upon hers and we rubbed our plainly visible bodies against 
one another to the whoops and cheers of the crowd.  "Gentlemen, do we have a 
winner?" the barman asked, and the crowd offered near-unanimous assent.

As we stepped off the stage the barman said, "I have a feeling the 
wet-bodice contest may become a tradition in these islands.  By the way, do 
you see that handsome lieutenant at the back of the room?"

"Aye," I said.

"He wishes you to dance for him privately," the barman said.

"Is he the highest-ranking officer in the room?" I asked.

"He is," the barman said.

"Tell him we'd be happy to," I said, grabbing our winnings and wringing my 
skirts out.

We moved over to his table and--

Oh!  I hear the key in the door of our cell, dearest Diarie-- more anon--

_________________________________________________________________
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-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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