Angelic Beauty

by Lisa-Ann Carey

  “What took you so long to answer the phone?” She thought perhaps he may have had his hands full. But who filled them? She longed to know.

  “I was takin’ a sun-bath,” he blurted out.

  Jealousy got the better of her. “With whom, and what are you wearing?”

  He reassured her, “By myself of course and yes I’m wearing my G-string.”

  “You mean your cheeks are exposed?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You had better be careful,” she warned him “That is one of the most sensitive parts of the body, you could burn to a crisp.”

  He threw back his head and laughed loudly, “Aussies don’t burn, we bronze. By the way Angea Baby why didn’t you call me? Busy with the boys, eh?”

  “I most certainly was not. I have been burying myself in the books. Only three short weeks to my exams.”

  Feeling somewhat relieved Malachi said, “I believe ya baby.”

  Angea-Lea ached to see him and soon, “How about coming to Ticino to see me and spend an extra week in Swissy.”

  “Certainly sissy I’ll head for Swissy as soon as I get myself a decent set of wheels. I need to buy a car before prices rise and I need to see you before something else rises.”

  “Like the sun rising over the horizon?” she innocently asked, not aware of what he really meant.

  “Something like that. I was reading the local paper and came across an advertisement in the employment column. The Ticino Vetinary Hospital are searching for a temp Vet for three weeks starting from Monday. I have three days to get there. The interview is through the Paris Vetinary Clinic tomorrow at eleven. I’ve telephoned already the interview is all lined up. I’m almost positive I’ve got the posi. Luckily I speak all languages.”

  Excitement rose inside of her. “I cannot wait, I’ll pray to Saint Valentine that you get it.”

  “Beautiful, but I must go now Angea sweetie I’ve a ton of things to do. Abiento.”

  “Abiento Speedy.”

  They both hung up simultaneously.

  He was running out of food fast. It was almost lunchtime. After a shower and a quick change he grabbed his wallet and headed out of the door in a pale blue safari suit, a straw hat and a pair of white Philippe Auguste summer slip on shoes.

  The river promenade beckoned him for a stroll. Half-way along, he stopped for a short while. With both hands in his pockets he looked out over the rippling water at a small score of pleasure boats when suddenly a whirlwind blew his hat onto the bow of a small red boat anchored close to the pier. The wind suddenly stood very still.

  A naked body lay across the middle seat, he had noticed, the taut buttocks of a boy’s boy soaking up the sun. It did nothing for Malachi, it didn’t turn him on in the least. Just how was he going to get that hat?

  Not really wanting to disturb him, or make a scene, Malachi squatted on the edge of the jetty, he reached out casually to steal back his hat, when he felt a sweaty palm take a firm hold of his and with one short sharp tug he’d landed ass up in the tugboat the hat flipping onto the water.

  “Hello, I’m Homer, Homer Sexual and my ass is burning baby,” he breathed ever so sensually.

  “Hello I’m Malachi Castle and I’ve got miles of piles. The speed bumps will slow ya down,” that should leave him limp, he thought to himself.

  “Allow me to get your hat,” his ruddy great big arse in full glory, his bait and tackle dangling on display as he lent over the boat and fished Malachi’s sodden hat from the coolish waters half binding and blinding him in the process.

  Malachi had taken advantage, whilst his back was turned to make a quick get away.

  Spinning around, the boy toy yelling after him “Your hat, my beloved darling.”

  “You hang on to it sweetheart,” Malachi lovingly yelled running full speed along the lengthy Parisian promenade, not forgetting the feint words that trailed behind him in the distance, “I will treasure with pleasure this souvenir always. Merci Buttercup.”

  It was a superfluous experience Malachi would rather forget. This will send me to a ruddy sex therapist if I don’t put it all behind me, he thought to himself.

  That was one bushfire, no Aussie fire-fighter could ever put out, no matter how huge the hose or what measure of suds were in the fireman’s canvas bag.

  I’d never pull my fire-extinguisher out on a firefly like that. No mater what the price. It would set my manhood alight, it would go up in flames, leaving me completely and utterly burned. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, he imagined St. Valentine sputter feebly. He was left flabbergasted and flabby. My penis may never rise from the ashes again. I’ll have to write a book on this and call it Culture Shock his thoughts demanded.

  Thoughts of Peter Pan eventually faded during the course of the day leaving few emotional scars. Aussies are like that, they are a tough breed they have a way of bouncing back.

  It was noontime and most of the shops were closed for a good morsel of the day when most folk form a swarm like bumblebees, crowding out the best eating-houses for a two-hour meal.

  Impressive buildings with their superb rose windows, flying buttresses and slender apses, these 12th century masterpieces of Gothic architecture checkered the skirts of the ordered streets.

  The Quiche Niche, on rue des Rosiers filled the fickle city, in part, with its rich aroma of freshly baked pastries.

  Hyperactive Frenchman enjoyed sipping on petit vin blanc coolers, nibbling on croissants as starters and engaging in rapid, colourful conversations between themselves.

  Malachi was encouraged by a merry band of moustached men to join them as a lingering guest of the quaint café.

  Inside, in the no smoking area, in the corner of the crowded quarters near the cuisine, Junré Siffleur leisurely sat in her favourite spot sipping on the herbal tea tisane.

  Most of the boisterous boys of Paris lounged out on the covered balcony, sucking on the finest cigarettes this was jokingly referred to as the smoker’s section.

  “More pollution,” cried the Garçon as he waited on tables then ushered Malachi to a seat beside Junré, wisps of smoke drifting in through the open french doors and window.

  “Garçon, a carafe d’eau thanks,” Malachi clicked his fingers at the waiter, “and two pieces of Quiche Lorraine.”

  “Coming up, Sir.” Malachi cringed.

  Ten minutes later the waiter brought to their table two fresh servings of brioche, the water, he thought he would never see.

  “Excuse me mate I ordered Quiche and I got somethin’ else and where’s me water?” Malachi was smokin’ with fury.

  Junré’s eyes widened, her lips tightened waiting for the waiter’s response, she warned, “You’d better duck under the table.”

  “No, I don’t want duck either.”

  The Garçon growled, “Pardon for the mix up but we have a supply problem in the kitchen. Would Sir like to see the menu again, or would Sir be happy with the plate before him? Oh and we do not supply tap water we have only bottled mineral water – Evian, Perrier or Vittel.”

  “Bit of a drought eh, we get that back in Australia that’s why we serve our wine, sweet, dry or drought. I’ll take a Perrier, Merci. We’ll be happy with the Brioche is it?”

  “That is correct, I shall bring you your Perrier.”

  The waiter returned soon after with Vittel, at this point Malachi had completely and utterly surrended to the French in humiliating defeat.

  Malachi’s loud Aussie accent overtook other foreigners and unbenownst to him offended the French customers around him.

  The waiter soon noticed the stares on the faces of the French and promptly ordered the loudmouthed Australian to “Quieten, please, Sir, try to moderate your voice, you are not in the outback now, it is only a small Café. Others cannot hear themselves gossip.”

  “Yeah, right-O!”

  One Brioche was given to Junré, she thanked him. He told her he had heard from her daughter earlier, leaving out the personal part of the chat. She had tol
d him she had heard from her the night before last.

  Not long after, Malachi paid the bill and left to be seduced by the many and varied shops of Paris, apologising to the tipsied Frenchmen that he lacked the time to socialise. They understood and waved him on.

  The attraction of finding a newish tapas bar enticed him to purchase a flagon of sangria the spanish cooler valued at $Aus64 to take home as a novel treat de L’Mediterranean.

  * * * * * *

  Rolling the sleeves of her burgundy, white and blue roll-neck sweater up from her wrists, Angea-Lea folded back the woven yarn into three-inch cuffs.

  “Who would have thought a melody could change your life?” she expressed in a low volume to herself as her mind began assembling the composition of the musical score When I Need You, Malachi’s broad Aussie accent still ringing in her ears.

  In a little over two months he had made her feel higher than her surroundings, as slim as a supermodel, healthier than a mung bean sprout, wittier than a wizard, as happy as a bride and sexier than a woman for hire.

  Cleverly arranged semibreves, dotted crotchets and semi-quavers uplifted her soul from the very core of her heart. The more she hummed, the lighter the air around her became, as she focused on the rising of his baton, having held it firmly within her grasp, to her it was more uplifting than the mightiest gust of wind. “What a wild twister!” she exclaimed loudly by mistake attracting the attention of every student in the Floral Art Laboratory, giving her a revolutionary lift leaving her damp underneath. The subtle scent of mating-musk blowing the boys away into absolute oblivion.

  Singing his song and visualising him singing it, was like being in possession of the world’s largest diamond. A sweet lil’ ol’ witty ditty she kept tucked away in her titty for when the weather got a little rough and life threatened to become one big flop.

  Feeling the warm flush of her fluffy muff, a rosy glow of confidence left a permanent colour of dusty sunset pink on her cheeky cheeks.

  Out of the corner of her eye, the shadow of a tall, slender figure etched its way into the damp, dark, laboratory. “Aprons on please. My name is Dr. Peppa Parducci and I am taking over from your previous Lecturer who left last week to pursue a career in motherhood. May I direct your attention to the latest full colour Guide To Japanese Floral Art, you may each collect one from my desk then quietly return to your seats.”

  Angea-Lea sat staring out of the window watching Lady Millii Visconti running barefoot atop a mountain pass, her scarlet headkerchief billowing in the breeze. She had obviously lost her way and her shoes in the scattered snow and instead of the rescue dog running ahead of her as her guide the Saint Bernard was chasing her nipping at her knickers. He failed to read the inked warning sign on her pack-basket that read: “DON’T FOLLOW ME, I’M LOST TOO!

  She did, as any Italian-Swiss would do, she hastily climbed the nearest Pine, her heavy wooden pack-basket falling from her shoulders hitting the Saint Bernard with a technical knockout.

  Independent and thrifty in all her saving ways she had saved herself from eminent danger via a passion for hard work, order and good management making the most of her limited resources by removing her brazier and using it as a means of support and defence, hence the reason for the pack-basket accidentally falling on the dog below. She had intended to cause injury by way of firing oranges out of her makeshift slingshot, when she looked to the ground below and caught sight of the dog lying paws-up, totally out to it. At this point Angea-Lea ran from the Lab to her side to help her down from the tree, picking up the pack-basket they ran inside slamming the door shut, Millii’s knickers slipping to her ankles.

  Much to the delight of the three male students in the group, her red mini-skirt had flown up around her waistline revealing her saucy sliced peaches. They quickly grabbed their cameras and started clicking and licking the air.

  With tears in her eyes, her medium-sized milk jugs fully exposed, her erect nipples shivering, and now armed with an ice axe and a rope, she chased them in an expeditious voyage around the room in- accelerando around the benches and stools with rash impetuosity like that of an electrified train, her boobs bouncing along the way leaving the boys hanging out the windows, gasping for air, desperate to escape.

  Milli Visconti chasing Anthonee Flair around Floral Art Laboratory

  Chapter Six

  Spring Lupins with their pillars of splendid colour shivered with excitement at the tender touch of a fairy-light sprinkle of rain from a brief afternoon sun-shower. The air was sweet and warm as Junré passed the colourful patch that graced the entrance of The Oasis Country Club at the end of Cheaux Parade on the outskirts of town, the Aussies had constructed and named the new parade before building the club.

  An adventurous class of Australian gentlemen, rich, well-educated and extremely well-mannered when not under the influence of alcohol founded and managed the elite club.

  Like most say, it is a French woman’s prerogative to change her mind at the very last minute if she so desires, therefore having a professional hairdresser colour her hair was what she desired most. In bygone days Junré had tried colouring her hair herself, but failed and as a result her whole head swelled to the size of a melon. This would never happen again, she would definitely see to that.

  Women of all shapes and sizes sat their posh posteriors on adirondack chairs arranged on a wide and stylish verandah, chatting and sipping on apricot chiffon coolers waiting in comfort and relaxation for their chance to have their hair cut and coloured at The Oasis Salon by the best hairdresser in town.

  Junré joined the gals.

  The well-to-do ladies with their high spirited personalities animatedly called for extensively experienced hairdresser Yvette of forty-one years.

  It was not long before she bounded through the front door introducing herself as a hairdresser with a difference. Junré began to feel confident. Hair styling books were placed on the round timber table beside her.

  “Please feel free to express your ideas should you find these styles and colour combinations to be unsuited to your liking,” expressed Yvette, placing a cooler beside the books.

  All were like sisters – problem-solvers and heart-warmers. Each decided on a light crimp style.

  “Breathe in the delightfully cosy atmosphere where togetherness always counts. Welcome to The Oasis Junré love. I am also known as energetic Yvette, one has to be when working amongst speedy Aussies, you know how they make a girl feel before and after a dip in the Olympic pool – wet, wet and more wet!”

  “I can imagine! I adore the feeling togetherness creates thank you my dear.”

  Awesome looking sun-tanned cooks with sunburnt cocks sought escape in the grounds near the salon from the break-neck pace of the sweaty kitchen bespattered with sputter, as full as googs.

  “Ladies what do you think of my latest creation?” screamed Ace the trainee chef with slurred screech waving it under their sensitive parson’s noses.

  A baked boiling hen stuffed with boiled eggs rested in the centre of a gravy spattered silver platter bordered with stuffed spuds.

  “Are you preparing to make coddled eggs with that pampered chook mate?” Junré screamed in return fully cocked on cooler.

  “No, I’m making cockered cockerels with a young cock,” he exclaimed clutching his rising cock with his other kitchen hand.

  Junré once again injected with equal surprise, “Oh you mean barbequed hatchcock with a hot cock?”

  Suddenly, the head chef came from behind disgusted at their naughty behaviour warning, “You boys better get a wriggle on or your hot cocks will get the cold sack.”

  In raucous reply they cried out in unison as they walked away with flabby cocks, “Then you’ll have to change the name of the restaurant from Steamboat to Cockboat, cause we’re jumpin’ overboard.”

  The girls cacked till they hatched.

  “It’s a wonder you’re not making cockyleekie soup with those leaky cockies,” topped Yvette.

  Their laughter
faded with the sun.

  Yvette, the wife of a Civil Engineer soon became a respected friend and confidante to Junré from that day forward. They both preferred the colour champagne with highlights of bright gold and silver threads throughout and so did everyone else in the group. Junré and company gave Yvette the French wave of worship upon leaving the salon, all ecstatic with their new bright, frizzy look, outshining all others on the streets of the City Of Light.

  The moment Junré stepped into the flatette she raced to the bedroom and changed into a simple frock, when her husband shoved his hand up the poodle puppet he had just created and began his ventriloquist act.

  “Your new hairstyle resembles the coat of a washed out French poodle, woof, woof!” Antaeus and the puppet both sprawled on the plush woollen carpet pretending his puppet poodle to be peeking up her dress.

  She kicked the dummy in the side of the head then stomped on his face with the heel of her shoe, causing Antaeus to scream blue murder, his hand he’d removed to show off the damage, now limp at the wrist, his fingers a crippled mess, not to mention the poodle dummy’s snout now resembling that of a Pekinese he pointed out.

  “I am bored with always being the epitome of mature elegance. I desire the ‘young glamorous’ look not the ‘worn out dishrag of a wife and mother’ look. The path I choose to take is my own decision, you must respect that, the same goes with your daughter, let us be!” With a loud sigh and an angry glance she chased them both out of the bedroom then closed the door, silently wiping away the falling tears with her home-spun embroidered handkerchief, nauseated at Antaeus howling like a wounded pup all the way up the hall.

  Then, like a raging bull in a china store she ripped the door wide open till it almost cracked off its hinges, yelling, “It seems to me you have a more intimate relationship with your dumb pet pup than with me your beautiful wife!” Her parched remark made him feel a real heel, driving him to shout an extensive apology in return which soon made her feel as proud as punch.