After the tension of last week’s episode (“The Sting”), it’s time for some comic relief with art gallery owner Emily Swanson and her Scottish swain Angus. Will Emily ever be able to tell Angus what she really wants in bed? Or will she keep giving hints that soar over Angus’ head at an altitude of 32,000 feet? Because this week’s chapter involves serious deprecation of sculptor Jeff Koons (not Emily’s favorite) I had better show you some examples of his “work.”
Adult content. For those unfamiliar with Angus’ extreme Scottish dialect, I offer a glossary at the end of the post.
31. Meat Jelly
The third time Angus called to check on her, Emily invited him over for a drink, insisting, however, that she was fully recovered and he didn’t need to bring any tea or broth. Now, as she de-cluttered her living room and put fresh sheets on the bed, she felt a pang of sadness and guilt, thinking of the way Saturday night had led her to the realization that she loved Angus, while simultaneously dashing Ellen’s hopes for Hugh. Emily had not expected Hugh to be the guilty one, and she hadn’t herself witnessed his lurking, but she trusted Kim’s judgment. It was all very sad, and she felt rather sorry for Hugh. He must have some mental problem. Yes, that was it; he always seemed so gloomy. Of course, that couldn’t excuse what he had done.
In spite of the little flame of joy that now glowed in her heart whenever she thought of Angus, she felt anxious because she didn’t know where the relationship was headed. What if he still wanted to sleep with other women? She hadn’t minded sharing him before, even though he was her favorite, but now that she loved him, everything was different. Or could it be that she had loved Angus all along, but only now put a name to it? When you named things, it made them present and real.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell. Angus greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and went straight to the kitchen with a brown paper sack, from which he proudly drew a large mason jar filled with a tan-colored, gelatinous substance. “I made this for ye, Emily.”
Emily regarded it suspiciously. “What on earth is that?”
“Calf’s foot jelly,” said Angus. “For invalids and such. Ye’ve got to keep yer strength up.” He unscrewed the lid purposefully and began rooting around in her silverware drawer.
He had brought her meat jelly. “Um, that’s really sweet of you, but I’m fine.”
“Nay, ye still look peely-wally tae me. Come on, have a wee spoonful,” he coaxed, scooping up a quivering chunk.
“But… I’m on a plant-based diet right now,” she protested. “And it looks… icky.”
“Emily,” said Angus sternly. “Come here right now an’ taste this jelly.” Though the jelly looked horrid, Emily felt a shiver of arousal at the bossy tone he was taking. Reluctantly, she stepped closer and opened her mouth, screwing her eyes shut as he inserted the spoon.
The jelly tasted strong, and contained bits of gristle. Desperate measures were called for. “Mmm, delicious,” she said brightly, taking the jar from him. “Let’s put it in the fridge, so it doesn’t turn into a science experiment. I’ll eat a half-cup every morning with breakfast until it’s gone.” She wondered whether it would clog the garbage disposal, like bacon grease. A momentary panic gripped her. Would a woman who truly loved Angus toss away his jelly like week-old Chinese takeout?
He gave a satisfied nod. “It’s mah mither’s recipe.” As she opened the refrigerator, he snagged a bottle of local Rowhouse Red ale, setting it on the counter to lose its chill.
Anxious to distract Angus from the jelly, she put her arms around him, sinking her hands into the back pockets of his jeans. One of Angus’ charms was his tight, muscular ass, which was smooth like that of a baby, not covered in dark hairs like some she could name. “I’ve missed you,” she said, nestling her cheek against his chest.
“Eh, wee hen, I’ve missed ye too. I was that worrit after Cooper’s Cavern. I thought ye’d gone beelin’ on me again.” His warm hands crept down to massage her bottom, and she began to melt.
“That feels so good,” she whispered. “I like it when you do that.”
“Do ye? Heh, heh,” he chuckled, and gave her a firm pat on the rear. She sucked in her breath and closed her eyes. Even though it had only been a light touch, she could still feel the outline of his hand, where it had made contact. It was incredibly arousing.
“Angus,” she panted. “Make love to me. Now.” She started to strip off her shirt and capris.
He grinned. “Maybe ye’re not sae peeky after all.” A thought occurred to him and he put a hand on her forehead. “Are ye feverish?”
“No! Hurry, Angus!” With shaking hands, she unbuckled his belt, and still in her bra, pulled off her panties. After that, he didn’t hesitate, and it was the work of a moment for him to tug his shirt over his head, kick off his shoes and step out of his jeans and underwear. Soon he stood naked before her in all his glory. The part of him she always thought of as the Red Rooster was primed and ready for action. Glancing down, she saw that his feet were still encased in a pair of inexplicably bright orange socks. Even this failed to cool her ardor.
“Do it to me from behind,” she told him. This was something new. Usually she preferred the missionary position, or climbing on top, so she could be face to face with a lover. But she wanted to feel Angus’ red heat close against her bottom. Excited by the suggestion, he quickly grasped her by the hips and bent her over the sofa, but she was too short, or he was too tall, to make the angle work. Almost screaming with frustration, she remembered the platform sandals lying next to her capris on the floor, and jammed them onto her feet. “Try it now.”
At last. Draped over the sofa cushion, she felt Angus slide home inside her. She groaned each time his hips made contact. “Harder,” she urged him, and he began to push against her more forcefully, penetrating her deeply. Eyes shut, she imagined that Angus had bent her over the couch to spank her, that he was spanking her right now, with each powerful thrust. An immense wave of sensation rolled through her body, overwhelming her so that she tensed and arched involuntarily, like a fish flapping on the sand. As if in response, Angus grabbed her more tightly and spent his force inside her with a low groan of satisfaction. Bemused and weak-limbed, Emily stayed where she was as the glow of pleasure ebbed from her. Then Angus bent his torso to cover hers, and crooned softly,
I’ll twine thee a bow’r, by the clear silver fountain,
And I’ll cover it o’er wi’ the flooers o’ the mountain
I’ll range through the wilds, and the deep glens sae dreary,
And return wi’ their spoils tae the bow’r o’ my dearie.
Without hesitation, she said, “Angus. This weekend, I realized that I love you.”
She felt his chest expand and contract, as he sighed deeply. “Ah, I’ve waited a long time tae hear ye say that. Ye’re mah love, Emily, mah only love.” He stood up, pulling her with him, and they embraced, exchanging a gentle kiss. “What turned ye sae hot just now? I dinna think it was mah jelly.”
“Or your socks,” she laughed, as he glanced down at his feet, and back up at her with an unrepentant glare. “No, I just like it when you bump up against my bottom. It’s kind of sensitive.”
“I’ve no’ been wi’ a lassie who liked it sae well that way,” he said. “Ye’re different, but that’s why I love ye.”
A wisp of sadness floated through Emily’s heart as she accepted the fact that she would probably never find the courage to tell Angus about her fantasy. He had made his opinion of such activities clear, that night at Cooper’s Cavern. “Are you hungry?” she asked, smiling. “You can have your ale while I get ready, and then we can go for some spaghetti.” Belmondo’s was a tiny Italian place around the corner, and she craved their carbonara, while Angus was partial to their tagliatelle and bolognese sauce.
They ate well at Belmondo’s, sharing a carafe of the house red and talking of Emily’s new exhibition of plein air landscape paintings by Philadelphia artists, and the requests Angus had received from other theater companies to use his incidental music for Macbeth. As usual, Angus ate the portion of carbonara that she couldn’t finish.
Strolling back the way they had come, they passed a telephone pole plastered with flyers. “…and that’s why I wouldn’t pay even twenty-five dollars to own a Jeff Koons,” she was saying. “That is, unless I could resell it to some dot-com billionaire with no taste… Angus?” Without realizing it, she had walked a good twenty feet past Angus, who was staring fixedly at the telephone pole. Wide-eyed, he called out to her. “EMILY! I understand now! YE WANT YER ARSE SPANKED!!”
A few passersby on the street shifted their gaze from Emily to Angus and back, with unmistakable smirks on their faces. One of them was a male neighbor of hers, an elderly architect. “Angus!” Her face reddened as she rushed back to where he stood. “Shut up!” she hissed. “Do you want everyone to know my private business?”
Angus still looked thunderstruck, but his lips were shaping themselves into a grin. “It’s true, isn’t it? It all makes sense now.” A chortle escaped him. He was laughing at her. A flyer on the telephone pole read: MacBook for Sale, Still in Box, Brand Spanking New. She ripped it down and began pulling him vigorously along toward her building, resolutely ignoring the smiles of the people around them.
“That’s why ye were sae beelin’ at Cooper’s Cavern,” continued Angus, oblivious to her distress. “Ye took it personally, what I said about tha’ puir bampot who wanted tae be caned.”
They were almost at her door now. “Angus, what’s a bampot?” she asked, hearing the dangerous tone in her own voice.
“Someone who’s mental. But I didnae mean it tha’ way, not aboot ye, Emily… Emily!” he said as she stomped ahead of him. She tried to push him out of the way so she could slam the door and lock him out, but he wedged himself in before she could manage it.
“If that’s what you think of me, get out!” she raged. She had never felt so humiliated, and it wasn’t a sexy feeling, not in the least. Angus shut the door behind him and locked it, then approached her warily, hands spread, as she picked up a bud vase from a side table and took aim.
“Emily! Listen tae me! It’s different wi’ a man. Wi’ a lassie, it may not be usual, but it’s a natural thing. Ye want the man tae be master o’er ye.”
“No, I don’t!” She hurled the vase at his head, and narrowly missed, though the water inside splashed him as it flew by. The vase crashed to the floor and shattered. “Don’t think you can start telling me how to run my life, Angus. Don’t think I want to bow down to you.” She cast about for something else to throw at him. There was nothing but a little Wedgwood trinket box, a favorite piece, and she refused to ruin that for someone as stupid as Angus. He took advantage of her hesitation to close in and pin her arms at her sides, crushing her against him.
“Ye want just a wee bit o’ mastering, then, only in the bedroom. Isn’t that right?” he said, as she twisted against him, and then subsided, her heart still pounding with indignation.
“Maybe that’s right,” she said grudgingly. “I tried to tell you, lots of times, but…”
“But I was too glaikit to hear it and see it,” he finished. “I’ve been a blind fool. That’s why ye took mah lighter, isn’t it?” She nodded.
“But what if I was tae hurt ye? The thought of causin’ ye pain… I dinna like it, Emily.”
She softened a little. “That’s good. I don’t think it needs to be very hard. I’ve been spanked once before, and it only hurt a little.”
Now it was Angus’ turn to stiffen. “Ye mean… someone’s already spanked ye? Who was it?” he demanded.
“A one-night stand,” she said, sighing. “A man who was dull, a man I didn’t even like, except during those thirty seconds.”
“Nobody else has done it? Not Hector, nor Charlie?”
“That’s all right then.” Angus thought about it some more, still holding her arms tightly to her sides. “Emily, I dinna want any other man tae touch ye that way. In fact, I dinna want any man tae touch ye at all.”
“Well, I dinna want any woman to touch ye either,” she said, imitating him. “If I give up my freedom, are you willing to give up yours?”
“Oh, aye,” he said readily, surprising her. And then, slyly, “Emily, were ye makin’ fun o’ me just now? Because if ye were, I think ye’ve some poonishment comin’ tae ye.”
The last of her anger died, to be replaced by a nervous excitement. “Angus… if you really want to poonish me, keep wearing those orange socks.” She considered a remark about his jelly, but decided against it, as it might hurt his feelings.
“And here I thought ye were a bit mad all this time, when all ye really wanted was to have yer arse skelped.” Now Angus sounded as if he was enjoying himself. “Well, wee hen, yer wish is aboot tae come true.” He manhandled her, laughing and squealing in delight, to the sofa and threw her over his knee, using one leg to secure hers so that she couldn’t kick. Then he pulled up her skirt and planted a series of open-handed slaps on her rear end.
“Tha’s fer dissin’ mah socks! An’ tha’s fer tryin’ tae brain me wi’ a vase!” Emily squirmed under his touch, as each slap connected. She was in heaven.
“An’ tha’s fer lettin’ another man skelp yer arse instead o’ me!”
“Ow!” she yelped. Suddenly, he stopped. “Emily, am I hurtin’ ye?”
“No, but I think that’s enough for now. I’m so turned on, Angus. Let’s go in the bedroom.”
“All right. I dinna have an early day. I can stay wi’ ye tonight, if ye’ll have me.” She agreed, and then winced, belatedly realizing that Angus would be present the next morning to supervise her consumption of the calf’s foot jelly.
“But how can I tell if it’s too much?” he was asking, as they reached the bed and lay down. She slid a hand to the front of his jeans, where the Rooster was hard and ready. Good. For all he might laugh, Angus was clearly turned on by the spanking, too.
Emily thought for a moment. “We can have a code word, and I’ll only say it if I’m at my limit.”
“Aye then. What’s the code word?”
Meat jelly, she thought to herself, but aloud she said, “Jeff Koons.”
Copyright 2016 by Linnet Moss
Notes: I didn’t realize how many dialect words Angus uses until I had to gather them to make this glossary. Angus also sings Emily a verse from a Scottish love song called The Braes O’ Balquhidder, which was penned by Robert Tannahill (1744-1810).
bampot: see puir bampot
beelin’: boiling, used metaphorically to mean “angry”
didnae: did not
dinna: do not
glaikit: stupid, dim-witted
hen: term for a woman, with positive connotation, like “love” or “dear”
peeky: pale or sick-looking
peely-wally: sick, not thriving
puir bampot: poor lunatic
skelp: to smack, hit or slap