Bertie and the Kinky Politician Read Online Free Page B
Author: Mike A Vickers
unblinking.
âJames Timbrill, hooded, gagged and strapped in the bondage wardrobe,â he announced with the clarity of a BBC newsreader.
Bertie didnât know what the words meant but had long associated them with The Kneeling Man. He liked the musical cadence of the sounds and repeated the oft-used phrase several times in his best authoritative voice before tucking it away in his jumbled mind to delight Celeste at a later date.
Chapter Two
Celeste Gordon had always delighted in the domination of men. Well, more than delighted, if truth be known. Hers was a strange and powerful addiction, evidence of which first manifested itself in her inventive childhood games. Even then she showed natural talents in manipulation and control, talents that first appeared for no apparent reason thirty years earlier.
An angular young girl with a pale face and spectacularly bright orange hair, she lived with her parents on the outskirts of Oakham in the tiny county of Rutland. Ray, her father, was a tall and athletic man, wiry and energetic, but constantly away co-ordinating the shipping department of Pringle and Padley, purveyors of fine timbers for the joinery trade. He had an infectious grin and loved his young daughter without reserve. His own mother, both his aunts, his sister, and several female cousins were all blessed with hair in varying shades of copper, so when he fell hopelessly in love with and married Barbara Phillips, herself a striking redhead, it came as little surprise to anyone in the Gordon family that their daughter was born with a mop of truly incandescent ginger curls.
The family home was a large Victorian red-brick country house full of passageways and interesting corners, where imaginary creatures lurked in darkened alcoves waiting to pounce. Celeste loved its outdated architecture and the smell of old woolly carpets. Its Gothic decorations were a delight and the house had a powerful and defining influence on her early childhood, allowing her vivid imagination to blossom.
Outside, the grounds ran to several unattended acres with the house encircled by mossy lawns. Gravel paths lined with low hedges intersected the abandoned vegetable gardens, all leading to the centre where an ancient corkscrew walnut dominated the formal plots. The convoluted limbs simply begged to be climbed and she was able to spy out the whole of her magical kingdom hidden amongst the foliage.
As an only child in a rural house, the potential for boredom had been of concern to her parents, but Celeste did not seem to mind the isolation and compensated by populating her world with imaginary characters who stood at her shoulder while she fought dragons and poked sticks into rustling anthills. Fortunately, the garden provided endless opportunities for healthy play and so her parents made the fatal assumption all was fine and under control. As it turned out, Ray and Barbara couldnât have been more wrong. They had no idea, no idea at all, that the tranquillity of home life was not exactly mirrored at Celesteâs school. Matters were moving to a head ...
Miss Rose Jelf, the most kindly of junior school teachers, shivered uncontrollably. Playground duty in February really sucked. She stamped her feet on the icy concrete and watched over her flock. At least the children shrugged off the biting cold. Young blood ran hot.
âSkip-py! Skip-py!â
A chant floated down the breeze and caught her attention. Children began to drift around the corner of the library. The shouting swelled ominously. Rose recognised the signs of trouble and scampered off to restore the peace.
âSkippy! Skippy!â screamed a ring of nylon anoraks. Rose, seriously height-challenged as she was, couldnât exactly see what was going on in the centre of the swirling crowd so caught Bobby Dukes as he ran past.
âWhatâs going on, Robert?â
âItâs Skippy, Miss Jelf!â
âSkippy?â
âCeleste Gordon,
âJames Timbrill, hooded, gagged and strapped in the bondage wardrobe,â he announced with the clarity of a BBC newsreader.
Bertie didnât know what the words meant but had long associated them with The Kneeling Man. He liked the musical cadence of the sounds and repeated the oft-used phrase several times in his best authoritative voice before tucking it away in his jumbled mind to delight Celeste at a later date.
Chapter Two
Celeste Gordon had always delighted in the domination of men. Well, more than delighted, if truth be known. Hers was a strange and powerful addiction, evidence of which first manifested itself in her inventive childhood games. Even then she showed natural talents in manipulation and control, talents that first appeared for no apparent reason thirty years earlier.
An angular young girl with a pale face and spectacularly bright orange hair, she lived with her parents on the outskirts of Oakham in the tiny county of Rutland. Ray, her father, was a tall and athletic man, wiry and energetic, but constantly away co-ordinating the shipping department of Pringle and Padley, purveyors of fine timbers for the joinery trade. He had an infectious grin and loved his young daughter without reserve. His own mother, both his aunts, his sister, and several female cousins were all blessed with hair in varying shades of copper, so when he fell hopelessly in love with and married Barbara Phillips, herself a striking redhead, it came as little surprise to anyone in the Gordon family that their daughter was born with a mop of truly incandescent ginger curls.
The family home was a large Victorian red-brick country house full of passageways and interesting corners, where imaginary creatures lurked in darkened alcoves waiting to pounce. Celeste loved its outdated architecture and the smell of old woolly carpets. Its Gothic decorations were a delight and the house had a powerful and defining influence on her early childhood, allowing her vivid imagination to blossom.
Outside, the grounds ran to several unattended acres with the house encircled by mossy lawns. Gravel paths lined with low hedges intersected the abandoned vegetable gardens, all leading to the centre where an ancient corkscrew walnut dominated the formal plots. The convoluted limbs simply begged to be climbed and she was able to spy out the whole of her magical kingdom hidden amongst the foliage.
As an only child in a rural house, the potential for boredom had been of concern to her parents, but Celeste did not seem to mind the isolation and compensated by populating her world with imaginary characters who stood at her shoulder while she fought dragons and poked sticks into rustling anthills. Fortunately, the garden provided endless opportunities for healthy play and so her parents made the fatal assumption all was fine and under control. As it turned out, Ray and Barbara couldnât have been more wrong. They had no idea, no idea at all, that the tranquillity of home life was not exactly mirrored at Celesteâs school. Matters were moving to a head ...
Miss Rose Jelf, the most kindly of junior school teachers, shivered uncontrollably. Playground duty in February really sucked. She stamped her feet on the icy concrete and watched over her flock. At least the children shrugged off the biting cold. Young blood ran hot.
âSkip-py! Skip-py!â
A chant floated down the breeze and caught her attention. Children began to drift around the corner of the library. The shouting swelled ominously. Rose recognised the signs of trouble and scampered off to restore the peace.
âSkippy! Skippy!â screamed a ring of nylon anoraks. Rose, seriously height-challenged as she was, couldnât exactly see what was going on in the centre of the swirling crowd so caught Bobby Dukes as he ran past.
âWhatâs going on, Robert?â
âItâs Skippy, Miss Jelf!â
âSkippy?â
âCeleste Gordon,
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