Nine Hours to Fry - The Blue Pill Chronicles

Nine Hours to Fry - The Blue Pill Chronicles Nine Hours to Fry - The Blue Pill Chronicles

Status: Finished

Genre: Humor


Status: Finished

Genre: Humor


Overgrown lady parts, a bad bra and outright fear collide as Brenda Borg races to have sex with all-round genius Stephen Fry. Not for pleasure though. She's under orders to do it - her feckless husband will die otherwise. Imagine!


Overgrown lady parts, a bad bra and outright fear collide as Brenda Borg races to have sex with all-round genius Stephen Fry.

Not for pleasure though. She's under orders to do it - her feckless husband will die otherwise. Imagine!


Submitted: October 16, 2012

A A A | A A A


Submitted: October 16, 2012





Nine Hours to Fry




I’m sitting in Belfast’s George Best Airport with a black-and-white name badge just above my weakest tit.

Brenda - Can I Help You?

People keep reading it.

I stink of chips. My greasy hair is up.

I’m wearing my black skirt and flat shoes and stained white blouse and bad bra.

Everyone has a bag or a briefcase, a laptop or a file or a tablet, all ready for lift off.

I have no coat, a passport, my mobile, a receipt for 12 boxes of peas, a Viagra tablet.

I hate myself.

I have to go to London to have sex with Stephen Fry.

Like this, coated with fat and vinegar.

As if my chances weren’t slim enough.

I started with nine hours. Now I have eight hours and ten minutes.

Time is flying.

A student reads my badge.

My tit looks like it’s been punctured.

I’m not a MILF. I’m a MIDWF.

If there’s a bomb on this plane I hope it’s under my fucking seat.


The nursery closes at six.

They charge fifty quid an hour overtime.

And it’s half two and I’m leaving the country.

I’ll be late.

But I can’t even tell them I’m going to be late. I can’t tell anyone anything.

My next phone call must be to confirm that I am in the act of having full sex with Stephen Fry, no exceptions.

A woman stays cool as she struggles to shut that thick aeroplane door.


Now I think about it, I once rang someone before when I was having sex.

He was from a dysfunctional family.

I said, at his request, ‘I am a wild whore and I’m sitting on your son’s cock.’

It made his day. He damn near rid me off the planet.


I put on my seat belt as a woman with bolted-on tits puts on a life jacket and fixes her hair.

I can’t imagine what having sex with Stephen Fry would be like. Big? Gentle? Thoughtful? Sordid?

Sweet brains, sweet brawn.

From memory, Fry once said something like sex was all about ‘smelly juices and furry bits’ and that he wasn’t really into it.

Unfortunately, I have the above.

I really have to start thinking how I am going to talk him into doing this.

Assuming, of course, I can get anywhere near him.

We take wing.

I take a paper cup of tea from a distressed Pole.



In the taxi, 4pm.

I have until 10.31pm to get this done, to save my husband’s life.

Yet I am strangely positive that I have enough time to arrange for this most intimate act with a stranger.

“You don’t by any chance know where Stephen Fry lives?”

“Stephen Fry? The comedian?”

“Yes. Et al.”

“Don’t know that, sorry. He live in London?”

“I fucking hope so. Is there anyone you could ask?”

“Ask if he lives in London?”


“You’re best going through an agent or something.”

I lean forward.

“Please help. A man’s life depends on it.”

He called someone.

West Hampstead, north west London.

He dropped me off on West End Lane, mumbling.


I should write a poem. Oh great Fry, something.

Or write a dirty poem. Fuck me Fry, something.

The nursery ring. I cut the call, I’m not in.

I find a postman.

“Hi, I’ve got a delivery from Stephen Fry, you know the guy off the TV?”

“Wot? Stephen Fry? Yeh.”

“Think he lives around here somewhere?”


“You know where?”

“No. Don’t fink he does.”


“Fink he did, but he don’t now.”


Oh Fry, unleash the unwieldy stake.

Lash the unleashed beast ‘gainst my lathe.

Carv’d post refined, refining...


“You right, luv?”

“Yeah, thanks. Sorry.”



Three hours and four minutes.

My husband, the electrician.

The moron.

The maniac.

The dickwad.

My husband, shagging the wife of Greek gangster, unloading, de-greasing, on black silken Greek sheets.

Caught, sleeping at her side by the Greek, and beaten like an egg.

My husband is sitting now, waiting, praying his wife is successful on the pull.

He’s hoping I succeed in the unlikely challenge of getting a length, Stephen Fry’s schlong, slipped up me.

It will save his life.

It will keep my son’s father alive.

I am not being flippant.

I am resigned.


There’s a bit of ground and I sit on it. My heart has a steadier, firmer beat now.

I do some breathing, proper breathing, and try to think.

My absolute first goal is to find Fry, then I’ll deal with the circumstances as they are.

If he’s not in London, then that’s it. Kaput.

If he is, I must have him.

Find him, flatter him, fuck him.

That wouldn’t work.

Find him, fatten him, fuck him.

Find him, cosh him, flail him.

London smells of London, old and grinding, clean but getting dirty.

It makes me feel horny.

Cities are horny.

I’m a mess.

I pull out the mobile.

Stuff... stuff... stuff... there’s an exhibition of Fry’s greatest quips at the Barbican.... a lecture about self-deprecation focusing on the work of Fry at Covent Garden... there’s some dancers bringing his mind to the stage of the Theatre Royal...


And tonight Fry is starring in When Holmes met Hercule at Trafalgar Studios.

I get up, excited.

Scared, horny.


The Greek maniac had called me to his house this morning.

I went straight from the cafe, from breakfast.

He had blood on his shoes, on the front and sides of his shoes.

His footprints led to my husband

I hadn’t seen him before, the way I saw him.

Broken face, broken nose, broken eyes, broken man.

I feel like fainting now, as I think back.

I feel like being sick.

“Your husband has told my wife over dinner that you like Stephen Fry.”


“You heard exactly the words that I said.” He looked at his watch.

You have nine hours to have sex with Stephen Fry, with your vagina.”


“Starting now. Or I will kill your husband.”


“There is no way out of this but to be successful in this quest.”

“I can’t...”

“You have nine hours, until 10.31pm.”

I believed him.



Outside the theatre, 8.44pm.

I am sweaty, sticky. My breath is rank. I look like shit, a minger, a stinker, a hound.

I couldn’t eat my dinner in front of me.

My feelings about my husband are so incredibly mixed-up at this minute, I can’t even think.

I will cry if I think about my son, inexplicably abandoned.

My head hurts, my soul hurts.

The show has started and it’s sold out.

I walk in.

A few are milling around. I fix my hair, into the toilets.

I can’t piss. I splash my face. I look like warm, glowing, throbbing shit.

A woman comes in. She’s 40, kind, likes gin.

I listen to her spray, to her feet shuffling.

“Enjoying the show?”


She wipes and comes out.

“Enjoying the show?”

“Me? Oh yes, very much. You?”

“I can’t get in. Lost my ticket.”

“Oh what a shame. Can’t they...”

“Can I have yours? Your stub?”

“Oh, no - stub? Sorry, no. I’m...”

“A big fan, yes. How much do you want for it?”

“How much? No, you see...”

“My husband will be murdered if I don’t get in.”



I wrap her scarf around my neck, allowing one end to drape over my lesser tit.

I flash the ticket stub and I’m in.

Air cushions, a kind of rich fart, as the door swings closed. Silence. The bright stage.

Fry is sitting, legs crossed, on a chair.

His eyebrows and mouth all pull together. They spring open.

Something like a small smile slips onto his face.

Poirot has just realised something.

The audience love it.

I’ve missed something important.

“16C, madam,” whispers the usher. “Straight ahead, to the right.”

“Yes - just going.”

But I can’t go back and sit beside someone’s husband or daughter or friend, wearing this scarf.

I walk down the aisle, straight for the stage, fixed on the large mock-moustachioed, spotlit, leggy, shiny-haired man in the leather armchair ahead of me.

A giant Poirot, deep in thought. An egghead, THE egghead.

I suddenly feel like I’m trespassing.

He turns to his left, then looks back in front, as if right at me.

“Quel imbecile que je suis!”, and he slaps the side of his head.

I might rush the stage, but no good.

I might... Jesus, fuck... walking, walking... here comes the stage.

Just who is Holmes in this thing if Fry is Poirot?



I turn right, towards a lit exit sign. I walk strong, fast, confident.

I push through the door.

Straight to the bar, no customers there. I grab a tray off the end. A barman looks over.

“Two gin and tonics, please.”

“Two G&T’s coming up.”

I see a door that might work, that might lead somewhere backstage. A man is standing by it, texting.

I collect my drinks, on the tray, and walk. I pull open the scarf, flick my namebadge up, as I get to the door.

He looks up.

“Did you request these, sir?”

“No. Are you staff?”

“Agency. I’m Brenda. Drinks to be left for a Stephen Fly.”

He looked at my sleepy tit and laughed a bit.

“Stephen FRY.”

He pulls the door open.

“Yes, Fry. Thanks.”

I go. The door closes.


“Hi, these are for My Fry?”

“Oh, that’s fine. Just leave them there.”

“They’re to be in his dressing room apparently.”

“Oh, yeah, second on right down there. Just leave them on the table outside.”



He’s enigmatic, Fry. Big brained and kind. He’s oddly slick, a welcome and unsmug know-it-all. He’s radical establishment, norming deviation.

His dressing room says Stephen Fry on the door. It’s locked.

There are cards, flowers, a couple of small packages on the table, a bottle of something important.

Can I get into this man’s pants inside 87 minutes?

I will save my husband’s life.

And then I will kill my husband.

I may already have killed the woman in the toilets.

What a fucking day.


I get under the table and hide. The tablecloth covers me. I will stay quiet.

A pair of big calves pass.

I don’t even have an opening line.

I feel like a child, like I wish someone would pick me up and hug me, tell me it’s all right.

More people pass.

Then more, a little urgently.

Then I hear them, the audience. They are happy, delighted.

It’s the intermission.

It’s 9.34pm.

Fifty-seven minutes.

I hear chatting.

Laughing close by.

I hear Fry’s voice, batting back some compliment, refusing honesty.

Now his feet, big feet, black patent Poirot spatz.

He stops at the door, scanning the table.

He picks something, maybe the wine.

I hear a rustle.

He’s fishing for his wallet – no, his key.

The door handle.

I’m out, somehow, fast, standing up, looking at him.

His hair, a slicked back sheen, his twirling moustache on the big face.

“Whoa – caught me by surprise there!”

“I’m sorry, sorry. I have a private message for you.”

“Okay, right. I’m just going into...”

“I know, please – let me come in for a second.”

“I think...”

“Please. Seriously. Please.”

I hold out my empty hands. I am weak, exhausted looking. I’m no threat, no crazy.

And I add it: “I’m not crazy.”

He smiles, looks to one side, someone is looking. He waves at them, steps away, allows me in.

He follows, closes the door.

“Let’s make it quick if you don’t mind.”

“Here’s the score.”



I explain.

I’m animated, maybe too desperate.

I end with, “And you can do whatever you want.”

“My God,” he says. “Your poor husband. That really is intolerable. Have you told the police?”

I explain that I can’t, that I believe the Greek completely.

“Terrible, it really is. But this is a matter for them, the police, really.”

I hold up my mobile, the home screen – a picture of my son.

He is beautiful, holding a toy car, smiling, the sun on his face.

“I swear to you,” I say, “on this child’s life, that I am telling you the truth, that my husband will be dead within minutes if you do not help me.

“I’m sorry, so sorry – but I have no choice but to put you through this crazy... ness.”

 I add: “I have some blue pills though.”

Stephen Fry looks at me, down at me, his eyes sympathetic, his perfectly-manicured, shining Poirot moustache is rigid.

“Will you excuse me,” he says, and steps past me.

He leaves.

I am shocked. I don’t know why. I sit down, where I am, on the floor in his dressing room, amid flowers and blusher and wax.

I leave it to fate.



I have 41 minutes, and he walks back in, bold and confident.

The moustache is lopsided, his lips pursed.

There’s a large whiskey in his right hand. He throws it into him as the door clicks shut.

I look up at him, he looks magnificent, broad and strong.

He shakes his head, walks to an armchair and sits down.

He throws the glass to one side, it landing on a heap of dressing-room clothing.

He reaches up, twirls the end of the moustache, then rips it off, chucking it behind him.

We lock eyes.

I stand up, nervous, heart beating, and approach.

I lift my skirt, pull it over my thighs, somehow horny, ashamed.

My black thong, heavy and scented from the day’s work, the day’s fight.

“I have Viagra,” I say.

“I have a hard on,” he says. “I sent someone to get enhancements of my own.”

He reaches for my waste, pulls me in, and I stride him.

“But I brought...”

“Shhh... I might copulate with you madam, but I will not take your drugs.”

And I can feel he really is horny.

At 9.54pm we stop kissing.

He pulls back, stands up, lifting me, my legs locked around his powerful arse.

He sets me on the dressing table, vases clinking, make up rolling.

He pulls at my thong, I move to help him ease it off – and he strips it from me, leaving it dangling from one shoe.

I consider my muff, angry and unkempt.

I reach for his flies, he reaches for his wing collar.

I pull down the zip, undo the button above.

He pulls on his bow tie, ripping off his top button in his haste.

The hand goes down, fumbles, finds, pushes.

I seize his post, his full piece, his wildest part, and I know it is unstoppable.

He brings it close, and I can feel it touch me.

His big-brained head pulls in close, right to my ear.

He braces, his hand rhythmically caressing my moisture, up and down, sliding evenly and freely between the lips.

I can hear him breathing...

“Is this what you want, Brenda?”

And he pushes from the waist, spreading and filling, occupying and taking...


He is slow, so confident, so close, loving, hot, brilliant, bad.

“I have to...”


“I have to...”


“I have to... take a picture...”


In that image, for some biological reason or other, we are both smiling.

He is holding the camera at arm’s length, capturing the bulbs of his dressing table, the flowers around us.

His pants at half mast, his staff half way in.

My smile says something like, “No problem – mission accomplished.”

His says something like, “Life is indeed a strange and wonderful thing.”

Rodger that.



He watched as I sent the image.

He waited until a reply came from the Greek – it read ‘Okay.’

And Fry left me, my back against his mirror, a bead of sweat on my lip. He fixed his trousers, his moustache, became Hercule Poirot once again, and exited my life.

He told me I must go, he asked me not to share the image with anyone else.

“Never,” I say. “And thank you.”

He nods.

“My pleasure.”


I retrieved my son from a carer and my husband from a driveway.

We went to hospital, all silent.

“Thank you,” said my husband, wired up, wrapped-up and fresh-blooded. “You did an extraordinary thing.”

“I know,” I say. “You genuinely, absolutely, fucking totally do not deserve me.”


(that was completely made up)

© Copyright 2021 Brenda Borg. All rights reserved.

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