Sarah on Floor Ten - The Blue Pill Chronicles

Sarah on Floor Ten - The Blue Pill Chronicles Sarah on Floor Ten - The Blue Pill Chronicles

Status: Finished

Genre: Humor

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Humor

Summary

A one-toothed scumbag, a posh hotel room and an interrupted evening collide as Brenda Borg must have sex with peerless Geordie laughter lady Sarah Millican. Not for pleasure though. She's under orders to do it - her feckless husband will die otherwise. Imagine!

Summary

A one-toothed scumbag, a posh hotel room and an interrupted evening collide as Brenda Borg must have sex with peerless Geordie laughter lady Sarah Millican.

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

Content

Submitted: October 17, 2012

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: October 17, 2012

A A A

A A A


 

 

 

Sarah on Floor Ten

THIS STORY IS FICTIONAL

 

My instincts were loud and clear – don’t trust this guy.

He had arrived at my hotel door, knocking, telling me he had been sent up to fix the TV.

I declined, said I was about to take a shower, to come back later.

But he shoved the door when I tried to close it.

I could smell his preparation - cigarettes, whiskey – right away.

Now I – in my dressing gown – sit neatly on a chez longue, hands clasped, as he paces around the room, half searching, half crackling with energy.

I’m scared, annoyed.

I tried to tell him my husband would be -

“Bullshit woman – your husband is drinking Bollinger with a bunch of businessmen.”

He turns to me – “Do not lie to me, okay? Do not lie.”

He tips his head back, a little bit menacing.

What is his game?

He’s maybe 65, Brummy, tall, good shoes, a suit, a comb-over marinated in grease and dye.

There’s a buck tooth, singular, pointing right at me. He’s the ugliest thing in the room, overtaking what lay beneath my gown (I hadn’t had a wax in a while).

I had been going to shower, to get a treatment, to meet my husband in Manchester’s best French restaurant, to catch a late show, to dance, to screw.

Here I am, on the cusp of a long-awaited night, in one of the best rooms in the best hotel in the city and –

“Your husband is not credible, no need for you to be the same, eh?”

“What are you on about? Who are you?”

“Your husband is a liar, a thief - he’s on the make with some people he shouldn’t be. We think it’s time he was embarrassed.”

A big smile, that accusing yellow enamel, the face of a Bondian henchman.

“Who is ‘we’?”

“We who take an interest in these things.”

The door knocks.

 

The henchman’s pal shoved a woman inside, also in a dressing gown.

She stumbles, falls on the floor.

Toothy looked at me, then to his shorter, younger, better-faced mate.

“Where did you get her?”

“Room next door.”

The woman looks around, straight at me – it was Sarah Millican.

My eyes light up.

“What – the – fuck -...” she says.

Shorty hushed her.

Sarah looks at me, begins to stand up.

I shrug.

“I have no idea,” I say. “That ugly wanker just pushed his way into my room.”

“Sit down,” he says to her, “sit right down and shut up.”

Sarah sits beside me.

I looked at her. Lovely skin. “This isn’t some hidden camera show or something?” I ask.

She scowls. “I can promise you it’s not, love. Not one that I know about anyway.”

“I have tickets to see you tonight.”

“Oh do you – ah, that’s nice. I was looking forward to it until bastard Odd-Job here knocked my door.”

He turns from his mumbling chat with toothy, guessing he was being talked about. He’s tightly packed into his suit, sweating a little around the brow.

“Shut up,” he says, his midlands accent chopping the air.

I whisper: “Can I just say, I think you are just the best comedian in....”

“SHUT UP.”

Toothy pounds over, grabs my arm, yanks me back, hard.

“Gowns off, both of you, on the rug, simulating sex – NOW.”

Sarah is not happy, not with the order, not with the assault on my arm.

“Listen to me, you dentist-dodging prick-”

“No – you listen to me,” he says, his big hand up, pointing. “This bitch’s husband is in a bar half a mile from here. When he walks out, he is going to get his fucking head kicked in.

“If by then you two are not stuck together like slugs, that kicking will not stop – do you understand?”

Silence. A coldness in the room.

“Get to it. We take pictures, stick them on the net, your husband tells the press he took them and posted them, his career’s over.

“Neither of you two tarts will say anything to anybody about it. And if you don’t like any of this, her bastard husband dies – got it?”

 

“They clearly have no idea you are Sarah Millican,” I whisper, kissing her ear, my hand breaching the top of her pants.

“Do you think not? Would it make any difference?”

“It’ll complicate things for them when the pictures go on the web, with you being a celebrity.”

“It’ll complicate things for my husband, I can tell you that.”

“Thank you for doing this,” I say.

One camera flashes, one camera films, as we press against each other on the sheepskin rug.

Our legs open and we are kissing, holding each other, a mutual awkwardness, a mixed-up sense of warmth, despair, confusion, fear.

I heard Toothy whisper, “If I was a younger man...”

And then Oddjob, “I’d rather watch than join in. I’ve got some pills you know, if you need a lift?”

I rolled over on top of Sarah, cupping a breast. She looks up: “No pills – just take your pictures.”

“How much longer?” I ask.

“Shut up,” says Toothy. “You just go down town girls.”

Sarah, for the first time, gave a tiny chuckle. “Down town,” she says, “listen to that stupid toothy git.”

He said nothing in return.

“Him and his pickle stabber,” she says.

Sarah and I roll over, her on top.

We kiss, then me on top.

Then once more – and our eyes meet, they flick to the door, we are getting close.

We roll once more, our uninvited guests enjoying the hot mess too much to see it coming.

And we are on our knees, pressing breasts, tongues.

And then we go for it.

 

We scream in the corridor as we hold the door closed.

A man helps, then another, then a member of staff.

We are given hotel dressing gowns as we wait for police to arrive.

We are led away as they smash into the room.

“Imagine they jumped out the window,” says Sarah.

“Ten floors. I hope they did.”

“Can you imagine if he caught his tooth on something on the way down. It’d be messy.”

She’s right.

 

We both make calls to our husbands.

Mine asks if I can get copies of the footage.

 

(that was made up)


© Copyright 2018 Brenda Borg. All rights reserved.

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