Wednesday round up

 

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Hi Everyone

  Here we are with a large Wednesday round up, featuring lot's of our old friends and favourites.

  So straight on with the fun.

XXX

Andy

   First up we have a couple of sweet translations by our dear friend Morgane Girlie, who has be responsible for all these super translations. 

Now a blog favourite Amanda Holden makes a welcome return. The beautiful TV and Radio presenter turned heads as she walked to the studios last week wearing these beautiful wine red leather pants.

Next up another little video featuring our Andy on the big screen, this time in a world I really love, that of the golden age of Hollywood glamour.

  And now, the main feature of any Wednesday round up, some brilliant Fiction. So here it is Chapter three of Mistress LeatherBeth's wonderful story.

The Spy Who Came Into the Pavilion

Chapter 3

By Mistress Leather Beth

Gary collected his thoughts for a few seconds before getting out of the Mazda and approaching the front door of The Grange. His pressure on the doorbell seemed to have taken someone by surprise, judging by the sound of breakages within. But a few seconds later the door was opened by Belinda, carrying a dustpan and brush.

“Yeth?” was all Belinda managed to say before recognising the visitor.

“Ah, Haskins,” said George. “There’s a problem, I presume?”

“Quite a problem,” replied Gary. “You’ve had no other visitors this morning, I take it?”

George barely had an opportunity to shake his head when there was the sound of movement upstairs.

“Belinda! Who’s that at the door at this time?” Magdalena’s voice, steel-edged, came clearly from the upper floor, though she herself was out of sight.

“Haskins, dear,” replied George.

“Kerry or Gary?”

“It’s Gary, Mrs C. I’m afraid we have a problem.”

“Gary, dear,” said Izzy, popping her head around the top of the landing and smiling down on them, while taking all the sharpness from her tone. “It seems like ages since we saw you. George, take Gary into the study, where you can have your discussion in private. Gary, have you eaten?”

“I called on Mum on the way here, so I’m fine, thanks.”

With that, he and George went down a corridor and entered a room near the centre of the house. Quite a special room. When Izzy had said ‘in private’ she hadn’t simply been using a turn of phrase. George Cooper’s study was swept for bugs at least weekly, sometimes more often, and was protected by state of the art technology. Anyone considering a little industrial (or other) espionage would be in for a rude awakening.

“Very well, Haskins. What are we looking at?” asked George, as he sat down at a dressing table and proceeded to begin to ‘remove’ Belinda, explaining that there’d been a change of identity plans for the rest of Saturday, due to umpiring commitments.

“It’s Yevgeny.”

“You’ve spoken to him? He’s been in touch?”

“I’ve had a text,” replied Gary, “a long text on the encrypted number. He’s supposedly on his way here to speak to you. Apparently, he’s having serious trouble with Жosimov.”

“Well, he certainly hasn’t arrived here yet. What sort of trouble?”

“For a start, it isn’t Жosimov.”

“What isn’t Жosimov? You’re talking in riddles.”

“The person we’ve been instructing Yevgeny to contact. It isn’t Жosimov.”

“I’m still hearing riddles,” said George, opening a new bottle of cleanser and working with extra vigour on the ‘slap’.

“Either accidentally or, more likely deliberately, we’ve been led to believe that the name ‘Жosimov’ is the identity of our VIP contact,” explained Gary.

“And which name should we have been using?” asked George, removing the last traces of Blueberry Pop eyeshadow (a shade which Kerry had been favouring until Pam taught her new little girl some taste).

“Жosimova,” replied Gary.

“What’s that? A one letter difference? I hardly see the need for all this panic.”

“I rather think that panic, or at least action, is vital,” said Gary. “You see, the individual we’ve been trying to get up close and personal with is actually Colonel Olga Ludmilla Dmitrovna Жosimova.”

“A woman?”

“An Executive Officer in the FSB.”

There was a silence for some time while George took this in. Indeed, it wasn’t until after a quick shower and change of clothes that finally George, by now tying his cricket club tie, swore.

“Cat’s arse and cabbage! We could be in for just a tiny spot of bother here. Who’d have thought that a simple attempt to defraud Vladimir Putin out of the odd billion (US) would result in his people turning round and trying to double cross us? Gary, my boy, this is going to be fun.”

“Whatever you say, Mr C., whatever you say.” replied Gary, noting the gleam in George Cooper’s eye.

Even while George and Gary discussed this new information, Will was finding himself in the middle of a domestic crisis at the Fullerton Arms. The iron had given up the ghost.

In the matter of cricket wear, Kat favoured traditional whites. They may, by the end of the game, be covered with grass stains and, possibly, a red mark on the bum of any player tasked with shining the ball, but Kat felt that nothing looked better at the start of the game than a perfect, knife edge crease, and a nice tight bum. And JoJo had no objection whatsoever to Kat’s nice tight bum. By contrast, JoJo preferred the short pleated cream skirt, with socks over the knee, (and Kat really liked JoJo in a short, pleated cream skirt). And to get those creases and pleats straight and crisp was a task for the iron. In truth, the girls were fussing over nothing, and they knew they were, as they only had to pop downstairs and borrow an iron from Josie. But they were stressing a little, and allowing themselves to panic, due to pre match nerves.

This changed, however, when Will finally managed to get a word in edgeways with his offer to play if there were any vacancies. And when he included ‘a decent googly’ in his CV, Kat gave him a big hug.

“Will, you’re a lifesaver. We’re down to the bare bones, between holidays and the start of the harvest. Derrington are no better off, as far as I can work it out, so you might swing the game. No pressure, of course, Will.”

“Is there no registration period?” he asked.

“Will. Come on. This is the South West Surrey Combination, not the Indian Premier League. Fifty overs, no bowling restrictions. One thirty start. Be at the ground at midday for a warmup net. Alice is the Secretary. She’ll let you have a registration form to sign then. Will Andy be coming along?”

“O, yes. He’ll be there. And Jane.”

“Well, if Jane’s there, the vicar won’t be far behind. He does seem just a little bit less reticent since I had my word with him a couple of weeks ago. I’m pleased”

”By the way,” said Will. “Who do we have for umpire? Anyone I know?”

“Each club supplies one. For us, George Cooper has made himself available, in case Derrington try on any of their funny business. He’s a no nonsense umpire. Very strict. Don’t confuse him with Belinda.”

“Fair enough,” said Will. He made his way back down the stairs to the car park, just in time to almost bump into two new arrivals, although both Alice Aldridge and Chloe looked remarkably different from when he’d last seen them the previous evening. No latex or fetish bondage paraphernalia to be seen, just jeans, trainers and tshirts.

He gave the girls a smile, then looked up and noticed that, whilst he could no longer see the Civic in the pub car park, a red Audi A5 Cabriolet he’d not seen before was occupying the same position.

Its occupant, a dark haired, imposing looking woman, was busy on her phone, and the tinted windows meant that Will had no chance of spotting that the driver of the Civic was stretched out behind her on the rear seat. Unconscious.

Jane, having showered, changed and taken proper care of her ice blue dress, noted that the door of Andy and Will’s room was slightly open. She looked in and found Andy at his dressing table, meticulously making himself beautiful. He was currently concentrating on his cleavage, subtly working the brush to enhance his breasts, as Jane entered the room.

“Andy, dear, how are you? I thought that you and Will might have a lie in this morning, after last night’s excitement. Where is Will, by the way?

Andy’s jaw had dropped slightly. “Will? Oh, he’s erm... he’s gone to see Kat.”

“Kat? Why on earth...?”

“She’s the captain of the cricket team, and, um, Will was wondering if, um, she might have a place in the, er, team for him.”

“Ah, yes” said Jane, “I see. We were talking about today’s game the other day. He mentioned that he’d brought his cricket bag with him, just in case he could get a knockabout. Andy, dear, are you all right? You’re sat there with your mouth half open and stumbling over your words.”

“It’s just your new..., they are new…?”

The penny dropped. “You like them?” asked Jane, twisting to peer over her shoulder at her rear end. “Dear Dodo normally only does them in black, but as a special favour to an old friend she made these for me in cream. I think they’re simple enough for watching the cricket, don’t you?” said Jane, referring to her fantastic pair of leather shorts (that’s fantastic as in ‘soft’ and ‘Tight’ and ‘SHORT!’).

Andy had become something of an avid reader of fashion magazines, and realised that Jane’s ‘old friend’ would be none other than Dodo Bar Or, and that the shorts would normally retail at over £500.

“They’re amazing,” he said.

“Yes,” said Jane, “and I think I know just which pair of boots to put with them.”

Drawing his attention back from Jane’s wardrobe, Andy asked “Did Mayfield get home safely last night? How is he?”

“Mayfield? Oh, we sat up most of the night, chatting. He’ll be fine. But after last night’s accident, I wouldn’t be surprised if this bright sunshine didn’t give him a headache so, to be on the safe, I’ve left him my pair of RayBans from my bag. Oh, was that the door? Will, is that you?”

Colonel Olga Ludmilla Dmitrovna Жosimova (for it was she) was just about to relocate the Audi when a distinctly familiar character stepped out of the front door of the Vicarage. The Hawai’ian shirt, the cargo shorts, the sandals, the dark glasses and, particularly, the unmistakable limp; if she remembered correctly, the last time she’d seen him was as he was (slowly) fleeing the fire in the breakfast room of the Hotel Turbine in Yekaterinburg back in 2019. It was, surely, none other than her arch enemy, Todor Hristovich Boytchev of Bulgarian State Intelligence, otherwise known as Agent TB12.