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Venus Verticordia
- Thread starter Wragg
- Start date
Wragg, don't 'Bogart that joint'!!! Great story!!!
Tree
Tree
Here's an old fashioned, romantic, but vaguely on-topic interlude
There could never be
A portrait of my love
For nobody could paint a dream
You will never see
A portrait of my love
For miracles are never seen.
Anyone who sees her, soon forgets the Mona Lisa
It would take I know, a Michelangelo
And he would need the glow of dawn that paints the sky above
To try and paint a portrait of my love
It would take I know, a Michelangelo
And he would need the glow of dawn that paints the sky above,
To try and paint a portrait of my love
Repertor
Artifex Imaginum
A beautiful poetic description... with a little poetic freedom.
Where has he learned that?
Send Repertor to 1895 to buy a book for her.
Repertor
Artifex Imaginum
Bob the bungler.
If Repertor was surprised to see the future Countess of Cruxton joining the party he showed no sign of it. If Tree had but known it, Repertor was somewhat older than he looked, and had long since ceased to be shocked or surprised by anything.
Barb chatted to Tree about inconsequentialities en route to Rossetti’s studio, a fly on the wall would have believed them to be mere acquaintances, and would never have guessed at the wild sex in which they had been participating only hours before.
“Oh, Senator, just look at that hat!” She pointed out an innocent pedestrian as they passed as though she had committed a capital offence against headgear. “I wouldn’t even wear that to Ascot!”
“What or where is Ascot?”
“It’s a horse race.”
Tree loved women. As previously observed, he was a connoisseur of the female form and something of an expert in how to please them. But even he wouldn’t go so far as to say that he understood them. He considered asking what the hell hats had to do with horse racing, but at that moment the carriage swung through the gates and they drew into the yard which housed Rossetti’s studio.
There was a bit of a kerfuffle from inside as Repertor knocked, but after a short delay Mr Rossetti himself answered the door. Behind him Eulalia Wilding was rearranging her down, and behind her, still swaying slightly, was a large cross.
“Good morning Mr Repertor, Senator Tree….Good morning, Ma’am!” He took Barb’s hand. He loved women quite as much as Tree did, and Barb was one beautiful woman. You could almost see daggers flying out of Eulalia’s eyes.
“Mr Rossetti, may I present Miss Barbara Moore, engaged to the Earl of Cruxton?” Tree effected the introductions. Eulalia relaxed when she heard the word ‘engaged’,“Barb, this is Mr Dante Phlebas Rossetti.”
“Please, call me Phlebas! What can I do for you?”
“Well, Phlebas, my fiancé is a great admirer of your paintings, and I would like to present him with one as a wedding gift?”
“Well, I should be delighted, Miss Moore. I have one or two here, or would you prefer a commission?”
“Barb, please!” She looked around at the paintings, but nothing really appealed.
“Something a little more….personal, I think.” She stated.
“Could you paint her portrait?” suggested Tree.
Rossetti looked at him as though he’d uttered a profanity. “A PORTRAIT, sir? You come to the great Dante Phlebas Rossetti and ask him to paint a PORTRAIT? How dare you, sir?”
Tree looked nonplussed, being completely unaware of art etiquette. “My apologies, I….”
Repertor coughed, discreetly. “Might I suggest….?”
All eyes turned to Repertor.
“Well, if Miss Moore is to be the Countess of Cruxton, how about a painting showing some crux? Performed in a classical style, I see the Countess, on her cross, perhaps with the Coliseum crowd in the background. ‘The Martyred Queen’, perchance.”
Barb looked shocked. “Me? On a cross?”
“Well, it was merely a suggestion….”
“Wearing what, pray?” there was a dangerous edge to her voice.
Repertor looked at her fine costume. “Perhaps you are slightly overdressed for the cross right now, but…”
“You want a great big picture of me, stark naked, on a cross, in the front hall of Cruxton Abbey? For every guest to see the moment they walk through the door?”
“Well, as I say, it was only…”
“Bloody good idea, Repertor! I think you’re a genius! ‘The Martyred Queen!’ I love it!”
Without another word, she began to shed her clothes. A lengthy procedure, for a 19th century lady, but soon accomplished, with a bit of enthusiasm, and a bit of help from a slightly bemused Eulalia.
Phlebas fetched a set of short steps, and he and Eulalia proceeded to crucify the naked Barb. Eulalia tied her wrists to the cross, and Phlebas did the same with her feet, so that her feet were tied flat against the wood of the cross.
She wriggled slightly, in an attempt to get comfortable, discovering in the process that ‘comfortable’ is not a word you can apply to any form of crucifixion.
“How do I look?” asked Barb, with a groan.
“You look truly splendid!” stated Rossetti, beginning to sketch. Tree, Eulalia, and Repertor nodded in agreement.
That was the moment when, with whistles blowing, about a dozen policemen burst into the studio.
Barb chatted to Tree about inconsequentialities en route to Rossetti’s studio, a fly on the wall would have believed them to be mere acquaintances, and would never have guessed at the wild sex in which they had been participating only hours before.
“Oh, Senator, just look at that hat!” She pointed out an innocent pedestrian as they passed as though she had committed a capital offence against headgear. “I wouldn’t even wear that to Ascot!”
“What or where is Ascot?”
“It’s a horse race.”
Tree loved women. As previously observed, he was a connoisseur of the female form and something of an expert in how to please them. But even he wouldn’t go so far as to say that he understood them. He considered asking what the hell hats had to do with horse racing, but at that moment the carriage swung through the gates and they drew into the yard which housed Rossetti’s studio.
There was a bit of a kerfuffle from inside as Repertor knocked, but after a short delay Mr Rossetti himself answered the door. Behind him Eulalia Wilding was rearranging her down, and behind her, still swaying slightly, was a large cross.
“Good morning Mr Repertor, Senator Tree….Good morning, Ma’am!” He took Barb’s hand. He loved women quite as much as Tree did, and Barb was one beautiful woman. You could almost see daggers flying out of Eulalia’s eyes.
“Mr Rossetti, may I present Miss Barbara Moore, engaged to the Earl of Cruxton?” Tree effected the introductions. Eulalia relaxed when she heard the word ‘engaged’,“Barb, this is Mr Dante Phlebas Rossetti.”
“Please, call me Phlebas! What can I do for you?”
“Well, Phlebas, my fiancé is a great admirer of your paintings, and I would like to present him with one as a wedding gift?”
“Well, I should be delighted, Miss Moore. I have one or two here, or would you prefer a commission?”
“Barb, please!” She looked around at the paintings, but nothing really appealed.
“Something a little more….personal, I think.” She stated.
“Could you paint her portrait?” suggested Tree.
Rossetti looked at him as though he’d uttered a profanity. “A PORTRAIT, sir? You come to the great Dante Phlebas Rossetti and ask him to paint a PORTRAIT? How dare you, sir?”
Tree looked nonplussed, being completely unaware of art etiquette. “My apologies, I….”
Repertor coughed, discreetly. “Might I suggest….?”
All eyes turned to Repertor.
“Well, if Miss Moore is to be the Countess of Cruxton, how about a painting showing some crux? Performed in a classical style, I see the Countess, on her cross, perhaps with the Coliseum crowd in the background. ‘The Martyred Queen’, perchance.”
Barb looked shocked. “Me? On a cross?”
“Well, it was merely a suggestion….”
“Wearing what, pray?” there was a dangerous edge to her voice.
Repertor looked at her fine costume. “Perhaps you are slightly overdressed for the cross right now, but…”
“You want a great big picture of me, stark naked, on a cross, in the front hall of Cruxton Abbey? For every guest to see the moment they walk through the door?”
“Well, as I say, it was only…”
“Bloody good idea, Repertor! I think you’re a genius! ‘The Martyred Queen!’ I love it!”
Without another word, she began to shed her clothes. A lengthy procedure, for a 19th century lady, but soon accomplished, with a bit of enthusiasm, and a bit of help from a slightly bemused Eulalia.
Phlebas fetched a set of short steps, and he and Eulalia proceeded to crucify the naked Barb. Eulalia tied her wrists to the cross, and Phlebas did the same with her feet, so that her feet were tied flat against the wood of the cross.
She wriggled slightly, in an attempt to get comfortable, discovering in the process that ‘comfortable’ is not a word you can apply to any form of crucifixion.
“How do I look?” asked Barb, with a groan.
“You look truly splendid!” stated Rossetti, beginning to sketch. Tree, Eulalia, and Repertor nodded in agreement.
That was the moment when, with whistles blowing, about a dozen policemen burst into the studio.
Tree really hates interruptions at times like this...
T
Ah yes, the constabulary took every opportunity
to keep up their whistle-blowing practice
Repertor
Artifex Imaginum
Repertor
Artifex Imaginum
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"“You look truly splendid!” stated Rossetti, beginning to sketch."
I always say that a woman's true beauty and nobility is best revealed by the cross.
Let me have a good look at you my dear lady.
It's not the first time I have worked on such a commission
"So, M'lady I trust you are pleased with your new portrait?"
tweeeeeeeeeeet!
Good Lord - the rozzers!
Repertor, some quick thinking required here old boy!
I always say that a woman's true beauty and nobility is best revealed by the cross.
Let me have a good look at you my dear lady.
It's not the first time I have worked on such a commission
"So, M'lady I trust you are pleased with your new portrait?"
tweeeeeeeeeeet!
Good Lord - the rozzers!
Repertor, some quick thinking required here old boy!
Repertor
Artifex Imaginum
Better some quick running
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It didn't occur to me the police may just be horny bastards and want to see the nude woman on the cross...
what did he needed this time?
Could beIt didn't occur to me the police may just be horny bastards and want to see the nude woman on the cross...
As they say
Quit reading ahead!
Barb looked down from her cross at a policeman. “Is it me,” she wondered, “or are policemen getting younger these days?” He looked barely old enough to shave. He couldn’t have been more than twenty.
The policeman also looked up at Barb, though he wasn’t looking at her eyes. This august custodian of law and order stared, wide-eyes, at her chest, and said “Cor, Blimey! ‘Ere, Stan! Look at this.”
“Flippin ‘eck!” agreed Stan. “Just take a dekko at them knockers!”
Unfortunately for them, their Sergeant was within earshot. “Oi!!! Will you two clowns stop gawping at that woman like a pair of lovelorn whippersnappers? Get her down!! NOW!!!”
“Yes, Sarge!” Stan fell over the steps that Rossetti had left nearby, but eventually got them and himself the right way up again, and climbed up and started picking at the knots securing her wrist.
“NUMBSKULLS!” bellowed Sarge, “Do her feet first! If you loose her wrists without untying her feet what do you think will happen? She ain’t got wings, you know! And cover ‘er up, fer Gawd’s sake! She ain’t decent, like that! Gawd Almighty, if ‘er indoors could see me now!”
“Sorry, Sarge!” and they fell over each other in their rush to fetch a blanket. Barb sighed, but she was conscious that her face was very red.
The sergeant lumbered over and regarded her, critically. “Oo do you fink you are, any road? Jesus Christ?” He crossed himself to ward off the results of his blasphemy.
“No, I don’t. Actually, next week I shall be the Countess of Cruxton!”
“Will you indeed, Miss? And next week, I shall be the King of Siam! Countess, eh? I suppose you think you’ll be dining with ‘er Majesty, next week, too? Well, Luv, I’ve got good news for you, because you are indeed going to be a guest of ‘er Majesty! You’re under arrest, you are, or you will be as soon as these two berks ‘ave sorted out those ropes!”
“Under arrest? What for?”
“Gross indecency. Two months ‘ard labour. If yer lucky!”
“But….but….my wedding!”
“There ain’t gonna be no wedding, sweetheart! Just mail bags for you to sew.”
The coppers were still fully occupied with the knots, but eventually they managed to get her down. She pulled the blanket tightly around herself, and glared into the eyes of the sergeant. “Now listen to me, my man! I was posing for a piece of high art, to be displayed in Cruxton Abbey, as a wedding gift for my husband. I realise that you will struggle to understand that, but let me assure you that it is all perfectly innocent and perfectly legal. So listen very carefully indeed. If you arrest me, as you suggest, my fiancé will see to it that you will spend the rest of your career directing the traffic in Piccadilly Circus! Is that understood?”
“Fiancé, my arse. You’re one of them slags from the Mile End Road, I’ll be bound. Nice try, lady. You can try that line on Old Slave! Take her away!”
“At least let me get dressed first! Who’s Old Slave?”
“That blanket will do! Get!”
“You’re making a big mistake! Who’s Old Slave?”
“GET!”
They manhandled her down the steps, and shoved her, roughly, into the back of a prison carriage. The door slammed shut behind her, and the carriage lurched into motion. Inside were Tree, Eulalia, and Rossetti.”
“Senator!” she cried. “What is happening?”
“We’ve all been arrested,” grumbled Tree. “It’s an outrage!”
“What for?”
“They think I’m a notorious criminal known as the ‘Racing Rodent’!”
“And they think Eulalia and I are his accomplices!” declared Rossetti. “Me! Dante Phlebas Rosetti! Why would I steal my own paintings?”
“I’m afraid,” commented Eulalia, “that the British policeman is not noted for his high standard of intelligence.”
“You don’t say?” muttered Tree.
“Anyway,” asked Barb, “Where’s Repertor?”
Stupidly, they all looked around the inside of the van. “I don’t know,” admitted Rossetti.” I haven’t seen him since before the police arrived.”
“BASTARD!” spat Tree. “The bastard!” he repeated. “He’s set us up!”
"Who's Old Slave?" asked Barb.
The policeman also looked up at Barb, though he wasn’t looking at her eyes. This august custodian of law and order stared, wide-eyes, at her chest, and said “Cor, Blimey! ‘Ere, Stan! Look at this.”
“Flippin ‘eck!” agreed Stan. “Just take a dekko at them knockers!”
Unfortunately for them, their Sergeant was within earshot. “Oi!!! Will you two clowns stop gawping at that woman like a pair of lovelorn whippersnappers? Get her down!! NOW!!!”
“Yes, Sarge!” Stan fell over the steps that Rossetti had left nearby, but eventually got them and himself the right way up again, and climbed up and started picking at the knots securing her wrist.
“NUMBSKULLS!” bellowed Sarge, “Do her feet first! If you loose her wrists without untying her feet what do you think will happen? She ain’t got wings, you know! And cover ‘er up, fer Gawd’s sake! She ain’t decent, like that! Gawd Almighty, if ‘er indoors could see me now!”
“Sorry, Sarge!” and they fell over each other in their rush to fetch a blanket. Barb sighed, but she was conscious that her face was very red.
The sergeant lumbered over and regarded her, critically. “Oo do you fink you are, any road? Jesus Christ?” He crossed himself to ward off the results of his blasphemy.
“No, I don’t. Actually, next week I shall be the Countess of Cruxton!”
“Will you indeed, Miss? And next week, I shall be the King of Siam! Countess, eh? I suppose you think you’ll be dining with ‘er Majesty, next week, too? Well, Luv, I’ve got good news for you, because you are indeed going to be a guest of ‘er Majesty! You’re under arrest, you are, or you will be as soon as these two berks ‘ave sorted out those ropes!”
“Under arrest? What for?”
“Gross indecency. Two months ‘ard labour. If yer lucky!”
“But….but….my wedding!”
“There ain’t gonna be no wedding, sweetheart! Just mail bags for you to sew.”
The coppers were still fully occupied with the knots, but eventually they managed to get her down. She pulled the blanket tightly around herself, and glared into the eyes of the sergeant. “Now listen to me, my man! I was posing for a piece of high art, to be displayed in Cruxton Abbey, as a wedding gift for my husband. I realise that you will struggle to understand that, but let me assure you that it is all perfectly innocent and perfectly legal. So listen very carefully indeed. If you arrest me, as you suggest, my fiancé will see to it that you will spend the rest of your career directing the traffic in Piccadilly Circus! Is that understood?”
“Fiancé, my arse. You’re one of them slags from the Mile End Road, I’ll be bound. Nice try, lady. You can try that line on Old Slave! Take her away!”
“At least let me get dressed first! Who’s Old Slave?”
“That blanket will do! Get!”
“You’re making a big mistake! Who’s Old Slave?”
“GET!”
They manhandled her down the steps, and shoved her, roughly, into the back of a prison carriage. The door slammed shut behind her, and the carriage lurched into motion. Inside were Tree, Eulalia, and Rossetti.”
“Senator!” she cried. “What is happening?”
“We’ve all been arrested,” grumbled Tree. “It’s an outrage!”
“What for?”
“They think I’m a notorious criminal known as the ‘Racing Rodent’!”
“And they think Eulalia and I are his accomplices!” declared Rossetti. “Me! Dante Phlebas Rosetti! Why would I steal my own paintings?”
“I’m afraid,” commented Eulalia, “that the British policeman is not noted for his high standard of intelligence.”
“You don’t say?” muttered Tree.
“Anyway,” asked Barb, “Where’s Repertor?”
Stupidly, they all looked around the inside of the van. “I don’t know,” admitted Rossetti.” I haven’t seen him since before the police arrived.”
“BASTARD!” spat Tree. “The bastard!” he repeated. “He’s set us up!”
"Who's Old Slave?" asked Barb.
A policeman's lot is not a happy one...
When an artist’s place of work must be a-raided (be a-raided)
A policeman must rely upon his wits (‘pon his wits)
His career has little chance to be upgraded (be upgraded)
If he looks too long upon the model’s tits (model’s tits)
His feelings he must absolutely smother (lutely smother)
He resists those twinvitations to have fun (to have fun)
I’ll take one consideration….with another (with another)
A policeman’s lot is not an ‘appy one (nappy one).
(I've never heard boobs called 'considerations' before
)