Chunnel Curds and Whey
By Toot Oot
Ms. Penelope Muffet fashioned her crestentoid hair piling, precisely into place with her inherited heirloom set of two lengthy pins, decorated in jewels more worthy of Queen Victoria at her coronation than an ancestral madam serving time in Holloway prison. Penelope erotically fantasized, fingering her ivory and silver lined cameo locket shaped as a beastly spider. Ms. Agnes Forester’s diary mentioned the gift as arriving from Her Majesty’s East Indian Company Ambassador and noted Arachnologist, Lord Chamberplishner who had gotten her released in exchange for lifetime, sexual favors.
Ms. Muffet nor her Mumsie nor Grams ever spoke in polite company of Grams’ Great Grannie Forester, whose Victorian brothel, “The Charge of the Light Brigade”, edged Drury Lane’s Covent Garden district. Oral rumors passed down spoke of Saturday nights including a ceremonial canon single shot from the castle roof where naked male clients at full staff got primed for later intercourse firings while singing, “God Save the Queen”.
In that hypocritical age of stagnant social mobility, hidden sexuality, vulgar new money in one generation, diligently matured within two generations into old money and societal priviledge once well invested with charity tastefully offered.
Ms. Muffet might have relished her Parisian clothing with accessories and dining of lighter cuisine, but ahead lay the green of England past the undersea journey from Calais to Folkestone. Covent Garden’s sanity was better than Paris’s insanity to an Englishwoman.
Penelope was fancying a decent cup of tea when her compartment went black. This did not alarm the poised lady of trained etiquette. It simply would not be allowed to be ruffled by something so trite. In the dark, Ms. Muffet became aware of giant hairy hands and legs pushing her thighs apart. Well, this would never do, so she attempted to push this interloper away post haste. The presumed man messaged his toffee treacle tentacles higher and higher until breaching her nest.
The private compartment with drawn drape darkness muffled Penelope’s shriek of rape from rescue. Having become regretfully a spinster, the violation of her neglected vagina brought initial pain followed by unexpected guilty pleasure webbing up her body. It was not the fantasy she had dreamt of at all, but stiff upper lip.
Penelope mindlessly chanted a nursery rhyme she not given a second thought to since her childhood, school days.
“Little Miss Muffet
Sat on a tuffet,
Eating her curds and whey;
Along came a spider,
Who sat down beside her,
And took Miss Muffet’s hymen away.”
Penelope giggled sardonically with a tart’s angry release before regaining her poise. This may not be considered attractive or proper in a woman of her age, but understandable. Taking his cue that the last scene and act of the play had been completed the beast withdrew from Penelope as the lights returned. Her hairy rapist morphed into a disgusting spider. Ms. Muffet slowly let her hair down, smiled iniquitously, spearing the spider beside her with both hair pins and devouring him as if he where curds and whey.