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From: "Yotna El'toub" <yotna_eltoub@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Now, B'aint that a Beauty! M'luv? [MF] [Parody] [Silly]  by Yotna El'toub
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Date: Thu, 26 Jan 2006 10:10:02 -0500
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{ASSM} Now, B'aint that a Beauty! M'luv? [MF] [Parody] [Silly]
                    by Yotna El'toub
-------------------------------------------------------------
WARNING: This story will contain situations and explicit
language of an adult nature and should be read only by those of
a legal age to do so. If you are a minor or object to stories of
an adult nature, LEAVE HERE IMMEDIATELY. Legal age local to the
author is 18+ please abide to your own local laws. Please note
and understand the content codes for this story.

The characters portrayed in this story are just that,
characters in my story.  Any similarities to real people are
purely coincidental and unintentional. The characters and
situations portrayed are pure fantasy; the author is keen to
state that in reality adult sexuality should remain only in the
adult world. Please do not allow or cause this story to fall in
to the hands of minors.
______________________________________________________________

Dedicated (if he likes it or not) to Kenny Gamera, who goaded
me into writing this :-)

Our story begins in a small mining village in the Yorkshire
Dales, an oddly and contentiously named village; but more of
that later. Much of the text is written in a parody of Northern
English accents. So if you are from the north of England, I
apologise in advance.

I am that oddest of beasts, the product of a true Northern lass
and a Southern jessie. True to form I live in the leafy suburbs
of the South. The fact that my mother was scouse, has
nothing to do with my attitude to Yorkshire, the poorer of the
Rose counties. I'm certain plenty of good things come from
Yorkshire, I'm just stuck to think of them at the moment. Heap
scorn on me as you will :-)

There will be breakout texts like this to comment on the
history and characters revealed. But the action will be
ruthlessly colloquial. So if 'I'm off t'pit, now thee mind
t'house whilst I earn't crust' offends you (as well it might)
stop reading now. I take no responsibility for apostrophes -
they will take on a life of their own. Please note this story is
written with out the aid of a safety net.

Our tale is set between the wars, and features several families.
The Frock's, a family who can trace there roots back to the very
beginning of the village. The Sluice's, local vagabonds and
rogues, and finally the Earp's, who run the only local watering
hole. The infamous 'Legless Donkey'.

Our story starts as Arthur Frock leaves home to start another
long and pointless day...

-------------------------------------------------------------

"I'll say fairtheewell Mather! 'Tis past t'hour when I should
be gan. Stop ut' twins playing wi' ferrets will yer. I'm well
feed up comin't 'ome only t'pick up ruddy fingers."

"Aye, lad, worry'st not t'express train come'st t'day so they can
gan an' tie summat t'tracks. It always makes 'em laff! Have a
g'day yer soft as shite t'waserk"

Ma Frock `ad a way wi' words.

Athur dons a second flat cap on't top o' his first 'un.

"Tis a cold 'un, Ma. Lumoxing brass monkeys wandering aroond
wi' welding rods, nay doubt".

Ha'way down't hill Arthur spots a wan lad. 'Tis wee Willy
deliverin' 'Ovis, ont' his bakery push bike.

"'Ere, wilt thou' be a g'ud 'un an sling us a round, Will!" calls
Arthur.

"Bog off Frock, yon bread is fer folk wi' brass, not the likes of
thee!"

Arthur pauses, an' considers li'bastards comment. Then as Willy
Earp enters Old Lilly's 'ovel he wanders over t'lads bike. Wi' a
smile that'ud strip paint, Arthur puts a clod-hopping size 11
boot on't rear wheel, an' bends it t'buggery.

"Enjoy ut' hill, bar't thee bike - yer cheeky B'stud."  he
steams, o'er his vicious grin.

Arthur walks on wi' ut'whistle ont' his lips, as day t'were
lookin' up already. Life t'were rough tho' - long days down't
in't dar'ness an' damp, cover'd in blood an' sweat. Screams
of ut' fellow man, hours of  pounding away wi'out result! Then
there t'were week days - even worser. T'brothel was shut...

Down't t'pit mining 'nthracite for rich jessies in
ut' South. Arthur spat lustily, trying to wash t'hated word
from his crack'd lips. Nowt t'were worse than t'Southerners, not
poofters, nor rozzers, no bleedin' Southerners took ut' biscuit.

To lighten hi' mood Arthur thought o' his proud t'Northern
roots. Aye t'wedded to ut'dales were t'Frocks. So long ha' they
been 'ere, that t'folk always greeted the wi' a cheery wave
an'...

'There's Frocking trouble, ont' legs'.

At least that wha' he thought ut' said - years in't t'mine 'ad
made him deef as yon' post.

He was now at t'head o' t'pit, an' once more 'is 'eart of oak
sunk low. Arthur grunted a traditional greeting t' other miners.

"Sad lot o' c'nts youses are".

Arthur grimaced ag'in as dayli' disappeared.


                ---------------------------


The village has a long, if somewhat ignoble history, it began
as a Viking settlement. The chieftain, Bol, had founded the
hamlet upon finding a lake nestled betwixt the hills. Now, as
great a warrior as Bol was, he was no navigator, and the wayward
Norseman thought he was in Scotland. This being the case, he
thought the lake was a loch, and in turn, as things tend to,
this led to an unfortunate event.

Bol awakened one morning and gazed around his new home. His eager
eyes drank in the tranquil beauty, and suddenly he knew! He
called a meeting of elders. Soon Bol swaggered around the
seated men.

"We shall build a permanent base here, for this is my will, and
we shall name it..."

The men sat waiting in awe.

"Bol-loch!"

Several of the elders collapsed, many with mirth. Eventually
one man, Testis, bravely approached his leader.

"Bol, we cannot name this place so. Do you know what it sounds
like in the local language?"

"What do I care of the imbeciles lingo? The name is Bol-loch,
and it will hang around this place - forever!"

As we shall learn later, it did not. But for now, back to the
mine...


"Eleven thousan' six 'undred an' six lumps o' 'racite on a
shovel. Eleven thousan' six 'undred an' seven lumps o' 'racite on
a shovel."

Arthur's song t'was interupted by a blast of un t'works 'ooter.
He slumped, and lay his pick on t'grimy floor. At least Arthur
'ad 'is sharp mind t'keep him from ut' boredom. Some o' the
lads t'were not up to learning t'mine song.

He naturally had picked it up inside a week! Some o' t'others
t'were suspicious of his 'telligence. Linked wi' his once rich
family this singled t'lad out for mis-treatment.

"'Ere Frocker, nice cup o' warm tea f'yer." smiled Bob Hardrup.

"'E by gum, lad. Thankee, most t'civil." said a shocked Arthur.

He swallowed a mighty draught, only to cough and spit it all
t'over floor.

"Oh, wha' a mistake. I meant warm pee, 'tis nearly the same.
T'least 'tis if yer Ma brews it!"

Arthurs for'heed thudded into Hardrup's chest - sending the
squat, smug b'stud sprawling. 'Twas now that fists flew, and
warm blood splattered walls o' mine once ag'in. The for'man waded
in.

"Nay, yon nellies - t'waserks! Save it fer 'ut coal, that a ways
we all get t'eat. Break's over! Ye've 'ad thine two minutes
fer t'day. Work, not t'shirk yon jessies".

Arthur ran ut' grimy sleeve 'cross 'is split lip. He spat blood,
g'ud Yorkshire blood, an' pick'd up his axe.

""Eleven thousan' six 'undred an' eight lumps o' 'racite on a
shovel. Eleven thousan' six 'undred an' nine lumps o' 'racite on
a shovel."

Hours passed an' soon toil t'were dont fer't day. Arthur
wandered back, 'ead 'ung low, along the mine shaft. From't
t'corner of his eye he caught t'sight of the arse end of the
lead donkey. 'Bessie', aye she t`were a bonny donkey. T'was then
it 'appened, hi' manhood gave a evil an' mighty twitch an' it
reared up int' full 'rection.

This shook him to hi' core. For he knew of this, and t'men
shunned as 'Fonkey duckers'. But he could not be one, he was a
Frock! One of a noble clan, f'he of ut' all men could not love -
an Ass.

Int' silence his eyes a glistenin' our donkey-fancier t'were
winched t'surface.


              ----------------------------


We left the village stuck with the unsuitable name of Bol-loch.
Over the years The name slid into the local vernacular and was
called Bollock, a singularly unattractive name. So much so, that
eventually some of the villagers wanted to rename their home.
They were fed up with the taunts from other villages, and the
general sniggering that greeted them when they said from whence
they came.

A village meeting was called, it was hosted by squire Frock-
Bollock. To be fair he was a poor choice, so wedded to the
village was he, that he had included it in his family name.
However due to convention (and decency) the bollock wasn't seen
on his coat of arms.

Things went quickly from bad to worse, and soon the 'great
uprising of Bollock' began. Months later this was quelled, and
Bollock was separated - with much anguish, into 'Upper' and
'Lower' villages. The upper village was to be known as High
Bollock, and the lower changed its name to become Lower
Tit'fer.

As the power of the Frock-Bollock's waned they lost the double
barrelling of their name becoming mere Frock's once more.
Stripped of its leadership whole village voted in peace, and was
reunited  under the slightly more favourable name of 'Much
Tit'fer'. The Frock's were undone.

We return to find Arthur languishing in his shame, and about to
drown his sorrows in the 'Legless Donkey'...


"'Ow do Arfur, what'll it be t'nite luv?" the petite barmaid
asked.

"A gallon of t'finest ale wi' a bottle 'o scotch, Nancy!"
Arthur paused, "Ut' bin't t'ard 'un t'day!"

"'Ark at thee Mr t'Big - let's see t'colour of thine brass lad!"

"Will two lumps of 'racite cover it?" Arthur slammed them down,
black and beautiful on the counter.

"Thee expect I t'have change fer that, 'tis early yet..."

"Oh come now Nance, I knows 'ow much Ol' Bert waters down't
beer. You t'ain't short of a nutty slack or two."

"'Eh thy twerp, we din't want 'em all knowin'" Nancy placed a
lump of nutty slack on the bar as she scooped up the 'racite.

"Oh, an' t'rest Nance."

Nancy grinned, and reached inside her blouse. She pulled out a
handful of kindling and threw it down before the miner.

"You t'will find its right. Down't t'last twig."

"Aye lass, I trust thee... As far as I could throw thee."

"E.. lad this coal smells funny, are ye sure it came from ut'
pit an' no a cess pit?

Arthur never said owt,  he just grinned and carted his bucket
and bottle t'far end of bar near t'fire. He settled down t'do
a bit o'yokel watching. Before long, crook'd landlord Bert
Earp appeared.

"Now then t'Nance, watch out fer that bad lot from Nether
Fallop. We don't need any more ut' deaths. 'Tis bad fer trade
y'know. A deed customer sups less ale."

"T'were their fault! Coming in t'here, and pulling down
m'blouse and saying what they said!"

Arthur stirred, he look'd at t'corpses nailed t'bar as warnin'.

"What did yon deed fools say anyways?" he asked.

"B'studs looked down my cleavage and shouted out 'Not much tit
fer us here!' I means t'sods insult m'tits and t'village!"

"Aye," said Bert "T'was a mighty bundle, we would ha' lost wi'
out the Sluice's stepping in."

"I tole thee afore! Din't mention that name in m'earshot,
Bert." snapped Arthur.

"Sorry lad I di'nay think! I knows t'Sluices are from Lower...
But t'was long ago lad. Lot 'o water o'er ut' mill."

"Aye and all on it sour." Arthur paused, "Bert, can I ask thee
summat - man t'man."

"Like as y'can m'lad, wait I'll come on o'er."

Bert sat and eyed young Arthur with suspicion.

"What'll it be? Got a lassy in t'oven way?"

"Nay, Bert. 'Tis worse - I'm startin' t'like 'ut donkey's...
'Tis days 'til brothel opens - and I'm not sure I can t'hold it
in."

"'Tis tha' all, look just have a word with Ol' Sep. He'll point
thee right way. But keep thy wits wi' thee lad."

After talkin' t'Old Sep Arthur downed his ale an' spirit. He
girded his ut' loin and t'headed fer t'outside lavvy.


               ----------------------------


Back to our history lesson, the re-naming of the village still
rankled amongst the besmirched Frock's. Arthur had once thought
of re-instating the family name. But once he realised he would
become Arthur Frock-Bollock he relented. He had enough of being
called Ha'fer Frock at school, being Ha'fer Bollock didn't bear
thinking of.

Still enough of an interlude, just what is happening at that
pub toilet?...


"Cooeee, cooeee, lassy are thee here? Ol' Sep sent me!"

A raucous coughing came from t'bush behind t'wooden shack-like
lavvy. A large, fat, slag appeared - her face a haphazard dump
o'slap.

"Hello luvvy I'm Putrid." She croaked.

"Nay lass, 'tis a fair description - but a trifle harsh..."

She cut him in two wi' a savage glare.

"M'name is Putrid, jus' m'name."

"Sorry m'luv, easy mistake."

"My you're a charmer b'ain't yer. N'ere mind, what'll it be?"

"I've a lump o'nutty slack 'ow far dos't that get 'un?"

"Nowhere - cash only."

"Cash, but 'tis ag'in my religion. I'm strict Yorkshire."

"Cash, or go have t'donkey."

"'Ow dos't thou know about t'donkey?"

"Pillock! This is Yorkshire, there a'ways t'donkey involved!"

Arthurs brow furrowed. T'were no choice, reluctantly h'yanked
on the hidden chain in his pocket. His wallet slid up his
leg and int' his hand. Fear gripped t'miner, h'would ha'to
open it, in public!

His fingers untied the knots, released t'shackles and slowly
opened t'buckle. His eyes gazed at the shiny contents of
t'purse. Coins well-worn by t'counting. Coins ne'er intended for
t'spending.

"Wha' about some steam coal? I can get steam coal - 't won't take
me long t'snaffle some from't yard?"

"Money!"

"Thee is ut' hard woman."

"And thee would like t'be ut' hard man, so - m-o-n-e-y."

"'Ow much fer sixpence?"

Putrid reached up and pulled back a cloth ont' side of lavvy.
Her price list appeared."

'And job 1s 3d.
'And job (no gloves) 1s 6d.
Gamming 2s 3d.
Gamming (no teeth) 2s 6d.

"Ruddy Nora that's steep! Wa' does 6d get me?"

Putrid smiled, and pulled up her skirts. She pointed to a large
dark void between her legs.

"This!"

"Cripes lass, that is bigger tha' the low E pipe on t'chapel
organ. Should t'be green 'round edge like that? I'll go fer a 1s
3d please..."

"Good choice lad, been a busy day down't below."

Putrid scooped t'right money out of his purse with practiced
ease. She slipped it deftly down her blouse. Her flashing hand
flew to his fly, unzipped an' plundered in.

"'E... lad, now that's impressive!" Putrid stated.

"Oh, aye lass. Now, b'aint that a beauty! M'luv?"

"'Tis lad, tha' it is!"

As Arthurs pleasure approached, the darkness of drunken
unconsciousness slid up to swallow him. Fer once t'lad was lucky.
It saved him witnessing Putrid squatting, legs akimbo, over his
turgid organ.


                ---------------------------


The Earp's had long been inn keeps in Much Tit'fer. Long before
the pub was known as the Legless Donkey. That name was recent
in terms of the Earp clan. Always ones with an eye to a profit
they had changed it when the mine opened. Originally it had been
named after the third squire Frock-Bollock, in a true tribute to
his nature.

'The Legless Git' had welcomed folks for years, long
before the donkeys came. But as we know things must progress,
and so we go from gits to donkeys. Not too much of a
progression - but some.

We now return to Arthur, on the morning after the night before...


Arthur awoke wi' jus' one thought.

"Why dos't my gob taste like t'inside 'o 'ut lavvy?"

Painfully, slowly, he opened his eyes. White wi' brown stripes!
Overnight t'world had turned white wi' brown stripes. Gradually
it dawned o' Arthur - and then t'panic set in.

"'Elp, Bert, Nance 'elp! I'm stuck upside down in't 'ut lavvy!"

To his relief strong hands gripped on hi' boots, in seconds he
was free. In a few more seconds having y'bounce stuck down't
lavvy - seemed like a good deal.

"Aye up lad, us Sluice's are on hand t'rescue 'nother Frock-
Ballsup."

"Sluice's, y'say. Y're all Sluice's?"

"'Tis true lad, I'm Ol' Sep - Mr Septic - to you, an' these
beauties are my daughters, Putrid y'got acquainted with, and
this flower is Open. Open, is your future wife."

"Wife, I sooner marry t'donkey! Christ man, I'd sooner marry
Putrid. Open, she's - well - hideous."

"Come now Arthur, is tha' any way fer a man t'speak of his
bride t'be. See while thee t'were sleeping off t'excess lovin',
my boys was takin' over yorn 'ome."

"Mine 'ome, iffen yorn lads ha' harmed one t'hair of Ma's heed,
I'll slit 'em gizzard to plonker, so I will."

"Ha' no fear she's safe, some o' m'lads are a bit t'worse for
wear tho'. But we stopped her kickin' 'em - eventually."

"Good ol' Ma!"

"Aye lad, an' good young sister - and t'twins. All are safe,
well, safe-ish."

"Safe-ish, what ha' y'done y'dastardly Sluice, where're m'folks?"

"Tied to 'ut rail line, but t'train'll be hours yet. By which
time my youngest daughter will no longer be Open Sluice, but
Open Frock! Bwahahahaha!"


                ---------------------------


Our tale pauses, leaving Arthur to consider his fate.

Will he indeed wed the dreadful Open Sluice?
Are the Sluices on the up?
Why does Arthurs anthracite smell so odd?
Do any of us care?

Maybe not...

But that never stopped a Frock-Bollock!

________________________________________________________________


Foot Notes (C) Yotna El'toub 2006
________________________________________________________________

I hope you have enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed
writing it.  As always, feedback is appreciated, since it is my
only payment for my work.

Please address comments to yotna_eltoub@hotmail.com

This story is copyrighted by the author and as such may not be
published, posted or archived on any newsgroup, website, or
server, other than ASSM and ASSTR, without the EXPRESS
PERMISSION of the author. Any reader may archive a copy of this
story, provided the warnings and copyright information is
attached in full.

________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________
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