Tess Tickles - Chu Me's Successful Massage?

Chu Me has lately been taking a keen interest in the art of massage.

It has long been the tradition in the village he was born in – in a land far, far, away – that the men-folk are highly adept at the technique, to maintain a relaxed and happy atmosphere throughout the community while – during intimate moments - providing unsurpassed sexual pleasure to their mates.

Unfortunately, Chu Me has been separated from this communal college of learning and his village elders. Nevertheless, there was clearly something welling up in his genes and, as a result, he ordered a Teach Yourself Massage book from the internet.

For the last week and a half he has been dividing his free time equally between his long running interested of watching specialist nature DVDs (his latest purchase is a documentary about the weekend existence of water animals, I believe; Saturday Night Beaver) and his massage studies.

As one sashayed past his room of an evening, he was certainly putting plenty of effort into his training as one could clearly hear the panting going on behind his door, as he no doubt practiced on his pillow.

Anyhoo … last night, something appears to have gone terribly wrong.

The household staff had all left for the day. It was my intention to pass the evening watching television and to simply relax. Chu Me, however, felt he had learned sufficient technique from his massage book and was eager to try it out on Tess Tickles, his lady-friend from the village.

One gave him the keys to the Aston and waved him off down the drive. Closing the door securely, one returned to the Drawing Room to settle down for the evening: Pitcher of gin full, ice bucket filled, nibbles delightfully arranged, flickering fire cracking in the fireplace and my pussy, Crotchet, snuggled up in his bed, snoring as he dreamt. One was set for the evening.

Half an hour had passed and one felt completely limp and relaxed as I watched the magnificent Stephen Fry educate and entertain the nation with the hugely successful QI.

Just as the credits began rolling up the screen and one topped up one’s glass of gin, one heard a door bang open. ‘What on earth was that?’ One thought.

My heart was thumping as I imagined one’s inner sanctum being invaded by a stranger. One leapt to one’s feet and slipped my feet into my trusty Chanel house shoes. I armed myself with a poker from the side of the fire and headed out into the corridor. Nothing!

One continued elegantly - with poker in right hand and tumbler of gin in left hand – to the Great Hall. It was here that one saw one’s faithful houseboy running up the Grand Staircase.

“Chu Me, dear!” One shouted, “ You nearly gave Crusty a heart attack! What on earth are you doing back home so soon?”

He stopped and looked at me for a moment, his eyes all puffy from crying and a face that resembled the mottled redness of a cox’s pippin. He turned and ran down to stop in front of me. Without a word he opened his massage book – sniffling and making strange squeaking noises – and thrust it up toward one’s face.

“What, dear? What?” I asked.

His little index finger poked at the bottom of the right-hand page with a frantic stabbing motion; one looked closer ….

Towards the end of your massage when your subject is on their back and completely relaxed and you have successfully massaged the muscles over their entire body, you can be proud of your achievement …

One turned the page,

…. Now, simply finish off on their face.

“What is it you’re trying to say poppet, was the massage a success? Was Tess surprised?”

He stabbed at the page again, then looking up towards the ornately painted ceiling, rolled his eyes; then covering his face with the book, he squealed like a small rodent, spun round on his heels and ran, crying, up the Grand staircase to his room. One hasn’t heard a peep from him since.

Sometimes, you know poppets, he can be highly sensitive and has very little faith in his abilities, however, one is quite sure he pulled it off beautifully.