Norman's Wiggly Woobypotsherd©
I have been planning a series of short stories based on the seven deadly sins. Then, one evening I went to bed thinking about depression, and woke up with this story fully formed. You don't look a gift plot in the mouth, so here it is.
Seven deadly sins: Accidie
Norman's wiggly woo.
I had always felt a bit sorry for Norman. our neighbour across the road. A nice, self-effacing sort of chap, always a smile for everyone, but, sadly saddled with a nagging wife who bullied him unmercifully.
Then, in her late forties, Phyllis stepped out of her car in Tesco's carpark and fell over dead of an aneurysm. It was as if Norman suddenly developed a slow puncture. he seemed to deflate visibly before our eyes. His parents got him through the funeral, but after that he seemed to sink daily, deeper and deeper into lethargy.
It might have been different if he had the necessity of earning a living, but the money his wife left, plus her life insurance and mortgage protection policy meant that, at a year or two short of fifty, he owned his home outright and had a comfortable retirement income.
In their garden the grass grew unchecked and turned into a hayfield; a paradise for the cats of the neighbourhood. The paint blistered on the windows and doors, and putty sprouted moss and began to erupt. Slates slid from the roof and smashed, unheeded, on the garden path.
In good weather, Norman sat on the creaking swing-seat on the garden, blank-eyed and unshaven in dirty clothes and worn-out trainers. In the evenings he sat in the dark - lacking even the energy to switch on the television.
He flatly refused to leave the house he and Phyllis had lived in.
His parents began by shopping for him and bringing groceries; then, when the food rotted in the carrier bags, they brought cooked food around every day or two and stood over him whilst he ate. It was a forty mile round trip, so, with the best intentions in the world, they could not take care of him every day.
Although I trained in Stoke and Worcester, I have worked from home since before I married. I paint landscapes on bone-china plaques and my work is highly collectable.
All right, so my part-time job, although lucrative, is not very time-consuming. Maybe I haven't got enough to do; but after a whole Summer of watching Norman slumped over in his seat, eating his heart out, busybody Dorothy could stand it no longer.
I marched across the road and pushed my way into the garden. clenched fists on hips, I stood over him and began the rant that had been bubbling up inside me for a month or two.
"Norman, We have all had just about enough of you. Your house and garden are a disgrace to the neighbourhood. Look at Mike and Julie in number 44. They are trying desperately to sell their house and people just take one look at this wilderness and drive straight by. About a dozen potential buyers have made appointments to view and then just not turned up. They are distraught."
To my dismay, his eyes filled up with tears and he began to sob brokenly. I had to take him in my arms and pat his back, murmuring inanities as his tears soaked the shoulder of my blouse. This would never do.
"Norman. Get the strimmer out and cut the grass, them mow it within an inch of its life. I want to see a lawn again, not a vision of the steppes."
Unconsciously I was mimicking Phyllis. Something sparked within his eyes for just an instant.
"If I doo all my work," he lisped like a four-year-old, "Can I put my wiggly woo in your little pocket?" He seemed suddenly to hear his own voice as if from outside himself. His face tightened with shocked dismay and he blushed crimson. For a minute he gibbered incoherently in an attempt to articulate an apology.
My reply was immediate and unhesitating.
"Norman, do a really good job for me and I will let you put your wiggly woo in my nice slippery wet pocket."
"All right Dorothy. I'll get the strimmer out and get started."
Four hours or so later he presented himself at the back door.
"All finished. Would you like to come over and sign it off?"
We walked back together and I made my inspection., The grass was patchy; there were bald areas and the different greens of dandelion, dock and daisy, but lawn was beginning to show through.
"Very good Norman," I said. "You have done a lovely job, and tomorrow I want you to give it a good dose of lawn feeder and systemic weedkiller."
"Dorothy; I can't thank you enough. I won't hold you to your promise. I understand that you were just playing me along. I've done a lot of thinking this afternoon. Funny how working takes the pain away. I owe you a lot."
I didn't hesitate a moment.
"Who says I want to be released from my promise? Come back to my house and I'll soon show you how to put a wiggly woo in a pocket."
I took him into the house and then up to the bathroom.
"Take those filthy clothes off and I'll put them in the washing machine. Then go and have a shower and be sure to shampoo your hair.
It was like looking after a small child. But then I saw him stripping unselfconsciously for the shower, and the resemblance to a small boy faded abruptly from my mind.
Norman doubtless had many engaging qualities that made Phyllis love him, but the long, fat half-erect cock revealed as he dropped his disgraceful grey underpants, was undoubtedly one of them. Phyllis must have wanted his wiggly woo for good reasons of her own, and so did I.
I took his hand and led him out of the shower, towelled him off and took him into the bedroom and pushed him down on the bed.
"Now Norman, shall we get Mister Wiggly ready to go in my nice wet pocket. Suppose I make him nice and slippery with my tongue, Do you think that would help?"
He mumbled something unintelligible. I sucked him to a formidable erection, then straddled his hips and sat myself down, carefully, on his cock. In his confused state, it did not occur to him to do anything to ensure my readiness, but, as it turned out, nothing was needed. I had not been so excited for something like nine years.
I slowly pushed myself down, and felt his cock opening a passage for itself. With a triumphant squelch, I was seated on his hip-bones, my pubic hair meshing with his. I smiled at him and he smiled back a little uncertainly. I don't think he could quite believe this was happening.
Of course he didn't last long, but I was more than satisfied. I have only had experience of four men in my life - an average of one a decade - and nobody had filled me up like that before. Rescuing Norman could become a labour of love.
I lent him one of my husband's teeshirts and a pair of old slacks and took him downstairs for a cup of tea.
Not knowing what to feed him on I looked in the cupboard, put four weetabix in a dish and poured on milk and sugar. He picked up the spoon and ate so hungrily that I put another four in his dish and he ate them too.
Neither of us knew how to break the silence, so we just sat and looked at each other over our teacups. After a long moment I smiled and so did he. He had a smile that caught at my heartstrings.
"Norman, I want you to go home now and start to clean the kitchen. When I come over in the morning I want to see it clean; but don't work all night. I want you to go to bed by eleven thirty. In the morning we will talk some more. Norman, do you want to put Wiggly Woo in my pocket again soon?"
"Yes please Dorothy. I'll be very good I promise."
"Good. That's all right then. Now give me a kiss and go home."
The next morning my next-door neighbour Brian called me over.
"Dorothy; I see that you are taking Norman in hand. Thank you from all of us. I don't think things could have gone on much longer if you hadn't stepped in. If you need any help from any of us; just let us know."
"Thanks Brian. I think things will slowly get back to normal now."
When I reached Norman's kitchen I could see why poor Phyllis had tuned into a nag. I had clearly over-reached myself in telling him to clean the kitchen. The floor was spotless, the windows gleamed, but the table was still piled high with dirty dishes, the dishcloths were foul and malodorous and the fridge green with mould and full of decomposing food and milk.
Put a brave face on it, I told myself.
"Well done Norman, the floor and windows are lovely and clean. Have you put the water-heater on for the washing up?"
"No Dorothy. Did you tell me to? I'm sorry, I forgot."
"Well do it now, and then I'll make you a list of jobs to do today. When you finish one job, go straight on to the next. First of all, go down to the garden centre and buy a combined lawn fertilizer and weedkiller. Ask the people at the checkout which one to buy."
"Yes Dorothy". And with that he was gone. I stripped the beds; collected a machine-load of sheets and clothing, and set the washing machine going. Then I got on with the washing up.
By early afternoon the house was showing signs of improvement. It was like having a robot helper. Norman worked with focus and intensity, checking the list every few minutes and moving steadily from job to job. I made some sandwiches and we ate and drank tea as we worked.
By three it was time to try out the freshly laundered sheets.
"Norman, you have been a treasure all day. You have got through a mountain of work. What shall we do now? Would you like to play hiding Mister Wiggly?"
"Dorothy, you don't have to do that for me. It is so kind of you to help me. I never seem to know what to do, but you tell me so gently and kindly."
"Would it upset you to play Wiggly Woo on Phyllis's bed?"
"No. It's just a bed. Phyllis wasn't sentimental; she would be pleased that you were helping me."
"Get out of your clothes," I instructed. He scrambled out of his clothes. I watched in fascination as Wiggly Woo lengthened and thickened on his way to erection. The foreskin began to peel back from the broad, purpling mushroom head, and I licked my lips.
"Norman. Did Phyllis let you put Mister Wiggly in her mouth?"
"Oh yes. Every time we played putting him in her pocket. But the only time she let me squirt in her mouth was when she was having her period.
She was so funny. She would say, I've got the painters in. Tonight Wiggly Woo will have to go in my mouth. Poor Wiggly Woo; I hope I don't bite him."
This was another side altogether. I had so despised Phyllis for bullying him, but she clearly had a loving and playful side, and Norman was getting a bit weepy at the thought of her.
"Well, Mister Wiggly will have to go in my mouth now. If you want to spurt in my mouth it's ok. Nobody has done it for nine years, and I have rather missed it."
"Thank you, but I'd rather do it in your pocket."
"Well maybe we can do both."
I sucked him gently and without haste, chatting desultorily as I tried to please this sweet, childlike man.
"Norman. Did Phyllis let you put him into her back pocket as well as the front one?"
"Yes, it was my special reward when I did a big, difficult job. She used to say: 'take it slowly and gently. My back pocket is very very thin and Wiggly is very very fat.' But she never made me stop, and she always said she liked him in there."
There was no shortage of time. Norman's first orgasm filled my mouth with the salt-sour taste, as thick gouts of come filled my mouth. It was a strong taste, and I revelled in it. Half an hour later he buried Mister Wiggly in me, and fucked me through orgasm after orgasm.
I walked home in a turmoil of emotions that surprised me. I had seen Norman as pathetic; a suitable case for treatment. But here I was, overwhelmed by his sweetness, and innocence. I had never met a man who so moved me, and so confused me
That evening my husband Eric came home a bit the worse for wear at closing time. I offered to make him a sandwich, but he brushed it off irritably, saying that he had a pie and chips at the pub. Then, in his usual dismissive way, he started in.
"I hear you've adopted that pathetic moron across the road. Don't waste your time. He's a basket case. One night me and some of the blokes from the 147 Club will go over and sort him out."
I did not rise to his bluster. It would only encourage him. I just kept schtum and finished drying and putting away the washing-up. He blundered off to bed, and, I saw thankfully, by the time I came to bed half an hour later he was dead to the world. How, I asked myself, did a happy marriage come to this?
For the next two months, Norman became the centre of my life. I guess I became about all of his. Mornings he would often sit in rapt silence as I painted clouds over the cathedrals of England, or reproduced Turner engravings in full colour.
The first time he watched he asked me why my colours were nothing like the colours of real life and I explained that when the plaque was fired at close to a thousand degrees, the colours would all change and, if I had judged it right, would become true to life and permanent to the point of immortality. He nodded quietly and never asked again.
Afternoons we would do a bit of housework, and then find time for wiggly woo.
A week after our first encounter, I told him that if he rubbed down, re-glazed the worst of the windows and re-painted the front of the house, as a reward he could put wiggly woo in my back pocket. He smiled seraphically, and ten days later it was done.
We spent the afternoon in bed and he took me around the world. Afterwards he thanked me sweetly, and I thanked him with tears in my eyes.
Two days later the crisis blew up. Eric walked in straight from work. I could see in his eyes that he was boiling up. For a moment I felt sorry for him.
"You scrawny old slag. You've been fucking the moron. All my mates know about it. You're making me a laughing-stock. I've a good mind to punch your lights out."
"So you have found out. Good. Sad really that your first response is to worry about what your friends think of you. When I found out about you and Eileen, I was broken-hearted. My marriage had meant the world to me, and now it was down the pan. But you and I don't really have a marriage any more, do we?"
"You knew about Eileen?"
"You fool. Of course I knew. Within a few days after you started fucking her I knew what was going on. Two weeks later I knew who you were with."
After we got married, when you came home from the 147 club, you often wanted sex, especially if you had been winning. I was always happy to co-operate, in fact I looked forward to those nights. You were very excited, and rode me hard, and I loved it.
Then one night, six years after we got married, you came home in a different mood. You even smelled different. No smoke in your clothes, gin on your breath instead of beer. I was all ready to enjoy your lovemaking, but that night it wasn't about our pleasure.
There was a gloating quality about you, as if you were putting one over me. I was sure you had been with another woman."
Eric was gobsmacked. He came in right on the moral high ground, and five minutes later he was being taken out with the rubbish. His mouth gaped as he struggled for speech. But I have always been the one with the command of language.
"I knew you were having a bit on the side, but maybe I would have waited until it blew over. I still loved you, or so I thought.
Then a couple of weeks later you came home shagged out and went straight to sleep. In the morning I went to pick up your shirt and underwear off the floor to put them in the washing basket and I saw a vile sight. On your underpants there was clear, physical evidence that you had been taking your bit of fluff up the arse.
I don't mean skidmarks, I am used to the fact that your mother never taught you to wipe your arse. No, this was around the pisshole, and it was the same mixture of vaseline, spunk and you know what that got left on the tissues we had always used to clean up afterwards.
You had fucked your slag's arse and not even had the human decency to clean yourself up before you came home and got into bed with your wife.
After that I changed. You never had me anally again, and I never sucked your cock unless I knew you had bathed or showered and I never again let you come in my mouth.
Remember I told you that I had a little tear in my anus that had got infected? That was just an excuse that lasted until no excuse was needed.
I never denied you sex. But the atmosphere got chillier until you asked less and less often. If at any time you had confessed and apologised, I was all ready to forgive you and work at a reconciliation. But it never happened. I carried the burden alone.
Finally, Eileen came here. Did you know that? Did she tell you?
She came to ask me to release you, so that you could go to her. I guess she was pregnant, although she didn't say so. I actually felt sorry for the silly sod. I wondered how you could have preferred such a vapid, gormless nonentity to me. I guess the sex must have been better - it certainly wasn't the sparkling conversation.
I knew almost as soon as it started, and I knew almost as soon as it finished. That shocks you doesn't it? You don't think woman are capable of rational thought. Oh, you'd be surprised...
Anyway it's all over now. Yes, I have been sharing my bed with Norman, and it has been far and away the best sex I have ever had in my life. He needs me as you have never done, and I need him. I have already moved most of my stuff over to his house, and now that we have had this little talk, I'm out of here. Goodbye Eric. I am only sorry we wasted so much time over each other."
Eric looked shellshocked. He seemed to have aged ten years in a scant half hour. Shall I tell him that Norman has made me pregnant? No; leave that for another time.
For our first anniversary together I wanted to do something special to show my love for Norman and also to honour Phyllis. Surreptitiously I collected together his favourite photographs of her and had enlargements made.
Working in secret I ordered half a dozen oval porcelain plaques from the Worcester factory, and started working on a portrait of Phyllis in the style of Regency portrait miniatures. It was the most demanding work I had ever done, and I had to send off a dozen sets of trial firings before I felt confident enough to work on the finished product.
I painted six, and when they came back I was delighted to find that four were as near perfect as I could hope to get. Our local picture framer bent and steamed some yew and made exquisite frames, and, by our anniversary, everything was ready.
They all had different shades of expression, and all showed aspects of a loving, happy woman. When I asked Norman to choose, he wept and wept so piteously that, for I wondered if I had done something really foolish and brought his old depression back. Then, when I was silently screaming with rage at myself, he brightened up, kissed me, and chose two of the pictures, one for the bedroom one (would you believe) for the bathroom.
Norman cannot lie because he simply doesn't know what he needs to lie about. You cannot imagine how restful that is. He answered my incredulous enquiry by saying, simply, that the bedroom and the bathroom were where he and Phyllis had most fun together.
We gave the third picture to Phyllis's parents, who were overwhelmed with pleasure and awestruck by the likeness.
The fourth one I put on display in the London Gallery that sold my work. I called it, "My lover's beloved wife."
The gallery featured it in a catalogue, and my biggest Japanese collector paid the high price I asked for it.
Now Norman wants a portrait of me to go alongside Phyllis. Of course his wish is my command.