Chocolate and the Charlie Factory

It's raining all across the Dales. Just our luck that the April showers are beginning right at the end of March, but the cottage is picturesque enough and we're getting it for free from one of Hannah's mates. We've got the real wood fire going and I'm lying back on the sofa with one of the history books from the shelves that make up one and a half sides of the living room wall. This place will do fine for a break, even if the weather is against us.

Hannah enters from the kitchen bringing with her the leftover sandwiches from the drive up and a couple of mugs of fresh coffee.

"Watcha reading?" she asks.

"Book about Catherine the Great," I say. "It's really interesting so far."

"You got to the part about the horses yet," asks Hannah.

I sit up and take a sip of coffee. "That's just an urban myth."

"Yeah, I know," says Hannah. "But I find the debunking almost as much fun as the legend itself. Skip to the end, if the author spends at least a couple of pages proving that she wasn't in fact crushed to death while having sex with her prize horses, you know the rest of the book is going to be a good read."

I flip forward in the book and scan-read the last few pages. "Collapsed in a washroom it says here."

Hannah rolls her eyes. I toss the book on the table and pick up a sandwich. Curling up a corner to make sure it's not tuna, I tuck in.

"It's funny how whenever you get any kind of powerful woman in history, you get all kinds of rumours about her crazy off-the-charts sexuality," I say between bites. "Catherine the Great, Cleopatra, Anne Boleyn..."

"And not just in ancient history," Hannah continues for me. "Marilyn Monroe, Mae West, Elizabeth Taylor, Marianne Faithfull..."

"What about Marianne Faithfull?" I ask.

"You know," says Hannah, "The Mars Bar thing."

I look at her confused for a second.

"The police did a drug bust on the Rolling Stones in the 1960s and claimed they found Mick Jagger eating a Mars Bar out of her vagina."

"Oh, that," I say. "That was Marianne Faithfull was it?"

"Yeah," says Hannah. "I mean, no. It was complete bullshit apparently, but the rumour was about her."

I get up, go to our bags, and pull out a packet of salt and vinegar crisps. I pour a few on Hannah's plate and start to munch on the rest.

"It makes you wonder though," I say after a while. "Even if it never crossed Mick and Marianne's minds, that story is so widespread that at least a few people have to have given it a go in the intervening decades, just out of curiosity."

"Oh, no," says Hannah. "No way!"

"What?" I ask.

"You're thinking about it," she replies.

"Of course, I'm thinking about it," I say. "You brought it up!"

"Yes, but you're 'thinking about it' thinking about it. You've got that look in your eye."

"Well..." I start to say.

"Two words," she says. "Yeast infection."

"Yeah, I guess," I reply. "I wasn't...I mean, not really..."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It's a few days later. The holiday hasn't been a complete washout. We're back from a nice hike and have the tele on with our feet up. Hannah excuses herself and when she comes back she pushes a joint into my hand.

"This is good," I say after taking a puff. "I didn't know you'd brought any up with you."

"Nah, I didn't," she replies. "This is Ray's. He sent a text saying to check behind the fruit bowl."

"Good bloke, Ray," I say.

"Yeah, he knows how to party apparently," confirms Hannah.

I've never met Ray, but he's some big-wig in the world of theatre. Hannah's been doing some set design for a university production he's involved in -- some kind of modernized version of Agatha Christie. He's letting us have this cottage during the off-season.

It's well past anything new being on so we slump there watching the Never-ending Story on some high-digit channel. Either it's way stranger than I remember or the weed is kicking in.

"You hungry?" Hannah asks after a while.

"Sure, kind of," I reply.

"Go check the cupboard," she says.

I get up and wander into the kitchen. Earlier today the cupboard contained a full shop from the local Tesco Express. Now it contains only two items.

A full length of our Shibari rope and a solitary Mars bar.

I take both back into the living room and hold them up. "Invitation accepted, I guess."

Hannah sets the spliff down. "Well, lucky for you my judgment is currently seriously impaired. I'm going to regret this, I know."

The bed is ideal for play, a real brass bed-knobs antique and it doesn't take long for me to get Hannah spread-eagled and each limb tied to a corner. I've put a towel down underneath her - one of our own.

It's only once she's exposed that I seriously consider the logistics. Exactly how wet do I want her? Too dry will make a painful insertion for her. On the other hand, I don't really like my chocolate too sloppy. I decide to be a gentleman. I get down and eat her out properly. She squirms under my tongue as I go to town on her.

It's only after she's had her first orgasm and settled down again that I attend to the main attraction of the night. I run a couple of fingers up and down her labia and then gently insert one and then the other. I slowly work them back and forward until she's opened up a bit.

I sit up, wipe my fingers, and then slowly and sexily unwrap the chocolate confection.

"Get on with it," says Hannah.

She's bought a king-sized. No doubt she's going to make some joke about it making me feel inadequate in a moment. I don't give her the chance. I reach into our bag and pull out the ball-gag. I place the ball in her mouth and tighten the straps behind her head. This isn't exactly a standard session, but I figure I'm still the dom. My prerogative.

Remembering what she'd said about yeast infections, I snap the bar in half. When I gently slid it inside her there is just enough to be held in place, the wisps of caramel and nougat facing outwards from her center.

I reach in between her legs and take a bite. She wriggles as a piece breaks off.

It tastes like a Mars bar.

I don't know what I was expecting.

Just as I'm about to take a second bite, there's a loud knock on the door.

"Oh, Jesus," I say. "Who could that be at this time of night?"

"Eeey?" Hannah says through the ball gag. It takes me a moment to realize she's saying 'Ray'.

"Maybe," I say uncertainly.

There's another knock. It's not just loud this time, it sounds like it's about to take the hinges off.

"I'd better go," I say.

The cottage is seriously old-school. That means it actually has a key lock on the master bedroom. I take the key out of our side and then lock the door behind me as I go.

There's enough frosted glass on the door that I can tell it's not going to be Ray even as I open it.

It's the police.

There are two of them in high-vis jackets. The woman's appearance screams 'community policing'. The man's is more 'proper rozzer', a massive bloke with a hardened face. She's petite with a ponytail and an Indian-subcontinent complexion.

"Evening. Ray Everett?"

"No," I stammer. "Ben Matthews."

"This is One Briar Lane though?"

"Er, yes," I say. "What is this about?"

He holds an official-looking piece of paper up in my face. "I've got a warrant to search this house. Suspicion that there may be illegal narcotics inside."

My heart skips a beat. Our two spliffs are sitting in an ashtray in plain sight in the living room. I can smell them even from here. That's embarrassing, but it's a slap on the wrist and a fine surely. They wouldn't be bothering us for just that. I'm suddenly very worried about what else 'party guy' Ray might have left in the house.

And I'm also not unaware of the fact that my girlfriend is currently locked, tied and gagged in a room with a Mars Bar sticking out of her vagina.

"Err?" I say.

"This warrant gives us permission to search the premises whether or not the owner is present. Now, if you'll stand aside, we'll try and make this as quick and painless as possible."

They enter. The woman goes straight for the living room table. She holds up one of the spliffs and the man nods. She puts it back. She does a sweep of the living room and then goes through into the kitchen. The man doesn't move. He stays glaring at me at the cottage door.

I'm racking my brains, trying to find an appropriate way of broaching the subject of Hannah without any success. It's only when the woman makes for the bedroom that I have to move.

I place myself in front of the door. "You can't..." I say.

The man raises an eyebrow and the warrant.

"I mean," I struggle to say. "This is kind of awkward. When you knocked...my girlfriend and I were kind of..."

He's nonplussed. "Well, she's had plenty of time. She must know we're here by now.

He knocks on the door. "Police, come out," he instructs in a loud voice.

"She can't," I say. "She's kind of...tied to the bed. And she's not wearing any..."

"Okay, I get the picture," says the man. He indicates his colleague. "Samira."

Samira knocks on the door. "Don't be worried. I'm coming in now. Just me," she says.

She turns the handle and meets resistance. I wince and hand her the key from my pocket. She gives me a dirty look. Once the door is unlocked, she squeezes inside, shutting the door behind me.

The man returns his stare to me as we wait. I try to hear what's going on in the other room, but the walls are too thick.

Eventually, Samira comes out. She's carrying something.

It's a condom.

It's stuffed full of something and tied at the end like a balloon.

Samira goes over to the living room table. She puts a small plastic sheet down and then pulls out a small knife, practically a scalpel. She makes a small incision and a white powder starts to fall out.

"No!" I find myself saying. The world suddenly seems to be in slow motion.

The man goes over to the table. He takes a finger and gets a little of the powder on the tip. He rubs it against his gums.

"Yeah, Grade A Charlie. How much is back there?" he asks.

"A whole suitcase full. Got all the signs of being that new variant from that factory in Narino that the Met tipped us off about, but the lab will confirm."

Samira then says something under her breath, indicating the room with a glance. The man's eyes go wide. He says something in response and she seems to repeat herself. The man lets out a muted guffaw then collects himself.

He heads straight back to me, his hand going to his cuffs. "I'm arresting you for possession of narcotics including class A narcotics, intention to deal class A narcotics, human trafficking, and sexual assault by penetration with a foreign object, to whit a chocolate bar. You do not need to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

"There's been a mistake," I say. "Look could I just talk to Hannah?"

"Yeah, I don't think so," says the man. "We don't want you intimidating a witness. Hold your hands out in front of you."

He has both the law and nearly a half foot of height on me, so I don't have much choice. He slaps the cuff on.

"We going to do a search now or at the station, sarge?" Samira asks.

"Yeah, we'd better do it here. Come through in the bathroom."

We go through. The sarge pats me down thoroughly, starting at my shoulders and going all the way down to my socks. "Okay," he says when he's done, "Just the cavity search left then."

"You cannot be serious," I say.

"We've evidence of narcotics packaged in condoms, a common way of smuggling drugs through the digestive system or rectum. A full cavity search is fully standard procedure in such circumstances. Have you been out of the country recently?"

"Not since Paris three months ago," I reply.

He grunts. "Right, stand facing the lavatory. Arms on the cistern."

I comply.

"Damn," he says. "Forgot the gloves."

He pulls a key out of his pocket and undoes my cuffs. My relief only lasts a second. He threads them behind a water pipe and fastens them up again. "I'll be back in a moment."

When he's gone, I vaguely consider trying to pull the pipe out from the wall and making a run for it, more out of something to take my mind off my fate rather than any great hope of escape. The bathroom window is too small to be an option and the only way out is the way they've gone anyway. This isn't a movie anyway. I await their return.

The door opens again. I hear footsteps and then hands at my trousers. Those are pulled down and then my boxers follow. A hand pushes my legs further apart. I hear the sound of rubber gloves being put on then the sound of a squirt of liquid.

I feel the cold touch of a hand at my anus. It rubs the liquid around. One finger probes my hole. A moment later I feel something being inserted. At first, I think it's a finger, but it's not. It's wider but also softer somehow. My sphincter tightens around it.

A hand holds onto my hip, and suddenly I feel soft breath against my backside. There's a pause and then the object is pushed a little further in.

"What the hell are you doing?" I ask indignantly and shocked.

"I believe the term used to be fudge-packing," says a voice. "Although calling it that is frowned on these days."

It's Hannah.

"What the...!" I say.

"Don't worry. I didn't put the whole finger up there. Just enough to give you a treat," she says. She lunges forward and takes a bite off the end of whatever is inside me. I hear chewing.

"Delicious," she says after she's swallowed. "Although actually I don't think I'll bother with the rest."

She reaches up and unlocks my cuffs. "Two words," she says.

"Yeast infection?" I say, still shell-shocked.

"April Fools," she says.

"But it's..." No, it is. It's about twenty minutes after midnight. I'd lost track of the date. The whole ordeal must have started on the dot. "Oh, you're fucking kidding me..."

I look around. Hannah is the only one in the room. She's wrapped in a towel.

"They've gone. That was the man Ray himself by the way. And Esha, our Miss Marple."

"Yeah, good bloke," I say vaguely.

"Good actor," she says. "And always up for a laugh."

She goes out of the room and returns a second later with the split condoms on a silver tray. She grabs a wodge of powder and chucks it down her throat. "How about it? Fancy doing a line of sherbet."

"I'll pass," I say.

"Probably for the best," she says, making a face. "It is a bit spermicidey"

"I can't believe you did that!" I say, finally coming back to myself. "I nearly had a heart attack."

"No, me neither. I amaze myself sometimes," she starts to give me a smile and then stops when she sees my face.

"And I was very glad to see that you did your best to protect my honour in such a delicate situation." As she talks, she indicates my rear with her hand. "Well done. Full mark in what I believe we girls like to call a shit-test."

I pull out the offending chocolate bar, I wrap it in toilet paper and chuck it in the bowl. My arse is still a mess. "I need a shower," I say.

She drops her towel. Her neither regions are equally filthy. "Can I join you and make things better?"

"Woah, what makes you think I'm letting you anywhere near me after the stunt you just pulled?" I ask.

"You did say you wanted the full Marianne Faithfull experience. I assumed a hugely embarrassing drugs bust that you'll never live down was just a natural part of that."

"Yeah, I don't think so."

"Well, answer me this," she says reaching down between my legs. "If that wasn't the fetish you were after, why are you as hard as Brighton Rock?"

I'd like to say she didn't have a point...