I Saw It In The Stars

What was a secret, and it's a secret for a reason, was the underfloor safe in the basemen "fun" room. That safe currently has very nearly fifty thousand pounds in it. My other secret is an account at a Swiss bank. I took rides to Europe on my motorbike two or three times a year.

It's surprising how meany fifty-pound notes you can hide in the under-seat space, with the hollow under the petrol tank and under the battery box on my motorbike, believe it or not, fifty thousand pounds worth. Part of this money is to pay to get me and the love of my life to a clinic in Switzerland. There she will have her eggs harvested, then they will extract my sperm and then do what nature couldn't.

In one fell swoop, I would give the two women who together are everything to me a baby--in my mom's case, a grandbaby. Well, actually, two is the plan, but you can bet your life we wouldn't be calling them Castor and Pollux.

I am still stargazing, but I have combined that with my passion for drawing. Now that I am seeing constellations with my mind's eye, I am creating my own fantasy depictions of them. I've actually sold a few. The most resentful was a pastel drawing of what I now call my first ever third eye spot. Another drawing of Draco--no, not that twat Draco Malfoy. Draco the dragon, a constellation, it is another of Ptolemy's 48. Shirley, one of Kay's colleagues at the school she works at, talked me into letting her put it in an auction to raise funds for school sports equipment. It made four hundred and fifty quid after fees. The auction house is very interested in getting their hands on more.

Interestingly, every third eye spot I draw seems to evolve. For instance, Virgo, over a period of a year, has evolved from a sweet innocent teen into a very sexy MILF, a real 'A' rated Cougar! Cassiopeia has gone from a haughty Greek goddess sitting on her throne. She is now a wanton harlot bent over the back of her couch, looking back at me with a come-fuck-me look and an arse to die for. She is also looking more and more like my wife, Kay. That's probably just my filthy mind working overtime.

I started to look at Orion, not just the second star in his sword. I began to see things I hadn't noticed before. Swords are generally worn on the left hip, making them easy for a right-handed man to draw. Orion wears his sword in the middle of his belt. That struck me as strange. Would you wear a sword over the top of your best little friend where it would be in a constant battle with your plumbs? Think about it: a hunter's short sword or your family jewels--who's going to lose that battle? I had a notion--perhaps Orion doesn't have a sword after all. Perhaps Orion has a pork sword millions of miles long. It's no wonder the Seven Sisters are never very far away, is it?

As I was looking at the nebula just off Orion's bow, the crab. I noticed something very weird. It was Cassiopeia and Orion; now this can't be happening, but it seems to me as if these two are getting closer and closer together. Well, maybe, but not in my lifetime. Cassiopeia looked like my last drawing of Kay. My drawing was hanging in our playroom. Kay in an S-Curve latex corset with matching arm-binder and frilly lace and latex knickers. Her arse is a beautiful pastel pink with a couple of my hand prints on it and she is dribbling a tiny bit of my cum she didn't quite catch. She will get another spanking for that! Her sexy black stockings held up with a dozen taught latex suspenders hung from the corset and supporting black, Cuban-heeled stockings with six-inch stiletto-heeled court shoes padlocked to her feet. God, I'm a filthy-minded bastard.

She was with Orion, the bastard hunter, and the bastard hunter wasn't me. It was that supercilious bastard Peter, the fucking art teacher at her school. I looked at the two constellations again, fuck, the knickers were gone. This is bad!

I did something I hadn't done since I first rode a bike; I jumped on it without leathers, boots, or a helmet. I just knew there was something going on. I wasn't going to let my plans for us slide. Night school classes were on at the school that night. Kay should have been in the gym with a bunch of sweaty ladies, but she wasn't. Miriam was leading the dance-fit class, and Kay was conspicuous by her absence. I didn't know what I was going to do with her, but he was dog meat as far as I was concerned. This was well beyond a smack on the nose; I was in a mood to break a few bones as a minimum.

I heard Miriam begging me to stop as I careered towards the art department. There was fat chance of me stopping. There was a group in the first classroom I came to, and I ignored them. A second classroom had lights on, but the inside of the windows was covered with lining paper, and the door was locked. It wasn't locked against my boot. The lock was just a Yale lock; the keep flew across the room and just missed hitting Peter in the head. Never mind, I was about to remedy that.

"What the fuck is going on here?" I screamed. I must have looked a little scary. Kay screamed; a dark shadow spread out from the crutch of Peter's light blue Levi's. They both looked at me from behind what looked like a screen from where I stood. Kay started to recite the cheater's handbook in earnest. "It's not what you think it isn't what it looks like," she cried. He grabbed Kay and forced her into a position between me and him. Human shield, brave lad, I thought. Kay weighed in with another line from the handbook. "I did it for you." Then, just before I put one on his bugle, it started to get very weird. Miriam had caught me up by then. "It is for you; you have to calm down and look." I strode forward with the intention of shaking Peter's hand by his throat. He swivelled around the screen while ensuring Kay remained between us.

I lunged forward and grabbed a handful of the bastard's hair. It came away in my hand, I thought for a split second that somehow I'd scalped the fucker. Then I realised Mr. Coolartteacher wore a syrup.

Note for our American friends: syrup is rhyming slang for wig. A syrup of figs = wig!

I looked at the pretty gruesome object in my hand and gave a little girly squeal in revulsion. Miriam grabbed a hold of me, and Mr. Artteacher did a runner. Kay was doing another fantastic job of producing snot and tears on an industrial scale, and then Miriam put a little normality into the proceedings by shouting in my face. ("FOR FUCKS SAKE MAN LOOK AT THE PAINTING, ITS FOR YOU")!

The screen was a canvas.

The canvas was a painting.

The painting was of Kay, my beautiful wife dressed in her latex finery. As my jeans zip-bursting dream ponygirl,

"Happy Valentine's Day, darling," sobbed my wife.

I couldn't get her home quick enough.

Just get your pants off, darling; I've got something to give you, it's going to be a bit hurried, we only have six hours to get to Heathrow, to catch a plane to Switzerland.