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Purple Prose as written by Christine Peterson, who thanks the other participants for their inspiration. (See if you can catch the deliberate errors many copy editors seem to miss):

Laney's sensible shoes had never trod upon flawless Grecian marble before, and she felt intimidated and insignificant standing in front of the immense lacquered doors, painted a shade of red that brought to mind the lips of a 1940's starlet. Her porcelain cheeks glowed a modest pink, as she tried to avoid staring at the exquisitely crafted bronze statues of bear breasted women that stood at both sides of the doorway.

With a determined look in her lagoon blue eyes, she extended her finger in a businesslike fashion to ring the doorbell. As she pressed the button lascivious female cries of "Yes! Yes! Yes" rang out into the still sultry afternoon air.

My goodness. Laney thought a trembling hand held to her pounding heart was that the doorbell? She had never heard anything like it in her life.

The door swung open and a unspeakably sexy man god appeared. Laney lowered her lush yet unmascaraed lashes in mortification at the awesome spectacle of his bare chest. It was a tanned brawny plain covered with majestic fields of golden hair, her fingers unaccustomed to male geography longed to explore the terrain. On his torso, plain denim cutoffs achieved greatness. Mustering all the pride her sainted penniless virtuous mother had instilled in her Laney spoke "I'm here to see Mr. Brute Masculaine."

He looked her over. Laney knew as his eyes slid over her body she would never be the same. She felt her purity being stripped away as his bold intrusive gaze zeroed in on her breasts, protected by a wool jacket, starched blouse and sturdy bra. "Are you the stripper?" he asked.

"Certainly not!" she said her face turning a righteous shade of purple. "I'm from the IRS. I'm here for the audit."

"What's a tasty cream filled snack cake like you doing working for the IRS?" he asked, a dangerous leer lighting up his perfect craggy features "Should we start with my briefs? Not that I wear any." How dare he! She thought with the indignation entitled to anyone who graduated third in her class at Harvard. She raised a trembling hand to slap him and he caught it a devilish gleam in his eye. "File this, Hot Stuff" he growled as he brusquely pulled her in until she collided with his chest and kissed her. His roguish tongue spelunking in the uncharted cavern of her mouth. She wanted to stop him, had to stop him but her body was limp as overcooked linguine.

How they made it into the house she would never know but she found herself on her back on a leopard print velour sofa. Her jacket was history, her pantyhose were tangled around her ankles and Brute was systematically biting the buttons of her blouse.

What was happening to her? She was not a harlot, a hussy , a woman of questionable morals. But this man made her feel like a sleazy, hot blooded whore with no dental plan.

"Oh Brute" she sighed as he cracked the code to release her bra clasp. His feel of his leathery hands on her lush ivory breasts was too much. She grabbed for his pants, and ripped the fly open, unleashing the awe inspiring spear of skin inside. With one hand he tore off her panties and sent them sailing into the fireplace.

His initial entry she felt a brief insignificant stab of pain, much like an inoculation. It was quickly doused by the wave upon wave of unbearable, immeasurable otherworldly pleasure. In mere seconds she was reaching a glorious, Everest like peak "Yes!" she shouted "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

He stopped and asked breathlessly "Was that you, or is someone at the door?"

Purple Prose as written by Shirley U. Gueste:

A Twist to the Tryst at the Twisted Trellis
Prelude to Mr. Right

Haywood lounged insolently, indifferently, and diffidently against the polished marble mantel of the fireplace, wondering why he agreed to the tedium of yet another social gathering of the ton. He'd had enough of their boring gossipy chatter and was contemplating leaving when he saw the beauteous blonde with the buxom bosoms, intermittently nibbling a raspberry tart and chatting with his jackass of a cousin, Duke Richard Kranium.

"That dastardly bastard," Haywood muttered to the mantel.

He eyed Miss Buxom's bazooms. They turned, as well as she, in his direction just as his head yearned in her direction. They caught each other staring. Their eyes locked. It was painful.

His breeches tightened, his sensual arsenal swelled, making his turgidity total. He tried to tamp down his growing arousal, but applying his own hand to the front of his shrinking breeches aroused him and threatened to cause a munitions explosion. "Damn whatever this short little military coat I'm wearing are called," he muttered as he wondered how to go about hiding the burgeoning tumescence in his breeches.

His batsman, Corporal Roddie Kleaver, would have admired the fit of his dress uniform this night. And Roddie, despite his low rank, was a high stickler. He both envied and admired the fact that Haywood was hung like the proverbial stallion. Haywood, however, worried that those who were unaware of his natural giftedness would gossip if they were to perchance notice the aroused condition of his manhood. He did not want to be the subject or object of unmerciful curiosity among the gossips of the idle rich. Jealous men would accuse him of being a vainglorious jackanape trying to enhance his pitiful masculinity by stuffing wads of socks down his pantaloons in an attempt to attract the ladies. The curiously loose languishing ladies of the ton would try to accost him to discover for themselves the validity of his virility.

Now was not the time to be upfront about his endowments Haywood decided, tucking his dress gloves neatly into the front of his waistband and folding them over his troublesome shaft. Confident that smoothing the gloves over the front of his breeches indeed disguised his condition, his eyes sought her out again.

He felt like an unsheathed sword as he followed her and her breasts with his eyes. He watched as the woman broke away from his gaze and said something to Richard. Then they both turned as one toward Haywood, the woman taking one last bite of her tart and disposing of the empty plate on the tray of a passing servant. Slowly, Richard and the woman, her hips undulating in rhythm with her bounteous mounds, began to walk towards him.

Haywood couldn't keep his eyes off her abundant, round, creamy globes. They were coming in his direction. His manhood was fully erect, just looking at them. Even from a distance she felt it.

"And who is this attractive soldier who dares think to come at your soiree, Richard?" the woman asked his cousin once they were within hearing distance.

"No one you need know," Richard sneered.

"Oh, Richard, how arrogantly rude," she said hiding her embarrassment over his impolitic uncouthness behind a flirtatious laugh.

"That's why we call him Dick," Haywood replied.

She laughed in response, fussing with the tatted lace shawl grazing the tops of her tits. Her laugh rippled over Haywood and drew his attention once again to her creamy mounds, which he now noticed were lightly dusted with sugar and small delicate flakes of pastry from the tart she had just consumed. He'd like to consume her ... And perhaps have her consume him with the same rapt attention she'd just given the tart

Her musical chortling choked him because it caused her voluptuous breasts to ripple provocatively. His eyes strayed to her twittering tits then strayed to her deep cleavage where they rested on a small dollop of raspberry jam. He vowed to that before the night was through he'd bury his tongue in her cleavage and lap at the tart's jam.

Haywood took her proferred fingers in his palm. As he raised her hand to his lips, the woman curled her fingers around his digital members and squeezed them. He bent his head and kissed three buffed tips with curling lips, then paused to look at her with hooded eyes. "Haywood Jablowmi," he whispered in a voice like whiskey soaked satin.

"We've just barely met," she repeated softly. Her voice tightened him, like a velvet ribbon wrapping around the soft spheres of his gender, shrinking his breeches even more as he imagined the two of them barely meeting in one of the twisted trysting trellises scattered around his cousin's estate.

"Dick?" he queried.

"Sure," she replied coquettishly.

"No, I mean my cousin here, Duke Dick."

"Oh, " she demurred, embarrassed at her eager agreement to submit to his plundering perusal.

"Dick, why don't you leave?"

"Am I being given the cut direct at my own soiree?" Dick retorted, unsightly malice dripping from his lips.

"Yes, Dick, I think so," she said dismissing him with a fluttering hand.

"Wilhe Maakme..." Dick spluttered angrily, his distress over his loss for words apparent. .

Haywood, thinking Dick had questioned his manhood, his ability to assert his will, wanted to throw down his gauntlet, or at least slap his glove across Dick's face in challenge. The problem was that his arousal had caused his breeches to tighten to such an extent it impossible to free the necessary glove. He rued tucking them into his tightening waistband to hide his standing member. He struggled with the glove and bit off a curse. He struggled some more and bit off a string of curses. He struggled again and practically bit off his tongue. Despite his curses, the cursed things would not spring free of his breeches.

The cause of Haywood's difficulty did not escape Wilhe's notice. What a truly amazing sight to her not quite innocent eyes to see a man struggle so with tightening breeches.

"This time it is you who has misunderstood. Dick is redressing me. Wilhe's my nickname. I'm Wilhemina Maakeme." She stayed his struggling hand with her own in an effort to keep Haywood from slapping dick in public and ruining the evening entirely.

At her movements, Dick turned on an angry red heel and left..

Haywood left his gloves where they were, fanned across the front of his pants like an angry cock's ruffled comb, like some retro-fashion codpiece that wasn't quite all the rage.

"Well, Wilhe Maakme, I'm a bit stiff. I was considering a walk about the gardens. Care to join me?"

"An injury from the Peninsular War?" she queried querulously.

"Sure, right. It's a persistent condition, but a tryst… er twist…er turn in the garden should alleviate matters."

"That sounds lovely."

As Wilhe Maakeme allowed Haywood Jablowmi to lead her through the throng of ton to the garden terrace, she felt a moment's hesitation. Parrying a strange man in a public ballroom was an innocent undertaking, accompanying him to a secluded garden would be a public confirmation of her reputed reputation. Unsure, her footsteps faltered but Haywood's hand tightened and his eyes again were on her.

"Something wrong, my lady?" he asked in a voice as dark as the night beyond and as sensual as the fragrant flowers scenting the air with the promise of nature's passion. The lady at his side was filling his senses, and making his troublesome trousers fill as well.

"No, my lord," she stammered, then hesitated. "It is my lord, is it not?"

A slow, purely masculine grin curved his chiseled lips. "That it is, although I've gone by the title Major for these last few years."

Wilhe blinked in surprise. No wonder the man appeared both fit and feral. He must have only recently returned from the Peninsular War. "You're a soldier, sir?"

"Yes, as of tomorrow when I resign my commission. Then I am merely a veteran."

Her uncertainty about him seeped away as she gazed at this magnificent specimen of British manhood, Wilhe smiled. "A veteran of many battles, I'd wager."

His cocky grin grew, along with his cock. "A gentleman never brags, but I have enjoyed more than one skirmish."

"Enjoyed, sir? And what of your - uh - opponents? Did they also enjoy?"

"I 'm certain a few found adequate - uh - fulfillment."

"I see, sir," Wilhe replied. And she did see quite clearly just how magnificent the Major's major weapon was.

"Please, my dear, do not call me 'sir.' That is reserved for those who serve under my command."

Warmth heated the cheeks of Wilhe's face as well as those of her nether regions. The idea of serving beneath him was not altogether displeasing. "What am I to call you then?"

"You must call me what my comrades do," he suggested.


"I would that you call me by my given nickname - Woody."

An unbidden giggle rose from Wilhe's throat as her gaze moved to his fully erect member. "A Major Woody?" she wondered aloud, the pouting of her lips betraying her pondering, the heaving of her ponderous, petulant, pendulous breasts betraying her pouting nipples.

He chuckled again. "I would that you be the judge of that, my lady."

Before Wilhe knew what he was about, the Major drew her small, soft hand against his arousal straining beneath the gloves he had foolishly thought would hide his penile thoughts. Some sound escaped her, then her fingers spread over the heated hardness with a possessiveness previously known to her on occasion.

"It seems as if I, who have led men into battle and commanded their movements, am now at your command. '

In that moment Wilhe knew her feminine power, and hoped he had command over himself. She had a firm grasp on the situation and could lead this man around by his manhood, which was at full attention.

"If I am to call you Woody, then you must call me what my many friends call me."

"Which is?" he inquired inquisitively.

"Lucky," she said with feigned shyness.

As in getting lucky? Woody mused to himself. So preoccupied with his effort to appear as if he were not descending from the terrace to the garden sporting a major woody, the major was inattentive to Wilhe's continuing commentary on the gardens. He caught only the tail end of her rambling social intercourse.

"It is enchanting, like the garden of Eden without the fruit."

"Oh, to my eyes there is an abundance of fruit ripe for the picking here."

"Why I've missed the fruit entirely. Where is it?" she said, turning her head to see what fruits he'd seen. "Show me, please."

"I will show you where the plucking of abundant fruit is routinely done," he said, grasping her hand and hurrying her into a nearby twisted trellis for a tryst.

"I see no fruit here," Wilhe whined.

"Oh, but it's here," he said, running the pads of the fingers of both hands across the exposed upper echelons of her plump breasts. "Here," he repeated again in a husky whisper, "are some ripe succulent melons begging for the touch of my mouth, the kiss of my lips, the scrape of my teeth, the gliding swirl of my tongue."

"Oh, honey, do," she sighed breathlessly.

"I was thinking more along the lines of cantaloupe," he muttered absently, brushing his lips across the heady tops of her melons.

Her breasts blushed and beckoned him to further his explorations. He complied. Brushing aside the tatted lace from her tits, he commenced to licking at the dollop of raspberry jam, burying his nose and chin in the crevice of her cleavage.

"Raspberry," she heard a muffled masculine voice mumble.

Gasping for air he emerged from between her breasts and spied another dollop dangerously close to the edge of her gauzy bodice and decided to lick his way toward it. He placed his open mouth against the fragrantly flagrant flesh of her begging bosom, licking away the sweet confection dusting her quivering mounds, dispatching the errant flakes of pastry that clung lovingly to her lovely form, blowing raspberries against the soft flesh of each breast.

His disciplined tongue fought the urge to delve beneath the fabric of her frock in search of a pouting nipple and settled for the jam instead. It wasn't until his lips closed around the sweet dollop that he realized he'd latched onto warm sweet flesh, her own sweet raspberry puckered in pleasured surprise. Remarkably, in the moonlight it had looked much like a tight ripe raspberry to his eyes. Had the tart sprung free, in part, from part of her bodice while still inside among the guests of the sorry soiree?

Haywood bit off a short string of curses as he bet himself that when he finally found her velvety portal he'd find her warm, wet and willing. He was not disappointed. Indeed, when his seeking fingers finally fumbled feebly into her feminine folds they found a warm, wet, Wilhe.

Wilhe closed her eyes and moaned in ecstatic ecstasy as she held Woody's head to her heaving bosom. Wanting to reciprocate with equal pleasure, her tongue sought his ear. Wilhemina pushed her tongue into Haywood's ear, along with a suggestive suggestion.

"Forget the fruit, Haywood. I like vegetables and minerals. How about a rock hard cucumber? Set free your little corporeal corporal, soldier. "

Her words were either a curse or a blessing. Which, he did not know. The cuffs of his tightening trousers were now thigh high and he feared he'd choke himself, exploding his own arsenal. He drew her against his full arousal. "This is what my major solider has to offer my lady, an unsheathed sword in search of a warm scabbard."

No doubt about it. This man had much to offer. No prosy old borish boor was he.

"Kiss me," he ground out between teeth clenched with passion.

She kissed him fully and passionately, open mouthed with tangling tongue.

He drew back from her plundering mouth. "Oh, please, kiss me, please" he pleaded pathetically. Although he had not thought it possible, giving voice to his desire caused his breeches to tighten further. He indicated where he wanted Wilhe's to plant a wet willie with a downward glance. As if on cue the excessive tightening of his trousers propelled him and his gloves from their confinement. He sprang free, in all his glory. Wilhe refused his request to kiss him and feigning a misunderstanding of his unsubtle hint, took his mouth again.

Could she really be an innocent tart? Could she have a cherry still ripe for the plucking? The mere thought made his male member ache for a thorough furrowing of her fertile fields. Made him ache to plow her and give her the liquid of his loins. For now, Major Woody was willing to simply make Wilhe Maakme and save explaining that kiss "me" meant kiss "him" for another time.

For now, he'd content himself with romancing this woman into the next millennium, or at least for the next couple of minutes. He only hoped he could maintain his control over his raging passions. Tragically, when he finally pushed himself and his manhood and his virility and his body into the heated core of her sex he failed to fully bury himself to the hilt of her fiery feminine furnace. His corporeal major, his little soldier, quickly expired with a sputter, apparently from heat exhaustion. His pants unfurled to their pretightened state, almost flaccid in their fit.

Wilhe groaned. She'd thought him a Major Woody worthy of the purple prose she'd read in novels from the lending library...scandalous novels about men and women and love. But once again, reading about it had proved much better than experiencing the lust of a real man. A ton of the ton and she chose Haywood Jablowmi to believe he had lured her into a dark garden for a tryst beneath a trellis of wildly exotic flowers. Why should she - once an innocent in the ways of love - still yearn? She knew not. She only knew that her most intimate place had yearned to be pierced by an unyielding mighty sword. Instead, she'd almost been pricked by a pocket knife.

Ha! He'd thought he'd found some innocent know nothing, a delicate English rose ready - even eager - to be deflowered.

Ha! He'd thought himself to be just the gardener to prune her feminine flower.

Ha! He'd thought himself capable of getting past the point where her hymen would have been had she still had a hymen. Never quite burying himself in the grasp of her welcoming warmth, he and his rod and his shaft and his entire body easily slipped - out of her. His head hung in shame over what he had just done.

Mayhap he hadn't actually breached her maidenhead. After all, everything had happened rather quickly. Even so, perhaps he should at least make a clumsy attempt to do the honorable thing.

" You were an innocent. I apologize. I shall offer for you tomorrow."

"No apology necessary," she replied. "It was nothing major."

Yet to his ears it sounded like, "It was nothing, Major." Either way her meaning was unclear to him.

"Perhaps we should go back inside before we are missed," she said somewhat impatiently.

"Yes, perhaps we should before the wagging tongues start," he answered as he offered her his arm.

She took his proffered arm and patted it. "Yes, it is still early," she replied trying to suppress the shivers a certain image of wagging tongues had conjured up within her.

Not yet willing to give up on her hopes, her dreams, she consoled herself with the fact that there were still tons of ton to try.

She sighed.

Perhaps, someday, my prince will come and he'll be able to let me come with him, she mused to herself.

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Issue #99 of At the Back Fence - details of the contest's outcome and reader response

Index for Laurie's News & Views (Check the index for "silly sex"/"purple prose")
Ferri Tales - There's plenty of purple prose here! (And a return link to the PPP section as well)

If you liked this parody,

try this one!