Jealousy

Jealousy

a novel

Marion Robertson

Copyright 2022 Marion Robertson

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

Preface

Prelude

1st Act

Interlude

2nd Act

3rd Act

4th Act

5th Act

The Return

Preface

In his essay on P.G.Wodehouse, George Orwell pointed out that the Master succeeded in writing farce without including a single sex joke, or even any sex at all. While there is plenty of romance in Wodehouse’s writing, there is no physical contact between lovers beyond an occasional embrace or, usually at story’s end, a young man smothering his beloved’s face with kisses. Jealousy is a strong factor in establishing plot, especially in the Jeeves novels, with attractive women causing havoc amongst their admirers. Although friction between characters always arises because of a trivial misunderstanding, sexual tension (which would surely exist in such situations) is never allowed to surface.

My novel also includes jealousy as a strong factor, except the sexual aspect is well to the fore! One of the main characters – Kate – could hardly be more obsessed with sex, being afflicted with so-called Persistent Sexual Arousal Syndrome, an abnormality she considers a positive, although she recognizes the danger which may arise in relation to it.

Kate models herself on Wodehouse’s Bobbie Wickham, the ticking bomb that could go off pop at any moment. The upheaval in the lives of the other main characters (Margaret, Amanda and the moronic Dwayne) is only partly due to Kate, but she is the spark that eventually causes chaos to the entire Australian country town in which the drama is set.

The richness of Wodehouse’s descriptive prose has been compared to that of Raymond Chandler, especially in the use of colourful or exaggerated simile. For example, Wodehouse once referred to one of his characters as having a laugh like a train entering a tunnel, whereas one of Chandler’s produced the same effect by clearing his throat. Jealousy moves from farce to something far more serious when the women’s safety is threatened. Chandler’s novels, especially The Big Sleep, were a strong influence.

The author can vouch for the authenticity of all the rude words in this book that have been attached to famous orchestral tunes by bored musicians.

Prelude

‘Jeeves!’

‘Sir?’

‘Have you heard of something called the a-spot?’

‘The…a-spot, sir?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, taking a thoughtful poke at the e. and b.. ‘Yesterday evening Bobbie asked me to find hers and – well, I didn’t know where to begin.’

Jeeves’s eyebrow twitched slightly. Not the one that signifies strong emotion, the other, which merely indicates surprise.

‘If it is not an indelicate question, sir…’

‘Fire away, Jeeves.’

‘...was Miss Wickham referring to her genital organ?’

‘That appeared to be the objet.’

And, dear reader, I spoke with conviction. Upon making her request, Bobbie had planted her g. o. right in front of my face. Nothing could be more objet than that.

‘Then the word a-spot is a term of convenience given to one of the particularly sensitive erogenous locations without or within the vagina, sir.’

‘One of the? How many of these places are there?’

‘At least four, according to current informed opinion, sir.’

‘Really, Jeeves? Elucidate.’

‘Of course, sir. First – on an ascending scale of inaccessibility – there is the clitoris.’

‘Clitoris? Isn’t she one of the Bassington-Bassington mob?’

‘There is nobody of that name numbered amongst the Bassington-Bassington family, sir. Possibly you misheard during your introduction to Chloris Bassington-Bassington.’

‘Ah, yes. Carry on.’

‘If I may, sir. The clitoris, or c-spot, is a small protrusion above the vagina which, to the knowledgeable, is easily found on the bodies of most women. Highly sensitive, sir.’

‘Noted and filed, Jeeves. Next?’

‘Next, sir, is the u-spot, a small area immediately above and on both sides of the urethra. Surprisingly responsive to a gentle caress.’

‘One moment, Jeeves. You – ?’

‘Urethra, sir. Again, not a member of the Bassington-Bassington family, but a tiny aperture through which urine passes, all human beings possessing it; in the case of post-pubescent males, it also serves as a channel for semen.’

‘Must be rather a squeeze for those lads.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

‘Seamen, Jeeves. Joke. Ha-ha.’

‘Oh, very droll, sir. To continue – the c- and u-spots are external; but a short distance inside the vagina, against the upper wall, is the g-spot, so named after the gynaecological explorer who first identified it, one Ernst Grafenberg.’

‘Also responsive?’

‘When the female is sufficiently aroused, sir. However, in the opinion of some pedagogues, the area with the most potential for female pleasure is the anterior fornix erogenous zone, or a-spot, a slight puckering around the cervix at the innermost end of the vagina.’

‘No wonder I couldn’t find it, Jeeves. I felt like Livingstone searching for the source of the Nile.’

‘Doctor Livingstone achieved a degree of success no greater than your own, sir. Nevertheless, subsequently he did receive a medal from the Royal Geographical Society.’

‘Just for trying?’

‘I believe it was given in recognition of other discoveries he had made, such as Lake Victoria, sir.’

‘I don’t think I came across anything quite on that scale, Jeeves. A small pond, maybe.’

‘Doctor Livingstone lacked the necessary cartographical assistance in his quest, sir. You are no longer so unfortunate; a second expedition should prove fruitful. If you succeed in reaching the desired a-spot, sir, you may find that pressure upon it can provoke a sexual reaction closely akin to insanity.’

‘You mean one of those orgy-things?’

‘It varies from female to female, sir, but all the spots in question, when stimulated, may result in orgasm. Whether an orgy is also taking place at the time is perhaps a matter of personal taste.’

My mind, such as it is, was reeling. Complex information at breakfast, especially one as early as half-past ten, strains the faculties.

‘Gad, Jeeves, all those spots! Regular little leopards, what? Women, I mean.’

‘And a most apt metaphor in the case of Miss Wickham, sir. A young lady with that particular shade of red hair…’

‘Not quite so red as elsewhere, Jeeves. I was strongly reminded of the sun setting over the Mediterranean.’

‘Be that as it may, sir, Miss Wickham, though a charming…’

‘Yes, yes, Jeeves. We are already acquainted with your b-spot. But the other alphabetical ones of which you speak—dashed difficult to remember.’

‘And, for the unversed, somewhat difficult to detect, sir, as they are all relatively small.’

‘Relative to what?’

‘Relative to the male equivalent, or – should I be permitted a drollery of my own – p-spot, sir. And remarkably relative in the case of your own physique, if I might make so bold.’

‘You are too kind, Jeeves.’

‘Not at all, sir. May I suggest a mnemonic device as an aid. The female spots, in order, spell c, u, g, a. The cougar is one of the deadliest of the family felidae.’

‘And, no doubt, the f. of the s. more d. than the m.?’

‘Especially Miss Wickham, sir.’

1.

At the wheel of the brand-new, small, sporty red car sat a sombre-faced young woman with a shade of red hair at least as bright as Roberta Wickham’s. There was nothing bright about her clothing, however. Despite the summer heat she was dressed in black from ankles to wrists, her feet enclosed in black short-heeled shoes, the collar of her black shirt tight around her throat and the jet-black, wrap-around sunglasses capped a rather sinister appearance. Normally she would have worn her second favourite shade – white – on such a hot day, but black suited her mood and had suited it for nearly two months. Black was her third favourite; there were not any favourite shades after that, not ones she would wear. Besides, Bobbie’s air-conditioning was at full blast, just winning the battle. It was a pity the narrow country road did not allow Bobbie to be driven at full blast as well – the faster they went, the sooner they would be further away from...but she was not going to think about that.

Kate did not smile at the completion of her pastiche; indeed she had not smiled once during its composition, her vow remaining intact. It had passed the time and the highway was a long way back now, although there was still a fair distance to travel. But P.G. Wodehouse? A young woman in the early twenty-first century with an enthusiasm for P.G. Wodehouse? Her stepbrother Fred was to blame. Some years ago he had stuck a short story in front of her nose. Read this, he had said, there’s somebody in it just like you.

The first few pages had seemed pretty dull (Keep going, Fred had urged), until… red-haired hussy who ought to be smacked…hmm. Kate had read on with more interest. Then there had come…She resembled a particularly good-looking schoolboy who had dressed up in his sister’s clothes. Catching her breath, Kate had thought That’s me to a T. The someone had turned out to be Bobbie Wickham. And Bobbie had hazel eyes. Kate had hazel eyes, although she did not have red hair. But she had always wanted red hair instead of brown. And Kate was tall and skinny and completely flat-chested while (to Kate’s envy) other girls were growing breasts, and was always getting into trouble at school for playing tricks on her schoolmates. Just like Bobbie with the lovesick men who followed her about. She had read the next two stories, in which Bobbie also starred, before looking up at Fred with an evil smile. Are there any more stories with er…Roberta Wickham? she had asked.

Soon Kate had discovered other Wodehouse women of interest, especially the blonde ones like Florence Craye and Madeleine Bassett. Kate would imagine herself as Bertie Wooster, a Bertie who, far from being the preux chevalier of the Master’s creation, would tear off their clothes and kiss their beautiful bodies from head to toe, before unsheathing his Excalibur and impaling them upon it. Even the formidable Honoria Glossop was made to submit; the latter’s hideous laugh – like a train entering a tunnel – was easily stifled once there was no room for the train to get in. Sometimes Kate would add some written improvements, sticking her typed pages in at appropriate places. The width of Wodehouse had undergone a slow expansion; other authors had benefitted from Kate’s inserts too. There was an Austen novel where Emma and Harriet obviously wanted to have it off, so Kate had written a scene for them, with other classics such as Floss On The Pill and Horny Doone receiving similar treatment. But the most ardently written new pages were (naturally) the Wodehouse ones that included Bobbie, the human ticking bomb that might go off pop at any moment.

The sun was approaching its highest point. There was not much traffic, the road weaving its way through yet another forest of eucalypts. Kate reflected on her obsession with sex. It was certainly not her fault; with her special gift, it could hardly be otherwise. She enjoyed it and would not change it for an instant...but it did get her into trouble on occasion. Especially recently. But she was not going to think about that. No, no, she would have a period of abstinence. Maybe she could become a nun. Why not? Those lovely black-and-white habits...and only women everywhere...and all those young apprentice nuns just desperate to be ravished. Maybe she could become a mother superior and punish them! Cane their sweet posteriors until they...God damn it Kate, stop it! Distract yourself with another...what was that old pop song a bunch of nuns recorded? Something about a Sister Dom...Dominatrix? And it started with a chorus "Di di di, di-di di di". Then the verse with the solo nun and then the chorus again…yes, that’s how it went:

When your mind needs some relief

From the things that cause you grief

And life could not be worse,

To avoid the smoking gun

Just pretend that you're a nun

Who is writing comic verse:

Fields now, brown from lack of rain. Kate looked at Bobbie’s trip meter; over halfway, but still an hour or more of travel time...

"When you're told to scrub the floor,

Or some other boring chore,

And you wish that you could do

Something different, something new...

Then remember, sisters all,

Take a candle from the hall

At close of morning prayers,

You can use it as you may,

It will brighten up the day

And the night, when locked upstairs."

Sex again, thought Kate, never mind. Not my fault!

Kate’s special gift had arrived around the time she had started bleeding. She had been practising the piano – Rachmaninoff’s famous C-sharp minor prelude – and in the middle of the allegro section, something rather wonderful had happened somewhere between her hands and the pedals, making her cry out. Taking her hands from the keyboard immediately, she had sat still for a moment, trying to identify the origin of the whatever-it-was. It had seemed to come from between her legs. She had felt around that area and, touching her c-spot (not that she called it that in those days), shivered at the resultant echo of pleasure. And then – without any further touching – a second wonderful something happened, less than a half-minute later. Delightful! But a bit scary. Her second cry of joy had brought Fred to the door. Are you all right, Kate? he had asked. Then, noticing her red face and deep breathing, he had suddenly smiled. So! You’ve become a grown woman already! he had said with a chuckle.

At first it had been rather difficult being a grown woman, because going off pop (as she called it) began happening more and more often, until it settled into a pattern of happening every ten or fifteen minutes, without any encouragement on Kate’s part. It had taken a while before she managed to stop crying out. However, so long as she was sitting down or leaning against something, eventually she had been able to have a pop without any noticeable reaction apart from a tiny involuntary gasp, which was easily disguised by clearing her throat or faking a short, small cough. And later still she had found she could do it without losing concentration on whatever else she was doing, apart from the actual pop – a little wave of pleasure sweeping through the vitals, then on with the lesson, or homework, or piano, or dinner, or whatever, just an automatic part of the daily routine.

And she hardly got wet either, just having these little pops. Of course, she had soon found that, with encouragement, she could have a heavy-duty snap, crackle and POP whenever she liked. And it was always necessary to have at least a few of those at bedtime (burying her face in the pillow to stifle her cries) in order to get a full night’s sleep. Getting very wet then did not matter.

It was most fortunate that Kate’s transition to a grown woman had occurred at the beginning of the summer holidays. Nonetheless, something else had changed once she had gone back to school: a sharp increase in Kate’s popularity. Even old enemies had forgotten her favourite prank, cockroaches slipped into unwary lunchboxes. When they were with her they smiled, their eyes sparkling, and they stopped calling her Cockroach Kate. One day a shy girl who was always following her had hugged Kate suddenly, whispering hotly, Oh, Kate…you smell so…yummy!, before running off. Kate had been flattered but surprised. Did she smell? Really? A moment later she had thought: was it because she had been going off pop? Did going off pop make you smell? She had looked down at herself, frowning…and – cautiously – sniffed...and thought…I can’t smell anything!

Rejoicing in her new power over people, Kate had faced the world with a growing confidence that did wonders for her pianism. By the time she had reached eighteen, she was even getting casual work in Fred’s orchestra, although that had led to further complications, particularly where the brass section was concerned. Kate did not mind having an occasional fling with a man, so long as they did not get lovey-dovey and were merely content with poking it in from behind. The double-bass player who wanted more had had to be discouraged by Fred’s friend Canino. Nothing violent, just a quiet word or two. No bass trouble after that.

Bobbie flashed past a white sign displaying PLASTO 40k in large, black letters. On either side were sprawling hills with thick bush and farms with old white-boarded fences. The road had become rather dilapidated, although with little traffic it was easy to avoid the holes and cracks. Fire was the big worry out here in the Australian summers that seemed to last six months; this was late February, hotter than January. But, unlike the brown pasture she had left behind, there had been a bit of recent rain here, the grass looked quite green under the feet of sheep here, cows there. Green…green…I was so green…Kate’s thoughts drifted back to orchestral days. Affairs with female players had been frequent and a completely different matter, unlike that fling with the double-bass plucker, but Kate had never got emotionally involved. There had only been one long, yearning passion – for years – for...no, Kate, no!

"Father Michael has a dong

Thirty centimetres long

And when measured, tightly wound,

Twenty centimetres round!

So remember, sisters all,

When he pays his daily call

To choose his nightly bride,

If it's you he asks to tea

He will take you on his knee

With your habit opened wide."

Of course stepbrother Fred had noticed her gift. He was much older than her, and had taken on the rôle of guardian after their father had died. But all he ever had said was that she was something special, and that she should not worry about being different from nearly everybody else. So long as it was manageable.

Fred had always been an affectionate father-substitute, although Kate had never been an easy person to bring up, regardless of her special gift. Perhaps the toughest time had been the struggle with her physical appearance at fifteen. She had shot up in height—thin, gawky-legged and no boobs. A boob-job at your age? Don’t be absurd! he had snorted, ignoring Kate’s tears. But Fred, people think I’m a boy. Grow your hair, then! Boys can have long hair. Her stepbrother had then shown a rare anger, refusing point-blank. Fake boobs looked awful, he had said, felt awful and one day she would wish she’d never done it. But eventually he had given in to the extent of letting her have a pair of rings from his main shop for wrapping around her n-spots. Expensive ones too – silver with tiny diamonds. Outside school she had worn them all the time under a single layer of skin-tight clothing, defiantly, refusing to wear a pullover or jacket. People had stared, but people stared at her already; at least nobody seemed to think she was a boy anymore. And when her n-spots, permanently prominent since the first post-puberty winter, got really hard as she went off pop, the rings bit into the proud red flesh wonderfully. She had had to practise not reacting all over again.

Being a fine violinist and professional musician himself, Fred had given her early piano lessons until she got addicted, then paid for her to have lessons with a proper teacher. As she progressed he had introduced her to violin and piano duos, playing with her every evening he did not have a concert, full of encouragement. Kate always remembered the first time they attempted the César Franck sonata, or the Frank Sinatra as Fred called it. Playing the easy opening canon of the final movement had been a watershed in her appreciation of music. And the hours she, a mere ten-year-old, had spent trying to master the difficult allegro second movement! Then, just when she had felt she could play it without too much embarrassment, Fred had been sacked from the symphony orchestra. Disillusioned, he had put his violin away and never played it again. Instead he had developed his spare-time hobby into the full-time business it was today, saying it was a more honourable profession. And had made friends with Canino.

PLASTO 24k

Kate sighed as Bobbie passed over a small hump-backed bridge, having a little pop on the way. She wondered when she would play the piano again. If she stayed in Plasto for more than a few weeks...or months...or years...surely not that long! Perhaps she could install a small upright in the Plasto house. Just for herself, it was unlikely that a violinist anywhere near her standard would be found. She missed playing duos with Fred of an evening. And sometimes they had played trios with...with...Kate gulped as her hands began trembling on the steering wheel.

"Then the feared assault will start

On your body's tender part,

But you won't be freed from sin

If he cannot get it in...

So remember, sisters all,

Pray to God or our Saint Paul

That you are not too tight,

For, to expiate your guilt,

He must drive it to the hilt

And then back and forth all night."

Kate had only met Canino once, just before he had taken that double-bass stalker aside. She had shivered then, and she shivered now. Introduced as a person who sometimes went and had a little chat to people who did not quite see things Fred’s way, Canino’s face had creased into a wide smile – like Carroll’s cheshire cat – that had made Kate’s blood run cold. Everything about Canino had seemed to be the same shade of grey. Not just his appearance. The velvet voice that had made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. And that moment when she had shaken hands with him, a large grey hand as cold as ice. It had been like shaking hands with Death. Death…no, no, NO! Think of something else, quickly…Kate squeezed the well-exercised muscle deep in her pelvis and the silken thread responded, tugging the c-ring. Kate moaned, a moan half relief, half sorrow. This was not the time for subtlety; she kept squeezing, each tug provoking a deeper moan, until the glorious violence of a really BIG pop washed through her body. Thirty seconds of internal insanity. Internal except for the bite of the n-rings Mark 2, the old ones too tight now.

Kate sighed again, her eyes coming back into focus. That had been a bit risky at over a hundred k, but all was well, Bobbie still on course. Mmm…putting in a c-ring had been the best decision she had ever made, such an easy escape from unwanted thoughts. Attached to a spherical toy or two that her muscle could move backward and forward, going off pop extra fast (that is, earlier than at the expected pattern of timing) could now be completely hands-free, very useful when driving and especially during a symphony concert – much better to make a pop coincide with bars rest than during a difficult solo. And the silver ring went right through the c. itself, not just the little bonnet that sat over it, as was usual. Fred had looked at her for a full half-minute after she had told him what she wanted. Then he had closed his eyes, shaken his head in amazement and muttered Right, said Fred. It had taken him a while to find someone willing to do the deed. The ice numbing treatment had been bad enough, but that split-second of agony…

"Sister Bridget has a chest

Deeply cleft between each breast,

But you're cursed with tiny tits

Which is giving you the sh…"

…hullo, what’s that truck flashing headlights for? Oh, Bobbie’s on the wrong side of the road. Kate wrenched the wheel over as a Doppler effect-affected horn vented its anger. Kate opened the