Desiring Ariel's Wood

Lord Bumbridge put down his copy of The Times and took a long sip of whisky. He was seated on a red leather sofa at the Sandrock Road branch of The Institutional Club. Actually it was inaccurate to call it a “branch”, as it was the main and original location of the club for the wealthy Tunbridge Wells elite. One of the younger members had dubbed it “The Mothership” a few years ago and unfortunately the name had stuck. Now all members were expected to use that vile name, as well as calling the town centre branch “The Annex”, which was only marginally less repugnant.

Across from him sat the immaculate, if skinny figure of Ariel Smallwood. Ariel was one of only two women allowed membership in the club, and had been granted this because her father, Cornelius, was on the board of directors—wretched old cock that he was. Protruding from Ariel’s mouth was the elegant shape of a fine Havana cigar. She smoked one constantly and had done so since the age of 16. She was now 43. Her left eye was covered by a black eye patch, and this in combination with her 1920s style men’s morning suit and waistcoat, gave her a strongly pirate-ish appearance.

“Arrrrr!” thought Terence Bumbridge as he stared at her adoringly, his permanent erection suddenly throbbing. He and Ariel had been secret lovers for the last three years, ever since her firm, Smallwood, Glorpmann and Lusk, had taken over the Bumbridge accounts. He had an overpowering desire to reach over and touch her wooden leg, but the thought was interrupted by the arrival of Eric, the club butler.

“There is a message, sir,” said Eric in his formal, uninterested fashion, “from your daughter, Wilhelmina. She requests your presence at The Shop With No Name rather urgently.” Good Lord, thought Bumbridge with some exasperation. What possible trouble has Willie got herself into now. Slowly, he hauled himself to his feet, shot an unsubtle wink at Ariel and walked across the room towards the door.