It was a very strange place, but it was a strange place that he’d gotten used to rather quickly. How many years had it been? More than a few, but not that long. It was very possible that it was the best job that he ever had.
He’d been a little bit more important maybe a little more relevant in years past, but now it all just didn’t really seem to matter. He had no boss really. The biggest incentive was just to take care of the customers, maintain the facility and keep the residents happy.
It was 6 o’clock in the morning. They used Earth clocks because why not? He ran and worked out a few days a week. Today was one of his running days.
The atmosphere was strange. It depended really on where you were on the planet. The poles were incredibly wet and contributed to retaining the atmosphere. The rest of the planet was basically desert with an occasional oasis here and there. There was no real smell. It was a clean smell actually. In fact the entire planet was hypo-allergenic.
Of course, there was the underground. From all he had heard, it was a very rich environment that had been very carefully built up over the years with massive underground structure. Oddly, not a single structure existed anywhere on the surface.
The only structure on the entire surface was Waystation 9. Back in the day it would’ve been called an airport, and like all other airports, it started out ad basically a small airstrip.
I suppose that you could say spaceport but that’s just a little bit corny, isn’t it? At any rate, it was time to run. He had his own building. One story, full gym, water cistern, food cabinet, kitchen, refrigerator, theatre room, extra bunk rooms, technology room, design room, meeting room and more.
The radiation meter was down to zero, so he could leave his quarters beforehand he unbuttoned the complex.
He put on his shoes, shorts and T-shirt and he went out to the track. It was always cool and dry, always about 55°F. It almost never rained down here. Rain was an event.
He took off Running. The track was actually his idea, they basically said ‘look if you want to try build yourself a track make yourself some deals for materiel and build yourself a track.’ The sand had a slight crunchy feel. It wasn’t dusty unless there was a sandstorm.
He was one of the two site managers. There were always only two site managers and it was the same way every day, eight hour shifts overlapping by four hours for twelve hours coverage. The opener opened the spaceport’s radiation shields, the closer buttoned up. Then it was eight hours of bizarre radiation.
During the storms, people did maintenance, fueled up, worked out, went to one of the clubs, workout studios, art studios, galleries, restaraunts. Inside it was like a gigantic beautiful multi-level shopping mall and series of hotels.
The spaceport could only be open for 12 hours a day and it was closed for 12 hours a day. That was the rule. There was some kind of strange disruption in the atmosphere that created radiation. This radiation storm went on for about 8 hours a day, so Waystation 9 had to be buttoned up.
He was going to run 5 miles today. It was pretty much flat everywhere you could see. There were mountains way up to the east but he had really not explore that much. At some point, he figured he would get out there.
He had his cycle so he could peddle out there, but of course distances were much longer than they appeared to be. If you got stuck out and you didn’t have supplies in that environment and you got caught in the radiation storm then that would not be a good situation.
Oh you could survive out there, there’s a special little kind of tent that you could bring if you were going to bicycle for a day out there but you better bring extra tires and extra supplies maybe even a second bike.
He once tried a journey to the foot of the mountain, but he never climbed up, he just took a look around, camped out in the cave, waited it out for 12 hours and then pedaled back
It didn’t have to be a monotonous job, you could find ways to occupy yourself, ways to stay interested. He actually had fairly good relations with the residents. They were known as were known Holeans.
Holeans were genuinely nice people and why not call them people? They were intelligent beings like us, sure they looked a little bit different – almost like the typical aliens as we imagined from Area 51 but a little more robust, a little more hair but they were an attractive and interesting people.
The Holeans had one favorite interest: curios, antiquing we would call it. They did not like to leave their own planet. I don’t know that any of them ever did very often. Maybe every now and then a few of them would travel by freighter to go visit somewhere.
I know there was a few that were buyers of goods who traveled a bit, but they preferred to let the merchandise come to them. You see, they ran an exotic import-export business and that was the deal. They get the import-export business, while the visitors get the spaceport.
Holea had plutonium-platinum pellets – don’t ask me how they work, I’m not a chemist but I will say that the pellets were incredible for powering spacecraft. They also had water as I mentioned before. All you could possibly need: the poles were essentially a mixture of giant oceans and swamps.
Underground, there was an enormous amount of water. The Holeans lived above the water in their structures down beneath the surface. I always imagined that they had some type of boats or maybe even ships under the surface, I don’t really know how it worked.
So that was the deal, we get the fuel, we get the water, we get the spaceport and they absolutely get their pick of the import-export business. Sure, they were interested in occasionally exotic foods but they were mostly interested in the merchandise: Strange woods, interesting metals, intricate carvings, coins, objets d’art that could’ve been thousands or tens of thousands of years old nobody knew.
I think they had more pleasure running their various family kiosks in stores than they did in collecting. I’m sure they had things under ground maybe museums and galleries places for curios, but they like the little cubbyhole stores that we go back as far as possible, little circular staircases to get from one to level to an other.
But when you walked in, you had a feeling that the import-export stores and been there for decades or maybe even hundreds of years, actually I don’t know how long they were there… could’ve been hundreds of years but as you know, these things grow up over time.
Jean-Claude Deblois, the runner, was the morning concierge, or you could call him a site manager, the other concierge, her name was Francine Chantal Delacroix. I don’t know how they both ended up having French names but I think that’s just one of those things that happens.
They didn’t really get along and they didn’t really not get along. I think they were just the only other people that they could talk to. Both kind of viewed the world same way, but were very separate – almost like it a brother and sister that had grown up and moved apart for 30 years and then moved back together.
He kept running, the track was nice – not yet covered with sand. The surface was excellent with a good grip, it stayed in very good condition despite the radiation storms and it seemed to never buckle very much and it never wore out or cracked.
My name is Pochemu as you would Pronounce it. I am a Bolean. Boleans are from the twin planet in synchronous orbit with Holea. I lived with Deblois. This was my first tour of duty. Boleans provided security for the Holeans. Holeans are a religious people, we view them as a nation of priests. We look alike, but they are more white and we are more blue.
Boleans are violent, industrious and highly intelligent. We have been at peace for a long while, except for a few minor skirmishes around the edges of our region of solar systems called the Aal Mog grouping.
I am an officer in the Royal Armed Forces of Bolea. I suppose my career is stagnant which is why I volunteered for this post. I miss my wife and daughters, but other than that it’s good duty. This story isn’t about me though.
Working with aliens is cool. Yes, you reading this are outer space aliens to me. It’s cool because my boss isn’t here. As long as I facilitate for the concierges, the guests and the Holeans, I’m solid. I fuel a report once a month. We use your months, because why not? Systens work if everyone agrees on them.
DeBlois. He’s a cool guy. I run with him some time. Boleans Run, our cousins, the Holeans don’t. They swim.
Eepoporque is my counterpart. She’s only a Captain. Ambitious and snotty. I wouldn’t want her in my command, but I’m her rater on her BAER: Bolean Army Evaluation Report. She is DelaCroix’s facilitator. We don’t tell the concierges what to do, nor the Holeans. We just report and keep the peace. Imagine… Boleans as peacekeepers. Thank Lord Khufu my dad isn’t alive to see it. Oh well.
It’s a long way across the spaceport. There’s a lot of hangars. I think it’s actually 45 miles square. We use your miles, too because.. why not?The enclosed portion is like a giant covered City about 20 miles wide Running South .to North. The morning concierge lives on the North end and the evening concierge lives on the South end.
Funding, yes. Every planet, every civilization runs on the almighty, wait for it… dollar. The Waystation is funded by a non-profit: Hwardjionsczenz. They ran the first space ports, hotels and restaraunts. You can get a used spaceship from their rental division. My brother and I bought a small Kyrellian cruiser. We fixed it up. The new ones suck, the old ones used good materials.
I went outside to run with DeBlois. He was easy to catch. Boleans who are in shape can run a two minute mile at Earth gravity. We’re just different. I slowed my pace to nine minutes to chat with DeBlois.
”JC! What’s up Blay?”
”I’m really roakin’ – eight minute mile today.”
”Pochemu, you ready for your shift?”
”As ready as you are. There’s a new Kapoolian Coffee shop that just opened up. Imagine when a Bolean walks in, they still hate us from the Sadérrhillian conflict of the Difth Cluster Vortex, back in the Schamponian epoch.”
”Listen you big blue bastard, everyone’s making money now, they don’t car who’s ancestors were man-raped and pillaged.”
”Yeah, no drama anymore JC. We Boleans love drama, but here I have orders: play Everything low key.
I thought I was running as fast as I could, but it was 70 degrees, (too hot more me, people).
3:58 at the half-mile mark, but 9:07 for the mile?
It was the clowns.
But, Botendaddy! Kids love clowns…right?
NO THEY DON’T! BECAUSE KILLA’ KLOWNZ KILL EVERYONE THEY MEET!
I saw them lurking in the bushes, they were athletic evil running klowns! The worst kind. They were pacing behind me.
When I slown’ down they slown’ down.
When I sped up, they sped up.
One of them had a chain saw, one of them had a huge wooden mallet and the other a machete. Pronounced Mah-Tchett-eee.
One of them let out a shriekish laugh!
“Boten-daddy…” One of them cried out in a sing song falling falsetto voice.
“Only a 9:07 first mi-le, fading fading we are, fatty.”
After running silently all the way to the lonely old train tunnel another one of them called out: “Boten-daddy 19:50 two mile run, not too tas-ty!”
My third mile was equally atrocious. I tried to run faster, but my legs had turned to jello and I was cramping up.
“32:56, very sad! Very wim-py, too hot for ya’ today?”
Only fear kept me going. The clowns were all around me. Then they began to do an Indian run around me. One would wave the blood-soaked mallet, the next one would wave the Mach-et-ee and the third the chain saw. The four mile mark was equally horrible, over an 11 minute per mile pace. I tried to speed up, then I heard the chain saw!
I ran as fast as my legs could carry me!
I could hear them coming closer.
“Die now Botendaddy!”
“Oh, yes, come to the Killa Klownz Possee or Running Doom!”
I barely made it to my car on time.
I looked in my rear view mirror only to see in my back seat!
Although I talk about diet and exercise, I am only relating my experiences. Any sort of advice contained herein should be validated with your doctor and dietitian before undertaking or modifying any diet or exercise program. I am a mere layman.
The stories depicted herein, and the mythical characters represented are not intended to represent any actual persons living or dead, if it appears so, it is entirely unintentional. Only the run times, run events and the weight loss/diet are true.
All stories and photos herein are copyright the Botendaddy, unless otherwise attributed. Some of the photos are owned by others and are credited herein. If anything is not properly credited, please advise and I will change it. Other items are in the public domain or otherwise released for public use. Some of the works are exclusively of the Botendaddy, so feel free to use them, just ask, I’ll never say no, unless it’s for something truly evil or grossly illegal.
You must be over 18 years old to visit this site. If you are not, please leave immediately. This site deals with five very adult topics: dieting, running, incontinence, online h8t3r5 and human sexual relations; all of which require consultation of a physician. By continuing, you certify that you are over 18.
It was in the City of New York, and the same-said County and State: “Excelsior!”, high above the teeming streets, that I was the only female attorney in the magnificent Law Offices of our hallowed, masculine, ancient, free and accepted Law firm of Carstairs, Synchon and Manderville. I found myself summoned to grovel low before the masculine, withered, gnarled and stately senior partners of said Firm to discuss serious matters of a private yet very important nature.
The Distinguished Firm
“It has been brought to our attention that the nubile free-spirited Mlle. C., daughter of one of our oldest and most prestigious and may I add wealthiest clients, a Monsieur C., known well to all of you, his daughter thus having been degraded and seduced by one not unknown to us. It is none other than one vile and depraved individual, I shudder at using the word gentleman, who is known by the name of ‘The Botendaddy’.
Unfortunately, scilicet scirelicet, it is due to his vast wealth and the macabre nature of his existence, that the local authorities are either unwilling, unable or otherwise ultra vires, to intervene. Ceteris paribus, I am called upon to ask that our senior female Solicitor, volunteer to undertake a perilous expedition by passenger train and then horse-drawn coach to his mysterious, mountaintop estate and in such manner of ruse, gather enough information to rescue the aforesaid maiden from his hideous clutches.
The senior barrister pointed to me and thus quoth he: “‘Aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem!‘ May I remind you of his awesome and terrible powers. Should you fall prey to his seduction, I must warn you that your feminine ‘capacity’ must be beyond enormous to accommodate his massive masculine prodigiousness: homo giganticus enormarum.”
I felt it my turn to assure the firm that as a liberated, modern, strong, suffragettistical woman, being 87.3% of a human being under the State Constitution and 88.4% of a great ape, I was up to the task, both with my wit and my physiological capabilities. I stood in front of the hallowed council, as if I were speaking before the bar.
“Distinguished gentleman of the firm, I am five foot ten inches tall, most grand for a member of the fairer sex, may I also add that prior to my unfortunate divorce, I gave birth to three children. I assure you that the physical ‘capacities’ of which you speak can accommodate any manner of masculine endeavor no matter how titanically prodigious on behalf of said anguis in herba.You gentlemen, being of the superior, hirsute, masculine gender and thus superior to me in every way, are free to examine me, individually or en masse and sample my person more closely, in private, by any means to your satisfaction to determine my feminine worthiness for this task.”
The gentlemen being thus satisfied with my feminine prowess, I engaged a sleeping car on a train from Pennsylvania station. I traveled west for several days through strange deep sylvan woodlands and across the thick Allegheny Mountains and into the savage Laurel Highlands where the brutal, muscular and hirsute beast was known to dwell.
The journey was pleasant, but as we traveled westward, the towns became fewer, the habitation sparser and the woodland more dense.
By day, I observed many curious woodland creatures who appeared suspicious, yet unmoved by the approach of the giant machine. At night, through the drapes in my car, I could observe a lone wolf howling at the savage moon as if to announce our approach.
Arrival at Somerset
In the early morning hours, we arrived at the Somerset train station, where I disembarked. I was the only passenger to so alight and the station was deserted, yet perfectly clean and maintained in the highest order.
I summoned a coach to take me high atop the mountain to the abode of said wicked Botendaddy. I inquired of the coachman if he knew of said Gentleman.
“Ah, yes Mum. I know him quite well. He is a gentleman of the highest order and most generous to the good people of this county. We only see him rarely though, and I pay me no mind to the comings and goings at his estate, if ye catch my meaning. Ye might be wise to turn back now, Mum, as ye appear to be a Lady of good family and fine breeding, if I may speak out of turn, Mum.”
I inquired further, but he closed his eyes, bowed low and escorted me into the coach.
The Botendaddy Manor Estates
After a long, inexorably deliberate climb up the mountain over many dangerous turns and switchbacks, the kindly old coachmen took my leave me at the gate.
A few of the servants of The Botendaddy mingled quietly, and did not look up, whilst they were ‘rhoakeing‘ an odd form of Tobacco herb from a strange pipe.
They seemed so distracted by this herb, that they seemed utterly disinterested at my approach.
“Lowly, servile, groveling, boy-servants!”
I called out to them, in the most polite respectful vernacular of the day. My bags had been deposited on the stone walkway by the coachman.
“Where is your lord of the Manor?’
The first boy came over and groveled like a peasant, bowing and scraping.
“I shall escort you to the butler, Mum, he is more fit to properly introduce ye to M’lord, it so being, M’Lady.”
I was escorted through the garden to the waiting foyer where the aged, distinguished Butler would be in attendance.
Enroute, I heard the ethereal hooting of savage, carnivorous owls that I could not see and I perceived the intermittent screech of Red-Tailed Hawks high overhead.
The massive, hoary trees seemed almost alive and as such, appeared to point their gnarled branches to herald my approach.
Upon my arrival at the foyer, the Butler, being impeccably attired, rose, then bowed low.
“Mlle. Pym-Braithwaite-Smythe, I shall have the groveling, peasant-servants fetch your baggage and the Maids shall make you a comfortable stay. I shall bring you to the tea room, as it is almost four in the afternoon and the Master always has tea served precisely at the stroke of four on the ancient clock.”
I was escorted through several magnificent rooms, each decorated with paintings in the romantic style of Géricault, depicting the long past heraldic, glorious Botendaddy ancestors, each in full, colorful regalia of the late heroic epoch.
Every room was equally magnificent, with the finest silver and perfectly-preserved antiques, many from the 18th century.
At long last, we arrived at the tea room, where a most exquisitely beautiful young woman of about 18, greeted me warmly, holding both hands and peering into my eyes.
4:00 Tea with the The Boten-Daughter
“M’lle Pym-Braithwaite-Smythe, I am the Boten-daughter, the only child and devoted adopted daughter of my dear beloved Boten-daddy. I am, as fate may have it, the last of the noble and ancient, free and accepted House of Boten. Some day when I die, the House of Boten shall perish with me, I am afraid. But enough of this melancholy talk, it is a breach of courtesy go on so. It is my custom to meet guests more cheerfully after such a long passage. I am certain that as you are duly tired from your journey, you might care for a refreshing tasse of tea, my dear?”
The Boten-daughter waived off the lowly maids and she poured me a tea to my liking. It was of a rare East Indian vintage and utterly divine.
“You are very beautiful M’lle, your sepia-tinted-photo-gravure-daguerreotype does not do you justice. But beware, Mademoiselle, the Boten-daddy is quite taken with feminine beauty. He can be quite disarming… (Even though he is a savage beast!) she whispered.”
“You too are utterly charming, young Boten-Daughter. O’ Venus! Goddess of Beauty! Your spectacular loveliness is a marvel far surpassing any description of purest feminine charms that I received heretofore in the cable I received from this Estate.”
She closed her eyes and curtseyed low in response.
“So, your father, he is quite the musician?” I inquired, sipping my tea.
“Yes my dear, he loved to play for my mother. It is the first time in years that I have heard him play. I believe that news of your arrival has cheered him greatly.” The Boten-Daughter said wistfully. She pointed with a dainty, milky-white, lace-covered hand up at a portrait of the Boten-Mommy on the wall.
I stood up to examine the painting closely.
“She was a most exquisite creature, your mother. I pale before her beauty.”
The painting was indeed mysterious and the eyes, the eyes! Seemed to stare back at me as if ALIVE!
“Thank you M’lle. Mother was a lovely and unique woman. At times, late at night, I stand by the ancient altar at the cliff’s edge and when the wind blows gently on the mountain, I believe that I can still hear her voice whispering to me as if the house itself is in mourning of her passing. But alas, it is some trick or artifice of my spirit, I suppose. But I digress, you know, my dear Mademoiselle, that the Botendaddy, a known physical-culturist is accustomed to go running at 5:30 sharp in the afternoon. I understand that you too enjoy the pastime of running? There are many excellent trails on the grounds of this massive Estate. Often, I run with my father, but I have been slothful of late and abandoned him to run alone, I fear.”
“I brought my running gear, Miss Boten-Daughter, I anticipated that your dear father might like to run in the company of a lady, although I presume that he prefers your unsurpassed beauty above all others to accompany him on a long run.”
“While, I thank the Mademoiselle for her kind words, I must caution you my dear M’lle, that I have verified your 5k times, you are much faster than the Master. No matter what happens, do not ever run ahead of him. Not ever. If you should become separated from him on the mountain trails, it could become…perilous? And, it might be difficult to come to your assistance. I shall only advise you once, Mademoiselle, if you don’t think me appallingly rude for saying so.”
“No my dear, your cautious avertissement is nothing but the greatest kindness.”
I heeded her warning. I would pace the slow, hulking, muscular, hirsute, del.icio.us, fragrant Boten-daddy. At any rate, it would give me the chance to query him about the matter of Miss C. in the Socratic style, as was my wont.
We sipped the delicious tea and we consumed the sweet Scottish Biscuits in amiable silence.
After a fashion, I looked up with a start to see a magnificently frightening, green-glowing, muscular, hideous and terrifying, but nonetheless impeccably dressed in 19th century fashion, a hideous yet alluring Beast! It was the amazing, spectacular Botendaddy!
Some indescribable and most wicked delight came over me in a sudden feminine, estrogenic rush! the untoward and primitive quivering of my unspeakably aromatic and wicked, and ungodly, feminine parts, OH THE BOTENDADDY! OH MY HEAVENS THE BOTENDADDY, YES, YES, YES! I thought.
My mouth remained daintily closed, but my very soul erupted in feminine ecstasy! I could scarcely hide the rhythmic, hysterical, distaff contractions of my weak, utterly submissive, 19th-century fairer sex.
Could I do my duty to the firm? Or would I succumb to the vile, depraved, horrific magnificence of his effervescent masculinity and allow myself to be degraded and delectably defiled?
He kissed my hand in the old style of a proper gentleman, and the ecstatic sensation arose in me again with an explosive cascade of ecstasy.
My most intimate underclothes were now so be-sotted with the warm, liqueous effusion that it would appear to a casual observer, that I had lost all control of my urinary bladder in a most untoward fashion. I determined, to my horror, that I had in fact emptied my entire bladder in my uncontrolled dainty, feminine hysteria.
“Mademoiselle, you are truly a lovely creature. Welcome to my humble abode!” Said the Botendaddy, unaware of my disgraceful predicament.
“I thank you for your most courteous invitation, my dear sir.”
“I would be most pleased, if I am not imposing upon you my most beautiful Mademoiselle, if you would do me the kind service of joining this ancient, withered, yet turgid Botendaddy on my afternoon constitutional trail run.”
He bowed so low that his long, magnificent crop of hair almost scraped the marble floor. Ah the Botendaddy! The smell of him! I felt faint.
The butler noticed my horrifically embarrassing situation and he politely inquired of the Botendaddy if the lady might draw a bath before the run and be thus refreshed.
I was escorted by one of the maids to a delightful chamber, where a warm bath was awaiting. She took my soiled clothes to the wash chamber, making not a mention of their soaking wet, warm, humiliating aromatic condition.
During my bath at precisely 4:20, I smelled a strange odor emanating from the first floor along with strange laughter, low-toned philosophizing and the sound of ravenous beasts consuming some sort of crunchilious food-stuffs.
After my bath, during which I had so manupulated my person to relieve myself of much of the hysteria, I changed into my running clothes, along with my most exquisite incontinence underwear, so that I might join the terrifying Beast on the 5:30 run.
The Four Mile Run
We met at the gate. The Beast was in his 19th Century Under-Armour™ running gear. His pocket watch had an elaborately engraved ‘App’ called ‘MapMyRun’®, that would track our sylvan journey through the wooded mountaintop.
“I must advise you my dear, as I am certain my impetuous daughter has already thus apprised you, not to become separated, as there can be many dangerous ‘fauna’ afoot, and the trails can become treacherous in the gloaming.”
“Certainly, as your humble guest, I offer my self to you utterly in any imaginable way to your liking and I shall obey your every word with utter submissiveness.”
And with a wave of his hand we crossed the massive estate on a carefully sanded path that lead to an ancient gate into the dark woods.
According to my ancient time-piece, the Botendaddy was running at about a 9:45 pace per mile, just as I had suspected, from reading the ancient parchment race record of his recent past performances.
The trail was wider than I expected and very well maintained. Tree-roots had been meticulously removed, rocks removed or covered with dirt, holes filled in and drainage was perfect.
Yet the forest was dark. The Botendaddy did not speak as he ran until late in the second mile, when I assumed that the del.icio.us beast had finally caught his breath. We barely met 20:58 at the two mile mark.
Ancient Colonial stone mile markers designated each milepost with the surveyed perfection of none other than Monsieur General Washington, himself.
“Mademoiselle, would it most untoward of me to say that having your company at my estate brings me great joy? To have your intellectual conversation combined with your great beauty will make for a most enjoyable dinner this evening. You will of course join me in the parlor afterwards to listen to the Somerset String Quartet and sample some of our imported liqueur?”
How could I refuse? At any rate, I felt that it was my duty to submit to the Botendaddy and ensure that every desire, every vile lustful wish, every fantasy that I could pleasure him thusly was the very least I could do, both as a guest and as a Solicitor for the Firm.
All proper 19th Century ladies of good breeding were duty bound to so offer themselves up utterly in the most exquisitely degrading manner for the sake of their distinguished employers.
We ran deeper into the woods, it appeared that the Botendaddy wished to run a four-miler. His three mile time at 33:15 while not awful, it was nothing to cable New York about either.
The Ancient Stones
As we ran, I noticed that deep in the woods, were several macabre tombs, monuments of sorts, decorated with weeping angels and devout cherubs, peering skyward. Other, darker, more ominous monuments of earlier origin, were in the shape of strange altars, wicked pyramids and forgotten obelisks, so adorned with the most evil, shocking and unspeakable creatures.
Then an icy fear slowly gripped my mortal soul. Would the firm have delivered me as an unholy sacrifice just to satisfy a wealthy client? What if this sequence and strange arrangement of ancient and hoary stones stood to conjure the unspeakable old one! The shocking Yog Sothoth!
The last Mlle of the trail was close enough to the precipice that a long tumble would send an unsuspecting runner plummeting to their demise. As the trees opened, there was so revealed a breathtaking panorama of the valley below and the ancient village of Olde Uniontowne.
The Botendaddy picked up his pace as if to avoid the ignominious 47 minutes four miler, but in the end we arrived at a meadow where the fourth mile marker signified the end of our run. The Botendaddy appeared tired but invigorated as we checked our pocket-watches to reveal a time of 45:45.
The Botendaddy bowed low and took my hand. I curtsyed and blushed as his powerful, sweaty hand held my dainty virginal, petite hand. The moment that our hands touched caused me once again a burst of explosive hysteria, but this occasion I was prepared with the incontinence undergarment when I lost all physical control.
“I would be most pleased if you would join me for dinner tonight, promptly at 7:30. I thank you again for honoring me with this run. I so enjoyed your exquisite company, you are a ravishing beauty and sleek of form.”
“Oh Dear Sir Botendaddy, it was entirely my pleasure. I have not run in the company of a real man for quite some time. Just spindly weaklings with no backbone, pale and gaunt, lacking in manly, hirsute form and smelling of lavender. None reeked of hideous, delicious, masculine musk stench, like yourself, my dearest Sir.”
He held my hand as he led me back into the ancient vine-covered manse. Ah the smell of it! Like Horatio of heroic olden days, hideous and utterly repulsive of visage, but gentlemanly and muscular in his romantic, dominant maleness. Would I be ready for his full, masculine onslaught? I smiled smugly knowing that I could accommodate whatever lay ahead.
Dinner in the Great Hall
After my bath, my presence was requested in the great dining hall. It was decorated with trophies of the hunt and heraldic portraits of heroes long dead and their fair maidens. Old dueling swords and crossed matchlocks adorned the space above the exquisite fireplace.
I was seated in the middle of the table across from an aged gentleman known as Herr Doktor Karl Calegari Fontenot Feldjäger.
The young lady of the manor sat at the far end of the table across from her father. I feared her judgment of me as a once-high lady of society, now scandalized by divorce and brought low by endless debauchery, caused by my incurable, lustful, feminine hysteria, which had not abated despite having three sons of age and my being a mature woman of four and forty, yet possessing a feminine form of body that was the envy of all New York.
The dinner was exquisite. Small breads with different sweet local butters, fresh engraves and a main course of pheasant, smoked goose, elk pâté and cured wild boar. Desert was a tantalizing selection of small cakes, fresh pie and crème brûlée in a brandy glaze. We chatted mostly about running as I sought to avoid more painful subjects.
“It is a pleasure to have feminine company, my Dear Mademoiselle Pym. Since the loss of the great Lady of the manor, it is rare to have such divine company where I can discuss matters of concern to the fairer sex.” Said Lady Boten-Daughter, idly twirling her brûlée.
“What was she like?” I inquired. I felt if I could understand the Lady of the house, I could unravel the secrets of the great Botendaddy.
“I miss the moments. We would be outside together grooming the horses. Sometimes, we were short with one another as if we thought the three of us would be together forever. If not I had more time, but fate is cruel.” Said the Botendaddy, looking into the fireplace as if transfixed.
“As we ran, I noticed many magnificent stones. Are they from Indian times or something more ancient.” Said I, trying to change the melancholy topic.
“Young Lady”, said the aged Doktor. “This Estate was once owned by a strange Frenchman back before <>. What you Americans call the French and Indian War. He was clearly mad. He believed that the grounds up here were the site of an ancient Iroquois religious site where the savage, muscular natives sacrificed living victims to the unspeakable old ones, the name cannot be spoken, lest he be thus conjured. It is said that rites were performed at each of the stones before heading to the hideous altar by the cliff. But my observation from examining the stones is that they at clearly Gallic in origin and I believe they were transported by the madman Jean-Luc Sevigny Ste. DeBlois des Lauriers from ancient worship site in the high Vosges. But others claim they are just statues from the grounds of the old house.” The professor sipped his brandy.
“Fascinating history of these delectable, mysterious Laurel Highlands.” I said cheerily.
The Veranda at Cliff’s Edge
“Let us adjourn to the veranda for a rhoake of the local schmiee.” Offered the Botendaddy.
We proceeded to a massive dimly lit exterior portico that seemed to extend over a massive cool expanse of empty dark space.
The four of us, the good Herr Doktor, the delicate Boten-Daughter, myself and the deliciously, freakishly hideous Botendaddy.
We roaked the local Schmiee, we sipped brandy and we spoke of myriad lore of the ancient legends of the mysterious Laurel Highlands.
After a fashion, I noticed that the good Doktor had retired and the Boten-Daughter had take her leave, causing me to remain alone with the savage, sumptuously delectable beast.
“I know why you are here Mademoiselle Pym. We are not children, foolish ruses do not become us. You are here about the matter of Mademoiselle C. Whose recent utter, repeated, ravishment and self-imposed degradation has become a subject of interest to your firm. She is a woman of 20. Most women in our society are long since married with several children by that age. She demanded that I introduce her to the dark, carnal arts, leaving her groveling in an utter state of gooey, slimy, sticky sloppiness in which she reveled at no end. Her nubile pelvis survived the pelvic-bone-stretching onslaught no worse for the wear. Her family should be thanking me for helping her cross the threshold of womanhood in such a complete and humiliating manner.”
We leaned over the veranda wall peering into the misty gloaming.
“Perhaps, Dear Sir, if I am not being too forward, a demonstration would be in order this evening, so I may validate your words and alleviate the concerns of my illustrious client?”
The Botendaddy paused and put his hand on his chin as if in contemplation.
“Mademoiselle. Meet me in my chambers at 10:30 P.M. sharp and please ensure that you are physiologically… prepared?”
Upon the Botendaddy’s invitation, I lost all control of my bladderious capabilities and I soaked my incontinence undergarment fully.
The Encounter with the Beast
At 10:30 P.M. sharp, I met the Botendaddy in the second floor hall and I accompanied the him to his chamber. The maids and butler were nowhere to be found. I began to hear the large organ in the main hall, once again playing Bach. Could it be the Boten-Daughter? Was it a sinister ruse to drown out the frightful sounds that were soon to emanate from the Botendaddy’s chamber.
I was overwhelmed with fear, trepidation, yea terror! Once again I lost all control of my bladder. yet I was also curiously aroused in may I say, dear readers, a most decadent manner? What sinister delights could possibly await in the Botendaddy’s Chamber of horrors? Was I ready for the task?
I followed the Botendaddy into his chamber. I was overwhelmed with proper 19th century shame. Was I to succumb to the vile predations of the Botendaddy?
The rest is a whirlwind, but I shall describe the events which transpired to the degree that decorum allows. Before I knew it, both the Botendaddy and I were on the great bed in a state of undress.
After a fashion, it was my time to receive the Botendaddy. His masculine delight was so massive that I had to strain every feminine muscle and tendon, I had to focus entirely on receiving his enormity. I began to sweat on my forehead uncontrollably.
The massiveness passed slowly inside me as if I were giving birth to a baby Rhinoceros in reverse! When it became clear finally that the Botendaddy had fully entered my chamber of femininity, he was shocked that I was able to accomplish this massive feat. I was very proud that I had not let the firm down. I could actually feel the very bones in my pelvic region stretching and creaking.
All the while, the music from the giant organ played below, louder and louder. I realized that I had been screaming uncontrollably throughout the entire endeavor! Not a normal scream of terror, but an unholy scream as if I were being murdered from the inside out.
“O’ Venus! O’ Aphrodite! O’ ancient gods!”
I cried out as the Botendaddy had his way with me in every possible fashion. I continued to shriek and scream with utter disregard for decorum. The organ music was perfectly heightened to mask my primeval, carnal, hysterical sounds!
I dimly became aware of the passage of time throughout the night. By 3:00 A.M. I was completely exhausted. My body had been subjected to physical stresses that would have destroyed a lesser woman. Yet I persevered!
How proud was I of my accomplishment. I was fully saturated with the most vile of the Botendaddy’s reproductive fluids. Every crevice, my hair, my visage, my nostrils, my very bowels were sticky with the hideous, delicious, viscous matter. Ah the smell of it!
Eventually, the Botendaddy put me over his knee and began to spank me with his muscular, calloused hand. My fair, soft, milky-white cheeks absorbed ever more violent slaps with a thunderous crack!
“O’ virtue! O’ shame!”
I shouted. Ah the agony of my misconduct! The Botendaddy was forced to spank me until I cried, so that my horrific sins of feminine naughtiness could be expiated by pain and red welts. He then made me stand in the corner and apologize for being such a wicked girl and so violating the mores of our gilded age.
Ah how delectable the shame! O’ joy! I wallowed in the intensely tasty, sumptuous humiliation of my proper punishment. The Botendaddy then clapped his hands and I was escorted from the chamber by two of the maids. One of them carried my soiled clothing. The other wrapped my person in a monogrammed ladies bathrobe. Then I went back to my chamber and I fell into a deep sleep.