The Late Mrs. Peel

Discussion in 'The Bodyguard's Scribbles' started by The Bodyguard, May 30, 2018.

  1. The Bodyguard Active Member Humorist

    Blog Posts:
    6
    The Late Mrs. Peel
    Mrs. Peel casually walked out of the Saville Row branch of Latex-R-Us with her latest bespoke suit. It was a fine day and she pretended ignorance of all the heads of all normal men on the street who quickly turned to admire how well the new Kevlar material had been poured directly from the pans onto her body for an exquisite fit. The old leather and crimplene now passe.

    Just a bit tight around the collar she thought, but then she'd had iron collars that had chafed her fair skin. A bit tight and noticeably delving divinely between her legs but then this was the late 1960's and women's lib needed a good stiff kick in the rear to get started.

    She looked at her latest sportscar, in pale blue, her favorite color, with just a bullet proof windshield, the only thing the unnamed government agency she worked for could afford to offer on its measly budget at the R&D/Quatermaster's department.

    As she strode so well, a truck pulled up and double parked beside the car . That ubiquitous three-wheel mini-semi with lightweight trailer van so popular with the Royal Mail and the late, lamented private railroad lines. This one was brown and cream colored with a nice red stripe with Gold Lettering that simply said "Have Scarab, Will Kidnap". She raised an eyebrow at this clue.

    A man got out, thick drooping mustache that would have made a Colonel in the Queen's Own Fusiliers envious. A bit of a hunchback and an American style sports cap with 'Arsenal' emblazoned on it. Ah, another clue she noted.

    The man came up to her a gave a whispered comment which she did not understand. "Your Bulgarian accent is atrocious." She nicely informed.

    "You are needed, Mrs. Peel, as that buffoon Steed would say." This time in a clear Parisian boulevard accent.
    "Much better...." but the quick cholorform handkerchief routine was too quick and she swooned onto the man's shoulder and he hefted her into the van, locking the door and quickly driving off. But not before taking a moment to twirl one end of the mustache while noticing the devine cleavage between her legs.

    A salesman came out with her left behind box of 'everyday not wearing latex clothing'. "I say. "He said without saying much of anything else as the van made a u-turn and headed for the loneliness of Norfolk.

    Mrs. Peel, woke to find herself on a genuine Louis XIV love seat. As her eyes cleared her arms informed her of their well iron shackled togetherness behind her back. And her tongue made a comment about the thousand thread handkerchief, unadulterated by anything more than Dom Perignon '56.

    She looked around the room. On one wall was a grand display of swords, sabres, rapiers, and epees. With a medieval halbard at each corner. It seemed distinctly familiar. On the wall across from that was selection of historic bowler hats and broilies. She knew Steed would be envious.

    She sighed and looked at a photo of herself on the wall behind her. A slight turn of the head looking off, a single strand of hair floating over her forehead. Her signature underneath "always". It was the one she had given her husband before he disappeared.

    She stood up only to discover her legs were tied together by her own sash she had won at the 1963 Miss Churned Natural Butter contest. Where the unnamed agency had made her an offer she could not refuse. "See the world and get bound up in adventure." Well, she certainly had proved that to be true, more of the latter than the former, but then a gal has to put up with all the perks and benefits of a job while getting paid at two-thirds the manly rate.

    Then sounds of steps on the upper landing. She raised both eyebrows in her usual "what nonsense do I have to deal with in this episode' manner.

    She looked at her own four inch high heel, knee high leather boots. And the fishnet body stocking. And her Fortnum and Mason peach flavored edible panty. And the red, fifty laces required, Maidenform corset that pushed up and out where it should and narrowed everything else. And the spiked leather collar, each spike loaded with a different chemical agent know to overpower a spy in just five seconds.
    And a new bowler hat on top of the head, a hand twirling a new bumberchute , the other a glass of the Dom Perignon.
    She spit the handkerchief out, taking a moment to lick her lips of any drops of the same fine liquid. "Steed?" She had to raise her eyebrows a second and a third time before the revelation sunk in.

    "Yes, Emma, may I call you that. Mrs, seems so archaic now-a-days. Yes, Emma, it's me, John 'the stud' Steed." He walked a bit unsteady on the high heels, mainly trying not to spill his beverage. "As you can see I have joined the women's lib movement. By gosh, this apparel really makes the man of me. I see why you enjoy wearing it."

    She did notice that her panty he wore did seem more of a codpiece. She easily shredded the sash only to discover the tightness around her neck was not the new suit but an actual iron shackle chained to the ceiling, with another set of shackles holding her bare big toes together.

    "You're under some sort of mind-bending drug, probably from some nefarious fanatic or group that wants to take over the country if not the world. No one controlling me I assure you. About time you and I had a perfectly wonderful weekend together."

    "Oh, we've got a good fifty or so years before the American Republican Party decides to do that."
    She took a step back as he neared. "What are your intentions then?"

    "I hadn't any real agenda for that, but seeing you in that really, truly, awfully effective new suit, well I just have to find the perfect whip to take it off, strand by chemical strand. And then emblazon my family crest upon your ass cheeks, and my initials on either side of each nipple."

    "Uh, how about just a game of chess?"
    "Well, of course that." He pointed to a board on a nearby table. A single white queen, nailed to the board. And all but the black Queen surrounding the white queen. "Your move, Emma."
    She fluttered her eyelashes with a smile that he knew all to well meant she was already planning her escape.

    He went to the door leading out on to the garden. "Ah, Norfolk," Out on the lawn she recognized over a dozen different contraptions, frames, and otherwise dastardly devices that she had once been bound to before escaping, usually with Steed's timely arrival.
    "After each of our adventures I saved the ones that weren't blown up or otherwise damaged beyond repair. Such memories, eh Emma? But this time I'll be administering, not rescuing in a timely arrival."
    She wavered in her chained position. That damn devine cleavage down below proving somewhat more than embarrassing. She sighed with heavy chest upheaval. "Mr. Steed?"

    He turned to her. "Yes, Emma?"
    "I need you."