Mwynwen - Christmas Carol part 1
By Diana the Valkyrie
We were at Fluff's before you can say "gratuitous sex".


Starring: Mwynwen, aka Min, aka The Camel, aka Witch

Linda Daventry, aka The Duchess, aka Fluff

Simon, aka The Footman

Inspector Cameron. No-one's worked out what his secret identity is.

Mwynwen:

When I got back to my little eyrie in the Welsh mountains, I found that Simon
had been busy. As well as setting up my wireless lan connection via the
village pub to the internet, he'd also arranged for the trickle of water off
the mountainside to run a trickle charger into a UPS, so I'd have enough
electricity to occasionally use the low-wattage computer he'd installed. He
showed me; he started up the computer and I opened my email box. It was, of
course, full of spam. What's the point, I wondered. Still, I had to encourage
Simon, he had done an spiffing job here. So I kissed him on the cheek, and
offered to fly him home. He looked vaguely unsatisfied, and I don't like
leaving them like that. So I came up with another suggestion.

"Linda's looking for someone to practice fluffing on, would you like me to fly
you down there?" which was a blatant lie, because Fluff hadn't needed practice
for as long as I'd known her, she was a natural. But the idea had an instant
effect, I could see the pressure in his trousers. So I sent Fluff an email to
let her know we were on her way and that I wanted her to spend a couple of
minutes on Simon, and, wow, it is just *so* convenient to be able to do that
without having to fly down to Abercadwelly to post a letter or make a phone
call. I shared my leek and lentil casserole with him as we sat outside. I let
Simon hold my hand and we watched the sun go down as we ate. A couple of
rabbits came out for silflay, and I made "chk chk" noises to them until one of
them came up to be petted, and I gave her a bit of leek.

It was almost dark by the time we'd eaten. "Come on, Simon. Bed" and I flew
indoors, with Simon walking briskly after me. I washed the plates and
casserole dish, then turned to find that Simon was already in bed. In my bed.
Horrible misunderstanding, here. But how do you tell a good friend and a fine
network engineer, albeit a bit geeky, that you weren't making a sexual advance
when you suggested bed? Difficult. Requires tact and diplomacy.

Some people ask themselves "what would Napoleon have done?", and that's often
a good way to approach a problem. But when it's anything to do with sex, I
usually ask myself "what would Linda Daventry have done?" OK, Tactful Linda
would have fluffed him raw, sexed him unconscious and slept in the same bed.
Trouble is, I don't have her skills. But I do have other skills.

"Did you know that bed's a double-decker?" I asked him. I followed Simon to my
bed, and lay down on what would have been the upper level had there been one.
That put me about six feet in the air above him, too far for any risk of hanky
panky. And I ignored his request for a goodnight kiss; I think he fell asleep
eventually, but I couldn't swear to it, being out of it myself by then.

He was not in a good mood the next day. He groused as I sliced a banana into
his cereal, he grumped when I got my flight suit and helmet on, and he was
still making unhappy faces as I hauled him up into the air and started
circling for altitude in the updraft off the side of my mountain before
setting off on the long haul down to London along Brunel's Great Western
Railway. He cheered up as we landed on top of the International Telecom tower,
because I told him that he was about ten minutes from the fluff of a lifetime.
We sneaked downstairs and out the main entrance, hailed a cab, and we were at
Fluff's before you can say "gratuitous sex".

When we got there, Fluff greeted me with "Oh, it's you." "Thanks, Fluff. Here,
I brought you a victim." "Put it over there," she said, pointing to the sofa,
"you need to call Inspector Cameron, he left a message for you." "What's it
about?" "Search me," said Fluff. So I phoned Cameron.

"Constable Mwynwen here," I said. "Mwynwen! Get your arse over here, on the
double. We have an emergency," said my glorious leader. "What's up, guv'nor?"
"The balloon. The jig. And what's that shouting I hear at your end?" I
gestured Fluff to muffle Simon a bit, so she stuffed a pair of her panties
into his mouth, and finished her fluffing. "Please repeat, guv'nor?" "Min, get
your big fat arse over here PDQ, it's all gone pear-shaped." And he hung up on
me.

I told Fluff what was up, and she said "Sounds serious." "Yes, the boss sounds
like he's in the soup without a paddle and no mistake, bit of a flap, what?" I
replied. I put on my Camel Corps cape; I don't wear it on long hauls because
of the wind drag, but it's great for jumping into a taxi. "Witch, I think this
is a job for ... " and she rushed into her bedroom, only to emerge a couple of
minutes later wearing a rather ludicrous outfit. Tiara, hot pants made out of
a Union Jack, bright yellow 22 foot whip (or was it a Magic Lasso?) coiled at
her waist, and a sort of one-piece waistcoat also made out of a Union Jack.
Round her shoulders, she had a sort of voluminous cloak, which was - guess
what - yet another Union Jack. " ... The Duchess! Dum dum dum!" "Er, Fluff?"
"Yes?" "You don't think that maybe you're overdoing the patriotic fervour?"
"There's such a thing as being too subtle," she replied, "The Duchess stands
for Truth, Justice and the British Way of Life. I decided to leave out the
sword, scales and the blindfold, though." I looked at her as she pulled on a
pair of green Wellington boots; in honour of the old Iron Duke, of course. I
asked myself, would I be seen dead in that get-up? No, I would not. My
sky-blue flight suit, leather helmet and goggles were entirely practical, so
that I'd be more difficult to see as I soared through the air. And the goggles
kept the insects out of my eyes, without them I'd be fly-eyed in no time.
Plus, the cape kept me warm in London's chilly December weather. But wellies?
Gack.

On the other hand, when I looked in a mirror, she didn't actually look more
outrageous than I did. "Oh, come on then. What about him?" I pointed to Simon,
snoring on the couch. "He'll only be out for a few hours, I just gave him a
Preliminary Milking, he should be back in action soon enough." I left a note
for him telling him not to wait up. Who knows how long we might be.

I soared out of a window and went to look for a cab; with all the Christmas
shoppers around, the cabs had almost dried up. By the time I found one, Fluff
had locked up the house and was waiting for me downstairs. "New Scotland
Yard," I said to the cabbie, "and don't spare the horses." I read that in a
Sherlock Holmes book, I always wanted to use that line. Of course, they don't
have horses these days. "Fancy dress party, guv?" said the cabbie,
sarcastically. They're all comedians. "Shut your cake hole and drive, Joker"
said Fluff, succinctly.

We arrived at the Yard, and threaded our way through the labyrinth inside
until we got to the broom cupboard that Inspector Cameron laughingly calls his
office. Actually, he doesn't laugh, he complains about it at every
opportunity. But that's how they treat the Dog Patrol, as we're called. You're
probably wondering where the dogs come in. Well, there aren't any. It was just
a cover name, what would you call it, the "Justice League Of Superheroes And
Superheroines Of Great Britain And Northern Ireland?" Dog Patrol suits us just
fine, it's called British Understatement, and my particular part of the Dog
Patrol is the Camel Corps. Oh, and there are no other parts. No budget, see.
One clapped out Inspector, and one Constable, that's it. Oh, and a part time
unpaid Duchess, she says she does it for the kicks. Which is pretty odd,
because Fluff couldn't kick a football even if someone held it still for her.