Playing Out by Paul Magrs (books for 5 year olds to read themselves txt) 📕

about in her slavering, deadly jaws? Watch him bark in pleasure as she released them, safe, and his cock was shiny and sticky like the fresh bud of a horsechestnut; but immense indeed?

And did he toss back that fabulous dreadlocked mane while she sprawled dangerously before him and then did he lick and lap at her cunt, occasionally tossing spumes of fresh snow her way to tease her and cool her and dabbled at her again with his strong tongue. All around their superbly engined bodies the snow crept its thickness back as if drawing down the sheets, pulling them deeper into bed. In truth, I thought, it Was their fierceness with each other that melted all about them and set up an energetic drizzle of dead icicles from the branches above them. They romped and I watched—for how long?

Long enough for the nuns to return to our car.

When the door shot open and they eased their gentle shrouded selves inside, I jumped as if poked and yanked down the Liberty-print blind. Surely, 1 thought, still sweating as they nodded and smiled at me in their foreign language they could hear the silent frolic outside? Orgasm has its own pitch and sounds thunderous to everyone attuned to it, surely? But with the blind down they were oblivious to what was going on outside.

Irritably I pretended to be reading again and we all set about looking impatient for the off. But actually, I wanted to stay for a while and watch the lions’ glorious pride in lovemaking. It galled me that I was missing out on this grand, no-holds-barred demonstration of a bestial mutuality. We could all do with such a display, I thought.

It was then, in my crossness, I looked at the floor of the carriage in an effort to prevent myself flinging up the blind once more, and I noticed that both nuns wore under their habits scarlet high heels.

Shit! the cultural critic and journalist that I am thought. Why is that so familiar? What Hitchcock film did nuns wear high heels in?

I set to work thinking hard and fast; blocking out the afterimage and afterglow that still had me blushing. Which film was it? This is the kind of thing I’m meant to be up on.

The door opened again and I expected it to be that brat from the Swiss finishing school, but it wasn’t; it was Deborah, looking pink and cross. She smiled tersely and let herself in, followed by a black porter and a wryly amused magician. The magician gave me a special smile and I blushed even harder.

‘This lady is looking for another lady she says belonged to this compartment,’ the porter began. He wore a gorgeous purple suit with gold braid. Portering seemed like quite a good deal if that was the drag that went with it.

‘Sorry,’ I said, just wanting everyone to leave me alone so I could see if the lions were still out there or not. It also occurred to me that something else might be going on. It had struck me earlier that Miss Farquar with her boxes of sticky Belgian chocolates and her leopard-skin pillbox hat was up to no good. What if this was some kind of intelligence test, or a spying deal and they were testing us out?

Best say nothing. So I clammed up, to the porter’s relief, Deborah’s pique and the magician’s further wry amusement. He followed them out with that wily, magical glint in his eye, tipping his hat to the nuns who, similarly and presumably for reasons of their own, had apparently never clapped eyes on Miss Farquar. He tipped his hat to me too with, if I wasn’t mistaken, distinctly salacious intent. The fucker!

Just go, piss off, just go, I was thinking and aiming it at the nuns. They sat there, though, and one took out her knitting. Red high heels! I thought. Well, I never! We all have little foibles.

It started coming back to me. The Hitchcock film was one where the nun obviously isn’t what she seems. She’s a prostitute or something, and she is looking after a corpse, which is all bandaged beyond recognition and en route to somewhere in Europe and is… on a train!

Across the compartment both nuns tapped their red slinky feet to a secret rhythm. They set up an unconscious tattoo mimicking train noises. They wanted to be off, but their faces beamed nothing but contentment.

And it was a train that stopped unexpectedly… something to do with spies in wartime. There were fierce SS men stuck out hidden in the undergrowth, shooting at the passengers in the stationary, derailed train. And the tarty nun in the high heels got shot! Near the end of the film. That’s right! It was Hitchcock’s wartime propaganda movie. That was the one.

And the train had stopped because… the spy was on hoard, swathed in bandages and she’d been found… by a young woman looking for… an elderly woman she’d befriended en route to England… who had vanished inexplicably and now turned out to be a dangerous spy.

It was a fabulous film and you ought to see it.

Since my little adventure I’ve meant to hire it or buy it, but it’s one of those things you just don’t get round to. The Lady Vanishes. I’d still like to see how close we came, that afternoon, to being just like the film.

I went to the toilet and stood on its carved wooden seat to look through the slit of a window. I could just—only just—see the rowdy big cats going for it. It was a mammoth session.

A knock at the bathroom door. We’d been pitched into a disaster movie, but were still terribly polite, it seemed. ‘Hang on,’ I piped, flushing the chain, washing my hands, but the door flew open and the magician stepped in, locking it behind him.

‘You might just wait,’ I told him crossly, drying my hands.

Eyeing a sash of glittering fabric which I had poking out from under