The Pawtawnee Chronicles / Chronicle No. 1

by W.T. Zumm

Pawtawnee (pop 2096, located on the shore of Lake Michigan, Wisconsin, USA) is undergoing changes: a cathouse (Messalina Saph's Kitty-Kat Lounge) has sprung up in town: this is an ongoing chronicle of alterations wrought in the personalities of the residents as a consequence: oppression and Puritanism persist, to be sure, but no longer hold absolute sway...

Chronicle No. 1: appearance and disposition of Messalina Saph, businesswoman. "Sir, feel free to reach up and masturbate the slut -- that's what she's paid for!"

Click for: Chronicle No. 2 or No. 3.

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Little did the residents of Pawtawnee suspect that when the old -- much fallen into disuse -- Kristen Hotel was purchased by a wealthy female resident of Chicago, the character of their little town would dramatically change.

"Well, I wish her the best," Mrs. Naughton -- wife of the county judge -- had said with utter sincerity. "Lord knows our chamber of commerce could use a healthy shot in the arm -- a good hotel might just do it -- it's not too far-fetched to suppose that the deer season regulars might not only stay there and bring money into town during the hunt but return with their families for spring vacations. Now all we need to do is get the fishing charters up and running again -- we might very well become the Wisconsin destination of choice for the discriminating."

But behold the look of dismay which stamps itself upon the good Mrs. Naughton's face when she's informed the Kristen will be rechristened "Messalina Saph's Kitty-Kat Lounge" -- further behold the look of confusion and trepidation which distorts her features when she first catches sight of the new proprietress as the latter stands on the front steps, instructs the workmen as to where to place the sign. What does Mrs. Naughton see? She sees a tall strikingly beautiful woman who, as she later reports to sympathetic Bridge Club cronies, is "dressed like a common harlot."

But let us set Mrs. Naughton's view of the matter aside and describe the new proprietress in a less biased manner: her name (as might be conjectured from the name of her establishment) is Messalina Saph. She's 37 years old but could pass for her late twenties; is 5' 8" and seldom seen without heels which raise her to nearly six feet; curvaceously slender of build, gracefully quick of movement, suffused with an aura of restless energy. Her face beautiful, with a robust sensual mood about it suggestive of roundedness although its perfectly proportioned features are rather more chiseled than smooth; her eyes dark brown, with lively mirth and intent intelligence and unrestrained licentiousness always apparent in their expression -- except in those rare cases where she finds herself obliged to put a troublesome client in place, in which case they flare up in an instant into twin darts of seething rage. But the most striking feature about her is her smooth silky red-orange hair, which tumbles in wild curling waves nearly to her waist.

But her disposition may be best indicated by detailing an episode from her Chicago past:

The episode takes place approximately a month previous to her purchase of the Kristen Hotel, when a potential customer -- a wealthy partner in a major Chicago firm -- shows signs of vacillation shortly after entering the parlor. Being a sensible businesswoman, Messalina doesn't wish to lose the goldmine which the partner represents: he must be hooked and quickly, before he gets away -- he must be shown that he'll never be happy unless he remains to partake of pleasures he can only suspect the existence of -- he must come back for more and more! She's at his side in an instant, says in a sultry purr, "Sir, there's nothing to worry about -- we're discreet professionals -- it's our business to know what you want and how to give it to you -- our history of trustworthiness and customer satisfaction speaks for itself. Come Sir, please, right through this curtain."

They pass into a hallway flanked by "Intimacy Rooms." She half-yanks him into one of them, saying, "Oh, Sir! If you leave you'll be wondering what you missed, and you will certainly have missed a great deal! Just trust me! Can you do that, handsome one? Can you?" She pushes a button on the intercom: "Elise! Jamie! Room 7! The gentleman requires an introductory special!"

The girls enter, are dressed as if for a formal ball in long clinging gowns. "Sir," Messalina resumes, "now do as I say and you won't regret it -- oh, you'll thank me if you do it -- you'll love me! Trust me, I know what you want! Now, lie down please on your back, here on the floor -- yes, do! Please! Good, we're going to get along fine -- you're going to have the best time, you can't imagine! Now girls, be good and slowly pass right over the good man's face so he can see up your gowns! Excellent girls, now walk around and around slowly and take turns passing over his face -- don't stop! And now Sir, may I undo your belt? Here, yes -- Miss Messalina will undress you -- thank you Sir, you'll be so glad -- you can't imagine how glad! Now Elise, stand directly above the good man and spread your legs so he can admire your endowments! Sir, feel free to reach up and masturbate the slut -- that's what she's paid for! Yes, Sir! Get your fingers sticky -- make the trollop squeal! And Elise, will you kindly unzip that gown, slip it off, and squat so as to make yourself accessible to the gentleman's tongue? And now Jamie, would you get a quart of yogurt from next door?"

Jamie returns with the quart of yogurt. "Good," says Messalina, "now be a pleasure-hussy and spoon the yogurt onto the gentleman's chest -- and, when done, will you please lick it off while temporarily contenting the gentleman between his legs with your talented hand?"

Jamie does as instructed and soon the gentleman is, as we say, engaged on all fronts: his face moist with the warmth of Elise's love-zone as his tongue hungrily probes; his chest covered with soothing smooth cool yogurt being avidly lapped by Jamie's tongue as her hand gets his apparatus up and throbbing. Before long, Jamie replaces her hand with her warm loving mouth. "Jamie," Messalina says, "I'm sure the gentleman wouldn't mind if you joined Elise in caressing, kneading, and lightly scratching his belly and chest while you engage him downstairs. And now, my good Sir," she concludes, "duty beckons me elsewhere -- I leave you knowing you're in the best of hands. Do what you will with the strumpets -- they belong to you! That's right, get that wicked tongue all the way up inside her -- suck her dry -- make her wail with joy!" She darts a look at Elise -- a look which informs her that, regardless of what she's actually feeling, she should make a good show of being immensely affected by the gentleman's attentions. She smilingly notes that her new client gives all appearance of being far too overcome with enjoyable sensations to be capable of ascertaining what she says or whether she remains or not; whereupon she takes her leave, doubtless with the aim of keeping other customers similarly content.

But to return to the present: how, it may be wondered, was Messalina Saph dressed when the good Mrs. Naughton pronounced the judgment, "like a common harlot"? Miss Saph was sheathed in a scarlet silk one-piece -- mid-thigh high, mid-breasts low -- which displayed the shape of her voluptuously lean body as accurately as if she'd been wearing nothing at all; white boots -- knee-high, with five inch heels -- had accentuated her leanness; fishnet stockings, a crimson choker, and numerous clanging silver bracelets had competed her wardrobe; she'd worn little make-up, being one of those rare women who looks more attractive -- authentically radiant -- without it; and her hair -- well, her hair had tumbled down her back in endless wild red-orange curls from its semi-piled up height, ceaselessly swished back and forth according to the movements of her restlessly alive body -- had caught, twisted, seemed to delightedly play with the sunlight in a manner which left the latter joyfully dizzy.

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Such is the appearance and disposition of Miss Messalina Saph, new proprietress of the Kristen Hotel -- now Messalina Saph's Kitty-Kat Lounge -- Pawtawnee, Wisconsin (pop 2096). How will the town in general respond? What changes will be wrought in the attitudes of its inhabitants? Will the distaste experienced by Mrs. Naughton prevail or will Miss Saph inspire sentiments of approbation and friendship as well? Will her latest business venture be a bust, just manage to stay afloat, or be an unqualified success? These questions, and many others (such as how Judge Naughton feels about the matter), will be answered in upcoming installments of The Pawtawnee Chronicles.

Click for: Chronicle No. 2 or No. 3.

The Pawtawnee Chronicles: Chronicle No. 1
© 2001 Sliptongue, Inc.

 
     
     

 

 



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