The Pawtawnee Chronicles / Chronicle No. 3

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. 3: Judge Naughton begs to differ with the stern pronouncements of his wife. "Oh, shit! I don't believe it! My death-in-life fun-hating prude bitch of a wife's on the butcher's front steps! Quick, Chastity, get down! -- crouch in the ditch, my life depends on it!"

Click for: Chronicle No. 1 or No. 2.


Mrs. Bertha Naughton, joined in holy matrimony to the County Judge, Thurston Naughton, has already been introduced to the reader. She's not merely a prude, she's against fun in general. A dour expression seldom departs from her face; if she could ever be said to enjoy herself, it's when leveling a great deal of criticism against her fellow human beings, particularly women. At such times an enthusiasm approaching joy might be said to animate the features of her somewhat flabby face. But enough of Mrs. Naughton: we are now concerned with the character of her husband.

Thurston Naughton, upstanding judge of Pawtawnee County, is in every respect the opposite of his wife. He seeks out amusement, particularly the sensual variety, as eagerly as his wife avoids it. He's as trim and young in appearance for his age of 54 as she is overweight and wrinkled for her age of 41. He was born into as little money as she was born into heaps of it. It's the latter circumstance which should render this otherwise improbable marriage comprehensible to the reader. Nor should the reader be surprised that a pre-nuptial agreement, none too much in the good Judge's favor, holds the marriage together: Mrs. Naughton's foresightful father drew it up and required that it be signed before assigning a more than generous stipend, as well as eventual full inheritance, to his only daughter.

Judge Naughton, having grown accustomed to a rather expensive manner of living, is therefore reluctant to part with his cash cow of a wife. Besides, twenty-two years of marriage have taught him how to best circumvent his wife's lack of appreciation for the kinky side of life: lying to her is so much a part of their relationship he might even miss no longer being obliged to do it; duplicity has become so intertwined with his daily routine he might have no idea how to go about living if deprived of the necessity of indulging in it. Where he's been on any given day and what he's done: there's always a version for his wife's ears which bears little resemblance to the truth.

In short, the Judge adores young honeys and, thanks to his skill at dissimulation and unsuspecting wife, has plenty of spending money. He's always been very cautious. Many are his political connections; his rulings invariably favor individuals who also frequently taste of the forbidden side of life and delight in trampling upon their marriage vows: these gentlemen cover for each other. Many are the times he's conveyed a randy waitress to the farmhouse of a friend in a neighboring county, far removed from prying eyes. The Judge has always shown good sense when selecting partners, invariably choosing girls who live to be treated to sensual stimulation, and care for little else -- girls who are sluts first, and everything else second -- girls who open up inside at the touch of his eyes, smile lasciviously, and eagerly spread their legs -- girls who only want to writhe in delirious abandon, sigh and moan and squeal. Add to sound girl-selection-sense an abundance of charm and generosity and it's no wonder that no girl has ever come forward with her story to make trouble and deprive Judge Naughton of his escapades.

As might be supposed, the Judge greeted the opening of Messalina Saph's Kitty-Kat Lounge with unbounded joy. "Do you believe it?" he exclaimed to his good friend Joel Glauston, owner of Glauston's Diner. "Right here in humble Pawtawnee, after all these dreary years of glancing-over-my-shoulder hunting, is our very own cathouse stocked full of unflappable cuties from Chi Town! I passed by there yesterday night, after a full day at the courthouse -- did a quick preliminary -- and saw close to a dozen of the most delightful nubiles a man could possibly want to snuggle up to! There was this Irish brunette by the name of -- get this -- Chastity, and I do believe I've been smitten from the strands of my hair down to my tingling toes! The very sight of her -- all those curls of cascading hair, the frolicsome look in her brown eyes, the laughter of her curves -- the tone of her presence, emanations of sultriness! If I don't find my way into the place tomorrow night while the wife's at the Garden Club, I swear I'll resign as Judge of this county! Yes, my friend, she's cast a net over my senses, tensed my muscles, crowded my every pathway of thought with the urge to pull her close to me, rub my body against her hot lithe curves! What do her eyes say? They say: 'I'm a sure slut and proud of it and I'll please you to no end, discretion assured! I come to life in the dim light of rooms humid with lust! I've got a bush wet with yearning -- a tight warm moist passageway hungry to be crammed full of masculine tribute! I'll do anything, anytime, anyplace -- you won't be sorry if you seize me with two strong manly hands, bend me over the back of a couch, and give me the business until I'm sore! You'll only want more as much as I'll want it! And when we're done I'll pantingly kiss you and you'll kiss me back and you'll stroll away as if floating over the ground on a cushion of pure invigoration!' That's what her eyes say to me and I'm going to do right by them -- do right by them tomorrow night! We've already come to an understanding: I've got reservations at the succulent dining table between her flawless thighs!"

"Well, be careful, Thurston," replied Joel. "Ready and willing and discretion assured she may be, but Bertha's doubtless thought of it too. You've always been caution incarnate, but certainly your wife's unconscious occasionally troubles her with facts that, when considered a trifle too closely, don't quite add up to the sort of indisputable faithfulness she'd like to feel is her due."

"Are you kidding me?" answered Judge Naughton. "What are you trying to do, wed me to paranoia? I'm already wedded to one unappealing thing too many -- an unappealing thing that's at least done me the kindness of being blind to my escapades, from the Julie thing before our engagement on up to the present day! I've never dipped my stick in honey without anticipating every possible suspicion in advance and heading it off!"

"Of course, Thurston, of course; but just remember: a lot of marriages are held together far more on account of the deceived one only seeing what the deceived one wants to see, and less on account of the alleged cleverness of the deceiver. A whorehouse has sprung up in town? Well, I for one am going to lie low for a good two or three months before taking advantage of it because, if I know my Gertrude, the mere existence of such a place is going to put her on the alert; and this even though I've never provided her with a shred of indisputable evidence regarding my extracurricular activities."

"And so you'll miss out on the fabulous sex-buffet that's been spread before us while I'm stuffing myself dizzy! Bertha's not a problem -- I've played the thing right -- I've interrupted her tirades regarding the house of sin with things such as, 'Dear, such garbage isn't worth our attention -- let it go! It's for the losers; and, after they've been fleeced good and proper, they'll campaign against Miss Messy -- what's her name? -- more furiously than any others, and soon we'll be rid of her!'"

"Sure you're not overdoing it?"

"I never introduce the subject; I wait for her to do so. I'm playing at being impatient with any attention being given to something that disgusts me."

"Well, of course you know how to handle your wife." said Joel, giving up.

Following this conversation, Judge Naughton had returned home, his thoughts and senses continuing to be occupied with the pleasing picture of tumbling in private with the beautiful Chastity, Irish wench extraordinaire.

We now rejoin the good Judge on the following night at about ten-thirty, after he's spent a solid hour and a half with charming Chastity. She's more than lived up to the promise which he read in her eyes. Through the years he's had occasion to sample local girls aplenty. They all had a definite inclination for sensual excess; their twitchy itchy behinds had betrayed as much by sending waves of desire through the air. But, in most cases, he'd been obliged to train them, show them things. The hesitation of some of their caresses, unsure but eager to be otherwise, had often amused him. But to spend some time with a seasoned professional -- a career slut: what a treat! To laughingly lust it up with an equal who touches him just right, not too bruskly nor too daintily, in just the right places! Those special minutes when she'd been seated atop him, gripping his waist with her thighs, while he'd been thrusting upwards! -- when he'd been dazzled by the firm softness of her stomach, heaving chest, placed both of his hands on her soft firm succulent breasts, and joyfully squeezed! -- when she'd swished her long crackling hair about his shoulders and face before grasping his wrists, pinning them to the mattress, and bending close to lick his cheeks! How delightful the contrast between being pinned by her from above and freely hammering at her from below! -- the surges of euphoria which had steadily flowed from his chest to his belly! And then she'd tightened inside -- panted raspingly -- at the same time that he'd delivered the last burst of thrust which had heralded the uprush of his juices! How especially wonderful for the two of them to have come at the same time! When was the last time that had happened?

And now Thurston Naughton finds it difficult to bid Irish wenchling Chastity good-bye: his hands can't stop thrilling to the satiny firmness of her skin, tongue is unwilling to cease darting inside her mouth, eyes can't stop drinking in the delight of her hair, face, breasts, belly, thighs. He knows he must leave, for his wife's Garden Club meeting will be adjourning in half an hour; but the closer his necessary departure approaches, the more he's appalled at forgoing his fun before it's (to his mind) barely started. Caution has always been second nature to him, but he's always had to operate under caution-inspiring circumstances, among them: (1) the necessity of understanding a girl's character before daring to propose a liaison with her; and (2) the necessity of finding an out-of-the-way-place to safely meet with such a girl. But, in his present circumstances, these two highly inconvenient considerations have been done away with: girl and meeting place were understood to be secure from the onset. The point is: perhaps the easiness of his present frolic has removed some of his natural caution from the forefront of his awareness. And, if the truth be told, there's no "perhaps" about it: he suggests to Chastity that she accompany him to his car, simply because he wishes to continue grasping her luscious behind and clasping her lithe body and gazing into her lovely eyes for an extra five minutes. Never mind that an extra five minutes spent in this manner, on account of the chance of being observed by gossiping busybodies outside, is nothing short of childish heedlessness.

It's left to Chastity to attempt to rein in the rashness of the Judge. She quite sensibly points out that he's running an unnecessary risk for a very small return; that she's not going anywhere, and will be at his service for future engagements. He's unwilling to listen, however: "My dear Chastity, have you any idea what it's like to always be worrying whether a local girl will talk to one person too many, and create a landslide of potentially harmful whispering? any idea what it's like to always have to go far out into the country, either borrow someone else's place or settle for the car or a field, just to enjoy a girl? But now this wonderful house is here and you're here and, dammit, I'm going to go outside with you to my car like a man instead of like a hunted animal and I'm going to kiss you good-bye on the sidewalk and then drive home! It's probably not the smartest thing I've ever done, but I'm going to do it and that's that!"

Additional reasoning on the part of the wise Chastity fails to budge the Judge. Shrugging her shoulders, she says the risk can at least be minimized if she bundles her hair up and conceals it under a scarf; likewise, she'll put on a long cashmere coat of conservative style and trade her heels for plain pumps and carry a briefcase: this way she can pass for a respectable woman that the Judge has had dealings with at court. It might not completely absolve him of suspicion if unkind eyes sight them together, but it will certainly be a lot better than if she wore her customary clothes.

"What a smart and thoughtful girl!" Judge Naughton thinks while watching Chastity put on the said articles of clothing. "The briefcase bit is brilliant!" he says aloud.

A few minutes later the Judge is strolling alongside the beautiful Chastity outside, with one of his hands slipped up inside her coat and dress, firmly gripping an immaculate nether cheek, thrilling to the motion of its muscles as she moves. Unable to control himself, he halts to slip his other hand inside her coat and wrap it about her supple waist, not neglecting to join his lips to hers. But almost immediately, from the corner of his eye, what does he see? He sees his wife and the butcher's wife both standing with their backs to him half a block away, apparently engaged in an absorbing rehash of what went on at the Garden Club meeting, which has ended earlier than usual. He springs away from Chastity as if about to flee, suddenly pauses seemingly at a loss, and finds himself glancing towards the creek which runs alongside the street.

"Oh shit! I don't believe it! My death-in-life fun-hating prude bitch of a wife's on the butcher's front steps! Quick, Chastity, get down! -- crouch in the ditch, my life depends on it!" he hears himself say in an erratic whisper while glancing at his wife's back with rising apprehension. He's barely finished speaking before he jerks towards the creek embankment; another step, none too graceful propels him onto the slippery grass of its edge -- and then, as he watches Chastity stroll in the opposite direction, the Judge loses his footing and slides into the creek. His ears exaggerate the volume of the splash he's made (really not all that loud) and, in his panic-inspired efforts to steady himself to prevent more splashing, only succeeds in doing the opposite as he falls squarely onto his side in the water. He imagines his wife has heard it and is already walking over to investigate; prodded by this supposition, he rapidly crawls on all fours as quickly and quietly as he can to the metal tunnel, about two yards in diameter, which allows the creek to pass under a nearby cross street. Once inside the tunnel he freezes, hardly daring to breathe.

Chastity, more clearheaded than the Judge in this circumstance, has decided that the best course of action is for her to separate herself from him so as to rule out any chance of them being found together. She quite calmly strolls back down the street, away from Mrs. Naughton and her friend, to grab a snack at the convenience store. And, besides, why on earth would she want to soil her fine coat in a dirty creek?


Next episode: the spirit, bravado, and inventiveness shown by Judge Naughton on his long journey home, which he doesn't reach until the following morning. "Stuart, my friend, I'm not sure I've lived until tonight! I've drudged about with that matrimonial choker around my neck for far too long, and I just don't care anymore! If the wife finds out, then so be it! I'll probably end up being a better man for it!"

Click for: Chronicle No. 1 or No. 2.

The Pawtawnee Chronicles: Chronicle No. 3
© 2001 Sliptongue, Inc.





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