Well, hecky blimey to the max. How time flies. One minute I'm watching Pagan Purple's suave mauve helicopter taking off on 29th September, next thing it's the middle of November.
Good thing I know about advanced literary techniques like ellipsis... I tell myself.
So here I am, without further ado, back in Pagan Purple's palace. I am dressed in posh designer clothes which feels a bit odd for a simple Yorkshire lay reader like myself. The clothes were bought for me by Pagan Control Freak Purple, and after a bit of tedious argy-bargy via email, using the Mac Air Book he gave me in his control freaky way, I have decided to allow him to control my life.
You love this man, Analgesia Boron, yodels my inner goddess, punching the air, turning several back flips, and slipping a disk. I leave her writhing on the floor of my subconscious because she irritates the heck out of me.
By now I am getting close to my destination. I walk with shaky legs along the corridor, lined with leather crosiers. My heart pounds and fizzy electric currents throb and pulse through my belly. What is it about this man that affects me like this? I can't make out why I'm feeling like this. Is it because I am finally about to sign The Contract?
Criminy parkin! The Contract! My goddess is shouting for me to get an ambulance, but I ignore her. In my mind I feebly go over the terms of the contract which Pagan Purple has prepared for me to sign. I cannot begin to describe it! This is because there's a confidentiality clause. And anyway, it happened in the ellipsis, so tought titty, frankly.
Oh. My. Life. There's the door! The door to Pagan Purple's Blue Beard Chamber, the room I have not yet plucked up the courage to enter. The door opens, and there he is. His purple silk clerical shirt is open to the waist, revealing his yummy torso and his Tiffany diamond and cabochon amethyst pectoral cross. His WWJD riding crop juts suggestively from his hand-tooled leather belt by Dolce and Gabbana.
Now you're for it, Analgesia Boron! sneers my inner Diocesan Director of Ordinands, who is always a bossy old trout.
'Miss Boron,' says Pagan in his deep chocolatey tones, like a whole giant family sized tin of Quality Street melted down and poured out lavishly into a golden chalice.
'Archbishop Purple,' I reply. My voice sounds strangely thick, as though I've just drunk a whole tin of melted down Quality Street and now feel a bit sick.
His mauve eyes linger over my curves, revealed by the very expensive clothes that I can't be bothered to describe, which he bought me. My breath hitches at the way his riding britches hang from his hips so yummily. I peep up at him from under my lashes, my eyes rolling back in my head the way anyone's would if they ever tried peeping up from under their lashes. I chew my lower lip to drive him wild.
'You. Are. Driving. Me. Wild,' he murmurs in that staccato way he has when my fullstop key has got stuck on my laptop. Then he holds wide the door. 'Welcome to my Purple Chapel of Prayer, Miss Boron.'
TO BE CONTINUED IF I CAN BEAR IT...
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