FLIRTING WITH SMITTY

A silly little story with hardly a moral at all!

There was an elderly elf, a splendid creature despite his age, and he had a pair of the most exciting gossamer wings you could possibly imagine. He didn't do much flying because it had long ago crossed his mind that an Elf, if he wants to preserve the pristine quality of his wings, ought to use them only sparingly. And he wanted to preserve his wings forever at their very best.

He went to great lengths to preserve those wings. If anyone so much as marked one of them with any small thing then he exploded in anger and spent an age cleaning them.

He was fanatic about the preservation of his wonderful wings.

So our Elf (I'd bet you'd like me to call him Legolas, but I can't because he was really called Smitty) was out and about one sunny afternoon, walking down the road that separated Brockmanor from Hornspire, two friendly villages lost to time somewhere in the backwaters of medieval Britain.

The day was so glorious and amazingly blue of sky that he started whistling to himself. He was so preoccupied with his musical excellence concerning sleeves that were green that he failed to notice the maiden who had approached him from behind and was now walking next to him, matching his steps stride for stride.

Her name was Flora, and she was a milkmaid from Brockmanor enjoying her day off by walking along the pleasant earthen path to Hornspire and back. She had a soft peaches and cream complexion, bright blue eyes and cascades of blonde hair that rolled down her shoulders and teased the material where her buttocks would have been had they not been covered by her milkmaid's dress.

The young men of both villages considered her to be the best of all creatures, for she had a magnificent bosom and no matter how thick her clothing her huge and friendly n*****s could quite clearly be seen. They were the qualities by which she was known throughout the lands, from the distant Mountain in the North to the Big River in the South.

"Hello, Mr Elf," she chirruped, pointing her breasts at him in much the same way as a soldier might point his gun, but without the aggression. That was another thing about her: she was so cheery of countenance that whenever she spoke she chirruped, and robins and some sparrows answered her, mistakenly thinking she was a long lost relative.

"Why Flora, my dear," smiled Smitty. "What a wonderful day it is, to be sure, and how warmly the sun shines onto us, and what a wonderful fragrance is blowing with the breeze!"

"You are so handsome," purred Flora, flirtatiously. "I do think �" you know �" Mr Elf, Smitty �" how you and I should walk together for a while so that I may be blessed by your company!"

He looked at her quizzically.

"I am but an old Elf," he sighed, "and bright as the sun may be it cannot make me young again."

"But you are so cute," she warbled, and a passing Jenny Wren twitted back at her, its beak smiling like a very smiling thing indeed.

He shook his head, but inside him he thought, Maybe I am still handsome as in the old days! Maybe my excellently preserved wings are still a signpost to young ladies of every humanoid species! Maybe, even, their gossamer perfection is something that will draw beauty to me!

But, "I think you're teasing me," he said, truthfully.

She giggled, the very sound of a Nightingale basking in the moonlight. "I tell the truth," she said, solemnly, "I always do: It ill becomes a milkmaid with a peaches and cream complexion to tell lies, for that is something she never has to do! And if I say you're cute I mean it. After all, under that cape you wear (and it's much too long, incidentally, and conceals far too much), but underneath that cape I'll bet you've got legs a girl would die for!"

He paused, and stared at her.

"You think my cape is too long?" he asked. "You think, on a hot day such as this, with the sun blazing down, that it covers me too well?"

She smiled the sweetest smile he could recall having see for many years.

"Your cape is too long," she twittered. "Here, let me see to it for you!"

And from her own garments she produced a small and tidy pair of silver scissors.

And without waiting for him to say yea or nay she trimmed a good eighteen inches from his cape so that when it hung down, instead of brushing his legs below his knees it barely reached his elvish bum.

"There!" she exclaimed, very much like a cheerful sparrow, "that is so much better you ought to weep with joy, and I can enjoy the beauty of your legs!"

"I might weep," he responded, "but it is with sorrow that I usually weep, not joy!"

"Then laugh with joy!" she tinkled. "And all the girls in all the world will come to you for a glimpe of your private parts! They will want to be on the inside of your trousers before you can say Jack Robinson! They will caress you in a most naughty way, and you will be in Heaven!"

He looked at her, shocked to his very core.

"But I cannot tarry here," she added, "I must be off, for there are many young men I might see when I reach Hornspire, and they might blow kisses at me, or reach their hands towards me, or hug me!"

"That would be nice for you," he muttered, but deep down inside, where the sun couldn't quite reach, he thought that he would like to blow kisses at her, or reach his hands towards her, or hug her.

With the sun shining down as it was he felt suddenly and uncharacteristically romantic.

But he was a wise old elf, and said nothing, whilst she raced on in front.

The sun beat hotly down upon him and he began to be very grateful that his cape was shorter, for it seemed to him that he felt all the cooler for it. So he began to sing a little song to himself, the same one about sleeves being green that he'd sung earlier, so much was his heart filled with the wonders of the summer's day.

So he didn't notice when a fairy godmother in pink came up behind him and started walking with him, matching him stride for stride.

"Well," warbled the Fairy Godmother in a voice that was almost a hundred years old, "Well, why might a fine elf like yourself be walking down this dusty lane on such a wonderful sunny day as this?"

Smitty almost jumped out of his shoes in surprise when he heard this, but then when he saw who it was he relaxed.

"Why, you surprised me, Fairy Godmother," he said, with a broad smile on his well-shaved face. "Here I was on this lovely day, and singing to my heart's content, and I didn't see you approaching me!"

"You are such a handsome young elf," murmured the Fairy Godmother. "I can think of many things a fine figure like you might do with a daft old creature like myself!"

"Young, you say?" laughed Smitty, "I am far from young, my dear Fairy Godmother! And today, under this sun which is shining hotly onto me I feel my age!"

"It is because you are so hot!" smiled the Fairy Godmother. "I see you have modified your cape, but that hat of yours! It will trap every smidgen of heat from the sun and your brains will boil, and that would be bad for one as handsome and young and desirable as you! Can you not see that just about everybody loves the very pants off you? Is it not clear that females of every race would do anything for an hour inside your boxers, where they would fettle around until you were quivering with ecstasy?"

Smitty removed his hat and examined it quizzically.

"It is a perfectly normal Elvish hat," he said, quietly, "and it keeps the hottest rays of the sun from boiling my brains. My boxers, you say? Inside them? Fettling?"

The Fairy Godmother nodded her head in a most sprightly way.

"And quivering with ecstasy, you say?" he added.

The Fairy Godmother nodded again.

"Fettling and quivering," she murmured, "But your hat soaks all that heat up and holds it against your head until it seems likely your brains have already fried. Come, let me aerate it! Let me give your poor head some relief from the misery of all this heat before you have ladies swooning all over you!"

Smitty wasn't aware of any great misery, but he nodded because that seemed much easier than shaking his head, and anyway the prospect of being swooned on was so novel he was curious.

"You are such a friendly and noble elf," breathed the Fairy Godmother, wafting a shiny magic wand backwards and forwards over his hat until a large part of it dropped out onto the lane. He picked it up.

"The is rather a lot," he muttered. "My hat must be small indeed now that you have taken most of it away!"

"It's perfectly good," she advised him. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be off! But I must say it has been good to have spent a few minutes with an elf as handsome and noble as yourself!"

When the Fairy Godmother was plainly out of sight he carried on along the road that led from Brockmanor to Hornspire.

The sun beat down hotter than ever, and slowly it scorched into his legs, which were no longer protected by his cape, and it started very slowly to boil the brains inside his head because there was no hat to divert their rays.

He sat by the side of the road and shook his head.

"I'll die if I hang around like this!" he muttered to himself. "No elf can stand so much sunlight, not on a path like this when the sun is so bright and shiny in the sky!"

He was about to surrender to the inevitable when a small boy chanced that way.

"What's the matter, Smitty!" he asked, cheekily, for he was a cheeky small boy, as are most of that particular breed of person in that or any age.

"I am so hot!" declared Smitty, "and what is more, I fear my brains are boiling! Whatever shall I do?"

The boy looked at him in shocked surprise.

"That much is easy!" he said, brightly. "If you are hot you will shelter under that tree!" and he pointed at a tree.

"And that will save me?" asked the Elf.

"Of course it will!" scoffed the small boy, and he ran off.

So Smitty went up to a tall tree and lounged around under it in the dark shadows vast by its interlocking branches and their leaves. The canopy of that great tree protected him from the heat of the sun and he felt cool and pleasant, and slowly he found himself drifting peacefully to sleep, and dreams coming and going.
In one of the dreams there was a milkmaid telling him that all the women and girls from all races for miles around would want to sample the inside of his trousers, and in his sleep he removed them, every last stitch, to facilitate the desirable assault.
In another dream mere moments later he dreamed that a Fairy Godmother was telling him that there would be a huge amount of demand for the contents of his boxers, and in his dreaming sleep he removed them and slung them to the ground in order to render access to his snoozing private parts quite easy, and dozed on.

Which might have been very well, but Mr Plod the Policeman came along and arrested him for Very Indecent Exposure, and he was locked away in a deep dark cell, and his wings were taken from him to prevent him from flying away from captivity, and they were sent to the crusher where they were crushed until their gossamer beauty was all gone.

Reviews

[Woody]

a really funny one Roger though the ending is sad. the moral might be not to listen to those who interfere with your welfare?

have you read "indecent exposure" by Tom Sharp?

[Peter Rogerson]

All my life I've been called Roger from time to time. Oh dear!
No, I haven't read the book you mention but now you've mentioned it I'll search it our.

[Woody]

don't know why I called you Roger!!!!
if you are a reader and are looking for funny writes, I guarantee you'll love it.