"Dongle's Embrace" by An Anonymous Contest Entrant

An Anonymous Entry Into the "I'll Take 'Sentences I Never Thought I Would Say,' Alex...." Writing Contest

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We’ve had an anonymous entry into the "I'll Take 'Sentences I Never Thought I Would Say,' Alex...." writing contest.

The following short story is entitled “Dongle’s Embrace.”

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Dongle MacShagginem, Chief of Clan MacShagginem, made his way to the dairy barn, hot after the new milkmaid. His tall, powerful frame was barely contained by his mostly-open shirt, revealing a strangely anachronistically shaven chest, and his rough wool kilt, sewn extra long for reasons of an individual specification for modesty, brushed against his fast-striding thews.  The tall Highland grass played havoc on his nether regions, and he rehearsed the conversation he would have with his mates when this was done: You don't know HOW MANY TIMES I have thought, "I wish I had a ghillie suit specifically designed for walking around ABC Home in New York undetected...." 

Irritated, he burst through the barn doors, but was caught aback at the sight of his quarry. There, proactively astride the milking-stool, sat Lady Marysue Blankslate. The buxom noblewoman had been set to wed the arrogant Duke Studlow Ramshaft, but had been banished here to the Scottish Highlands for her errant ribaldry. Now she sat here before the rebel Clansman’s prize heifer, doing the rough work of a common wench.  

“You come up in this when she gets to the whale in reverse,” she muttered to him, not looking up. She told herself that her aversion was due to his country Celtic ways, but more and more she realized that his washboard abs transfixed her. She dared not let her flushing cheeks betray her, fearing Studlow’s jealous hand on her ample backside.  

“Aye, the very whale go’on backwards.” His terse reply unsettled her a bit.  She was his ward, and felt herself in his power in more ways than one. “Why ‘ave ye not gone to pay yer respects to Laird MacBangsley?  Ye mock ma verray cousin?!”

“What strange pacts are you two making in the bowels of my comments section? Is this how conspiratorial stirrings used to begin in opium dens? This explains so much,” was her brusque answer. The Laird was no Chinese dragon-chaser, of course, but a surly, drunken ginger, like nearly all of the others here. Not Chief Dongle, though. His Aryan frame told of the blood of the Germanics who’d conquered this squat alpine race an eon ago.

“Ne’er ye mind ma pacts, woman!” He came around to her side of the cow. “I DEMAND ZERO-G PEEP JOUSTING!”

She understood full well what that meant. “You sing a fine song for a jumped up reaver. And look how creepy these lyrics are in context. Especially when you're being taunt-serenaded by a hyperdimensional. If I roll my eyes any harder, I'll be looking myself right in the pineal gland.”

He would have had her dunked for her impudence right then, save that he caught a glimpse of her heaving bosom through a clinging chemise, dripping with sweat and freshly squirted cream. Her rhythmic, well-practiced udder stroking stirred the manly urges in his loins. He thought back to the last time he’d felt so compelled by lust. “Was that seven years? It started with Poseidon and my makeup bag,” he fancied, recalling his days at sea.

She interrupted her teat-jerking  as she noticed his reaction to her. “Why is that a candy cane? That's an Ace of Wands,” she was forced to think, gazing at his kilt-bulge.

His eyes followed hers. The sea still in mind, he blurted out “The lighthouse does not go running up and down the beach.” He drew close to her. “It shines where i’twill.”

She tried to resist her womanly urges. “You need to tell the ghost people this story and make them look for Dave,” she said to mock him, but she knew she was his. Without missing a beat, he kicked aside a large cowpie with his turnshoe and laid her in the filthy hay.

“He's trying to cut a hole in the ocean,” was all she could think as he roughly shredded her bodice, revealing what only Lord Ramshaft and two-score other men had borne witness to.  

“I just wanna watch MINE!” He was claiming her as his. But would she be a mere barn-shag or made a proper highland lady?”

“Would you still love me if I was a spaghetti worm trapped in a straw? If we was spaghetti straw worms, would you keep me safe in your frog hovel?” She almost pleaded against the force of his Scotch ardor.

He paused for a moment, and his face bore a new expression. “Of all of the darks, that one is the longest. But of all the darks, this is one of them. And it lasts for an amount of time. It could last forever, but then we wouldn't care. Because we'd be dead. And there would be no one left to care.”  

Her harlot’s heart melted at the baring of his hidden poet’s soul. She’d thought often of the existential nature of love, something the arrogant Studlow would never ponder. “OK… so I’m like, “Blah blah blah fear fear blah Hegelian dialectic Hegelian dialectic blah yadda yadda blah…. wait…. WEAPONIZED BAT ANUS?!?!?” She could hear her fiancé’s cutting words even as she lay here looking up at this buff, Byronic, bekilted ubermensch.  

He gazed down on her, seeing her inner struggle. “The horse sitting on itself and the cloud with the face are the stuff of NIGHTMARES.” And it was then at last that she knew that only a true man of the world could speak such wisdom. She truly was his. And they became one before the shaggy cud-chewing witnesses, groping each other by lantern light in that damp and musty barn.

Lying in his sinewy arms, the smell of moldy straw and fresh dung mingling with his unbathed form, she  could only think: “The feeling isn't quite Milo in the Doldrums but it's I'm-Never-Leaving-My-Bed-Again for sure, with a small peppering of Don't-Make-Me-Because-You-Can't.” 

Now there was only the jealous vengeance of the Ramshaft family to fear…

-Anonymous