"I say, darling," said Mr. Wilton, "I've got the most shocking headache."
"Well, dear, there's only one cure for that," replied Mrs. Wilton as she took her husband's minor attempt at a penis in her wrinkled mouth. She slurped at it lazily, and within a minute his mucilaginous seed was dripping down her chin. Mr. Wilton let out a respectful groan, and Mrs. Wilton coughed quietly. When he had regained his composure, Mr. Wilton looked down at his stained wife and informed her that his headache was still bothering him.
"Oh darling," she replied, "I'm so sorry to hear that. Is there anything else I can do to ease your suffering? ...Actually, do you know what might help? If I were to sit on your face and wriggle. The stimulation of the nerve endings in your face should work wonders for your migraine, and the heady aroma of warm femininity will work as a mental decongestant. You'll be as right as rain in no time."
"I certainly hope so dear, for I wouldn't want to run the risk of suffocation for no reason." Mrs. Wilton was, you see, rather fat. Mr.Wilton was more rotund than her, but he wasn't the one sitting on faces. His fears were valid: not more than eight years ago, Mrs. Wilton had told him a story about a couple who were trying to cure a headache and had accidentally severed the woman's right hand at the wrist after leaving her chained up too tightly for over 96 hours. As these fearful thoughts marauded through Mr. Wilton's aching head, Mrs. Wilton had stripped herself of her yellow cardigan and grey knickers and had begun to squat on Mr. Wilton's face. Mrs. Wilton was right: it was helping. Mr. Wilton felt brief respite from his pains and worries as his ageing wife acquainted him better with her pleasure grotto. Both of them were having a whale of a time, she taking on the role of Moby Dick, and he as Queequeg, harpooning her with his tongue, sensuously like. The lack of oxygen began to affect Mr. Wilton and he became rather restricted in his movements. Mrs. Wilton took the hint and dismounted, and as if by magic Mr. Wilton's headache came pounding back.
"Oh fiddlesticks darling, it's back."
"Watch your language, George," she snapped at him, wondering whether this could possibly be the same man she married. ..Or whether it was another criminal genius and master of disguise impersonating her husband to get at her cellulite-ridden body. Either way, she didn't care: she was curiously excited by the hot temper coming from the man lying naked beside her. When he attempted to apologise for his offensive tone she chastised him again. "No dear, it's quite all right. In fact, I wonder if you would be so kind as to take me roughly from behind and speak to me like that again. It's most exhilarating." And as an afterthought, she added, afterwards like, "...It'll do the world of good for your headache, sweety."
As they fumbled around to get into position, and allow the cine-camera the best view of the entry, they heard the crack of a twig from outside their window. "You stay here and make the noises for both of us," whispered Mr. Wilton as he picked up his 5 iron.
"Oh not this again, dear. I don't think I could cope with the smell this time..."
"Not that," he whispered. "There's someone outside the window, watching us." Mrs. Wilton let out a curious squeal, but Mr. Wilton never heard it as he had gone to put an end to the actions of the perverted young roustabout getting his kicks watching him and his wife. As Mr. Wilton escorted the young man in with the 5 iron at his throat, Mrs. Wilton squealed again, and rubbed her legs together with delight. "Call the police, dear," instructed Mr. Wilton.
"No dear, I have a better idea," Mrs. Wilton replied. "Let's be vigilantes. Let's mete out our own form of justice. The Smith-Joneses do it all the time, and he never has a headache."
The promise of a cure perked Mr. Wilton up no end. "Well, what do we do then darling?"
"It's quite simple," she explained. "I sit in the chair over here, while you tie our naughty young friend here to the bed and proceed to bugger him for as long as you can. All the time I watch, and if I feel like it, I'll join in and spank the pair of you."
"Oh, I'm not so sure dearest. It sounds awfully continental."