Can't Buy Me Love

Part 12: Don't Bother Me

When Paul was done humping you like a cat in heat, he rolled over with a "Cor!" and a wink. His body was covered in a sheen of English sweat, just like in his Beatles concerts you never watched.

He sent you back in your crate with a wink.

"Gotta run some errands, luv." He had said. "Get in your crate."

You sighed, but the crate was very nice. Well... it wasn't that your crate wasn't nice, but suppose... you longed for your freedom in a way.

(Silly, you knew. Only Americans (United States) were free. Even British people who weren't sold weren't free, as they lived in a monarchy, and could not get off the island unless they swam. But they wouldn't want to swim away from the island. Because even with the carpet of melancholy that hung over the place, they would not fare better elsewhere. It was the only way for an English Citizen to live. In melancholy, in misery, (not the Mersey) eating baked beans to warm the inside (The english call a stove a hob. Their busses are red.)).

But, you longed to perhaps... leave the house. With McCartney, of course. Why would you leave alone? To a scary and loud world, without the guidance of your sweet sweet McCartney? It was an unsettling thought. You used to live with mother, and now you lived with McCartney. You had never been alone.

But... like in your dreams. Maybe McCarntey would take you on a bus (They are red). Maybe he could take you to one of the many public parks London England has to offer. Perhaps, you could go to a pub, and order fish and chips. Being 18, you could now drink! But you had only been 18 for a few days... you had not yet had the honor of having a drink.

You sighed. You were wearing the same outfit as previous, as it was the same day. It could be argued you would've undressed to fuck Paul, but that was arbitrary. You were still wearing a "The Beatles" sweatshirt, hoop earrings, a leather miniskirt, and knee-length argyle socks.

To be fair, you hadn't specified the "Knickers" (knickers/ˈnɪkəz/ noun. BRITISH a woman's or girl's undergarment covering the lower part of the torso to the top of the thighs and having two holes for the legs.) you were wearing, so maybe you weren't wearing them at all, and that is how Paul fucked you.

You sighed, walking in a small circle before lying down in your crate. It was a very nice crate. You especially liked how it smelled like Paul. (Cunt and Cigarettes).

You had a lot to think about. Suppose... John was after your hand now too. But... Paul already bought you. You did like being Paul's property, but... what if John found a way to convince Paul to sell you to him? You weren't sure Paul would transfer ownership, but it wasn't completely out of the question...

Well, John was a very silly man, and all English people more or less are the same, except for one thing.

But... maybe you ought not to think about. It was too heavy a topic for a young, virile woman such as yourself.

You allowed yourself to drift off.

The beginnings of a literary dream sequence were beginning to form... something relevant...

Lennon McCartney were in a luchador style duel. They were wearing nothing but their unitards, woolen mittens, and faux-fur coats. Sweat cascaded down their pasty English bodies, McCartney with more body hair on his arms, but shapely as a broad. They were fighting... fighting... but then they were making love. Making love just like Antony and Cleopatra, like two feral cats. But then they were fighting. Then they were shouting your name. Shouting your name as they made hot passionate love. Not in a fetishistic way, as McCartney was the object of desire. You were gripping the bars (it was a cagematch) and shouting. Shouting... for who, you did not recall... The musk choked your delicate female lungs. This was nothing like your BBC programs.