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Wife gets her pipes cleaned while hubby's away.


"Arf, arf?"

"Yes, your Honor. Like a beagle. Well, maybe more like a golden retriever."

"Hmm. Go on."

"The door was slightly ajar, and I peeked in. She was on her hands and knees in front of Mr. Brentwood. He was holding a doggie biscuit in one hand and saying, 'Come on girl, you know you want it. But you've got to earn it; be a good doggie.'"

Mr. Andrew Brentwood, his eyes cold, his cheeks warm with embarrassment and anger, spoke up. "It wasn't a doggie biscuit, your Honor. It was a biscotti!"

Judge Mason gave him a stern glance. "Don't interrupt, sir." He then returned to Tyler. "Go on."

"Did I mention that Mrs. Brentwood was completely naked? Anyway, each time she lunged for the biscuit, Mr. Brentwood would pull it away and say, 'Oh, bad dog!' And then smack her on her bottom with this long wooden paddle he was holding."

The judge shook his head but said nothing. Tyler continued his narrative. "I was kinda fun to watch. I mean, Mr. Brentwood made his wife roll over, he rubbed her belly, and then led her for a walk around the bedroom, of course paddling her whenever she lagged behind."

"He led her?"

"Yes sir. Mrs. Brentwood was wearing a patent leather collar with a leash attached." Tyler paused, then added, "After that, Mr. Brentwood patted her on the head and said, 'Good dog! Now fetch, girl! Go fetch!'"

"And what exactly did she fetch?"

"Well, she unzipped Mr. Brentwood's pants, and then ... "

"That's enough, young man!" exclaimed the judge. Turning to the plaintiffs, he spoke again. "What have you to say about this?"

Mr. Brentwood glowered at Tyler, giving him a look that had been known to reduce his servants to a quivering mass of jello. "Even if it happened, your Honor, this little creep had no right to spy on us. You see, I put in long hours as CEO of Brentwood Enterprises, a world-wide conglomerate. And Patricia, as you know, is president of the New York Kennel Club. Don't we deserve a little time to, well ... relax and unwind?"

"You do have a point, sir," replied the judge. Looking again at Tyler, he said, "Merely watching your host and hostess having a, shall we say, evening romp is no excuse for your scandalous behavior, young man. Now, do you have any more to add?"

Glancing around, Tyler said, "There was also the incident of the kitty cat."

"Cat, did you say?"

"Yes sir. Grandmother Cabot has a young Himalayan cat. Its name is Puss 'n Boots."

"And the incident?"

"One night I was translating some Latin in the main study, and Grandmother Cabot came to join me. She had the cat with her, which she likes to call Little Puss. She was sitting next to me on the sofa, grooming the cat, and kept saying to it, 'Oh, you're a sweet little puss; yes you are.' After a while she looked at me and said, 'Tyler, would you like to pet my sweet little puss?'"

"Meaning the cat."

"That's what I thought, your Honor. But when she hiked up her skirt and slid her panties down around her ankles, I wasn't so sure any more. And then she ... "

"Wait!" cried Judge Mason. "I think I see where this is going." He paused, took a deep breath, and went on, "Tyler, please tell me that's all you have to say in your defense. What more could there be?"

"The chiffon peignoir."

With a shudder, Judge Mason removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, glancing once or twice past the fine oak and mahogany d__cor of the Westchester County Courthouse. Beyond the windows lay the town Commons, lush and peaceful. Finally turning to the group assembled before him, he said, "I know I'll regret it, but duty compels me to inquire. Go on, young man."

"Jennifer's brother Scott, who plays linebacker at Harvard, tried to make me wear a pink chiffon peignoir. It was imitation silk, with lace trim."

"Why on earth would he do that?"

"To match the one he was wearing."

"I knew it," sighed the judge. "So, did you?"

"I tried it on, and it wasn't so bad. They said I looked cute in it. But I was worried that it wouldn't end there."

"What do you mean?"

The lad shrugged.

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