Chapter 2: When Mary met Mentalist P. F. Hadow, a Serialised Tennis Novel
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Patrick, The Mentalist, as I liked to call him, due to his unique magical, mind-reading, telepathic, precog, psychic, fortune telling ability, was a mesmerising experience. It’s no wonder that he beat my one time animal lover, Spencer Gore. The one and only match, the “challenge round” as Spencer called it, was where my rugged Harrow School boy Patrick proved his gladiatorial masculinity in the ring. Spencer’s volleying style didn’t have a chance against my mentalist’s exotic Sri Lankan, Sinhalese, Tamil, Ceylonese, bright red juicy lobster technique, sending his balls high into the sky. I loved it when after giving Spencer a good thrashing, he walked up to him, in the most confrontational way imaginable, and whispered into his left ear “You’re such a soft sissy… Go back to your woman, and tell her I’m available to satisfy her quench for a real man’s masculine squeeze.” That was my cue to approach Patrick. I grabbed his hand, and dragged him to the Dog and Fox pub on 24 High Street in Wimbledon Village, where I got as high as possible on cat sized aphrodisiac oysters, before I put my deep ocean drenched tongue into his ear, and cleaned his wax filled love tunnel. I continued to pleasure my man of all men in the same vain, day and night, with no break, 24/7, until he decided for some bizarre reason, to return to his full time work in Ceylon (Sri Lanka), as a Ceylon black tea plantation marshal. I told him I’d finance a luxury Wimbledon lifestyle for him through my embarrassingly large trust fund, but he was adamant that his 6 children in Kotte needed their father to teach them in the ways of Eastern business. Of course, I can take a hint, and so I agreed to accept his line, and my eyes moved on and began to scan south west London with ultra high definition falcon vision, searching for a man that would be able to keep my insatiable maternal instinct as filled as possible.