Chapter 1 of my hitherto abortive erotic novel, 'Scissors & Strings':

    Beautiful buxom blonde and feminine power-dresser, Lowestoft businesswoman Sarah Flirtilocks, was cutting a client's hair at her top Lowie salon. Her luscious blonde locks brushed against the shoulders of her black blouse like a mane of living honey. As she absent-mindedly listened to her client jibberjabber on about the two holidays that were all she could afford this year, Sarah moved around her client, stationary tho' she was in the swivel-chair. As she sidestepped, Sarah's voluptuous figure jiggled in her elegant yet tight-fitting attire and her kickboxercise-toned bottom shuffled with firm grace. She was the most eligible bachelorette in all of Lowestoft, her beauty and her business the envy of all her clients, and yet this passionate sensual woman was alone at night after tending to her young daughters. 
    As she mused about what had stranded her this past few months in singledom, she noticed out of the corner of her eye a rippling six-pack thru the shop window. I spy with my little eye, she thought, and zoomed out her gaze from the sculpted abs to the owner of this cynosural torso. Her eyes feasted on a stubbly blonde hunk with exotic tattoos on strong bulging biceps and a look of raw unrestrained artistic spirit sparkling in his blue eyes like a Pacific tsunami. What was this handsome newcomer doing she wondered and then Sarah realised, why he was a street performer, a puppeteer! But all that controlling of his marionettes must be quite a workout for him to have the body of an Adonis like that, thought Sarah, I wouldn't mind him pulling my strings... 
    
    'Sarah, I said do you think I should go to Cyprus or Turkey, Sarah...?'         Sarah's daydream about the hench puppeteer was abruptly punctured by the nagging voice of Mrs. Laureth-Sulfate. But just as Sarah diverted her gaze, that muscley and soulful manipulator of marionettes gave a slow pouting wink in Sarah's direction. Perhaps, thought Sarah, when I've rinsed off Mrs. Laureth-Sulfate, I'll go and drop a squid in his tin...

     'Scissors & Strings', Chapter 2 of my erotic novel: 
Warning: this is sizzling stuff, I am not responsible for any fluid-damaged gussets.

    'Bye Mrs. Laureth-Sulfate!' cooed Sarah in her most polite 'work voice', but this brisk, classy tone was still rich with the hint of playful huskiness that even had the Indians at the Virgin call-centre in Mumbai flirting in broken English when Sarah's broadband was up the shoot. Dried-up, self-obsessed, flakey-scalped old bag, thought Sarah about Mrs.Laureth-Sulphate, watching her as she walked to the car-park, to an Audi far too swish for an old sourpuss. Suddenly, however, Mrs. Laureth-Sulphate did the most unexpected thing: almost as if mesmerised by the buff puppetmaster's glistening abs, she floated over to where he had started making a marionette slink like a snake-charmer's cobra. Then the tightest old skinflint in Lowestoft, Mrs.Laureth-Sulphate, who had never even given Sarah a tip in her life, not even that Christmas when the prunefaced mare won nearly 50 grand on the National at Gala Bingo - she only went and took out an smoky-red £50 note and placed it carefully in the psychedelically decorated tin of this swaying sex-god of a Stromboli (the Blackbeard-look-a-like puppetmaster from Pinnochio). Without a word, Mrs . Laureth-Sulphate kind of staggered to the carpark almost as if she was in a bit of a tipsy trance. 
    Incredulous at what she had just seen, Sarah looked at her dainty silver watch and saw that she had 10 mins before her next client, Miss Palmolive, was due. Hmmm, well I don't want our mysterious street performer to think Mrs. Laureth-Sulphate is the only supporter of the arts around here, mused Sarah with a sexy smirk, quickly locked up then strode across the street with her irrepressible womanly wiggle. 
    As she approached the ripped puppetmaster, he lifted his gaze from his artistry and suddenly their eyes locked for a minute of spine-tingling intensity, his cobalt-blue eyes piercing her own baby-blues, two blues ravishing each other as if the sky and ocean themselves were getting it on and the sun was directing a porn film starring the elements. 
    Ah zee pretty lady from zee 'airdrezzers, eh?' 
    Sarah's daydream of drowning in blue eyes with buff abs for a raunchy raft was punctured by the puppetmaster's exotic-accented greeting. 
Though she felt flustered by the overpowering attraction she felt towards this rogueish street Stromboli, Sarah put on her businesswoman front and replied confidently, 'Well, if you're gonna entice more customers to my salon, I guess I ought to split the proceeds, hey?' She then dropped a £2 coin on top of Mrs. Laureth-Sulphate's scrunched up red note. 
    'So, what brings you to Lowie, stranger?'
    ' Ah, pretty lady, my name is Lysandero and I 'as come from Nozza, ze Fine City, to express my art in ze Lowie and in ze search of my true love and zenzual zoulmate...'    
    Wow, Sarah hadn't realised Norwich folk had such French-sounding, sexy accents before. She knew they had been shortlisted for European City of Culture, but even so... She remembered her occasional trips to Norwich's nightlife, to Prince of Wales Boulevard where the Norfolk elite, the great and the good, celebs like Suzie Fowler-Watt, former Canaries keeper and Lord Mayor Bryan Gunn and Bernard Matthews Jr. - 'B-Matt' - peed in alleyways and swore at police-constables from a comfortable distance. Ah, it had seemed like a city of lights and riches, of refinement and opulence, a city of East Anglian promise to her, a Gorleston girl giddy on the style and glory, the high society sophistication and glamour of Norfolk's capital. And now this sensual vagabond had come looking for a lover from that carrot-crunching metropolis, had travelled so far, at least 40 minutes on the train, to ply his puppetry outside her successful but small-town salon.
    'Yez, zexy lady, I 'az come from ze Nozza where I learned to be ze Puppetman from ze famous Norwich Puppetman. He taught me ze way to make ze puppet dance like Baby from ze Patrick Swayze,eh, heh heh heh! Nobody puts baby back in ze Cromer, eh, heh heh! But I 'ad to leave ze Puppetman - he was, 'ow you say, bit of ze paedo. Bad for bizzyness heh heh heh!'
    Sarah couldn't help but shudder with desire and twinge with fire at Lysandero's unrestrained, wild, horny gypsy laugh, a bit like a French Fred West's she imagined. Her blouse practically wanted to moult its buttons, she felt her prim and proper Lowestoft ways tore from her by this Nozza sophisticate, who mixed an earthy Taurean sensuality with a promise of delicateness and deftness from fingers that had been shown how to run the silk gamut of tactility by none other than that savant of dexterity and roaming hands, the Norwich Puppetman. 
    Sarah regained her composure and lowered her attention beneath the commando bulge in Lysandero's gypsy dungarees and then had her breath taken away again by the eerie yet somehow deja vu-esque familiarity of his marionette...
    'Ah, I zee you like my puppet, eh, she iz called Zara!' lustily exclaimed Lysandero. 
    Sarah couldn't help but notice that Zara boasted an hour-glass figure carved from wood, and had fine blonde hair made from an almost human follicular fabric spilling from her crown. She seemed to have some sort of black blouse painted upon her wooden bazongas and her large doe-eyes were glued on baby-blue fire-polished beads. In short, Zara seemed like a caricature of Sarah herself. 
    As if reading Sarah's thoughts, Lysandero manipulated Zara's arms to bring her bead-nailed fingertips to provocatively caress her pointy puppet puppies. At the same time, Sarah could not help but feel compelled, almost as if the victim of a voodoo doll, to simultaneously lift her soft regularly moisturised palms and trendily multi-coloured-nail-polished fingers to her own quivering ample bosom and fondle her impressive mitchells in the middle of a secluded Lowie street. What erotic gypsy magic was this? 
    'No, Lysandero, please, Miss Palmolive is due any second....' breathlessly whimpered Sarah with embarrassment, tho' in her womanly soul was also a devil-may-care carnal yearning that the hench, dirty-laughed puppeteer would disregard these pleas with big city gypsy arrogance. 
    'Ah my little Zara, it is time I caught ze train back to ze Nozza, ' Lysandero said both to the hairdresser and to the marionette it seemed, interrupting Sarah's momentary abandon, making the self-caressing spell seem like a halluncination, except for the tell-tale tingling in her bean region.
    'Yez, my old mother, she 'az zee Gypsy Flu and needs her medicine, ze bottle of ze White Lightening heh, heh,heh! But zis iz ze pucker pitch, maybe me and my Zara will visit again tomorrow, eh, zexy lady heh heh heh!' 
    And with the sleight of hand of an experienced shop-lifter or groping grandad, Lysandero had picked up his tin with the £52 in it, flung Zara over his broad bronzed shoulder, winked a wink that would have been lecherous if the buff blonde gyppo wasn't so easy on the eye. Sarah watched his tight dungareed buns power him down the street. 
    Wowsers! Sarah steadied herself against the wall. Did that really just happen, did Lysandero enflame her sympathetically with his control of Zara, Sarah's own marionette mini-me? Could this mean Lysandero's gypsy senses had somehow brought him to Lowie in search of her? All she knew was that she needed a strong cup of coffee before Miss Palmolive arrived to get her high-lights touched up.