October 28, 2025 âą 14 mins
Welcome to a new Mills and Swoon short.
Books are available on Kindle
www.taletellerclub.com
đ Mills & Swoon is a Tale Teller Club production. Evergreen stories of love, wit, and human alchemy.
Follow for new bites every day and support independent audio art at Tale Teller Club Press
Mills and Swoon is a romantic fiction series created by Sarnia de la Maré FRSA under Tale Teller Club Press, featuring droll, risqué short stories for modern women.
Books are available on Kindle
www.taletellerclub.com
đ Mills & Swoon is a Tale Teller Club production. Evergreen stories of love, wit, and human alchemy.
Follow for new bites every day and support independent audio art at Tale Teller Club Press
Mills and Swoon is a romantic fiction series created by Sarnia de la Maré FRSA under Tale Teller Club Press, featuring droll, risqué short stories for modern women.
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:01):
The Judge and the Model by Sarnia de la Maree.
Penelope Fairly had never faltered. Faltering is for amateurs and
the mentally ill, she would say at fifty two. She
was the embodiment of composure, that rare breed of englishwoman
who moved through life as if time itself obeyed her schedule.
She was a beacon of virtue and as disappointing as
(00:22):
a soggy digestive, though no one would ever tell her
due to her ability to petrify anyone within her orbit,
even other people's dogs. In Hyde Park. She lived in
a tall ordered house in Belgravia with her husband Charles,
a respected tax barrister, and their Pomeranian Bertie, whose queffa
was definitely worse than his bark, styled by an expensive
(00:44):
personal dog groomer from Hampstead. There were no children, a
fate that had become a new normal many years before.
If one dared to ask Judge Penelope Fairly when she
last felt the surge of a carnal wave, she would
probably tell you it was when she saw Julio Iglesias
in concert for her twenty first birthday. Charles Fairley was
(01:05):
a man of professional eloquence and personal grooming. He had
spent their thirty years of marriage perfecting the art of
absence while being perpetually present, a skill much admired in
the legal profession. Their relationship had long ago settled into
the comfortable civility of two people who shared mortgage statements,
mutual respect, and an occasional bout of influenza. They dined well,
(01:30):
traveled seasonally, and never raised their voices. Their lives read
like an at home on Sunday newspaper spread fused with
Pomeranian monthly. But one Tuesday, Penelope returned home early, having
adjourned court for a witness who had fainted theatrically in
the dock. She let herself in, hung up her burbery coat,
popped her golfing umbrella in the stand, and followed a
(01:52):
peculiar yet vaguely familiar sound. It was somewhere between a
gasp and a whimper, and reminded her of the eighties
as a woman of the world, well familiar with the
peculiarities of human behavior in her court, the vision before
her was of something more unique. In her own personal
catalog of scene. It all befores Charles was on all
(02:13):
fours in a gimp mask, making woof sounds, and Barry,
the groomer from Hampstead, was saying something along the lines
of you are a very naughty boy, dragging him along
with Bertie's best channel dog lead. A long pause preceded
the events that unfolded. Bertie himself had been sitting on
his velvet cushion watching things in a confused state, just
(02:35):
glad that now Mummy was home. He had always hated
the groomer and would regularly bite him. Your two pee
has slipped, Barry, Penelope said curtly, along with your reputation
as a my my dog groomer. Get out of my
house and you, Charles, you can leave too. I never
want to see either of you again. You belong in
a kennel and I hope you get fleas. The following
(02:57):
weeks were tortuous. Deep pain and menopause slushed up Penelope's
brain to such a degree that she had taken some
time off work and visited an old school friend in Bath.
Unbeknown to Penelope, a deep current of change was about
to take her to new Shores. You will love Bath,
said Cecilia. Stay as long as you need, take up
(03:18):
some classes. You can come to mine pallettes, ballet bar,
aerobics and hot yoga. Cecilia was optimistic and gleeful. Penelope
was tired just thinking about it. Art, then said Cecilia.
Art answered Penelope, for no good reason. The word fell
out like a sigh. Yes, Cecilia was being gleeful again,
you were so good at school. It was on the
(03:40):
third afternoon, and Penelope meandered through the town while Cecilia
was doing something sweaty at the assembly rooms. She was
drawn by the sign life drawing class, all welcome. Knowing
it would get Cecilia off her back, she popped in
to find out more. Within two minutes of inquiring, she
was shuffled into a room and guided towards an easel
(04:01):
with rudimentary materials. An artist next to her passed her
something here, it's my spare, now fashioned in a smock
and still wearing the beret she had left the house in.
Penelope was not unaware of the fact that she had
become a slightly ridiculous stereotype. She picked up a pencil
and looked behind the easel, wondering if anyone heard her
(04:24):
mumbled explative. The artist next to her, giggled and whispered,
It's a shlong and a half, isn't it. The model
stood on the platform with the unself conscious ease of youth,
broad shouldered, wiry, beautiful in that careless provisional way some
men are before life edits them down. His name, she
later learned, as he did polite rounds to view each
(04:45):
insult to art was Leo. He was twenty six, recently
moved from Brighton, A performer mostly. She assumed performer meant actor,
and imagined him performing Shakespeare. Glad he had robed up.
Oh how lovely, she said, smiling and avoiding eye contact
as well as nether region staring. When their eyes met,
(05:05):
something ancient sent a small electric shock downward. Penelope's body
remembered it still existed. After the class, he approached her.
I really liked your drawings of me, he said. They
are precise and ordered. You should see some of the
artworks I see, he laughed, would you like them? Honestly?
I won't keep them. I am only here on holiday
(05:26):
killing time. Really. Leo was ecstatic and handed her a
leaflet performance art showcase the Velvet Room, Friday, eight p m.
I know it's short notice. He said, come, he begged.
It's experimental, it will be very inspiring, freeing and give
you a real sense of the place. Please say you
will come. It would be an honor to have you
(05:46):
in the audience. Leo seemed so sweet, so eager, that
Penelope agreed. After all, she needed to get used to
going out alone now that was old, free and single.
The velvet room was tucked down a narrow lane, unmarked
but for a faint boom of thumping base and the
smell of incense and beer. Inside. The lighting was so
(06:07):
intimate Penelope couldn't see a thing. People were arriving dressed
in clothes she had never seen, with body parts on
show that should not be seen. A woman with green
hair was throwing questions into the air. You here for
the showcase? Penelope nodded, I believe So the girl was
holding something were dire wonnet? Penelope looked confused, wrist or hand?
(06:29):
The green haired girl blew a pink bubble from her
black lips, and Penelope reminded herself to be more artistic.
Oh hand, I think, she said, still confused, take your
glove off, then demanded the girl. Before Penelope knew it
There was a black, smudgy tattoo inked on her well
manicured hand, and the girl was blowing another pink bubble
(06:49):
and saying next. The stage was a shallow platform, backed
by velvet curtains that had known better centuries. She found
a seat near the back, removed her other glove, and
tried to look as though she attended avant garde happenings regularly.
The music began low, slow and full of promise. There
was a pulsating boom and African rhythms emanating from all around.
(07:11):
Then a tall figure stepped into the light. It was Leo,
dressed in nothing but metaphors. Penelope froze. She recognized at
once the calm, unhurried posture, the deliberate movements. This was
not theater nor dance. It was a naked exhibition, a
performance of skin and hair that began to move under
strobes and beats around her. The audience applauded softly, reverently,
(07:35):
as if this were mass, and he the efficient. He
spoke low, assured words that might once have been poetry
before they undressed. We are bodies before we are names,
he said. We perform to be believed. Penelope felt the
strangest vertigo. She was blushing with embarrassment, but she took
a few deep breaths and focused on the art message,
(07:57):
which to this day she has no understanding of. When
the lights came up, she remained seated to compose herself
and get over the shock. There was a five minute
break until the next performance. Time to make a subtle exit,
but Leo was running over. Thank you for coming, he said,
thank you for getting dressed, she said. He laughed, and
(08:19):
she noticed for the first time his beautiful face as
it lit the room. Let's get out of here. Let
me buy you a drink, Leo said, in a convincing tone.
She almost declined, but politeness, that old reflex, and possibly
some other old reflexes, betrayed her. That was the start,
she would muse when looking back the time. His skin
(08:39):
and presence was so charged she could feel it in
her stomach. You don't talk like my usual audience, he said,
over red wine. Your normal audience has piercings. He laughed,
and it broke something in her. The laughter, the wine,
the gentle disarray of being unobserved. Each loosened a burden
she hadn't realized. She carried. The coat of propriety was
(09:02):
left at the door. He spoke about leaving Brighton, about
performing to survive, about wanting to write. She listened, surprised
by how much it mattered that he wanted to be understood.
When they finally stepped back into the night, the rain
had softened to mist I'd like to make love to you,
Leo declared. Let's get a hotel room, said Penelope, excited
(09:25):
and sexually awakened in a single afternoon. The walk to
her hotel was brief, almost quiet. Neither of them suggested
what would happen next, neither pretended not to know. Leo
was considerate, and both domineering and submissive impassionate waves as
they explored each other's bodies in the finest detail. They
made love four times, and then once again before breakfast
(09:46):
in the shower. It was more than she had made
love to her husband in twenty years. As they parted
at the taxi rank, Leo kissed Penelope's cheek. I will
never forget you, he whispered, Thank you, dearest charming boy,
she answered. For the first time in years. Penelope had
faltered and tiptoed into the dark side, but More importantly,
(10:08):
she discovered hat it would not kill her. Judge. Penelope
fairly returned to London as if she were the heroine
of her own parole. Barth had washed her clean of stigma, expectations,
and an imaginary bird cage. Her hair was shorter, deliberately so,
an unspoken rebellion against the helmet she had worn for
thirty years. She had bought dresses that kissed her figure
(10:29):
in linen and silks. Men would look longingly at this
beautiful modern woman who knew herself. Women would watch in disgust.
Who does she think she is? A woman of her age?
Wearing that? Penelope was a Belgravia scandal, albeit a small one.
Even Bertie seemed confused by her new scent of freedom.
Within weeks she was back on the bench, a leaner,
(10:52):
luminous version of herself, possessed of an unnerving calm. Court
Room seven had missed her efficiency, if not her warmth.
The clerks whispered that she smiled now occasionally, which was
far more disconcerting than her old frodeu. But Fate, like
a malicious court usher, was waiting to file an unexpected motion.
The case was Regina versus Leontius Rider. Penelope glanced at
(11:15):
the list and thought the name familiar, But it wasn't
until he entered the dock, hands folded, curls tamed that
her heart performed a most unjudicial leap. Leo, the naked
philosopher of the Velvet Room, now stood before her in
a borrowed suit, accused of public indecency and the destruction
of a civic sculpture valued at one hundred thousand pounds,
(11:37):
Your honor, said the prosecution. The defendant so called performance
involved squirting cream over the marble bust of Sir Robert
Peel while entirely unclothed. Penelope inhaled sharply through her nose.
The vision of cream was inconveniently vivid. Leo looked up.
Recognition was hard as a lightning streak. His eyes widened,
(11:59):
then softened, as if to say, forgive me, muse. Penelope
composed herself, re arranging her face into its most neutral expression,
the mask of a woman who could sentence her own
libido if required. The court she began is not a
theater a pause, though I appreciate some of you may
find the acoustic similar a ripple of laughter. Broke the tension.
(12:21):
The trial inevitably was adjourned. She could not preside. Conflict
of interest, emotional and otherwise. Outside the press had gathered.
Judge sees defendant naked, shouted one speculative headline. The next day,
it's the naked truth, your honor, said another. Charles sent
a curt text, You've become quite the spectacle, Penny, I
(12:42):
am suing for custody of Bertie. She deleted it and
ordered another martini. When Leo appeared again weeks later, she
attended discreetly, a mere spectator in civilian clothes. He was
represented by a nervous young barrister who clearly adored him.
When the verdict came guilty with mitt gating artistic intent,
Penelope almost smiled. A small fine, community service and an
(13:06):
interview on Channel four. When the fuss had died down
and it didn't take long, Leo waited in the rain
outside chambers. I am so glad you messaged, he said.
I didn't mean to embarrass you. He was looking down
like a schoolboy, but then he looked up and was
the man she had longed for all these weeks. You didn't,
she lied, You reminded me I'm still flammable, he grinned.
(13:29):
That's not a bad epitaph. They walked together through the
wet London streets until decorum dissolved again. But this time
it was bigger than passion. It was a longing that
both needed to satiate in the knowledge that however long
it lasted, it would be time treasured with the lust
and companionship of two people who could escape their scripts,
and that it was nobody's business but their own. Perhaps
(13:52):
I'll paint you next, he said, don't She replied, you'd
only end up in court again. But her smile, new
dangerous smile, said otherwise. Twenty twenty five Sonia de Lamar
The Judge and the Model by Sarnia de la Maree.
Penelope Fairly had never faltered. Faltering is for amateurs and
the mentally ill, she would say at fifty two. She
was the embodiment of composure, that rare breed of englishwoman
who moved through life as if time itself obeyed her schedule.
She was a beacon of virtue and as disappointing as
(00:22):
a soggy digestive, though no one would ever tell her
due to her ability to petrify anyone within her orbit,
even other people's dogs. In Hyde Park. She lived in
a tall ordered house in Belgravia with her husband Charles,
a respected tax barrister, and their Pomeranian Bertie, whose queffa
was definitely worse than his bark, styled by an expensive
(00:44):
personal dog groomer from Hampstead. There were no children, a
fate that had become a new normal many years before.
If one dared to ask Judge Penelope Fairly when she
last felt the surge of a carnal wave, she would
probably tell you it was when she saw Julio Iglesias
in concert for her twenty first birthday. Charles Fairley was
(01:05):
a man of professional eloquence and personal grooming. He had
spent their thirty years of marriage perfecting the art of
absence while being perpetually present, a skill much admired in
the legal profession. Their relationship had long ago settled into
the comfortable civility of two people who shared mortgage statements,
mutual respect, and an occasional bout of influenza. They dined well,
(01:30):
traveled seasonally, and never raised their voices. Their lives read
like an at home on Sunday newspaper spread fused with
Pomeranian monthly. But one Tuesday, Penelope returned home early, having
adjourned court for a witness who had fainted theatrically in
the dock. She let herself in, hung up her burbery coat,
popped her golfing umbrella in the stand, and followed a
(01:52):
peculiar yet vaguely familiar sound. It was somewhere between a
gasp and a whimper, and reminded her of the eighties
as a woman of the world, well familiar with the
peculiarities of human behavior in her court, the vision before
her was of something more unique. In her own personal
catalog of scene. It all befores Charles was on all
(02:13):
fours in a gimp mask, making woof sounds, and Barry,
the groomer from Hampstead, was saying something along the lines
of you are a very naughty boy, dragging him along
with Bertie's best channel dog lead. A long pause preceded
the events that unfolded. Bertie himself had been sitting on
his velvet cushion watching things in a confused state, just
(02:35):
glad that now Mummy was home. He had always hated
the groomer and would regularly bite him. Your two pee
has slipped, Barry, Penelope said curtly, along with your reputation
as a my my dog groomer. Get out of my
house and you, Charles, you can leave too. I never
want to see either of you again. You belong in
a kennel and I hope you get fleas. The following
(02:57):
weeks were tortuous. Deep pain and menopause slushed up Penelope's
brain to such a degree that she had taken some
time off work and visited an old school friend in Bath.
Unbeknown to Penelope, a deep current of change was about
to take her to new Shores. You will love Bath,
said Cecilia. Stay as long as you need, take up
(03:18):
some classes. You can come to mine pallettes, ballet bar,
aerobics and hot yoga. Cecilia was optimistic and gleeful. Penelope
was tired just thinking about it. Art, then said Cecilia.
Art answered Penelope, for no good reason. The word fell
out like a sigh. Yes, Cecilia was being gleeful again,
you were so good at school. It was on the
(03:40):
third afternoon, and Penelope meandered through the town while Cecilia
was doing something sweaty at the assembly rooms. She was
drawn by the sign life drawing class, all welcome. Knowing
it would get Cecilia off her back, she popped in
to find out more. Within two minutes of inquiring, she
was shuffled into a room and guided towards an easel
(04:01):
with rudimentary materials. An artist next to her passed her
something here, it's my spare, now fashioned in a smock
and still wearing the beret she had left the house in.
Penelope was not unaware of the fact that she had
become a slightly ridiculous stereotype. She picked up a pencil
and looked behind the easel, wondering if anyone heard her
(04:24):
mumbled explative. The artist next to her, giggled and whispered,
It's a shlong and a half, isn't it. The model
stood on the platform with the unself conscious ease of youth,
broad shouldered, wiry, beautiful in that careless provisional way some
men are before life edits them down. His name, she
later learned, as he did polite rounds to view each
(04:45):
insult to art was Leo. He was twenty six, recently
moved from Brighton, A performer mostly. She assumed performer meant actor,
and imagined him performing Shakespeare. Glad he had robed up.
Oh how lovely, she said, smiling and avoiding eye contact
as well as nether region staring. When their eyes met,
(05:05):
something ancient sent a small electric shock downward. Penelope's body
remembered it still existed. After the class, he approached her.
I really liked your drawings of me, he said. They
are precise and ordered. You should see some of the
artworks I see, he laughed, would you like them? Honestly?
I won't keep them. I am only here on holiday
(05:26):
killing time. Really. Leo was ecstatic and handed her a
leaflet performance art showcase the Velvet Room, Friday, eight p m.
I know it's short notice. He said, come, he begged.
It's experimental, it will be very inspiring, freeing and give
you a real sense of the place. Please say you
will come. It would be an honor to have you
(05:46):
in the audience. Leo seemed so sweet, so eager, that
Penelope agreed. After all, she needed to get used to
going out alone now that was old, free and single.
The velvet room was tucked down a narrow lane, unmarked
but for a faint boom of thumping base and the
smell of incense and beer. Inside. The lighting was so
(06:07):
intimate Penelope couldn't see a thing. People were arriving dressed
in clothes she had never seen, with body parts on
show that should not be seen. A woman with green
hair was throwing questions into the air. You here for
the showcase? Penelope nodded, I believe So the girl was
holding something were dire wonnet? Penelope looked confused, wrist or hand?
(06:29):
The green haired girl blew a pink bubble from her
black lips, and Penelope reminded herself to be more artistic.
Oh hand, I think, she said, still confused, take your
glove off, then demanded the girl. Before Penelope knew it
There was a black, smudgy tattoo inked on her well
manicured hand, and the girl was blowing another pink bubble
(06:49):
and saying next. The stage was a shallow platform, backed
by velvet curtains that had known better centuries. She found
a seat near the back, removed her other glove, and
tried to look as though she attended avant garde happenings regularly.
The music began low, slow and full of promise. There
was a pulsating boom and African rhythms emanating from all around.
(07:11):
Then a tall figure stepped into the light. It was Leo,
dressed in nothing but metaphors. Penelope froze. She recognized at
once the calm, unhurried posture, the deliberate movements. This was
not theater nor dance. It was a naked exhibition, a
performance of skin and hair that began to move under
strobes and beats around her. The audience applauded softly, reverently,
(07:35):
as if this were mass, and he the efficient. He
spoke low, assured words that might once have been poetry
before they undressed. We are bodies before we are names,
he said. We perform to be believed. Penelope felt the
strangest vertigo. She was blushing with embarrassment, but she took
a few deep breaths and focused on the art message,
(07:57):
which to this day she has no understanding of. When
the lights came up, she remained seated to compose herself
and get over the shock. There was a five minute
break until the next performance. Time to make a subtle exit,
but Leo was running over. Thank you for coming, he said,
thank you for getting dressed, she said. He laughed, and
(08:19):
she noticed for the first time his beautiful face as
it lit the room. Let's get out of here. Let
me buy you a drink, Leo said, in a convincing tone.
She almost declined, but politeness, that old reflex, and possibly
some other old reflexes, betrayed her. That was the start,
she would muse when looking back the time. His skin
(08:39):
and presence was so charged she could feel it in
her stomach. You don't talk like my usual audience, he said,
over red wine. Your normal audience has piercings. He laughed,
and it broke something in her. The laughter, the wine,
the gentle disarray of being unobserved. Each loosened a burden
she hadn't realized. She carried. The coat of propriety was
(09:02):
left at the door. He spoke about leaving Brighton, about
performing to survive, about wanting to write. She listened, surprised
by how much it mattered that he wanted to be understood.
When they finally stepped back into the night, the rain
had softened to mist I'd like to make love to you,
Leo declared. Let's get a hotel room, said Penelope, excited
(09:25):
and sexually awakened in a single afternoon. The walk to
her hotel was brief, almost quiet. Neither of them suggested
what would happen next, neither pretended not to know. Leo
was considerate, and both domineering and submissive impassionate waves as
they explored each other's bodies in the finest detail. They
made love four times, and then once again before breakfast
(09:46):
in the shower. It was more than she had made
love to her husband in twenty years. As they parted
at the taxi rank, Leo kissed Penelope's cheek. I will
never forget you, he whispered, Thank you, dearest charming boy,
she answered. For the first time in years. Penelope had
faltered and tiptoed into the dark side, but More importantly,
(10:08):
she discovered hat it would not kill her. Judge. Penelope
fairly returned to London as if she were the heroine
of her own parole. Barth had washed her clean of stigma, expectations,
and an imaginary bird cage. Her hair was shorter, deliberately so,
an unspoken rebellion against the helmet she had worn for
thirty years. She had bought dresses that kissed her figure
(10:29):
in linen and silks. Men would look longingly at this
beautiful modern woman who knew herself. Women would watch in disgust.
Who does she think she is? A woman of her age?
Wearing that? Penelope was a Belgravia scandal, albeit a small one.
Even Bertie seemed confused by her new scent of freedom.
Within weeks she was back on the bench, a leaner,
(10:52):
luminous version of herself, possessed of an unnerving calm. Court
Room seven had missed her efficiency, if not her warmth.
The clerks whispered that she smiled now occasionally, which was
far more disconcerting than her old frodeu. But Fate, like
a malicious court usher, was waiting to file an unexpected motion.
The case was Regina versus Leontius Rider. Penelope glanced at
(11:15):
the list and thought the name familiar, But it wasn't
until he entered the dock, hands folded, curls tamed that
her heart performed a most unjudicial leap. Leo, the naked
philosopher of the Velvet Room, now stood before her in
a borrowed suit, accused of public indecency and the destruction
of a civic sculpture valued at one hundred thousand pounds,
(11:37):
Your honor, said the prosecution. The defendant so called performance
involved squirting cream over the marble bust of Sir Robert
Peel while entirely unclothed. Penelope inhaled sharply through her nose.
The vision of cream was inconveniently vivid. Leo looked up.
Recognition was hard as a lightning streak. His eyes widened,
(11:59):
then softened, as if to say, forgive me, muse. Penelope
composed herself, re arranging her face into its most neutral expression,
the mask of a woman who could sentence her own
libido if required. The court she began is not a
theater a pause, though I appreciate some of you may
find the acoustic similar a ripple of laughter. Broke the tension.
(12:21):
The trial inevitably was adjourned. She could not preside. Conflict
of interest, emotional and otherwise. Outside the press had gathered.
Judge sees defendant naked, shouted one speculative headline. The next day,
it's the naked truth, your honor, said another. Charles sent
a curt text, You've become quite the spectacle, Penny, I
(12:42):
am suing for custody of Bertie. She deleted it and
ordered another martini. When Leo appeared again weeks later, she
attended discreetly, a mere spectator in civilian clothes. He was
represented by a nervous young barrister who clearly adored him.
When the verdict came guilty with mitt gating artistic intent,
Penelope almost smiled. A small fine, community service and an
(13:06):
interview on Channel four. When the fuss had died down
and it didn't take long, Leo waited in the rain
outside chambers. I am so glad you messaged, he said.
I didn't mean to embarrass you. He was looking down
like a schoolboy, but then he looked up and was
the man she had longed for all these weeks. You didn't,
she lied, You reminded me I'm still flammable, he grinned.
(13:29):
That's not a bad epitaph. They walked together through the
wet London streets until decorum dissolved again. But this time
it was bigger than passion. It was a longing that
both needed to satiate in the knowledge that however long
it lasted, it would be time treasured with the lust
and companionship of two people who could escape their scripts,
and that it was nobody's business but their own. Perhaps
(13:52):
I'll paint you next, he said, don't She replied, you'd
only end up in court again. But her smile, new
dangerous smile, said otherwise. Twenty twenty five Sonia de Lamar
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