The Bug over recent days has published world-exclusive extracts from Prime Minister Scott Morrison’s first attempt at romance fiction writing, a bodice-ripper very much in the Mills and Boon style.
The Widow of Warringah is the steamy story about the chance encounter on a world-famous beach in Sydney of an impressionable young woman, not beautiful by any stretch of the imagination but pretty enough in a strange sort of way, and a handsome man-about-town from the Shire.
The Bug has received countless messages of praise for Mr Morrison’s efforts after those extracts was published, all hoping he will become a full-time novelist after the looming federal election.
We are now extremely privileged to offer another extract from the book penned during well-earned holidays at Kirribilli House, the final chapter in fact.
After several months of meeting up on Manly Beach and a growing friendship developing, we find Beris Gladjiklian and Morris Scotsman just on dusk near the ocean baths at the famous strip’s northern end.
And things are really starting to heat up, so please enjoy this third and final extract from….
The Widow of Warringah!
“You really want me, don’t you?” marketing guru Morris Scotsman smirked as he adjusted his spectacles that were starting to mist up just a bit.
“If you give me a go, I’ll have a go,” he whispered, his voice choked by a sexual yearning of a strength and level that surprised him, considering he had sown more than his fair share of oats over his short adulthood. Paddock after paddock of the stuff if the truth be known. He was after all, an incredibly handsome, well-built and highly intelligent man with the personality of a half-dozen lesser men.
He had the world at his feet, as was Beris Gladjiklian at this very moment. They had changed back into casual attire after their swim and Morris double smirked as he noticed Beris’s nipples straining against the cotton fabric of her bright and breezy summer blouse. A roo shooter’s spotlight at midnight couldn’t have been more obvious, he thought.
And right now, Beris was indeed his prey and he had her rooted to the spot with his handsome gaze and his overall aura of an unparalleled masculinity that finally would not be denied.
Beris was appalled by her inability to stop one of her delicate little hands from moving tantalisingly closer to his throbbing manhood, a finger feeling its way slowly past his six-pack, down his hairy washboard stomach and pausing provocatively close to the waistband of his bulging board shorts, making Morris groan in anticipatory pleasure.
“You really want to date me full time, don’t you?” she said softly.
“Vaginal sex will be fine for starters,” he whispered as he grabbed that exploratory hand and pushed it down closer to what he always told the ladies was “the land of plenty”.
“I can tell you want to hold my hose,” he smiled, or to be fair, maybe a casual observer passing by would have thought it more a smirk and a leer than a smile as such.
“Maybe we should ease off a bit here,” Beris said softly, perhaps realising that maybe after weeks of rather innocent romance with a stolen kiss or two and some lovely hand-holding, her eyes already knew – and those treacherous fingers might soon confirm in no uncertain terms – that she had clearly bitten off more than she could chew here.
Morris sensed the slight tactical withdrawal by Beris in the age-old battle of the sexes, and he drew her back tightly to him – well, as close as they could get, given the circumstances.
“If you let me have a go, I’ll have a go,” he again pleaded softly.
A desperate Beris now started to look for excuses for a circuit breaker to what her parents had always warned would happen one day: a potentially disastrous position with a real hunk-of-a-spunk man that she wouldn’t be able to control.
Her teachings as a young girl in the Christian Armenian Apostolic Church flooded through her
thought processes and in the fast darkening corner of the famous beach, Beris said unconvincingly: “Morris, there are still people walking along the esplanade and I don’t think we should do anyth..”
“We’ll both just have to be very quiet Australians,” he groaned.
“Morris, I really think we need to …”
He grabbed her roughly and pressed her to him, their trembling lips almost touching.
“You vixen! You glorious, beautiful temptress, you delicious whole piece of unspoiled fruit, you,” he whispered. “I want to slice through your juicy ripe Bowen mango right here, right now!”.
“Morris, please, don’t…,” Beris pleaded as she raised both her fists and they began beating a defiant and steady tattoo against his manly chest.
It was then that her eyes widened in awe as she realised she hadn’t been this wet since she had run through the intermittent pavement kids’ fountain in The Corso as a child.
An audible gasp followed as it also dawned that her own precious bud – the very essence of her femininity – had begun beating its own, subtle, rhythmic tattoo against the inside front of her sensible Bonds lilac-coloured full-brief cottontails.
She really had thought that sort of thing only happened in Harold Robbins’ books.
She blushed mightily, her fists slowly lost their defiant beat even though her bud certainly hadn’t, and Morris smirked anew as he realised this particular battle of the sexes was over; the war had been won.
His mouth roughly covered hers and his tongue darted down her throat like a frenzied fox terrier down a rat hole.
And then he took her.
Missed the first extracts from Scott Morrison’s amazing literary debut? Read them here at: