Sentence The Twohundredandeightysixth
Sir Parlane MacFarlane lay like a slug-a-bed, ludically running his hand over Goldilocks sweet, sweaty, shiny skin as he pondered over the events of the previous night, which had become this morning while he and Dominic, his Man, his bodyguard, his scribe, his procurer, his oft-times partner in the seduction and deflowering of the young girls he was so attracted to, both of them were attracted to; he knew, even more than sensed, that a social change was coming: there were warnings that an Age of Consent Law, originating in England on instruction from the Pope, would spread to Scotland as part of the Church's Canon Law; he did not know what that age would be – though he sensed from his
enquiries that there was a reticence among the Bishops and Cardinals over tying the issue with the age of Menarche, but none could guess on which side the axe would fall, before or after; this really nettled him, for there was a wide variation, as much as five years, to his certain knowledge, perhaps even more; but his Ring would be a safe haven for himself and eleven others, whatever the clergy decided, and he had a feeling that in future generations – when his own sons and grandsons would, he hoped, be following where his own cock led – it would be higher, making relations between Men like himself and girls, like Goldilocks, a Crime; he shivered at the thought: criminalising the normal, God-given needs of Man, that surely was the True Crime and he saw it as his bounden duty, to his own descendants, to form this Ring of Gold for their protection in the stormy centuries to come!