Stewed, Screwed & Tattooed

Disclaimers, the characters and story are the sole possession of the author and may not be reproduced, posted or sold without the author's permission. So there! If for any reason real or imagined your are uncomfortable with graphic descriptions of consenting adult women in a loving and sexual relationship then do not read this story or anything else I have ever written. If for any reason it is illegal for you to view this material, go away and do not return until it is no longer a crime.

A special thank you goes out to my beta reader Mountain Girl.

As always this is for Heather.

Stewed, screwed and tattooed not the most elegant expression, but Sailor Jerry, a.k.a. Jerry Collins the infamous tattoo artist, wasn't known for his charm, just the artwork he created for most of the sailors during world war two. He also created a very fine rum which is at the crux of my present situation. Apparently, thanks to a bottle of Sailor Jerry rum which is smooth with a slight hint of cherry and ninety-two proof, I lived out one of his infamous tats. The above-mentioned bottle of rum explains the stewed portion of my previous evening. The petite brunette sound asleep in the bed of the strange hotel room I am standing in would explain the screwed part and the painful burning from the image of Tigger, which magically appeared on my inner thigh, would explain the tattooed portion of the evening.

All of these things make sense because of the large quantity of alcohol I had consumed last evening. The only thing that doesn't fit with Jerry Collins original tattoo was marriage. I am standing in the middle of a hotel room, which I can only assume is located somewhere in P-Town since that was where I was last night, and I am holding in my hands a marriage license. Another assumption I am making is that the snoring brunette is Glenda Murdock which according to the document I am staring at is the name of my bride.

My heart stops as the snoring suddenly ceases and I am greeted by small whimpers then the tell-tale sound of someone smacking theirs lips. Apparently Mrs. Jennings, which is my last name, is about to come out of her coma. "Hi?" She greets me in a quizzical manner. I am relieved that she is now sporting the same troubled look I had on my face just moments before when I woke up and discovered I was in bed completely naked with someone I couldn't really remember meeting. Everything is still a blur as I glance over at my bride.

Screwed, stewed and tattooed?" She mumbles as she reads the back of the t-shirt I am wearing and, embarrassingly enough it is the only article of clothing I am wearing. "We got that at the bar last night?" She mutters still trying to focus as she pulls the bed sheet over her body. "Some kind of rum promotion wasn't it?"

"Yes," I responded with a hard swallow as she winced in pain.

"What the hell?" She mumbles as she lifts the sheet and examines her backside. Her face is pale as she looks up. "I have a tattoo?"

"Welcome to the club," I sigh as I lift the hem of my shirt ever so slightly.

"Interesting location," she smiles for the first time. "You wouldn't happen to know what is permanently emblazoned across my ass by any chance. I can't quite see it."

"Winnie the Pooh," I blush. "I saw it when I woke up, Glenda."

She stares at me thoughtfully for a moment; I understand she is racking her brain for my name. "I'm Aster Jennings," I supply sheepishly. "Any chance you remember what happened last night?" I ask in a pleading manner.

"I was just about to ask you," she grimly confesses. "God, between my butt and my head I think I want to die. At least you remembered my name. Any chance you know a plastic surgeon so I can have this bear taken off my butt?"

"No and no," I grimly confess. "The tats and the hangover are the easy part. I didn't remember your name," I explain softly as I hand her the slip of paper.

"What is," she began slowly as she brushes the hair from her eyes. "We got married?"

She screams out causing the both of us to cradle our aching heads. "Don't do that," I plead with her.

"How did this happen, I thought there was a waiting period?" She gasps in a much softer tone. "What day is this?"

"I'm almost positive that it is only Sunday," I offer as I sit on the very edge of the bed before I fall over. "I don't think I've ever been this drunk in my life."

"Ditto," she groans. "The last thing I remember was hanging out in the bar. I had a fight with my girlfriend and she headed home early."

"You have a girlfriend?" I choke out thoroughly disgusted with myself.

"Had," she clarifies. "She dumped me that was what the fight was about. I was sulking in the bar, trying to enjoy the rum party. I vaguely remember you walking in. After that everything is a blur. Serves me right this is why I never drink. What about you what was the last thing you remember?"

"I drove down for the day with friends," I slowly begin as my mind tries to fill in the details. "They're a couple and they got into a spat before we left Boston. By the time we were supposed to hit tea dance, I had enough and told them I'd catch the ferry back. I walked around for a while ended up in the bar and saw you trying to catch cherries in your mouth. Some girl dressed in a sarong kept giving us free samples of rum. That is about all I can remember. The next clear recollection I had was waking up with the mother of all hangovers, a tattoo and a wife."

"How romantic," she scowls as she rubs her head. "I've never done anything like this before. Normally I'm boring."

"Me too," I sigh in agreement. "Look we can fix this; we'll just get an annulment. I don't think we can swing that on a Sunday, but I'll leave you my phone number. I have to catch the ferry."

"Hold on, you're not seriously planning on taking the ferry in your condition are you?" She gently inquires as my stomach flips at the very thought of being stuck on a boat for hours. "What about your friends?"

"It was just a day trip," I grimly respond. "They're probably in Boston