Loading...The second estate agent was in his forties. He had a heavy, ponderous look about him and a blue shadow round his jaws as if her were poorly shaved. His name was Cheetham. It was he who watched her. She looked to be early twenties, seemed nervous, as if she was unsure of herself. They’d been married three months. The husband’s name was Christopher. He was in a wheel chair.
“Shall I show Mrs Faysham upstairs?” suggested Cheetham, eyes on Mrs Faysham. The senior agent nodded. “This way,” said Cheetham to the newly-wed hiding his pleasure. “What’s your name?” he asked as they made their way up the narrow staircase.
“Lillian,” she answered.
“Nice name that, Lillian,” Cheetham mumbled in gruff good humour as they turned into the right-hand door at the top of the stairs. It was a small bathroom with blue wallpaper and tiles half-way up its height. The ceiling was low. A mug holder with space for two toothbrushes was attached to the wall next to a white-framed mirror on which someone had laboriously hand-painted neat blue flowers. “It’s small, but cosy in winter,” said Cheetham, squeezing into the small space behind her. She wore a neat grey suit, box jacket buttoned over a white blouse. The skirt was short enough to show how good her legs were. Her stockings were charcoal. Shoes high-healed and black.
Cheetham’s stomach lightly touched her lower back and rear. She looked at the mirror. “What happened to your husband?” said Cheetham, making conversation, watching the pretty face in the mirror. She told him it was a ski-ing accident, on their honeymoon, broken pelvis, sounded resentful. “The bed room’s in there,” said Cheetham, moving the conversation on, inclining his head at the second door at the top of the stairs. He swayed against her as he reached around her to the small glass ball handle of a cabinet to the right and above the sink. She didn’t move. He opened the cabinet. On the top shelf was a blue china mug with a broken handle and a red heart, and the name ‘Mary’ in flowery script. “Plenty room to store things,” he said, leaving the door open, dropping his hand to his side.
She looked up at the mug on the topmost shelf.
“Belonged to Mary,” said Cheetham, as if it were the punch line of a joke. Lillian Faysham didn’t respond. Cheetham glanced between them, the tiny space, the touch of groin to shapely ass. He rotated the hand that had opened the cabinet and gently eased the open palm towards the curve of her butt. The hand was large and the fingers short and square. He moved it gently against her. Compared to the neat mound of her firm rear in grey worsted the invasive hand resembled a red elephant on the flanks of a grey gazelle. Lillian Faysham didn’t move. The elephant began to roam the gazelle. “Wonder why they left it?” mused Lillian Faysham studying the mug on the high shelf, seemingly impervious to elephants.
“Have a look,” said Cheetham, keeping his hand on her, allowing the fingers to mold and cup. She reached up and in so doing her buttock clutched. Cheetham stretched his neck and rolled his head as if seeking to loosen the constraints of his collar, then his fingers firmly cupped her buttock and gently squeezed. “It’s handle’s broken,” she said, stretched up on tiptoe, fingertips curiously stroking the mug. She seemed to loose her balance, catching herself with a hand on the shelf, her thighs pressed into the basin. Cheetham wrapped a hand around her. It slipped under her jacket.
“I’ve got you,” he said, to reassure her.
“Thank you.” Her eyes caught his in the mirror but quickly flipped away, back up to the mug. Her fingers tentatively released the shelf, went back to the mug, closed around it’s base — back up on tiptoes to do so. “Funny thing to leave,” she remarked, moving the mug, then moving it back. Cheetham’s eyes were on the hair that touched his nose. He was sniffing her as if she were a bitch on heat and he a dog. A mastiff perhaps.
“Maybe they don’t want it, cause it’s broken,” he suggested. Her fingertips ran over the stub of broken china where the handle had been. The hand he had around her flattened over the thin material of her blouse beneath her jacket. It covered her stomach. He eased her back against him.
“I suppose you’re right,” she said, her voice tight with the strain of reaching up so high, yet she made no move to bring her hand back down. Her other hand was curled around the hand painted frame of the mirror. The hand beneath her jacket moved upwards like a burrowing shrew beneath a grey serge mound. Lillian Faysham swallowed.
“A broken mug’s not much use,” said Cheetham, as he lowered his face into the long blond hair that cascaded round her head like fluffy seaweed. Her stretched fingers moved absently over the heart on the face of the mug as Cheetham’s left hand strayed further in under her jacket. His other hand, his right, the one at her bottom, had taken possession of a tight worsted-covered buttock and was kneading it softly but firmly as one might a block of plasticine, or dough. Lillian Faysham’s fingers seemed to slacken in their task. Cheetham’s mouth found the newly-wed’s ear and his tongue cleared a path through the fluffy curtain of hair to the warmth that was beneath.
“Wonder who Mary is,” said Lillian Faysham.
“Some pretty young thing,” Cheetham whispered. Then his tongue went into her ear.
She stretched her back and arched her neck and angled her head into the probing tongue as if to impale herself on its wet warm bulk. “Please don’t,” she whispered.
“Lillian love!” was shouted from downstairs. Her husband, Christopher. “Do you want to come outside and see the garden shed, or will you stay up there?”
Cheetham was aware that the shouted offer signaled the end of his little game with Faysham’s wife so by way of fond farewell he quickly ran his hand up her front to her breast and squeezed it hungrily. It prompted a high-pitched gasp from her. Quite loud. Then she called to her husband downstairs, “You go ahead, dear.”
Cheetham stared at the face in the mirror, a look of confusion in his eyes. His mouth hung open. His face was flushed. But so too, he noted, was Lillian Faysham’s.
“I suppose you’re right,” the newly-wed said, one hand still at the mirror frame, the other stretched up to the mug on the shelf.
Why doesn’t she bring it down, Cheetham wondered … instead of stretching herself out so invitingly … which got him to thinking some more about this rather shapely blond … whose husband’s sexual desires had to be somewhat constrained by a pelvis in plaster. As her vacantly probing fingers on mug, and a seemingly renewed burst of exploratory energy had her chin pointing determinedly ceilingward, and her heels came out of her shoes, Cheetham reached both hands round the front and started unbuttoning her jacket.
“I don’t think that’s wise,” she said, but her hand, and apparently attention, remained with the mug. He opened the first grey button. There were four in all. Each was square and the size of a dollar piece. When he had unfastened them all the jacket swung out to reveal beneath the blouse two well-formed breasts. He studied them for a time in the mirror. The breasts pressed aggressively against the thin white material of her blouse. “Maybe they forgot it,” she said, apparently meaning the mug, but Cheetham didn’t care any more. He put his hands over her breasts and moved them against her. She let out a sigh and said “No,” but Cheetham ignored that as well. As his fondling became stronger and his mouth went in search of her other ear, she said “No,” again.
He began to unbutton her blouse,
“Should I bring it down?” she sighed.
“Better not,” he whispered in her ear as his fat fingers loosed the second then third button of her blouse.
“Why?” she gasped. Her eyes had closed and her head had fallen back on his shoulder.
“It’s better,” was all he offered.
Her fingers were curled around the shelf overhead, her others round the frame of the mirror, as the tail of her blouse was pulled from the waistband of her skirt and the large hand moved inside, finding skin. Her fingers tightened their grip.
“We shouldn’t,” she whispered as the front catch of her frilly Maidenform bra was loosed, and her breast brought out to play. “No,” she said again as the soft flesh was taken into two large hands and fondled anew. She breathed out slowly as he turned her around. His large mouth closed over wide full lips but her eyes stayed closed. Her breasts flattened against his cheap plaid jacket and flowery tie. Garish orange and purple against the breasts’ more creamy white.
“Lillian, darling,” shouted from the garden.
Cheetham had to free her.
She turned around, back to the mirror and began to arrange her hair. “Yes,” she shouted back. As she patting the cascade of fluffy hair, her blouse open and her naked breasts below, she gave the impression of a dazed peacock.
“Are you okay?” her husband’s voice called from the back garden.
Cheetham ran his hands under her arms and took her naked breasts captive again.
“I’m fine,” she shouted back. Cheetham lowered his mouth to her neck. “I have to go,” she whispered as his fingers delicately scratched and tweaked the rock-hard nipples. “Have to go,” she said again as her eyes closed. She was leaning against him heavily.
“You must see the bedroom,” said Cheetham, into the skin of her neck.
“No,” she replied.
“Your husband will ask you about it,” Cheetham pointed out.
The newly-wed opened her eyes and looked in the mirror. She seemed to be thinking about it. Her reflection — a stranger’s head nuzzling her neck, hands fondling her breasts — seemed not to register.
“Okay,” was all she said.
The two walked across to the second door and as they went she began to fasten her bra. “Bedroom,” was all he said. It was small and square and had a large bed and some pictures of nudes on the wall. A tiny casement window looked out to the back garden. As Lillian Faysham moved towards it she began to button her blouse. Her husband and the other agent was outside. She opened the window and leaned out.
“Darling!” she called.
As the newly-wed’s eyes met they seemed to share a warmth. Lillian Faysham smiled down at her husband. Cheetham moved to her side and looked down too. “Tell him about the bathroom,” Cheetham said. But she ignored him. She began to call down to her husband details of the little bedroom they were in. Cheetham bent his knees, reached down and ran his hand up her leg until it reached the hem of her skirt. She didn’t seem to notice. Her husband made a joke. She gave a bell-like laugh. Cheetham brought his hand further up her leg. The hem of her skirt rose with it. He leaned back from the small window and looked down at her legs, and his hand, and the rising hem … and then knelt down. For a man as large as him, he did it quickly. Holding her with both his hands and pushing the hem of the skirt up around her hips he buried his face in the brief silk panties that clung to her.
“Don’t,” she whispered urgently, before continuing with the conversation with her husband below. But Cheetham ignored her. He ran his hands over the naked skin at the top of her stockings as one might smooth sand or rumpled silk. It felt like silk. When his hands sought entry between the two warm and almost chubby tops of legs they opened to let him in, then opened further as his chin and mouth sought access too.
“I’ve got to go now,” she called out the window as her panties moved over her knees on the way to the floor and a finger eased slowly inside her. She took a long time closing the window as if to do it more quickly might send the wrong signals to her husband — or was too difficult to close with all this other stuff going on. “Please,” was all she said when the window was closed and her forehead was hard against the glass. But Cheetham wasn’t listening. His head was buried between her widely-parted legs and the motion of his jaw and stubbled chin against the smooth whiteness of her suggested a mouth and probing tongue were working with abandon at her pussy. “Please,” she murmured softly.
The two were coiled together as they moved from window to bed and the fat square fingers undid all the buttons and catches she had so carefully refastened from the bout in the bathroom. As the coiled limbs and arched torsos sunk into the bed and into each other so the blouse and bra came off and joined the panties on the floor. As Cheetham’s right hand burrowed anew between the young wife’s thighs and his mouth sought out hers — then the two joined as one — so his left hand began to tear at his own clothes. Two slimmer softer hands joined the single hand and helped him take them off.
“We’re back inside,” called husband Christopher from downstairs. “Are you coming down?” The mouths on the bed briefly parted. The young wife cleared her throat once, then twice. “Bedroom,” she shouted, then tried it again. “Bedroom,” she called again, a bit louder this time. “We’re looking at the bedroom,” she completed what she had to say as the last of Cheetham’s clothing hit the floor and he rolled the young wife on her back.
“Don’t,” she said, as the estate agent’s hand fumbled with a prick as decent-sized as any she’d seen. She reached out to touch it. “We have to go down,” she whispered, as her eyes closed and her mouth opened and she helped to guide the glistening shaft inside her. She let out a strangled cry as the whole length of him moved inside. “Was that you?” called her husband, downstairs.
“It’s okay,” called Cheetham in a voice higher-pitched than he’d have liked. There was no way the wife could talk. She had stuffed her blouse in her mouth and was grunting like a tortured boar. Cheetham got his rhythm going. His pelvis was shunting back and forth like a piston. His manly shaft doing the decent thing with this pretty little filly on the bed who was responding like an eager bucking doll.
The wife was getting noisy.
“Shit!” came a strangled whisper from the door.
Cheetham’s boss was a year older and a stone heavier than Cheetham. His name was Clough. He circled the bed in stunned silence with his eyes glued to the glistening bodies that bucked there like two crazed animals. “Shit,” he repeated as his eyes devoured the naked woman who seemed intent on crushing her lightness and whiteness into the red mottled flab above.
Through slit eyes Cheetham saw his boss, and the frown on his face, and the amazement in his eyes, but there was no thing and no person on earth who at this moment could stop him completing what he had started with this cute little wife. Nor did he think the cute little wife was about to give up on the exercise either. Not till they were done. A shriek came from the wife, and as it did the heavy form of Clough scuttled towards the door.
“It’s all right Mr Faysham,” he shouted down. “Just me. I hit my head.” Clough stayed at the door, leaned against the jamb and stared back into the room, and at the two bodies so intent on what they were doing that all else around them seemed as naught. The wife one moment had the blouse back in her mouth, the next the same mouth was seeking Cheetham like a starving chick at it’s mother’s beak.
The blouse kept becoming dislodged.
“They’re looking at the bedroom,” Clough called down as the sounds on the bed soared higher. They were soon so loud that Clough closed the door and stood at the top of the stair and commenced an inane running commentary on the bedroom and how old it was and how the previous owners had had it done in blues which was their favourite colour as the wife’s eyes were blue and was Mr Faysham going to paint it green as his wife’s eyes were green … and very lovely too if he might say so.
As Lillian Faysham reached orgasm she shrieked into a mouth full of blouse as loudly as she might have done had she been stabbed. Which in a way she had been. Cheetham came more slowly. Whether the action of Cheetham, as his juices pumped heavily into her, or the after-effects of one of the mightiest orgasms she had ever experienced, was the cause, she would never know, but within a split second of Cheetham’s final groan she leapt to one yet higher plane. Her legs and arms pinned him to her in a grip like a carpentry vice as her pelvis gaped and sought to devour him as a shark might a minnow, and she screamed a scream that with the throbbing, shaking, trembling of her body held as tight as a bowstring against the great whale-like flab of this temporary servicer of her needs, shook the very rafters of the house.
“It’s the plumbing,” screamed Clough, almost as loudly.
… It was Cheetham who showed the husband the rest of downstairs. “That the plumbing again?” asked the husband at one point, glancing towards the ceiling.
“Plumbing. Yup,” said Cheetham.