All character are over 18. All resemblance to characters real or fictional is entirely coincidental.
The thing I remember most about my uncle John was the brooch in the shape of a fiery red dragonfly he wore almost all the time. To me it seemed totally out of place with his usually very stylish appearance. Other than that, he was a just one of my mom's brothers. He usually brought the best gifts for me and my sister when he came over from London. I never noticed him taking a special interest in me. Needless to say, I was slightly surprised when I heard he wanted me to take care of his house while he was away on business. None the less, I took the opportunity with both hands. I could easily take a couple of weeks off from work and decided it was a good time to try my luck in London. Living in Harwich, where I was brought up, was probably good for character building, but didn't do much in the way of personal growth.
The trip to London almost felt like a holiday abroad and Kensington was fabulous. 'Valerie House' in Drayton Gardens looked way too expensive for someone in my family and was well maintained. It took me fifteen minutes to work up the nerve to get my copy of the key out of my pocket and walk up to the door. As quickly as I could, I opened the door, feeling most likely imaginary prying eyes burning in my back, jumped in and closed it. I leaned back against the door and sighed. I felt like a pimple on Angelina Jolie's ass; defiling the divine location, only to be quickly and painfully removed and never to be spoken of again. I shook off the shocking image and had a look around.
The interior looked like it had been redone for the last time in the early fifties. Very classy but getting a bit old. Since my uncle had already gone to New York I had the place to myself. I felt a tingle in my stomach and had the almost uncontrollable urge to strip naked and run around the house. I laughed to myself and decided there would be plenty of time for that later.
The entire house breathed a serene calm; the fireplace with the big leather chair; the spacious kitchen with all mod cons; the bathroom like a ballroom. I actually felt a bit humbled by it. It was like the house was saying I was just a little brat entering its hallowed walls and had better treat it with respect. I usually deeply dislike talking houses; if this one got fresh with me, I'd have to think of some form of punishment, maybe strip a doorframe or something.
Most rooms, even the hallways had paintings hanging on the walls. Some old, some looked like they were more modern. I decided a cup of tea was the way to go and after a couple minutes I sat down at the kitchen table with a steaming mug of Earl Grey and my uncle's instructions. There weren't a lot; he had a cleaning lady coming in every Thursday morning and groceries were delivered on Saturday; laundry was picked up and delivered twice a week. He wrote down a couple of suggestions for good places to eat and the whereabouts of his local pub. Sounded to me like he had the perfect bachelor life.
The allowance he left behind was more than sufficient for me to go out for dinner every day, but I planned on saving a bit of it. If there's one thing that Harwich taught me, it was being thrifty. Or cheap according to my last girlfriend. Well, maybe that was of my own accord. The last line of instructions was underlined and looked very awkward. Apparently, one of Uncle John's paintings required special care. It had to be covered up every night before nine and uncovered in the morning. That sounded like the exact opposite of what I would have thought would be necessary to protect delicate artwork. It was a large painting hanging in the hallway opposite the library. I checked it out.
It was a scene from what looked like a brothel from the twenties or thirties. Somewhat faded it looked a bit tired and dull. It depicted a very lush interior with lots of red velvet drapes on the wall; a large sofa with a breathtakingly beautiful woman lying on it. Despite the colours and the obvious dissolute setting, it had an air of elegance and serenity. The woman was wearing nothing more than an old fashioned bustier, a pair of matching black panties and black stockings. She lay stretched out, her head tilted slightly backwards, looking away from the painter. Her auburn hair was cascading over the edge of the sofa. I almost felt hypnotised looking over her tight body, her exposed soft skin almost glowing. I could imagine my uncle wanted to protect what looked like a beautiful and well-made painting, but why cover it up at night? I'd have to ask him when he got back. It looked like a curtain had been made in the frame, like it had always belonged there. I decided to cover it up and headed out for a bite to eat.
After a first, slightly uneasy and lonesome evening in London, I returned to the house and went to bed. Despite all the new and unusual sounds of this house I slept within five minutes. I must have slept like a baby because after what seemed like five minutes I woke up and found the house as quiet and peaceful as it was before I went to bed. No heavy traffic in the streets, just the regular quiet hustle and bustle of the posh neighbourhood. I stretched my naked body under the satin sheets. I could get used to this! As I always do, I had a feel of my cock, and found it being not half as hard as it normally is in the morning. It felt slightly sticky as well. I blushed at the thought that I had a wet dream in this strange bed on the first night. I'd have to remember to have the sheets laundered next time. I had a shower and went down for a bit of breakfast. On my way I opened the curtains of the painting. I was again struck by the vibrant picture of that woman.
