Wilderness Road

May

"What are you so happy about?" Jay asked, looking up from his newspaper.

I was humming to myself cheerfully as I made breakfast, shuffling my feet to the music in my head, simply unable to keep still. I was excited because today was the day that Terry Ilford was due to come around. It was something I'd been looking forward to for weeks, a chance to talk to someone who was a friend of Abby's. I could hardly explain that to Jay though.

"I'm just happy, that's all," I said, smiling sweetly as I straightened his tie, and pecked him on the cheek.

After breakfast, I changed into my running gear. I'd started a part-time job the week before, at a clothes shop in a nearby shopping mall but it wasn't open on Mondays and Tuesdays so I had the whole day to myself. Outside, it was a bright and breezy sort of day. I put my ear buds in, and set off down the hill towards the park, my trainers thudding on the tarmac.

Despite my earlier resolution, I'd read a lot more of the journal over the last few weeks, hungrily devouring page after page, then storing it back in my underwear drawer before Jay returned from work in the evening.

Yesterday, I'd read a section about Terry himself. Abby described how reliable he was, and how safe she felt with him. It was clearly more than a simple employer/employee relationship and I couldn't help wondering exactly how close they were. She certainly seemed very fond of him.

She even described falling asleep in his car, once after a particularly late night with one of her clients and waking up to find herself in his thick arms, her head against his chest, being carried up the stairs. She even confessed a faint sense of disappointment when he simply placed her on the bed, then left.

So I was truly excited to be meeting someone who'd actually known her, someone who might finally be able to answer the questions that crowded my mind whenever I thought about her.

It was on my way back from the park, struggling up the hill that I became aware of the car. At first, I thought the driver must be lost, perhaps crawling along the road as he searched for a house number, but as the low rumble of the engine continued to trail me, I stopped and pulled out my ear buds.

"Mrs Catesby, I hope I didn't startle you," Detective Crenshaw said, pulling alongside me, and leaning out of his car window.

"Ah Detective, no, no problem, glad to have a rest actually," I panted. How long had he been following me?

"I saw you running along the street there, and just thought I'd stop and say hello."

"So, uh, how's your missing person case going?"

"Not so good actually. I was kind of hoping you might have found something else," he said, his eyes flicking up and down my body, taking in my clingy pink vest top and grey Lycra shorts. Why did I always seem to be so under-dressed whenever he visited? At least, I was wearing a sports bra under my top this time!

"No sorry, I've cleared out the loft and the shed now and we've not found anything else."

"I see. And nobody's called or come around looking for her?"

"Nope, sorry."

"Listen," he said, looking up and down the street. "It's an ongoing investigation so I can't say too much, but Abby got mixed up in some serious business. So if anything does come up, you'll let me know, right? I wouldn't like to think of a nice lady like you getting into any trouble."

Was he threatening me? His expression was completely neutral, his steely grey eyes unreadable.

"No, I mean, yes I'll let you know," I muttered.

"So, if anything comes up you've got my card, right?"

"Right," I replied.

"Nice to see you again," he said, as he drove off.

Terry Ilford turned up exactly on time. I heard the low diesel rumble of his van pulling into our driveway, and made a quick diversion to the kitchen to switch the kettle on as I made my way to the front door.

"Hello, you must be Terry," I said, opening the door and inviting him in.

He was a tall, muscular man in his late thirties with short dark hair and a weathered face, rugged yet handsome despite a large, crooked nose. He was dressed in a grubby pair of jeans, work boots and a sleeveless padded jacket over a checked shirt.

"Thanks," he said, following me into the kitchen.

"I was just making myself a cup of tea, do you want one?"

"Lovely, just milk, no sugar please," he replied.

I smiled as I took two mugs from the recently reorganised cupboard. I was keen to make him some tea so I had an excuse to spend a little time chatting and find out what he knew about Abby.

"So, you've not been here very long?" he said, watching as I got the milk from the fridge.

"No, only a month or so. I hear you knew the lady that lived here before," I replied, impatiently getting straight to the point as I poured hot water into the mugs.

"Yes, Abby. I got to know her quite well."

"Did you do any work on the garden for her?" I said, as I handed him his tea.

"Thanks. Yes, I did some gardening for her. I also acted like a kind of chauffeur for her. She didn't have a car, so I drove her around, and ran errands for her, that sort of thing," he said.

The mug looked small in his big hands and I noticed he wasn't wearing a wedding band. Of course, I knew exactly where he'd been driving Abby. He certainly looked like a bodyguard, broad-shouldered and solid-looking. As well as the crooked nose, I noticed a small scar over one eye and I wondered if he used to be a boxer.

"You must have got on her with her then."

"Yeah, I liked her. I guess you could call us friends."

"You must have been disappointed when she moved out then."

"Yeah, that was all quite sudden. I'm still not sure exactly what happened."

"Yeah, the guy across the road, David, he was saying she was here one day and gone the next."

"That's right, she told me there was some family problem and that she needed to go away for a couple of weeks. Then a couple of weeks became a couple of months, then the next time I drove past I noticed the house was up for sale. All very odd."

"Have you heard from her since?" I was aware that it sounded like I was interrogating him, but I couldn't help myself.

He paused and stared out of the kitchen window while he sipped his tea. Did he suddenly look a bit nervous, a bit evasive? Maybe he was just uncomfortable with all these questions. He didn't strike me as the kind of man who was very talkative.

"No, not since just after she moved. She 'phoned and told me that she needed to go and visit her sister out on the coast and that's the last I heard. I tried her number a few days after that but it was disconnected so I guess she's changed her number or something."

"Oh I see," I said, feeling a pang of disappointment. This detective work was harder than I thought!

"You seem interested in her, did you want to speak to her?" he said, as he finished his tea.

"It's just that she left something behind, I kind of hoped you might have an address or a number so I could arrange to give it back."

"Oh, right. Anything important?"

"Well I think it's quite personal, I guess she'd want it back," I said, trying not to give too much away.

"Oh, okay."

"Also, there was a detective around here asking about her the other day."

"A detective? Was he a guy called Crenshaw?"

"Yes. Do you know him?"

"I've heard of him," he said, turning and staring out of the window.

I left a lengthy silence, hoping he'd elaborate, but he just quietly sipped his tea.

"So, uh, would anyone else be able to help get in touch with her?"

"I'll ask around for you, see if anyone has got a number. And I'll certainly let her know if she gets in touch with me," he said, helpfully.

"Thanks, I'd appreciate it," I said, trying to hide my disappointment.

"So what about these trees then?"

The house is built on the side of a hill. There's a small barbecue area outside the back door, and the back garden is raised, at the top of some concrete steps. At the back of the garden is a patio area, bounded by a tall wooden fence, and beyond that is a wood, the ancient trees clinging to the hillside. It was these trees that were spilling over the fence and casting what I'd earmarked as my sunbathing area in dappled shade.

Terry didn't seem to think it would take long to cut them back although he told me that he had a lot of work on at the moment, so he couldn't come back for a couple of weeks. We agreed a date and price and soon I was watching him perform a three-point turn in our drive, before his van disappeared down the road.

I spent the rest of the afternoon doing housework, and before I took a shower, I inevitably found myself being tempted to read a few more pages of the journal.

There was a short entry on the first page under my bookmark:

Saw a new client last night, he was quite enthusiastic and it turned out to be a late evening. Terry was asleep when I eventually got out of the hotel. On our way back, I was sure we were being followed. There wasn't much traffic on the road, and I'm sure the same set of headlights followed us for miles. Terry thought I was being paranoid but in the end, he agreed to pull over. The midnight blue car passed us, and in the darkness I couldn't make out the face of the driver.

The next page contained a lengthier entry:

You may be reading this and thinking that as I make my living from a few hours work in the evening, I must struggle to fill my days. The fact is that I have to spend a lot of time preparing for my clients. They pay top dollar, and they expect me to look and act like their ideal woman, whatever that is, so I spent a lot of time making sure I look perfect.

If I'd seen a client the night before I may not get back until one or two in the morning, and so I usually have a lie-in until nine or ten. Except in the very depths of winter, I always start my day with a brisk run. Sometimes I go to the gym or shopping in the afternoon, but I usually spend a fair amount of the day replying to emails I get through the website, or doing all those mundane things that you have to do if you run your own business.

I might have dinner around seven, and afterwards get ready for an appointment, starting with a shower. I habitually shave my legs, my armpits, my pubic hair. Without exception, my clients like me to be smooth and hairless, and some of them, like L, get a particularly close look at me down there!

Like many men that I see, L's fetish is that he likes to be dominated. For him, I wear something dark-coloured and slinky, maybe my slinky burgundy silk dress, over black stockings and heels. It was all about the performance and attitude with L. I'd always insist that there was a chilled bottle of champagne awaiting me when I visited his hotel room. I'm pretty sure I saw his picture in the newspaper once, and he was a fairly senior politician or policeman, so I don't think he worried about the cost of the champagne, for him it was all part of the fantasy.

I always made sure I strutted into his room in my highest heels, sitting in one of the armchairs as if it was my room and crossing my nylon legs as I watched him pouring me a glass, his hands shaking with nervous excitement.

He was a short man in his forties, with fair hair going grey at the temples, and a body that was quite trim, but losing its definition in middle age. I read in some magazine (Cosmo?) that men like him with high-pressure jobs and lots of responsibilities fantasized about being dominated, because it took away their control, their choice, freed them from their responsibilities for a few hours.

"Quickly, I haven't got all night," I always complained.

"Sorry," he'd always mumble as he handed me the glass.

"Sorry Mistress," he'd quickly correct himself under my icy glare.

He'd always order the best champagne and I'd savour the light, fizzy taste as I considered his sorry-looking figure, standing in front of me, head bowed, hands behind his back.

"Come along then, what are you waiting for? Get your clothes off," I'd order.

It was always the same routine with him, he knew that after he was naked he had to kneel at my feet, hands behind his back. He had quite a small cock, and sometimes I'd amuse myself, making him groan by running the tip of my shiny black stiletto up and down his thighs, watching it twitch and thicken as I sipped the excellent champagne.

L had a thing for my feet, so I'd make him slip off my shoes and massage them as I finished my glass. The shoes were quite uncomfortable and he'd become quite good at massaging my sore feet, so I might reward him with a thin smile as he caressed them, eager to please.

"Good boy," I'd say. "You may stroke my legs."

"Yes, Mistress," he'd reply and soon I'd be relaxing back in the chair as he ran his hands up over my calves, his skin warm and soothing through the sheer black nylon. Over the months I'd been seeing him, he'd become well practiced at this and as he gently eased my knees apart, and kissed higher and higher, I'd feel myself becoming aroused.

"Very good," I'd say, a little breathlessly as I tugged my silky dress up over my thighs with a faint hiss of static, his eyes lighting up at the sight of my milky white thighs, bare above my stocking tops.

I'd spread my legs, encouraging him to move higher and higher, watching his cock swinging thickly between his pale thighs as he moved higher and higher, until I stopped him, placing my hand on the top of his head, flattening his short, wiry head as I pushed him back until he was resting on his heels.

Placing one foot on his shoulder, I'd spread my legs wide, making him watch as I tugged my dress up over my hot thighs, staring at me hungrily as I bared my naked pussy, framed by my dark stocking tops and dress.

"Hands behind your back," I'd remind him as I caressed myself, using the flats of my fingers to massage my moist swollen lips, as he whimpered with desire.

"Do you want to lick me here?" I'd ask, wetting a finger and running it along my honey-coated lips.

"Oh God yes," he'd always moan.

"Ask me then," I'd insist, still playing with myself.

"Please may I eat your pussy, Mistress?"

"Let's get you ready then, "I'd say, smiling as I fished the handcuffs from my handbag.

Once he was on the bed, his hands handcuffed to the headboard, I might play with him for a while. Dipping my finger in a fresh glass of champagne and tracing wet trails over his naked, helpless body. Laughing, as I trailed the icy cold bottle over his stomach making him shiver and holding it above his hot thighs, letting icy cold drops of water drip onto his throbbing shaft. I might kiss and lick his nipples, his stomach, his balls, all the while ignoring the stiff, throbbing part that most demanded my attention.

"Please, mistress," he'd gasp, his cock swaying as he strained against his bonds.

"I thought you wanted to lick my pussy. You do want to please me, don't you?" I'd ask, running a dark red fingernail slowly along his shaft.

"Yes, Mistress."

"Good boy," I'd say, rewarding him with a thin smile as I slipped out of my dress and shoes. Then I'd be sitting astride his chest, my thighs wide apart, baring my freshly shaved pussy, the extent of my arousal clear from my glistening pink lips. Sometimes, I poured a little of the champagne over me, giggling girlishly as it washed over my curves, the fizzy liquid making my naked skin tingle, and mixing with my juices as it trickled between my warm thighs.

With a lot of clients I had to act, to pretend I was enjoying their clumsy hands, to fake my orgasms. All those acting lessons I took in my early twenties finally coming in useful. Although my career as an actress never took off, the skills I learnt came in useful when using phrases like "Gosh! You're so big!" and "Oh God! That's the best ever, I came so hard!"

I never had to fake it with L though. Something about the decadence of making him lick off that expensive champagne really did it for me. Or maybe it was my dominant position, looking down at his face trapped between my thighs as he desperately tried to please me. Or maybe it was the fact that he was tied up, knowing he'd have to completely satisfy me before I'd end his torment.

In any case, before long I'd be clutching the headboard, my body rocking back and forth, my head thrown back, as his eager-to-please tongue lapped at my throbbing lips, his face and lips slick with my juices. In a few short but heavenly minutes, I'd be panting breathlessly as I circled my aching clit with a wet fingertip, and caressed my boobs, toying with my tight little nipples. Stroking and stroking myself, riding his busy tongue until my body couldn't handle any more pleasure and I'd cum, wailing and shuddering in a most unprofessional way.

Afterwards, I'd tease him mercilessly, making him beg loudly before I'd touch him where he needed it most. After much pleading, I'd stroke him to full hardness, feeling him thicken as I wrapped my fist around him. I might pour some of the deliciously expensive champagne over him, watching it splash over his taut shaft, then slowly licking it off as he twisted and jerked beneath me, the handcuffs jangling. Smiling and taunting him as I slowly brought him to boiling point.

Within a few minutes, he'd be coming noisily, the taste of his salty spunk spilling hotly into my mouth signalling the end of our evening.

After finishing the page, I was more in need of a shower than when I started and I stumbled into the bathroom in a daze, the image of Abby sat astride her client's face burned into my mind.

The bathroom was large and covered in bright white tiles with both a bath and a stand-alone shower, along with a full-length mirror. I examined myself in the mirror as I stripped off my clothes, thoughtfully running my fingers though the russet triangle of hair that covered my mound. I was aware that my friends trimmed their bikini line, but I wasn't that hairy down there so I'd never really thought about it. Though now I examined myself it did seem a little bushy. I wondered if Jay would notice if I did a bit of 'pruning' down there but he spent so little time on foreplay that it seemed unlikely.

Well, it was my body and so my choice. Anyway, surely it was more hygienic, I reasoned as I took a pair of sharp little nail scissors from the bathroom cabinet. I spread a towel on the floor beneath me, then perched on the edge of the bath, the white plastic cold against my bottom. I began to snip away my pubic hair, the copper curls falling between my legs and onto the fluffy white towel beneath. It was easy at first, but as the hair grew shorter, I had to slow down, so I didn't nick myself. Soon, there was a neat little pile of red between my feet, the tangle of tight red curls between my legs much trimmer and neater.

I stood under the shower, letting the lovely warm water cascade over my body. I quickly shaved my armpits and legs, then took some of Jay's shaving gel and massaged it into my newly shorn mound, watching it turn foamy white as it softened the wiry ruby curls. I started to carefully run the razor over my mound, slowly scraping away the edges of my pubic hair. I took my time, determined not to nick myself in such a sensitive area and slowly the broad triangle turned into a thin strip.

I took the showerhead out of its cradle and ran it down over my stomach, watching the water stream over my pussy, a thin mixture of foam and tiny ginger hairs sluicing down over my legs and into the drain between my bare feet. I wondered if Abby stood in this very spot, doing the same thing as I was doing now. How often she had to trim her bikini line like this? Every week? Perhaps every night, given how closely some of her clients would examine her down there. As I removed the loose hair, I closed my eyes and thought about what she'd written. I kept picturing an image of Abby sitting astride her client's chest, her shaved pubis exposed, making him lick her, forcing him to pleasure her.