Auditions Two

Auditions Two edited July 2020

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Copyright Oggbashan August 2019

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.

The action in this story happens several years after my story 'Auditions' but stands alone.

Edited to make names consistent.

I looked up to see Margaret's white cotton panties under the skirt of her blue dress. Those panties dropped towards my face before my face was squashed between her legs. I couldn't protest because I was gagged with a maid's small apron.

Margaret excited herself by squirming across my face. She enjoyed being in control as a fantasy nurse or chambermaid riding a bound Harry. Soon she was squealing as her first orgasm started. Once she had enjoyed herself enough the panties would be whipped off, pressed over my face, and she would impale herself on my waiting erection. She was replaying a familiar scenario that started a year ago.

But we hadn't made love like that for a couple of months.

Up to a decade ago, three or four times a year a sign saying 'Auditions' used to appear at the entrance to an unmade track leading off a major road I used daily. It always seemed incongruous but I knew what it was about.

About half a mile down that track was a former farm building that was the base for a small mail-order company that sold protective wear, mainly for women. They imported and distributed hotel wear, café uniforms, care assistants dresses etc.

The company closed down several years ago, and except for a short episode detailed in my earlier account 'Auditions', the buildings had remained unused. For a year afterward I had become an infrequent sex partner with Margaret, a local woman. We amused ourselves, Margaret dressing up as a nurse, a chambermaid, or a care assistant, before we made love.

The sex, although great, hadn't led anywhere. We were too involved in our children's activities and occasional interaction with our former partners, long divorced. Towards the end of that year Margaret seemed distracted and less enthusiastic. I wasn't going to insist on continuing sex with her if she was reluctant. She seemed relieved when I suggested we stopped.

Such contact as we had was usually because of the local amateur dramatic and operatic society. We weren't serious members but both of us helped out if asked. Whenever we met at the society's events that year we had tended to make yet another date for a sex session in the near future. But even that had stopped.

We might have gone on as friends and former lovers except for a local property auction. Since retiring from my main career I had become a minor property speculator. From time to time I bought houses in poor repair and had them renovated by local builders before renting them out, or selling them at a profit. I had just sold a row of four terraced houses and was temporarily cash rich. But that cash wasn't making any profit for me.

I had studied the auction catalogue and viewed a couple of houses that might be suitable for simple updating if the bids didn't go too high. I wasn't impressed with the choice. Most lots were too far away for me to use the local builders, or the condition was too good. But one lot intrigued me. It was the old mail-order company's premises.

I doubted that I could get planning permission for housing. The site was scheduled for industry. I made some enquiries through my contacts. The current owners had bought it from the original mail-order company but hadn't found any tenant willing to rent the buildings -- except the temporary fly-by-night people who had paid for a single month. They had bought the other buildings and land that the mail-order company had disposed of decades ago when they stopped manufacturing and concentrated just on selling imported uniform clothing.

The property company had intended to develop it as a larger industrial estate but couldn't afford to improve the access which was essential for that to succeed. They had wanted to bring vehicles through the other way. Planning permission had been refused because they would have brought large vehicles down a narrow residential street. The other entrance needed major improvement that they couldn't afford.

The owners were in real financial trouble and had been declared bankrupt. The sale of the mail-order premises and other properties they owned around the site were ordered by the administrator, but their debts wouldn't be met by the sales. All their other property holdings had been repossessed by their bank creditors. They had already gone into liquidation. The site was being sold by the liquidators. The remaining creditors might get a couple of pence in the pound, but all of them had written off their debt as lost money.

A forced sale of buildings I knew well could mean an opportunity for me. The reserve on the sale might be low or it might even be without a reserve.

I went to view the buildings again. Apart from weeds in the parking areas, a couple of defective gutters and a need for painting, the buildings were sound but dated and shabby. All the doors were securely locked and the auctioneers didn't have the keys. They weren't sure whether the keys still existed.

The main access was still awkward and banned for large vehicles but the long farm track was straight, wide and had an easy turn on and off the main road. The first hundred yards were rutted dirt, but the rest was wide heavy duty concrete, originally laid for a long-demolished WW2 Army Depot. The concrete linked to the main access for farm vehicles -- and the farm owner, Rory, is one of my friends.

The whole access from the main road to the buildings was owned by the company. One side of that access was Rory's farm. Apart from a fifty yard wide strip of roadside frontage on the other side also owned by Rory, the other side was owned by a roadstone company. There were significant gravel deposits but they rented the fields out to Rory. The gravel might be excavated in ten or twenty years' time, but until then it was farmland. The roadstone company had an access half a mile away off a roundabout. That access was currently blocked. It would stay blocked until they started extracting gravel.

I rang Rory and arranged to meet him at the farm house. Over cups of tea we discussed the old mail-order buildings. Rory didn't want them but was worried about who might buy them. That property owned some of his access. He had the right to use it, but an unsympathetic owner could make life difficult for him. He couldn't afford to bid, but he would be delighted if I became the owner, sharing the cost of maintaining the access road. I might be able to improve the first hundred yards and make access easier for both of us.

Rory solved the problem of the missing keys. The original owners had given him copies just in case the Fire Brigade might need them. He produced a small metal suitcase. Inside were all the keys, clearly labelled with fading Dymo Tape.

We decided to have a look inside. Rory brought the keys. I grabbed a can of WD40 in case the locks were stiff. I had to spray a couple of the locks but they all worked. Rory and I hadn't been inside for years. I'd forgotten just how large the complex was. I'd only seen a few office rooms of the mail order company's reduced site when I had met Margaret there.

I had thought that the company had closed was just a distribution depot for uniforms imported from the Far East. The first large room proved I was wrong. There were rows of industrial sewing machines from the 1960s, cloth cutting machines, and massive rolls of fabric. The machinery was probably too old to have value except as scrap but even scrap has a value.

We went everywhere and found racks of completed uniforms, boxes of packaged uniforms ready for despatch and much more. I was beginning to think this auction lot would fetch more than I could justify, or afford. But no one else had the keys so they wouldn't know what was inside.

"Well, Harry?" Rory asked as we locked the final door. "Are you going to bid?"

We were standing in front of the administration block. It had been marked out for car parking, now faded. Opposite there was an empty concreted area that had supported an aircraft hanger-size wartime building now long gone. That area could accept a dozen large trucks. But they couldn't get down the rutted track. It was wide enough but too uneven.

"I'd like to, but whether I can afford it? I'm not sure. I'd need some money left over to improve the access road, and to convert some of the buildings at the back. I had thought they might make starter units for new businesses. They wouldn't need access for large trucks. Panel vans can access the back areas easily but trucks couldn't turn. They could here."

Behind the main block there was a narrow access from a small industrial area at the back of a housing estate. That small area was in other ownership and was fenced off except for a gated access to a permissive footpath. There was a narrow right of way for the site being auctioned. The fence could be opened up for small panel vans and cars to use. The owners of that industrial estate would prefer that it wasn't because it would reduce security for their site. Many of the mail order company staff had walked to work along the footpath and through that gate. Through that gate people could walk about two hundred yards to the bus stop on the route to the railway station several miles away.

I was worried. The site was so much larger than I had remembered. The old mail order company had obviously only used or rented a small section of the buildings even with their manufacturing area. This could be a major industrial estate, five or six times larger than the site at the back. But that would be possible only if that access track was improved to take numerous heavy trucks a day, and hundreds of employees' vehicles.

Rory hoped I would buy the site. If I could improve the access from the main road he and his farm would benefit but he didn't have the money to bid himself. He would be a useful asset IF I bought the land. I was also remembering sex with Margaret. Seeing those boxes of uniform dresses reminded me how much I had enjoyed being her victim.

I was regretting that Margaret and I had stopped making love. It wasn't just the sex I was missing. She was an intelligent woman who thought differently. I had enjoyed discussing building projects with her. Margaret suggested things I wouldn't have considered. If we had still been together I would have consulted her before bidding on the land. But she seemed preoccupied and distant. I didn't think I should bother her.

When I got back home I studied the very terse description in the auction catalogue before telephoning their office. They were as helpful as they could be. The administrator had tried selling the site through his commercial contacts with no success, not even a perhaps or maybe. The sale was for everything, land, buildings and everything on site. There was no reserve and I was the only person who had even asked about it -- yet the auction was in three days' time. The guide price was one hundred thousand. That was very low but I couldn't really afford to go that high if I had to pay to improve the access.

I rang my solicitors and arranged for them to be prepared to do the property transfers, for the two houses I'd be likely to bid on AND the mail order site.

I also contacted people at the local council. I would have no difficulty with the council if the site was used for light industry but the access from the rear couldn't be used for large commercial vehicles. I could try but local opposition in the past had been very strong. The economic development officer would like some small starter units for new businesses but they had no money to help. All that might be possible would be a reduction in business rates for the first year. The rates wouldn't be high because of the age of the buildings and its site location away from the town. The council were likely to be sympathetic to careful development as a trading estate that wasn't retail. They could make no promises. Their reaction would depend on what I wanted to do.

That night I dreamt that I was Margaret's sexual victim again, writhing helplessly on a bed as she smothered me with her breasts, wrapped her thighs around my head, and rubbed her panties over my face. I hadn't had a dream like that for months.

I shouldn't have worried about my bids. For once the auction was poorly attended and I won both houses at their reserve prices well below what I was prepared to bid. By the time the mail order property lot was announced late in the afternoon many of the bidders had stopped taking any interest.

The auctioneer asked for a starting bid of seventy-five thousand pounds. There was silence. He tried seventy thousand, then sixty thousand by which time he was looking straight at me. I said "Fifty thousand". He looked around. No one else was looking at him. His hammer banged. I had bought the whole estate. Even Rory might have paid fifty thousand just to preserve his access rights. Or perhaps not. He would have the rest of the property to worry about and he is a busy farmer not a developer. The liquidators could end their involvement and close the former business completely. The creditors would get what they had expected -- next to nothing.

Over the next six months the two houses were modernised and ready for letting. I had discussed access to the industrial estate with the highways authority. They insisted that I had to provide a deceleration and acceleration lane for the access. Both had to be taken from Rory's farmland but he was willing to donate that in exchange for a permanent legal access agreement over an improved road. The access track ended at a dual carriageway but there were roundabouts not very far away in each direction.

The highways authority placed a notice in local papers announcing the road works. When objections, if any, had been considered I could get the contractors to start work. A reporter from the local paper contacted me. He wanted to know what I was going to do with the site. I told him that until the access road was built -- nothing. The access had to be in place before any work could start. I wouldn't require planning permission to use the buildings for light industry. The existing use covered most things likely to be considered for the site.

The local paper headline was "Developer doesn't know what to do". That was slightly unfair but typical for that paper. It led to another meeting with Margaret. We had both been at Friday evening wine and wisdom evening on different tables. In the darkness outside she had thrown her arms around me before kissing me passionately. That was very unlike her recent behaviour. I was startled but just enjoyed having an attractive woman kissing me.

"Why?" I asked when I could breathe freely. Margaret kept her arms wrapped around me.

"I could say 'just because' Harry, but it wouldn't be true. You are a friend and the report in the paper about you buying that land reminded me about what we used to do."

"That was then, Margaret."

"I know. This is now. I've been feeling battered. Did you know that Emily's marriage has ended?"

"No. Why would I know?"

Emily is Margaret's daughter and only child.

"Sorry, of course you wouldn't unless I'd told you. The break was gradual at first but turned nasty. The divorce from David is nearly complete but I've been supporting Emily through it. The financial arrangements wrecked the civilised end it was supposed to be. Her dressmaking business was based on her David's family's land. As part of the deal she has to move within the year."

"Aha! And I have an industrial estate. I sense an ulterior motive, Margaret."

"Yes. But what Emily needs would be a standard commercial arrangement not a favour from her mother's..."

"Former lover?" I suggested.

"No, Harry. Not former. It was a temporarily dormant relationship while I was stressed. I want you back. In my bed and between my legs."

"I like the idea but first, can we talk?"

"Talk?"

"Yes, Margaret, talk. I want some advice from you and a serious discussion. We won't get that in bed even though I am very tempted."

"OK, Harry. Talk first. When? Where?"

"Now? Across the road in the pub?"

Margaret looked disappointed.

"The pub?"

"Anywhere not in public and we might get too easily diverted into other activities which are very attractive but..."

"...but Harry wants to talk first?"

"Yes, and I can't talk if I'm gagged with an apron and smothered by your panties."

Margaret giggled.

"I suppose you can't. Come on. The pub it is."

We walked across the road to the pub holding hands. We found a quiet corner. It was still too early for the pub to be busy. We shared a bottle of wine, much better than that we had drunk at the wine and wisdom event.

"OK, Harry," Margaret said. "We're here. We can talk. About what?"

"About my new site. I've taken on something very different and I'm not sure what I am doing. I want your advice and help."

"My advice?"

"Yes. Your advice. Your family used to own an industrial estate in the Midlands. You were your father's secretary for a while. You knew about running an industrial estate."

"Harry. That was decades ago. Things have changed. You could get advice from the Rogers family..."

"...who own most industrial estates locally, are my competitors, and weren't interested in the site when it was first sold. They weren't interested at the recent auction. No one else was. Why was there no interest? Any idea, Margaret?"

Margaret sipped her wine, sat back on her chair and looked at me.

"One of the things I have always liked about you, Harry, is that you think I have a brain. Most of the men I've been with since my divorce have assumed I'm just an overage blonde bimbo, but not you."

I held back the retort that Margaret wasn't a natural blonde. I had been too close to her pussy hairs too often.

"First. The Rogers family. They have six industrial estates locally but their vacancy rate has been increasing slightly. They don't need any more units that might stay vacant. They have been changing into office property closer to London. They haven't got spare capital to develop an industrial estate when local units are already vacant."

"I didn't know that."

"No reason why you should. My neighbour Rachel works for the Rogers and was slightly worried that the company was overextended. They're not. Like you they don't rely on borrowing. They only invest if they have spare cash.

Second? Why no interest from others? The property company paid far too much for the land and buildings that were disused, particularly as the access was poor. There was no way they could get the capital back. That site broke them. No one else wanted to take on a white elephant that could lead to major losses. The site was up for sale a couple of years ago with a high guide price."

"How high?" I asked.

"Three million," Margaret replied. "Their agent approached the Rogers. That's information from my neighbour again. The Rogers' response was a horse laugh. Yet the selling company needed at least two million to break even on the deal."

"That was a ridiculous amount unless..."

"...unless it became housing land. The local council has constantly ruled that out because underneath the land is more of the gravel deposit that might be needed in twenty, thirty or forty years' time. Lightweight industrial buildings could be easily removed. Houses with families living in them? No."

"Why do you know so much that I don't?"