Editor's note: this story contains scenes of incest or incest content.
*****
Monica first appeared momentarily in
Entertaining at Large Chapter XV
and then had a starring role in the next one - there are a couple of references to events in that chapter here. That's how this all started. Be worth reading if you want to be fully in the picture, Comments, suggestions and support are always appreciated.
*****
The house was strangely quiet. I say
strangely
, but I suppose what I really mean was
abnormally
. A few months ago the fact that my detached suburban home was quiet, save for the hum of appliances, was the natural state. Husband at work, son at college or revising hard for his final exams before university, closeted in his room, me going about my mundane domestic duties: cooking, washing clothes and the like. None of us were particularly fond of music and the TV was mostly used for viewing the news, serious documentaries and the occasional movie. So
quiet
was the default position in our household.
Even when I took up prostitution things at home didn't change much, certainly so far as volume was concerned. I saw all my punters at their homes or their rooms at the Royal Hotel, our town's best. Josh and Roger, my vibrator and favourite dildo, would still occasionally make me shout with pleasure. But somehow the noises you make when you're entertaining yourself don't count. Do they?
Two recent occurrences had broken the tranquility. First up, Monique's phone had got a lot more busy. And I mean a lot. Monique is the name I use professionally and somehow or another I had drifted into the roles of fantasy pin-up for a retired army officer and 'nanny' to a businessman. Both were becoming higher maintenance than I had anticipated.
The pin-up role had started as a joke I'd made up to entertain one of my regular clients and his house guest - the officer. Sending him a signed photograph of myself in nothing but suspenders, stockings and high heels was, in retrospect, probably a mistake. Don't get me wrong, it was a side shot and I had my legs together as I knelt with an arm across my 35DDs, so there was nothing
explicit
about it. Nonetheless, it clearly pushed his buttons; I got a cheque for one hundred quid in the post to his friend's address by return. After that it was just good business, so Cyril became the first and only subscriber to what I called my naughty postcard collection. His appreciative texts, special requests and descriptions of his reaction kept Monique's phone pinging. Suffice it to say I was intimately aware of his masturbation schedule; and of course his military background means he has a schedule for everything.
Monty, the businessman I
nannied
, was a different kettle of fish entirely, but directly - and indirectly - responsible for the fact that I was now fielding texts and phone messages several times a day. He's a sweetie, I have to say, so while it's something of an imposition I find it difficult to get cross with him. Our relationship started when he approached Michael - we'll get to him - in the bar of the Royal and somehow persuaded us to act as magician, assistant
and
comperes at a 'gentlemen's evening' at his local lodge. Naturally, he jumped at the chance to sample my other services when I offered - well
bounced
is probably a better word; Monty has a weight problem. It was only when we got to his room that it became clear that his preferred sexual activity was flagellation. He'd been raised by a sadistic nanny and indifferent parents. The flat back of a large wooden hairbrush slapped against his buttocks would make him hard. His belt or my riding crop applied with vigour to the same region would almost guarantee orgasm. I quickly discovered he liked being verbally chastised for misdemeanours too, real or imagined.
In that room, on that night, I had no idea how to play the role of dominatrix. The Internet has been of significant help as our relationship developed. I foolishly, again in retrospect, ordered him to eat salad every lunchtime, texting me a photo of his plate; swim four times a week and never to masturbate unless he had my explicit permission. I know, stupid right? All I can say in my defence is that I never expected him to agree, let alone do it, and that frankly I didn't even expect to hear from him again about the lodge gig. Schoolgirl error. Now Ms Monique and he meet fortnightly for a healthy lunch and a post-prandial flogging. Mostly I let him wank whenever he wants to, but woe betide him if he misses a pool session or sneaks out for a burger. He's working towards a promised blow job when he gets his waist down to thirty-four inches and full sex when his body mass index falls within the normal range. I might even start my own men-only slimming club, what do you think? (Incidentally, talking of new ventures, tarts like me should be put up for business development awards. Monty's initial visit to our town had been prompted by his interest in a local company. There are now a couple of dozen workers in his new food-processing plant who've got me to thank for their jobs. You've probably eaten a meal from their new vegan range yourself.)
Michael, Michael, Michael, what can I say? Misanthropist
par excellence
, obstreperous, aggressive - in both active and passive modes. He was the full-time barman at the Royal and the amateur magician I was to assist. I was probably the only person in the entire world who liked him. Certainly his kids didn't, his employers made little secret of the fact that they'd sack him in a heartbeat if they could find anyone half as good at the job and most of his customers counted their fingers as well as their change after encountering him. Like I said, I liked him.
I was less fond of the fact that as the date for his debut approached he had dropped his initial antipathy to appearing. Now I was getting daily calls for a discussion of how we were going to perform. So much so that I had arranged for him to come to the house for a dress rehearsal (I told him it was an accommodating punter's premises). That had doubled the number of calls, but as the date we'd arranged was in the middle of the next week, I was philosophical.
The second reason our no-sound barrier was being regularly shattered was the progress of my son Nigel's relationship with his classmate Alice from platonic to conjugal. She was now staying over at our house whenever her mother was on night shifts, say three or four times a week, and boy are they noisy. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind it. There's something unusually satisfying about the confirmation that the child you raised has matured into a sensitive and energetic lover; that his partner is constantly and stridently effusive about his abilities with tongue, fingers and cock and that he manages all this with no perceptible arrogance. It's always nice, as you lie alone in bed, to hear someone else enjoying the vigorous shagging you yourself craved. Both Roger and Josh were being called into action more frequently than in the recent past. My battery bills were rising exponentially.
More disturbing were those times - usually when the sound of their love making woke me in the early hours - when my dulled mind began wishing it was me who had him between my legs, me who was licking his dick or swallowing his load. I was horrified the first time it happened. I got up, took a cold shower and sat in the kitchen drinking wine until I shook the image from my brain. But it keeps happening, mostly as I say in the early hours, but I have to admit I had caught myself checking out his package once or twice and assessing his arse for spanking potential. I put it down to the drawbacks of being a mother with a stud for a son and applied myself more diligently to my work.
So on that particular afternoon, I was surprised when I heard someone letting themselves into the house and then... nothing. No call up the stairs from my husband announcing he was home. it was too early for him anyway. My mind told me that it must be Nigel. But his return home was hardly ever silent. Usually there'd be the banter of his friends, or at least the sound of him and Alice manoeuvring their ways into each other's underwear as they proceeded upstairs to his room. Sometimes there was the crashing of cupboard and refrigerator doors. He was convinced he had learned to cook. The regular shriek of the smoke alarm generally indicated he still had some way to go.
But like I said, that day I heard nothing. I'd just texted Monty giving him the OK to toss himself off in the executive bathroom. Apparently he'd been squinting up his PA's mini-skirt during lunch and was turned on by the fact she was knickerless in the office. If you asked me, that little minx was getting ideas above her station, but then who am I to call a girl out for trying? That task followed an intense quarter of an hour as I talked Cyril through to climax as he stroked himself on the other end of the phone. He'd just received my latest photograph and was delighted that I was as enthusiastic about the memories of his dick in my pussy as he was. Once I became aware of the absence of sound I abandoned my plans for a pleasant soak in the company of Roger and began listening intently.
You'll have been in a similar situation yourself. You are sure you can hear little noises in an empty house, but then can't convince yourself that you actually did. You listen harder, heart beginning to pound, but don't pick up confirmatory sounds and tell yourself you were imagining it all and start to relax. Then you hear something else. The rational part of my brain told me I had definitely heard the sound of someone letting themselves in. It had to be Nigel, I was sure. But then, even when he's on his own, he's never that quiet. I had to investigate if only for my own peace of mind.
I felt both apprehensive and a bit silly as I rose from my bed. I didn't exactly tiptoe along the landing, but I did concentrate on making as little noise as possible. Of course, what I should have done was stomp down the stairs, loudly singing whatever tune I could summon to my brain (in this case it would have been
Yesterday
by The Beatles. OK, I'm a Radio 2 listener, so shoot me). If it really was a burglar - and there was definitely someone in the kitchen, my ears and my brain confirmed that at least - they'd've made a break for it long before I had to confront them.
