Another scene potentially littered with typos and errors. It was written on the fly, so to speak. Jason is doing some building work in the attic where he finds Mrs Hallam's cocksucker photos...
I hope you enjoy the scene. Feedback is welcome. Thanks for reading.
GA - Cambs, UK (Plague Island) - 3rd of January 2021.
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"Oh, I didn't know those were up here."
"I wasn't looking."
My face burned because she knew it was a lie. She gave me one of those looks, almost like pity, her expression all about,
Oh ... Come on ... really?
Then she said it out loud. "I think you were. But it's all right. You don't have to lie."
"I'm sorry," I said as my cheeks flared hotter. Mortified, I felt sweat prickle along my spine.
She shrugged and moved closer to me. I passed them to her when she held out her hand.
"God, I don't know what you must think," she said as she flipped through the photos.
Some were black and white, others were colour, the tones washed out and faded with age while a few were more recent. Some of the photos were glossy while some had a matt finish. A lot of the monochrome pictures had a white border and there were some polaroids in the shoebox. It was obvious they encompassed a long period of time. I couldn't guess at how many occasions they recorded, but she was younger in some, older in others.
Her eyes came up for a second when she said it. Then she went back to the photos again. She went through them quickly, with a cursory glance at each before moving to the next like she was handling a deck of cards.
I was embarrassed for myself because she'd caught me with my nose in what wasn't my business, but also for her because of what she was doing in every single one of those pictures.
"I'm sorry," I said again because I didn't know what else to say. Plus, she made me feel uncomfortable. I was awkward when she was around. It was instinctive, something primal in me which put me on edge. She looked like an old-fashioned schoolmarm. Attractive yet stern despite her smiles and elegant diction. She had an aura about her, sexy but scary. I knew she was up around 50. My boss, Bernie, had made a lewd comment as we'd driven to the house. Bernie had the same opinion about Mrs Hallam's sexual appeal as me, which he'd voiced as he told me about the job while we rattled along in the battered Ford Transit, tools loose in the back.
Then, like those photos were nothing more than old holiday pictures from a time long before mobile phones and digital cameras, she got to the last one in the pack and gave a sigh, the sound nostalgic while she looked at me with a wistful cast to her smile.
"These must go back to ... Oh, let me think," Mrs Hallam said, pausing before adding, "nineteen fifty-eight or -nine? Something like that."
Then she looked at the pack and showed me the one at the top. It was her with a thick, veiny cock in her mouth. She was wearing a hat, her lips around the cock, big boobs draped over the man's thigh as he fed her his meat. It was lewd and made my cock twitch because it was her in the picture. I'd seen pornography before but hadn't been face-to-face with the model.
"Garden party last summer," Mrs Hallam explained. "That's the one of the barmen we hired I've got in my mouth. My husband took the picture." Mrs Hallam paused and glanced at the shoebox. "My husband took just about all of those photos," she said, casual, not a care in the world. Like it was an everyday thing to have a visiting tradesman - well, apprentice - discover your stash of private, personalised pornography in a shoebox up in the attic. "He's in a few," Mrs Hallam continued, "my husband. But he prefers to watch and take the pictures. It doesn't mean anything. It's just a bit of dirty fun. I don't let them fuck me, and I don't mind sucking a cock. It's very exciting to watch a man come. I've done it dozens of times. Probably hundreds."
Speechless, I just shrugged and looked past her for a way out. We were in the attic, which meant the sole point for access and egress was the sturdy, telescopic ladder behind her. I was too slow to react when she first appeared. I hadn't heard her climb the ladder. It wasn't one of those flimsy aluminium jobs. It was solid, well made. It didn't creak or rattle and her head and shoulders were through the sizeable hatch before I knew she was there.
"I didn't mean to look at them," I said, blurting it out.
My stomach flipped over several times when she just looked at me, the photos in her left hand, her expression showing something I couldn't define. Still caught up in the shock of her catching me looking, I was more concerned with getting away. It was the fight or flight response kicking in. My hands and legs trembled and my heart raced like a jet fighter screeching into the sky. But there was something disturbing in the way she smirked and stared at me which also caused a reaction. My cock, already hard from looking at the photos, pulsed and seeped precum, the goo clammy and sticky, and I actually felt my scrotum go tight as the skin shrunk around my tingling balls. I was supposed to be working, lining the walls of the attic, and I was concerned that I was in trouble. I was anxious in case she dobbed me in to Bernie, which on hindsight, was a silly idea, but it was confusing to feel my body's response to her presence and that look in her eyes.
She kept smirking and said, "Shocked you, hasn't it?"
What did she expect? I was up there doing a job. It was another day's work and I had nothing on my mind beyond a couple of technical problems and a vague notion the weekend was only two days away. Boarded out years before, there was all the usual stuff stored in the attic: a couple of old suitcases with leather corners, a Christmas tree in a battered box taped at the corners and edges, golf clubs, a shoebox full of photographs of Mrs Hallam sucking cock...
"I ... I need to get something from downstairs," I managed to say.
To which she tutted and folded her arms beneath her sizeable breasts. On that afternoon, Mrs Hallam was wearing a light summer dress in some sort of wraparound style. Loosely belted in the middle the dress, had a deep V at the neck, and while I hadn't exactly perved at her, I was aware of Mrs Hallam's ripe voluptuousness.
"Oh, Jason," she said through her grin, "you don't have to run away." She held up the pictures. "Don't get all funny about these," she added. "They're not a secret. Well," she went on after pulling a face, "my children haven't seen them, of course. God, I'd die if they knew their mother was such a slut!"
Mrs Hallam rolled her eyes and gave a wry chuckle.
"I don't know what he was thinking by leaving them up here," she said, one eyebrow raised.
I found out later that she was the one who put the shoebox in the attic. Mrs Hallam confessed when the situation moved on from her initial seduction that, bored during the day while her husband was at work, she fancied diversion and thought it'd be fun to tease the nineteen-year-old lad working in the attic.
"Mrs Hallam, it's none of my business," I gasped, desperate to get her out of the attic.
"It's a thing we do," Mrs Hallam continued.
She flipped through a couple of photos again, then glanced at the shoebox.
"Just a bit of excitement," she told me, eyes on my face.
"Uh-huh. Okay," I said.
"My husband likes watching."
