Sneeze On Monday Danger Ch 01

Part 1 The dust and the Manila

Cheryl glanced at the pile of yellowing files in the corner of Dr Mecuniam's of­fice; there was something vaguely disturbing about them, it was not anything she could put a finger on, but she felt she did not like them. What an irrational emotion to have about a pile of old files! They seemed ordinary enough, old files neatly tied up in green legal tape with a bow. The sunlight had faded the tape where the light from the window had caught it. They had evidently been sitting in that position, on that table by the window on top of what looked like an old beige PC, for quite a time. On impulse she got up and touched the upper­most file just by the criss-crossing of the green tape, almost as if just by touch­ing them their strangeness would go away. Her touch left a fingerprint in the fine dust that had settled on the manila card. Cheryl was not sure she liked something so personal marking this pile of files so she wiped the fingerprint away but that made her hand dirty with the dust. She felt itchy, in need of a bath, it was if the dust, not content with soiling her hands, had crept into her clothing onto her skin. She could bathe when she got back home. Why was Dr Mecuniam keeping her waiting?

Cheryl tapped her foot impatiently. She was a busy woman. Very busy and important. Very important now since, she smiled to herself in recollection, her brilliant coup in the boardroom. She recalled how she had smiled almost compassionately at Mr. Gerardine after the meeting that had unseated him. He looked a broken man, broken to dust, his career ended. He saw nothing ahead of him but a bleak old age. "It's a matter of survival you see, you or me. I can't help it. I am young, the future, going places and female: you are old and I needed what you have—your position. I am sorry."

Mr. Gerardine had not looked as if he believed her sorrow. Cheryl thought that a little unfair. If she was to get on—and she certainly intended to—some people would have to be supplanted; trampled on even; reduced to dust—that was how business was. A dog eat dog world—or a bitch eat dog world, she thought with some amusement.

The door opened, the draft causing a little cloud of dust to rise from the files and hang, the motes visible in the shaft of sunlight coming through the window. It was the secretary again.

"Dr Mecuniam has been delayed. He telephoned. He wondered if you might care to look at the papers whilst you wait?"

Cheryl was a little surprised there was no apology. She nodded.

"Yes," she said.

"He says they are on the table by the window." The secretary pointed, al­most with some distaste Cheryl thought. It was those files.

Cheryl watched the secretary's back as she left the room. There had not even been the offer of a cup of tea. She looked again at the pile of dusty files. She did not want to go to them, touch them, undo the bow and open them. Her distaste was irrational. Cheryl had been delighted to receive the news from Dr Mecuniam, a solicitor her company sometimes did business with—perhaps she had even met him, that she was the beneficiary of a will. There were some complications but it seemed a sizeable house on the outskirts, in the suburbs, of London was to be hers. He had invited her to his office to discuss and then view the property. Naturally she had found time in her busy schedule to at­tend at his office—but now it appeared he was not there, was keeping her wait­ing and she a very busy (and important) businesswoman.

She got up from her chair, smoothing down her chalk striped business suit, and moved to the window. The files sat on the table. Instead of picking them up she looked out of the window seeing the passing traffic and people walking along the pavement in the sunshine. Her eyes were caught by a young couple walking hand in hand. The girl in a light sundress, its red stripes accen­tuating her height, tossed her head sending her brown hair swirling in reply to something her boyfriend said. He, tall and shiny black, laughed in reply. Cheryl sighed. Success had come to her, her rise had been meteoric but love had eluded her—if, that is, she had ever seriously sought it. Her mind and eyes on the boyfriend she picked up the files.

Cheryl's nose wrinkled in distaste. She could already feel the dust on her hands, grimacing she began to brush it off, stroking her hand across the mani­la card sending it into the air. Damn. She was breathing it now.

The couple was not yet out of sight and Cheryl watched them until they turned a corner and were gone. She would have liked to be in a relationship like that. She paused—she did not usually think like that. Work and 'getting on' absorbed her life. The image of the boyfriend, so recently on the pavement below her, came into her mind not with his girlfriend but, instead, in bed with her. What did he look like naked? Again, it was not usual for her to think about naked men and she was quite surprised at herself, not least because she was specifically thinking not just of his nakedness but also of his cock pumping up­wards to erection.

Sitting back in the chair, the files on her lap—no doubt leaving dust on the material of her suit, she undid the green bow and began to read. It was te­dious and complicated stuff detailing the affairs, financial and property af­fairs, of people long dead. Of entails, copyholds, rights of turbage and all sorts of legalese, of bequests and inheritances and something of the particular prop­erty she was apparently to inherit. Cheryl was not at all sure why Dr Mecuni­am wanted her to look at these files—had he simply wanted her to get her hands dirty and to get covered in dust? She was certainly looking forward to a bath. Stripping off her suit, now needing to be sent to the dry cleaners, drop­ping her blouse, bra and panties in the washing basket and settling into the hot, foamy water and washing herself. Rubbing the gel well into her skin to get rid of the itchy, dusty feeling. She might well think about that boyfriend as she rubbed the gel around her breasts or between her legs, think about him wash­ing her, think about... Cheryl blinked. She did not fantasise, daydream about sex. That was not like her at all. She closed the files, tied them up and dropped them back on the table, rubbing her hands to clear the dust from them. She felt slightly flushed and could feel her nipples against her bra. Most unlike her. How had that, admittedly good looking even handsome, black man walking past on the pavement with his girlfriend affected her so? She looked down at the dusty files. Well, it could hardly have been such old, boring and dirty files that had upset her equilibrium and caused her to have erotic thoughts! She smiled at the idea.

There was a knock again at the door. It was the secretary.

"Dr Mecuniam has telephoned again. Stuck in traffic. He says he is very sorry but he doesn't want to keep you waiting and doubts that he will be able to get here tonight. He asks if you would mind seeing him perhaps tomorrow evening at the property rather than him asking you to come to the office again. Would six o'clock be possible?"

Cheryl got ready to be cross but it was not the secretary's fault.

"He says for you to take the key in the bottom file so you can get in if you are early." The secretary made no move to extract the key from the file herself.

"Yes I suppose... yes, I can be there," said Cheryl. Her interest in the prop­erty was aroused. She was intrigued about it and, yes; she could get away to be there at six the next day. She undid the bow again and turned the files over looking for the key.

"This pile of files seems to have been sitting here a long time?"

"Yes," said the secretary. She had stepped away from Cheryl into the room.

She was not very forthcoming or not very bright, thought Cheryl.

"I suppose it has taken Dr Mecuniam a long time to find who the house be­longs to?"

"Yes," said the secretary again, her eyes surprisingly wide almost as if fearful.

Cheryl was pleased to be out of the solicitor's office away from that pile of old files and the odd, apparently simple, secretary. Cheryl's unease about the files and the strangeness of the secretary's manner did not stay at the fore­front of her mind. Her interest in her new property and the desire to immerse herself in hot soapy water were much stronger.

It was a joy to step into the hot bath and ease herself down into the water. The feeling of becoming clean again was so satisfying. She soaped herself, her fingers washing off the dust; dust she felt had got into her clothes and all over her skin. She revelled in the sensuousness of the hot water and her fingers slid­ing over herself. Touching her breasts, Cheryl was surprised at the hardness of her nipples. She smiled as her fingers soaped them, tweaking them—it felt good. She thought once more of the black boyfriend. How good it would be to have stolen him away, have him here washing her, him tweaking her nipples, slipping his hand between her thighs, exciting her, pleasuring her, treating her as a woman. Cheryl's own hand slipped between her thighs, massaging, as she would have liked the boyfriend to have done. Her eyes closed as she lay back in bath, legs splayed as her fingers played in the short black hair thinking of the boyfriend.

Cheryl did not make a habit of going to strange places on her own. She was not stupid. But the house was in a 'safe' part of town; she was meeting a solicitor there and had told her own secretary where she was going. It was not dark—far from it as this was July at six o'clock in the evening. She was in­trigued by the house and looking forward to seeing it.

Switching off the car engine, Cheryl looked across the road at the house, her house. It was bigger than she had expected, quite an imposing Victorian villa behind its low wall and strip of garden. She was on time—not early—but she could not see anyone waiting for her. Perhaps Dr Mecuniam was inside. Locking the door of the car she stepped across the road, opened the wrought iron front gate and stood at the door of the house. She tried the door. It was locked. She rang the bell. No response. Clearly Dr Mecuniam had not yet ar­rived but she had a key—in case she was early she remembered. Dr Mecuniam did not seem to be the most punctual of men.

The key turned easily and Cheryl opened the door. The house appeared fully furnished—she had not really expected that—a tiled hall complete with mahogany hall table, hall chair and even walking sticks in a pot beside it. She stepped in and closed the door. It was quiet inside and rather dusty, Cheryl touched her finger to the mahogany table. It was certainly well polished under the sheen of dust but her fingers very clearly left marks. A good Hoover and dusting was needed. The place seemed to be just as dusty as those boring files she had looked through at Dr Mecuniam's office, but that could be easily reme­died.

Walking into the front room she pulled back the lace curtains and looked out—still no sign of Dr Mecuniam. The room was heavily furnished—the wood­en furniture, fittings and carpet looked like they had not changed since the house was built. There were some very good pieces; Cheryl was quick to no­tice. She wondered whether to sit and wait for Dr Mecuniam but she saw no need and, given the film of dust over everything, sitting down would mean get­ting her clothes dirty—again. If this was to be her house she had every right to look around. Was the furniture hers as well? She supposed so.

Back in the hall she had a choice—to continue viewing the ground floor or to go up the stairs to the first. Cheryl was methodical and chose the ground. The dining room was rather as she expected with a large oval dining table in­evitably covered in a layer of fine dust—she could have written an essay in it. The kitchen was old fashioned but it was the conservatory and garden that par­ticularly interested her. The conservatory was large, of white painted wood but in surprisingly good condition and plentifully stocked with plants, kept wa­tered if a little gone wild. The garden was large and surprisingly private and not overlooked at all. She could have walked naked in it without fear of embar­rassment—what an odd thought.

Naked sunbathing was not something that would have occurred to Cheryl to do—a waste of time and why naked? With a shrug of her shoulders at her odd thought, Cheryl stepped into the garden. The gravel path scrunched under her feet as she walked down the garden. It was tended, the lawn cut and flower beds weeded. How odd to look after the gar­den but not dust the house. She sat on a white painted wrought iron seat and looked back at the house. It really did not look in bad condition. What a lovely private garden. She could entertain here as well as being quiet and alone after a hard day's work. A drip of moisture slid down her face. It really was quite hot in the garden. It was lucky she had worn a skirt though she could do with­out the tights. It was a simple matter to remove those and tuck them into her handbag.

Cheryl settled comfortably back in the seat, opening her legs to let the slight breeze cool between them. She thought of how much cooler it would be to be sitting there naked, getting an imprint from the pattern of the wrought iron on her bottom. Cheryl smiled to herself as she imagined pulling her knees up to her chest and hugging them, letting the sunlight play on her revealed sex. Her shoes dropped from her feet and her knees began to move up, following her thoughts, when she remembered she could be seen from the house and Dr Mecuniam might already be inside and looking out. Why all this thought of being naked, and being a bit wanton as well, it was as surprising as her thoughts of the day before had been.

Dr Mecuniam was not in the house. Nothing had stirred. Cheryl made her way upstairs after an inspection of the kitchen. The mirror on the landing was large, full length and framed in a deep red mahogany. It was a fine piece, like so many others in the house, and Cheryl had no intention of getting rid of that though there would be many other changes to reflect what she saw as her own style.

Cheryl looked into the mirror at her own reflection and liked what she saw. She was not vain, her summation—sophisticated, intelligent, fashionable—was not wrong. Of course she might have added self-centred, ruthless and without empathy but she saw what pleased her—a well-dressed young woman, bright eyed and sexy. Sexy? Why was she thinking that? Turning first one way, then the other she admired her reflection. The Agnes B suit, the cream blouse and high-heeled shoes looked the part, the part of a remarkably successful businesswoman. She smiled to herself, the body underneath was not bad either, a feminine swell to the hips, a pretty face and a bust that men would notice. Men would notice? She did not think like that—that was not like her at all. She undid a button on her blouse revealing more of her cleavage. Yes, definitely sexier. Sexier? This really was not like her. Just like the other day when she thought too much of that black man, that boyfriend and his big cock. Big cock? Cheryl was puzzled. Where did that idea come from? This was not how she usually thought.

Looking again at herself in the mirror, examining her reflection, she won­dered how she would look without a bra, with her breasts moving freely under the thin cream silk of her blouse, the material caressing her nipples. She turned from the mirror slightly annoyed with herself, her thoughts.

The front main bedroom was large and as old fashioned as the rest of the house. The brass bedstead was not a surprise, being in keeping with the house, and it made the mattress high above the floor. It looked inviting despite the hint of dust across the counterpane. Experimentally she pushed down on the mattress to test its softness. A mistake. A cloud of dust rose making her cough. Even so a good clean and the room and bed would be wonderful. Cheryl could imagine herself sleeping in the room, in the bed with a lace nightdress perhaps in crisp cotton. Who would join her and lift up the nightdress? There she was again—why this sudden thinking about sex? Cheryl could not really believe it but she was actually contemplating the idea of taking her clothes off and slipping naked between the cool sheets. It would be so good to be able to touch herself, bring herself to orgasm. If Dr Mecuniam was not expected she could even walk around the house and into the garden naked. The desire to be naked seemed to be growing. Cheryl shook her head crossly. What was wrong with her? She did not think like this.

The next bedroom was very ordinary, ordinary until she saw the painting.

Pictures did not normally do anything for her but this work of art, this painting in oils was in a different league. It excited her. Rationally she could not really work out why this should be—the picture was not conventionally erotic, more pornographic in its depiction of not just intercourse but fellatio. The girl, her naked form presented in obsessive detail by the artists brush, kneeling, hands held behind her back just above the dimples of her bottom, so cleverly shown by the shading of paint, her face uplifted, her tongue poking through her half open mouth to touch the smooth skin of the man's erect penis head. Cheryl bent closer to observe how clearly the artist had presented the hint of moisture at the very tip of his penis denoting advanced excitement, a hint of the flow to come.

The painting had both stillness and action. Both man and woman were at rest, she kneeling, he standing but there was the immi­nence of movement in the girl's tongue. So masterly was the artist's work that Cheryl could almost see the tongue move to lick the drop of moisture forming at the very end of the penis. The whole composition drew the eye to that point and an expectation of movement. Without meaning to, Cheryl realised her own tongue had performed the action. Her lips had parted, as she had examined the painting, and her tongue had reached—as if to lick. This was not like her at all. She could not understand her reaction yet, undeniably, she had become wet. Her body naturally preparing itself for intercourse. Cheryl shook her head. She did not become sexually excited just by looking at a picture. She frowned—the dust in the house was making her skin itch, the sooner there was a good spring clean the better—she must hire someone.

Her thoughts, in the silence of the house, were broken by the sound of a telephone ringing. The sound made her jump. It was an old fashioned sound from an old fashioned telephone. Very old fashioned, with a dial not buttons. Even the cord to the handset was braided. It was in the hall. Cheryl picked up the receiver. It was heavy.

"Hello."

"Miss Cheryl?"

"Yes."

"Dr Mecuniam. I am most terribly sorry I cannot, once more, keep the appointment. I am most embarrassed by this. Another client. Urgent matter."

Cheryl listened to his profuse apologies. She was not used to people being less than punctual. She did not tolerate that but... but she was in no great hurry to have her time looking over her new house curtailed.

"That is not a problem, Dr Mecuniam. When can we meet though? I am anxious to understand..."

"You are most kind. Unfortunately, again, I have now to be away for a week. May I suggest we meet at the house in a week's time at six o'clock? Please, of course, look around and if you want to look round again then, well you have the key. I am afraid some of the, some of the items in the house are a little odd, the previous owner, you understand, had eclectic tastes. But please do look around."

Cheryl readily agreed, more readily than she would have expected to do. She was actually excited, excited at having the house to herself for the evening. As she replaced the receiver she was puzzled, puzzled at herself for wanting to be there and, and to find she had already undone the top button of her blouse as she talked. Really why did she have this desire to be naked?