Sneeze On Monday Danger Ch 02

Part 2 Sophisticated, intelligent, fashionable

The next day was an important one for her firm. Cheryl needed to be on top form, to lead and secure the business. Her performance during the day was passable but she was not at all pleased with it and she was not sure her board was either. She could not get the thought of the house out of her mind. Some­how her job seemed a little less interesting, less absorbing—certainly when compared to planning what she would do when she moved into her new house. Trying desperately to concentrate, trying to put the house out of mind by re­solving to go there again that evening, she attempted to concentrate on her work.. She would take a Hoover, look more carefully at what furniture she might want to keep, think about decorations. She left earlier that evening than the staff had ever known her do before.

It was a lovely feeling turning the key and stepping into her new home, so peaceful and such an oasis compared to the noise and bustle outside. She had the whole evening there to herself; no worry about being disturbed for Dr Me­cuniam had said he would be away. Cheryl put the Hoover down in the hall and walked to the back of the house, opening the French windows onto the gar­den. She stood looking at the peaceful scene. Presumably there was a gardener but with the day over he would not be coming now. It really would be pleasant to step into her garden completely naked—her knees below her skirt rubbed to­gether at the idea—spend a little time looking round the garden before doing the Hoovering without getting her clothes dirty—because she would not be wearing any! Then she could have her bath and get clean. Such a sensible plan though, admittedly, there was no actual need to be naked in the garden except that she would like to feel the sun on her skin. Cheryl was conscious she would not have wanted to do something like this a week ago but that was before she had the house and why should she not be able to change her mind?

She was irresolute for a moment but found, even before she had made a decision, that her hands were undoing buttons. Her silk blouse floated down onto a chair, followed by her skirt. Cheryl stepped out into the garden in her bra and panties. She looked around her, feeling deliciously naughty—not a feel­ing she would at all have associated with herself a week ago. Her recollection was accurate, the garden really was totally private, not overlooked at all. The bra dropped to the ground as she stepped onto the grass, the springy turf feel­ing good between her naked toes; she stretched, pulling her breasts close into her and giggled.

That was not like her either—to just giggle—but it felt so right as she was being naughty. The urge to remove her panties was strong but she did not let herself go that far until she got to the wrought iron seat. She stood looking back at the house and the garden. The garden walls had evidently been designed to screen the garden completely from the neighbouring houses - their roofs were visible but not their windows so she was safe in her nakedness from curious eyes. Slowly she rolled her panties down, her fingers brushing her dark curls and smooth bottom cheeks, and she stepped out of them. The wrought iron was warm on her bottom. Cheryl pulled her legs and feet up so her feet too were on the seat, her sex opened like a flower and the sun warmed it. Doing what she had only thought of doing the day before. Really she was being quite wanton. It was sex she wanted — so unlike her — she imagined the black boyfriend stepping out of the French windows, naked, shiny black, tall and erect, walking towards her, his hard penis slightly waving but pointing right at her. Her fingers touched her sex. She really was quite wet already! Cheryl imagined him lifting her up, as he sat down himself, and planting her—yes that was the right word in a garden - planting her on his upright cock and pulling her down so she was tight against his lap, his cock fully entered and he kissing her, his tongue thrusting into her mouth as his cock had thrust into her vagina.

Cheryl blinked, puzzled. She had pushed her fingers hard into herself in time with her daydream but all this was so not her. She stood and walked back to the house. This must stop, she did not act like this at all, what was she think­ing of? The Hoover was sitting alone in the hall looking at her. Yes, cleaning, getting on with some proper work was the thing: not sitting in the garden, day­dreaming and... Cheryl switched on the Hoover. She thought of getting dressed again but the practical idea of not getting her clothes dirty did seem sensible. She began to vacuum, trying to clear the dust. Really there was so much of it. Over an hour later Cheryl began to think she was getting somewhere. She was hot and very sweaty causing the dust to adhere to her. It made her quite itchy particularly between her legs. The exertion did not seem to have lessened the arousal she had found in the garden. If anything it was worse. With the task of vacuuming in hand Cheryl had her desire under control but with the job done it was difficult for her thoughts to keep from the black boyfriend or men gener­ally. She could not have imagined she would ever fantasise about men in the of­fice—but she was!

The 'phone rang. Cheryl was startled. She had not expected that. She switched off the Hoover and, naked as she was, she padded down the stairs and across the hall to the old telephone and lifted the receiver.

"Miss Cheryl, Dr Mecuniam, your office said I might find you here."

"I was doing some cleaning — I found it difficult to appreciate the house with the dust." It sounded lame but was not exactly untrue.

"I hope you do not get dirty. The house has not been swept for some time. I trust you have taken precautions, an overall or something... yes I am sure you have."

Cheryl felt it was as if Dr Mecuniam knew she was naked. He had not said so, indeed had mentioned overalls, but Cheryl felt naked, exposed, as if he had caught her doing something wrong—something embarrassing. It put her off her usual self-confident way of talking. "Yes, sort of..." she mumbled.

"Good, excellent. I am glad you are feeling at home. I look forward to see­ing your efforts... and you, of course."

The line went dead. What had Dr Mecuniam telephoned about? He had not said. And his mention of looking forward to seeing her—what like this? No, it was just politeness. He could not know she was naked.

At the top of the stairs Cheryl paused and looked at herself in the large landing mirror. The reflection was very different from the one of yesterday. Gone was the well-dressed young woman: she had been replaced by a naked young woman shining with perspiration, streaked with grey dust but bright eyed and sexy. Certainly sexy. Her hands lifted her breasts, she pouted at her reflection and blew herself a kiss. Yes, sexy in a dirty, messy way. She watched her reflection hands playing with her nipples and then smiled as one slid down her flat stomach to her dark hair to dally there, twirling, as she inched her feet apart, opening herself. Cheryl looked at her hand—it really was quite grubby with the dust. She smiled; she was a naughty dirty girl. She slid a fin­ger along her crack to touch the pink softness of her lips. Her gaze moved to her face. Cheryl wanted to watch her face when she touched her clit, to see the reaction. She was not disappointed. The bump seemed unusually sensitive—perhaps due to the length of time of her arousal. Her fingers stroked, then stirred, then pushed. Slipping to her knees she imagined the black boyfriend's cock inside her pushing and pushing. Still she watched her reflection in the mirror. She had not watched herself orgasm before, seen the look of wide-eyed surprise. It was not a disappointment.

Cheryl lay on the landing carpet curled up, recovering from her climax. Her thoughts coming back together again. She could not imagine the embar­rassment of Dr Mecuniam finding her like this, a total mess, sweaty, covered in dust and so obviously recently masturbating. Cheryl found it difficult to be­lieve she had just done that; it was quite outside her normal experience, her normal habits, her way of being. To have gyrated in front of a mirror all filthy from that dust. Why she must have pushed dust into her most intimate places! What was possessing her? She did not do this. Cheryl stood, cross with her­self, and was about to find her clothes and go home and check Emails on her laptop when she thought a bath might be a sensible first thing. It proved to be so. She lay back feeling much better, much more herself, much cleaner, much happier with the house again. There really was no hurry to get home.

Clean again, Cheryl crossed the landing, glancing at herself in the mirror. Yes that was right, that was more her—sophisticated, intelligent, fashionable... well naked actually. She giggled, only to frown. She did not giggle. Before the French windows she glanced at her discarded clothes. Perhaps they could wait: after all, panties had to go on first and they were by the garden seat, and it would be good to feel the late evening sun again on her exposed skin. Cheryl found she was in no hurry to get dressed again, in no hurry to leave the garden and sat enjoying the peace and warmth until the sun slipped away and she was sitting in shadow. It seemed almost a pity to have to put clothes on again. It was even more of a pity that she could not come here the next day. A bother­some meeting in Manchester after an early train ride up. She would not get back in time. Bothersome work getting in the way of her enjoying her new home.

It had not been a good two days. Manchester had not been brilliant and she had been cross with everyone the whole of the next day, cross because the hours were not going fast enough for her to be off and back to the villa. Cheryl turned the key with relief. Relief to have a few hours rest and peace from the troubles of her work, the problems she was having with staff and customers, problems she did not want. At the villa nothing seemed to have changed from two evenings before when she had vacuumed the house. It could not yet, though, be called clean. There was still dust settling but it was by no means as bad as it had been. But Cheryl would not have wanted to be in the house in a white dress.

The pot with walking sticks caught her eye. She had never had a walking stick. Why should she have? Her legs were strong and she did not have time for country pursuits. No time for walking in the countryside. One of them, a thin Malacca cane, hardly seemed useful for walking. Springy and bendy, it was just the sort of thing a schoolmaster might have used on a schoolboy who had been naughty—or a naughty schoolgirl...

Cheryl frowned. Her mind seemed to have a will of its own; a bent she had not expected was in her; a sudden obsession with sex. Even so, she did not put the cane down as she walked into the garden. What was the cane for? Was it not actually a walking cane—was it really for chastisement? Cheryl thought of the odd painting upstairs, the only thing she had really seen which suggested anything odd about the previous occupier. Had young women... or men been bent over and dresses raised or trousers loosened before the cane descended? She imagined herself over Dr Mecuniam's knee. Her skirt pulled up, despite her struggles, and panties lowered before she heard the swish and felt the bite of the thin Malacca on her bare bottom, punishing her for being naughty in the house. Cheryl shook her head, this was ridiculous, she did not know what Dr Mecuniam looked like and, certainly, she had done nothing wrong. It was not like her to accept any sort of criticism, let alone punishment. She was far too in­telligent and successful for that. More likely she would do the punishing, it would be her hand that wielded the cane, her hand that raised the dresses—or rather trousers of the young men. It was inevitable her thoughts would turn to the black boyfriend, envisage undoing the buckle of his belt prior to easing his trousers and shorts down, placing him across her knee, patting the twin tight cheeks of his bottom before letting the cane fall and feel the bucking as he winced away from the stroke, feigning annoyance at the appearance of his erec­tion hanging between her knees, then holding its hardness in her hand and stroking it, as she whipped him, until it released its warm wetness.

Cheryl looked at the cane in her hand in puzzlement. What had set her off on that erotic daydream? What was happening to her? What had set this off? She liked the change in one way but really it had to stop. She laid the cane down and sat on the wrought iron seat and looked at the garden

It took a great deal of will just to sit and admire the garden, not touch her­self, not remove her clothes or bathe.