Sneeze on Monday...danger

Sneeze on Monday, sneeze for danger

Part 3 A contemplation of the picture

The next day was even worse. The Finance Director should not have talked to her like that: he would not have spoken to Mr. Gerardine like that. Cheryl was not enjoying her new role as she had expected - which was a pity given how much effort she had put into securing it. Removing Mr. Gerardine had been merely the last move, admittedly a difficult move not guaranteed to succeed, of a long, carefully thought out campaign. She should have been relishing her triumph more, enjoying the fruits of her victory, taking pleasure in her en­hanced role—but she was not. It was a relief to be back at the front door of her villa. She had not meant to go there, she had so much work to do on the laptop and meant to do that at her flat, but had driven to the house by mistake, not thinking straight. But as she was there...

Throwing open the French windows she had stepped into the garden only to see the Malacca cane lying there from before. She should have put it back in its pot.

"Naughty," she said, picking it up. Its touch brought back her thoughts of yesterday but this time it was the black boyfriend chastising her—the roles were reversed. Pulling her skirt up was not enough for him. All her clothes had to come off; it was part of the punishment. The six strokes hurt but the feel of the cane as he ran it between her thighs, so its indentations bumped over her clit, more than made up for it. Cheryl shook her head to clear it but found she had indeed taken her clothes off. Experimentally she tried the cane on her bot­tom. The first swish was too soft, the second too hard - it really hurt. There was no surprise in the bite, no anticipation of when the chastiser would strike. Pulling the cane between her thighs was good though.

"I want something hard in me." Cheryl said it out loud to the garden and immediately hoped it was not possible for a neighbour to hear. It was then she remembered the bed and the bed knobs. She couldn't, that would be... that would be... but the more she thought about it the more attracted she was. Those on the foot of the bed were not too high for her to stand over them and settle. She climbed the stairs.

It was good, really good to have the hard wood within her, to slide up and down its hardness, to feel the acorn shape pushing at her, opening her, enter­ing her.

Downstairs the telephone rang. Cheryl slipped off the knob.

"You must really be enjoying the house to be there again. Certainly it has always made me feel good. Not just the house but also the furniture. I love the old mahogany, so polished and ruddy brown."

Dr Mecuniam seemed quite loquacious but again Cheryl felt uncomfort­able. His reference to the polished mahogany seemed almost to be as if he knew moments before she had been sliding on the red-brown dildo finial of the bed.

"Yes well, I really like it, really am enjoying the house." Did that sound right, did it confirm his suspicion? "What did you want?"

"Just confirming our appointment."

Cheryl was disturbed by the intrusion but it did not stop her returning to the bedroom where one bed knob stood shiny wet, waiting for her return. She eased herself back down and began her thigh exercises, pumping herself up and down. The ridge just below the acorn shape was just right for her provid­ing a delicious rubbing, a penis that was forever hard. The disturbance had in­terrupted her rhythm, not sufficiently to cause her to lose interest in the activi­ty, but slowed its progress to a conclusion. She was a long time riding the pole.

Thoughts of using the laptop at the villa did not seem to come to fruition, what with a needed bath—and necessary time just soaking and relaxing—it was far too late to power it up before she needed to go home to sleep. It was with reluctance she drove away.

Cheryl was sure she heard more than one person mention Mr. Gerardine's name almost out of her earshot during the next day. It could not be that they were comparing that old fool to her but there was an odd feeling around her, she would have described it as sullen resentment if that could possibly have been the case. It could not. She had an excellent day. She sparkled, she shone, she led the company at a major meeting. A bit of praise would have been nice though. It was almost as if her staff thought she was getting it wrong. Well she wasn't. She was doing really well... if a little behind on a few things but she could sort a lot out on the laptop that evening at her villa.

Cheryl sat at the dining table, the laptop humming. She wiped dust from the screen which seemed more attracted to the plastic than anywhere else she had been—she would have to Hoover again—she had already finished two E-mails and was about to start a third when her mind slipped to thinking of the picture upstairs. It really was quite shocking, quite shockingly erotic. She got up and went to look at it again.

Cheryl sat staring at the picture. It really was the most beautiful work she had ever seen. The subject matter was odd but not something she could find at all displeasing. What could be more natural than the depiction of a sexual act? It was, perhaps, not something for the boardroom but in her own home and in a bedroom it was just so appropriate. There was more than a hint of submis­sion in the way the girl's hands were clasped behind her back. They were not tied; the picture did not suggest compulsion but a ready submission in kneel­ing to accept the penis and its moisture. Normally Cheryl did not accept any­thing remotely suggesting submission to a man, that was not how she had been schooled, but the thoughts in her head seemed very different. Thoughts of lying on her back, legs open waiting for the heavy man to weigh her down, penetrate her with his penis and thrust into her, depositing his semen within her. She shook her head in puzzlement. What was she thinking? What heavy man?

The black boyfriend and his girl came to mind. Cheryl imagined both she and the girl kneeling before the boyfriend. He as naked and deliciously hard (deliciously hard? What an odd phrase for her to use) as the man in the pic­ture; the girl in her red stripy sundress but with the buttons undone and her small breasts revealed, their small brown nipples hard; Cheryl completely naked, her hands clasped behind her back, face uplifted. "Choose me," she was saying. The girl looking daggers at her, the hard shiny penis head inches from her face.

"I choose you both."

Cheryl and the girl looking at each other, Cheryl delighted to have been ac­cepted: the girl angry at having to share. A tentative movement, a reaching of tongues, a licking, an inevitable touching, a meeting as tongue-tips lapped at the moisture pooling at the very end, a wriggling together of tongues around the shiny head, an absorbing, an intake of penis head, a meeting of lips, penis and tongues.

She was startled. Her thoughts had taken her in another strange direction, the sharing of a man and intimacy with another woman. This was not her. She went back to the E-mails. Getting on with them, though, did not seem quite so urgent, it was easy to be distracted. Cheryl was rather surprised there had not been other pictures in the house of a related nature. A Bacchanalian orgy per­haps? What would it be like to be passed from man to satyr to man, to be suc­cessively penetrated? Well, at least that was away from her thoughts of shar­ing a man with another woman. That had unnerved her. Though what would it be like to share a bed with two men, one either side of her, her fingers seeking out each cock, pulling them erect, sucking one whilst the other was pushed into her from behind, turning around to suck the one wet with her own lubrica­tion as the other penetrated her. What would it be like? Two penises—an assur­ance of orgasm.

Well, her panties were sopping now, there really was nothing for it - she would have to go and ride her bedpost. It was becoming a habit; one Cheryl would never have expected herself to develop. The relief of the orgasm did let her mind clear, let erotic imagery drop away from the forefront and let her go back to her E-mailing. She worked to quite late. So late that it seemed silly to go home. There were, after all, plenty of beds to sleep in.

The brass bed that had first taken her fancy was chosen. Cheryl had not, of course brought her pyjamas, as she had not planned on staying. Naked, fresh from a bath, Cheryl climbed up onto the bed and slipped down between the sheets. The linen was soft as it ran over her skin, soft cool and rather sensu­ous. Cheryl stretched out her limbs feeling the material slide over them, the stretching of her arms moving her breasts so her nipples rubbed against the so soft weave of the linen. She could feel them rising, swelling, hardening. Her movement of them against the linen was now deliberate. Her thighs opened and closed letting the linen caress. For the second time that evening she was getting wet. What she would really like, she thought, was to have some person down the bed between her thighs with a tongue at work. Some person? No, some man of course, but would a woman not have a better idea of what to do, how to touch, how to tease? Cheryl was less shocked at herself than she had been over her daydream of the black boyfriend and the girl in the stripy sun­dress. A man would be better of course but why not both down her bed, two tongues seeking to lap at her, perhaps the girl continuing to lap as the man penetrated, her pink tongue teasing around the joining, encouraging the man and perhaps finishing the task should the man come too soon, the girl's tongue finding the semen spurted within Cheryl, twirling the viscous white­ness around her tongue as she played Cheryl's little bump.

Cheryl was masturbating now, fingers playing herself, her thoughts and images strong, compelling her along to a climax, alone between the sheets of the big brass bed.

Despite intention, Cheryl had woken late, been late to the office and had not had time to buy a clean shirt or underwear. She had not felt right and had a bad day unlike the day before which had seemed so right. Cheryl had not liked finding her Financial Director was having lunch with Mr. Gerardine. That was yesterday's man, why was her Financial Director seeing him. She had not understood the reply—a friend, for old time's sake, I worked with him for quite a time, you know. So? He was yesterday.

Needing to change Cheryl had gone to her flat that evening. She had things to do there but they did not interest her. She wanted to be back in her house or in her garden. She had liked sleeping there the night before and it was just so annoying she was stuck in her own flat that evening especially as it was the last evening before Dr Mecuniam was to visit. She would so like to have spent time on the mahogany knob. Cheryl frowned at herself. Surely she had better things to do with her time than slide sweatily up and down an old bed pole? This was not like her and yet very much like her now. Something was not right, something about her was not right but Cheryl was lost for the cause and she did so enjoy the sexual release - perhaps she was letting go what she had bottled up? If she went early tomorrow then she would have time to herself before Dr Mecuniam arrived at six o'clock, time perhaps to ride and bathe.

Cheryl's high heel shoes had clicked down the hallway of the villa. She was early, very early for her meeting with Dr Mecuniam—if he came, she thought, he did not seem very good at keeping appointments. It was good to be back in her villa. She almost had to restrain herself from throwing her clothes off as she walked down the hall - she had thought of little else all day. She con­trolled herself, she would take it slowly, it would be more fun but certainly panties should be the first to go. It was so easy to slip them down under her skirt and off, to lie abandoned on the hall floor. It felt good to feel herself naked beneath the skirt.

Whilst she had explored the house, slept in a bed, bathed in the bathroom she had not made a detailed examination by opening all the drawers and cup­boards. She was minded to have a look, more as a way of teasing herself with anticipation before she visited the bedroom and impaled herself on the knob. Cheryl had dusted the bookcases in the front room but they were still not clean and she coughed as the dust rose when she selected one volume after an­other. The books were old, Dickens, Thackeray, Scott, Arnold Bennett, Austen, Eliot—Cheryl had not read many of the titles at all. A folded sheet or two of paper fell from one. She picked the papers up. A letter.

The letter was old, indeed the date written on it, in a lovely hand, was in 1898. Cheryl mentally compared the writing to her own. Well, with computers it did not really matter how you wrote these days. Dated but unsent and unfin­ished. The writing finished a little way down the second sheet.

'My dearest Emelia,

I have had such a wonderful day, you will be most envious. My dear Doc­tor took me up to Town and we saw such sights. The building of the _______ is well advanced and cannot be anything but magnificent when complete. Mamma does not know I am here and you are not to tell her. She would be scandalised. Your concern at my dear Doctor's age is commendable and I thank you for it but I can assure you it is not of the slightest concern to me — I am quite besotted!

I think you hint at a concern about 'intimacy.' Well I remember our talk about such things. Forgive me if I appear a little indiscreet but if I say our last 'bout' gave me the most exquisite pleasure you will, I think, understand that there is no difficulty whatsoever on that account. I shall tell you more—a great deal more - when I see you Thursday fortnight. Tomorrow we go to Epsom if the weather is not fine; my dear Doctor is a little peculiar about the sunshine. He really does not like it. Quite winces, almost as if in pain, if the sun comes from behind a cloud as we step out of a carriage into a hotel, museum or the like. I shall write again about that. This evening we go to dinner at The Savoy so I must get ready. Perhaps I shall finish this on my return if the Doctor does not have other ideas — or am I being indiscreet again?'

Cheryl sat with the paper in her hands wondering why the unnamed au­thoress had not finished the letter to her friend or sister. What had happened at The Savoy and had there been a successful 'bout' on their return. Who had been this doctor? Presumably some former owner as the letter was addressed from the very villa she was in. If she cared to open the old manila files no doubt she could research back but Cheryl did not feel too enthusiastic about that.

Making herself a cup of tea—she had remembered the milk this time - Cheryl stepped into the garden. It was hot outside. She sat on her seat drinking her tea; her skirt hitched up rather unladylike so the sun found her sex. She smiled. If she did not get on the pole soon she would not have the time before Dr Mecuniam came. What would he be like? Would he be handsome? What was she thinking? He was clearly old. She really shouldn't be sitting like this. What if the gardener came? She imagined a big rustic fellow, brawny with wide barrel chest in shorts and tee shirt. Best if he worked naked. She liked the idea of her sitting there watching him working, his penis and heavy balls swinging as he worked, his taught thigh muscles and tight buttocks moving. Him catching sight of her sun-exposed sex, his reaction, male and obvious. The pushing of his so, so thick stumpy cock against her and its slipping in, the slap­ping of his balls against her as he moved, the delicious filling... Cheryl stood and dropped her clothes on the bench. Time for upstairs exercise, daydream­ing in the garden whilst empty was not the thing for her.

Her panties on the chequered hall looked forlorn. Cheryl picked them up and scampered up the stairs, her feet raising little clouds of dust in the soft car­pet. It was time to ride, Cheryl was not done with the imaginary gardener but she wanted to feel him in her, his sun-coloured mahogany cock hard within her. She eased herself onto the finial, not even first blowing the dust away, and began to ride - and rode and rode and rode.

Cheryl froze. Was that a key in the lock of the front door? Surely it could not yet be the time for Dr Mecuniam? It must be another half an hour at least? It wasn't. A glance at the clock on the wall confirmed it was exactly the right time. How long had she been riding the knob? She stepped off. Between her legs she felt so wet, so opened but so unfulfilled. Why had she not been able to come?