Paul Rushton always thought about Demi when he jerked off in the shower those days. He considered briefly and sadly that morning, as he soaked under the steaming jets and lathered up his solidifying cock, how long it had been since he pictured his wife during his early morning manual efforts. Countless years, was the sorry answer.
In the early days of his and Martha's marriage solo self-manipulation had not even been necessary, so hearty had been their sex life. The only masturbation taking place had been in each other's company, often with a friendly and helpful exchange of hands. Even the arrival of baby Sophie had only temporarily slowed things down; an adequate supply of sitters had given them space to renew their favourite hobby by the time she was only a few months old. But when Adam and Carl had made their unexpected joint appearance three years later, something had faded away that they had never managed to resuscitate. The twins were five now, both packed off along with Sophie to school, but the only thing that had renewed itself was Martha's career in advertising. Which was what had left Paul home alone this morning, enjoying a more leisurely wank than usual, before he busied himself otherwise in his study.
His masturbatory fantasies had remained general up to the start of the summer, attached to media celebrities and the occasional internet porn-site, but all that had changed when Demi arrived. The crescent moons of those butt cheeks, peeking out saucily from beneath her skin-tight, white shorts one sweltering afternoon, had kicked things off. He had sprung a boner in his shorts as soon as look at her bending over the kids' paddling pool - no traceable panty-line, just a thin layer of cotton fabric stretched taut over firm, smooth bum-flesh - and had needed to jack it off in the bathroom before he could begin to focus on anything else.
Paul had never deliberately entertained sexual thoughts of the family's eighteen-year-old nanny, but she had begun to cloud his brain as completely as the steam that clouded the shower's glass door. It was through this panel that he had glimpsed her bouncy young form one morning, when the bathroom door's locking mechanism had apparently failed, a vision straight out of a shower gel commercial. As if the jaunty swing of her curvy little body around the house had not been enough... Yes, the sexy Canadian girl, with her glossy, raven-black hair and her deep tan, had become quite the mental fixture. The pressure of her ripe young breasts against his chest, as she hugged him goodbye just the day before was on his mind right now, as he massaged his gel-slick shower-time erection.
Had Martha ever been aware of the Demi-effect on her husband's cock? Certainly she had suggested gently to the girl on one occasion that she refrain from dressing down so much on the hotter summer afternoons. But that was most likely to avoid the neighbours' raised eyebrows. Even Paul's renewed gym membership had not aroused any suspicions. You might expect your wife, he thought, to be more aware of a nubile teenager's power to distract her spouse. But Martha had been too happy about her renewed freedom in building up her work portfolio to check whether his eyes were straying Demi's direction. Besides, when was the last time she had seriously acknowledged him as a sexual being? She had obviously expected his libido to fold suddenly on his fortieth birthday. Like that was going to happen...
The current soapy frothing around Paul's dick as his hand movement quickened had all to do with imagination of course, nothing with reality. Demi had been the embodiment of innocence around the house; sprightly, amenable, a big sister to the kids. Always polite and friendly, never presumptuous, with Martha and Paul and over the few short months of summer had been accepted almost as a family member. Paul she had treated like an uncle; a hip, young-for-his-age uncle, maybe, but an uncle even so. The compliments she had passed several weeks into his fitness regime, when he had tightened his belly and regained some of his old muscle tone, could have been construed as borderline flirtation, similarly when she had remarked on the cropping of his moderately receding hair - it made him look 'younger and - kinda stronger' apparently. But he was too much of a realist to flatter himself unduly; if his wife didn't think of him sexually, why should a girl fresh out of High School?
Paul shouldn't have been saddened by the fact. He didn't want or need that sort of trouble and had done nothing, short of a little additional preening, to court it. He should have be glad that all Demi's burgeoning youthful urges had stayed separate from her work. With the arrival of the new primary-school term her summer job had ended and she had departed the Rushton household for good, leaving Paul with a mixture of relief and regret. The regret he was currently working off with the palm of his right hand.
There had, of course, been one slip-up in Demi's professionalism and the memory of it tapped into the ever-building friction on his shaft. The night he and Martha had returned early from dinner with friends to find their hired help tiptoe on the doorstep, kissing some good-looking young guy good-night. It had been her new boyfriend Ray, she explained with red-faced embarrassment once he had left, and he had only ever been round that one evening, and all they had done was watch a DVD. That wasn't the point, Martha explained in a sharp rebuke to the girl. Demi had introduced a stranger into the house without permission - a violation of trust and grounds for dismissal based on the agency contract. It had not come to that, but Martha had still withheld the forty pounds Demi had been promised for an additional Saturday night in and had remained heedless of the girl's forlorn protests that it had been an innocent mistake, one that wouldn't happen again.
The innocence of Demi's evening-in with her boyfriend Paul held in grave doubt. He had recognised the type of kiss Ray had been given and the disarray of the sofa in the living-room. It had been obvious to him that the flush of the nanny's cheeks stemmed from more than shame. Lucky Ray had roared off on his motor bike as cocky as hell, unphased by any sense of social awkwardness. Now there, Paul had thought, was a young buck who knew his way around a naïve eighteen-year-old girl. There was no doubt in his mind that Ray had fully enjoyed the young Canadian on the Rushton family sofa that night and despite a pang of jealousy, he could not blame the guy.
Deep down some perverse aspect of him actually hoped it were the case. He hoped Ray had got Demi naked on the sofa cushions that night, that he had parted her toned young legs and put his cock inside her. Yes, he hoped young Demi had taken a good, hard shafting that night. That she had been forced to stifle her moans, as her opportunist biker-boyfriend serviced her in somebody else's home. Go for it Ray old son, I'd have done it myself at your age. If I can't poke the little sweetheart, then you do it for me and good luck to you. Strip her down and drill her fucking brains out. Go on, let her know what it's all about... Let her fucking feel it...
Paul's hand stopped mid-stroke, as the sound of his mobile phone cut into his lustful reverie, leaving him just shy of his spurting relief. He clambered dripping from the shower, pissed off at his interrupted wank, his undealt-with erection waving in front of him. He knew he should answer the call; it could be Derek from work with news of whether or not the firm had landed the Phillips contract. But the phone rang off before he got to it and the number was withheld, leaving him puddling on the bathroom floor and feeling rather stupid. Disgruntled he turned back to the shower to retrieve his fantasy.
It was then that he heard the other sound, the one from next door. Even above the rush of still-running water the heavy thud was obvious. Someone was in the bedroom. Martha home from work? He couldn't begin to think why. But then who else? Still running with water he picked up his bathrobe and pulled it about himself, then he put his hand gently to the door handle. He was being robbed at ten-thirty in the morning? Some inept, juvenile burglar had walked in through the back door he had so blithely left unlocked? And were they really so bold as to enter his bedroom with someone so obviously using the en suite? A quick scan of the bathroom took in nothing more threatening than a loofah with which to confront such a possibility, but confront it he did nonetheless. His heart quickening slightly, Paul pulled open the door and walked into the bedroom.
