Tamara put her face between the voluminous pair of buttcheeks in front of her. She set her tongue on the tight ring deep inside the crack between them. It had a faint taste of sweat on it, familiar and feminine, not entirely unpleasant. She had never done this before. She wondered whether she was doing it right. She pursed her lips and rested them on the opening, moistened it with her tongue, as she had seen other girls do in videos on the internet. The soft buttocks that were now firmly squished against her face quivered in response to her first tentative movements.
Whoever designed these cycling shorts had a weird sense of humor, putting the inflating nozzle right in the middle at the back.
Tamara drew a deep breath then squeezed the full contents of her lungs out and into the shorts. Just like she had seen the demonstrators do in the instructional videos on the manufacturer's website.
It took surprisingly long to get the inflatable padding as full as it had been before her ride home the previous evening. Tamara recalled how Miss Millie had inflated the shorts in just one long breath. The woman's apparent physical prowess was one of many intriguing details about her. Along with her exotic accent, that curious out-of-the-way cottage dwelling she lived in, and the strange plants in her greenhouse. Not forgetting the impressive wound on her back. She had said she got it in a fight of some sort. Tamara had difficulty imagining Miss Millie fighting with anyone. She was sturdy, and assertive, for sure, but she also gave off a reassuring aura of compassion despite her imperious manner. Sort of...
motherly
.
Tamara was smitten. And she knew it. After just one day working for Miss Millie, she had the most aching, embarrassing crush on her beautiful new employer. And so here she was, about to embark on a 30-minute uphill cycle ride at six in the morning to milk a cow. For Miss Millie.
So off she went.
Despite their ridiculous appearance, the shorts did a spectacularly good job of cushioning her backside as she cycled. It was almost comfortable. For her legs, however, the ride was even more grueling than she remembered from the previous day. Perhaps it was because she was tired. After having stayed past closing time at the games store chatting to Andie, then lain in bed until late unable to get to sleep, then finally having dreamed vague and fitful dreams until morning, she was missing a good night's sleep. Alternate-universe Tamara who had never met Miss Millie would be blissfully unconscious for another five hours or so.
She shuddered. It didn't bear thinking about alternate-universe Tamara.
When Tamara finally wheeled up outside the garden gate, there was a little note pinned to it, written in a spidery flourish. Tamara's imagination conjured the memory of Miss Millie's brash, husky voice as she read:
Tamara dear girl,
I have had to depart on urgent business and shall only be back at midday.
Once you are done with milking time,
Malkin will show you the remainder of your tasks for the morning.
I look forward to surveying the results of your sterling work upon my return.
Tamara felt a little throb of disappointment at the thought that she would not get to spend time with Miss Millie that morning. But it was replaced by a sudden sinking feeling in her early-morning coffee-lined stomach when she saw the final lines:
Yours,
Miss Milfy
Tamara thought back to the previous afternoon and the dreadful Freudian slip she had blurted out while sitting in the front room of the cottage. Tamara had been sure that Miss Millie hadn't heard her. Or she had perhaps convinced herself of it since. Or maybe, just maybe, Miss Millie didn't know what MILF meant, and she was just repeating what she thought was an amusing mispronunciation of her name, as an affectionate joke. Yes, that was sure to be it.
Or... Oh God. Was Miss Millie being intentionally flirtatious with the note? Was it even an attempt at seduction? Tamara's imagination hurried off ahead of her, already drafting a reply that she could leave for Miss Millie to read on her return.
Yours, Tam the Temptress?
Nah.
Love, Tam-tits?
Maybe a bit... trashy.
Titty-titty-Tam-Tam?
Stop with the tits already!
Sincerely, your hot Tamslut?
Whoa, Tam! Just stop. Anyway, that one doesn't even alliterate.
Tamara shook herself from her brief bout of fantasy. She leaned her bicycle against the inside of the fence, as she had done the previous day. Miss Millie had said the cow was at the bottom of the garden.
As she made her way around the house, Tamara passed the front door. Something occurred to her. Though she had been very glad of the inflatable cycling shorts on the ride over, they probably weren't going to be particularly convenient for working in the garden. They were a little bit bulky. And like an idiot, she had forgotten to bring a change of clothes. If she took off the shorts, she would be walking around in just her underpants and today's superhero t-shirt.
Maybe Miss Millie had some spare clothes in the house. Gardening overalls, or just a long jacket or something. Tamara tried the door. It creaked open, with the same shrill, woody creak she remembered from the previous day. Miss Millie wasn't too security-conscious, perhaps. Which was curious, given that she had mentioned a break-in.
Tamara stepped inside, and narrowly missed treading on the patchwork-colored tail of Malkin, Miss Millie's cat. Malkin looked up at her, a squat blob of fur quietly purring and swishing its tail. He seemed entirely unperturbed. Tamara smiled. She reached between her buttcheeks to deflate the shorts, then wriggled them off and hung them up on a coat rack beside the door.
Unfortunately, there was nothing else on the coat rack that might serve as clothing for garden work. Tamara wondered where else she could look. At the end of the corridor was the door to the kitchen, and next to it the door to the front room. There probably wouldn't be anything suitable there. Beside the two doors there was a flight of stairs leading steeply upward. She hesitated. She didn't feel entirely comfortable exploring the house too far without having been invited to do so. And with nobody around, the place had a slightly...
creepy
feel to it. Even with her first few meandering footsteps towards the staircase, the old timber of the house groaned and grated all around her.
Tamara startled as something rushed past her. Then she put her hand to her chest in relief as she saw Malkin bound past, brushing against her ankle, and scamper up the stairs. Half way up, he stopped and turned back, looked though the wooden railings, and fixed Tamara with an expectant stare. That sealed her resolve. At the back of her mind was a slightly shameful, nervous excitement at the thought of walking around Miss Millie's home dressed only in her t-shirt and underpants. And if the cat seemed to be leading her on, well, then it was okay, wasn't it? If Miss Millie happened to return and catch Tamara looking around, she could always say she had been searching for Malkin.
The wooden planks of the stairs were narrow and uneven. Some of them felt loose and tipped a little to one side with the weight of Tamara's tread. At the top were two doors opposite each other. Malkin sat in front of one of them, swishing his tail. Tamara looked down at him as she put her hand to the handle. He didn't seem to be offering any sort of objection.
The door opened onto one large attic room. Its space was shaped like the inside of a tent, formed by the steep sides of the roof. The thatching of the roof was visible between wooden beams. At one end, a high window cast a square of sunlight onto the floorboards. And on one side of the room a simple metal-framed bed was wedged under the sloped ceiling.
Malkin trotted into the room ahead of Tamara and made straight for a tall wardrobe just below the window. He looked back at Tamara, then lifted one paw and placed it against the bottom drawer of the wardrobe. Tamara stepped inside after him. She had hoped, somehow, that there might just be a spare dress or a skirt or something lying around. The bed was ruffled but seemed to be devoid of clothing. There was a desk, too, but it was heaped with papers and bottles, no clothes. The many sets of shelves arranged along one wall were stocked only with books. The wardrobe looked like the only place she might find something. And it was closed.
She shouldn't do it. She was going to do it. She did it. Malkin stepped back as Tamara knelt and pulled the drawer open. The inside was a tangled jungle of gauzy scraps and straps, mostly in black, some in purple or red. It took Tamara a moment to identify any one individual item of clothing, but as she singled out a few things, it dawned on her that she was looking into an underwear drawer. Full of lacy, skimpy, sexy underwear. Miss Millie's lacy, skimpy, sexy underwear.
