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Sneeze on Monday...Danger Ch. 01

By: Drmaxc



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?


Sneeze on Monday...Danger Ch. 01



She knew the answer. It would be so much cooler and free to be unclothed, stepping on the thick carpets with her bare toes, feel the rub of her bare thighs one to the other with just a little wetness seeping down between them. Cheryl shook her head, this was not at all like her but she was in no hurry to leave. It really would not hurt just to take off her bra and let her breasts hang a little free would it? But she did not do it, she resisted.

Returning to the first floor Cheryl turned to the last bedroom. Again the furniture was old mahogany, the look of disuse heightened by the film of dust on everything, not least the bed. Cheryl looked at the impressive piece of furni­ture carefully, particularly at the finials to the head and tail board. They were well turned, well polished, albeit inevitably dusty, and in their shape reminded Cheryl, and she was again surprised at her comparison, reminded her of or, rather, seemed in her mind remarkably penile in shape. Bed knobs indeed! No doubt it was their general diameter and termination in an acorn shape that brought the thought to mind because they were most certainly not in any way meant to be an accurate representation of the male generative organ.

"Something is getting to me today," Cheryl said to the room, "must be something in the water... or the dust!" Her fingertips trailed marks on the ma­hogany. The black boyfriend came to mind again—was his erect penis as thick as those finials? Her hand closed as if around the erect organ. Cheryl licked her lip.

The bathroom was wonderful. Not Victorian but later—Art Deco fitments in a pale green. The washbasin, indeed the whole suite in pale green, had an an­gularity to it—the basin oblong in shape, though with curved corners, rather than rounded. The bath and lavatory matching. The chrome taps again angu­lar, square in cross section but tapering upwards. It was all very fine. The tiling and mirrors matched, being original, and the black and white chequer­board floor tiling was just so right. Style? It just oozed it and it was genuine pe­riod—there was no doubt of that. Cheryl turned a bath tap and the water gushed so, she thought, there was nothing wrong with the plumbing and as the water was soon hot it appeared all was well with the boiler. She swished water around to wash the dust from the bath and put the plug in. Well, if Dr Mecuniam was not going to come then why should she not try the bath out? It would have been rather embarrassing to be surprised by him in the bath but as he was not going to be there...

Cheryl's clothes dropped to the floor. It was good to be naked, good to be stepping into this lovely bath, good to have the opportunity to wash the dust away. She settled down in the water, causing it to surge and lap across her tummy, washing her dark curls around like seaweed moved by the tide, as she admired her new bathroom. It was difficult for Cheryl to keep her hands from her breasts, not push fingers into herself, not to touch and rub the erect little button placed so centrally between her thighs. It was not many minutes before she succumbed and it was not long before she came strongly, her exertions sending the water like a miniature storm up and down the bath.

Feeling refreshed both by the masturbation and the bath Cheryl stepped out and picked up a towel she had noticed folded on a chair. She shook it out. A mistake. The dust was in her nose, in her eyes, on her skin—she was even breathing it in. She coughed. The house so needed a spring clean. She had not expected so much dust to be in the towel. Cheryl had much more dust on her than she had before her bath. Of course she had to bathe again. The dust did not seem easy to remove.

She left the house with reluctance.



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.



Sneeze on Monday...Danger Ch. 03



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?



Sneeze on Monday...Danger Ch. 04



Sneeze on Monday, sneeze for danger

Part 4 Dr. Mecuniam

Undoubtedly it was the front door opening. Cheryl could hear footsteps. What could she do? Her clothes were in the garden and there were none in the bed­rooms—or at least none she was aware of. There was a call from below. What should she do? Should she hide? A little naked girl hiding under a bed or in a cupboard. What would she do if she was found—and found she must be be­cause Dr Mecuniam would know of her presence by her clothes in the garden. There was a footstep on the stair. Cheryl was to be embarrassed. There were her panties certainly on the bed, she had brought them upstairs but that was all. Should she put them on? How could she explain this? Yes, yes she was tak­ing a bath and...

Her attempt to reach the bathroom before Dr Mecuniam saw her was a failure.

"Ah, Miss Cheryl! How good to meet you... at last."

His hand outstretched Dr Mecuniam advanced towards Cheryl. In her con­fusion Cheryl was unsure what to do, a deep blush suffused her upper body. She took his hand; it was cold, bony but firm.

"You are well? Indeed I can see you are—in the pink indeed. Ha, ha! Enjoy­ing the house? I see you have been sunbathing. Such a secluded garden. I cer­tainly envy you. Not something I can enjoy... a skin condition you see, not good for me, not good at all." He smiled, a thin smile stretching the skin of his pale lips but not revealing his teeth.

Cheryl was relieved. She remained deeply embarrassed but Dr Mecuniam had explained away her nakedness without her having to make any excuse and, yes indeed, it was the obvious explanation. She looked at him. Unlike his summation of her health, his appearance was very much the opposite. Pale, drawn, sunken eyes, a stoop, too lean, skin too thin and transparent. No, Dr Mecuniam did not look well at all. He was not, though, an unattractive man—for his age, which seemed considerable—and he had an air about him Cheryl found engaging. A presence that caused her to relax.

Dr Mecuniam took her by the arm. The feel of his bony hand on her skin made her jump.

"I'll, I'll go and put my clothes on," she said.

"No, no please don't bother on my account. The sight is not exactly un­pleasing to a man of my years."

Cheryl should have been incensed by his comment but she was not. She simply accepted it—it was, after all, a compliment.

"Come, let me show you the house—though you have of course seen it. Have you come often?"

Cheryl glanced quickly at him. Had he guessed, did he realise what she had been doing in the house. Was her recently developed desire, her sudden ob­session with sex so obvious? But he was merely smiling his thin not unfriendly smile, his watery eyes sparkling, a grey eyebrow raised.

"After you." His hand patted her naked bottom as he ushered her through a door back into the room she had so recently left. Cheryl's eyes just saw the re­cently used bed knob, it seemed to shine like a beacon indicating her shame.

The touch of his hand on her bottom cheek had surprised her. Again she should have been incensed. It was inappropriate touching, tantamount to as­sault but she had not minded: indeed quite the opposite, as it had sent an electric shiver through her. A sexual touch. A touch she had been so in need of this long week. A trickle of moisture ran down her left inner thigh. She was instant­ly worried. Would Dr Mecuniam, walking just behind her, see it?

"A lovely room, quite excellent proportions I have always thought and this old bed is quite...." His hand rested on the bed knob so recently vacated by Cheryl's sex.

He looked momentarily puzzled and then looked questioningly at Cheryl, "Why, my dear, I fear I have interrupted you in..."

Before Cheryl could appreciate what was happening she felt his hand touching her pubic hair, moving, feeling the wetness on her inner thigh. Fin­gers touching her intimately.

"... so wet, so very wet! Why, I have interrupted you in pleasuring yourself. How very rude of me. Quite unforgivable."

His fingers stirred—stroking, touching, pulling, and entering.

"Please, let me make amends, let me assist you. Just bend yourself here, yes over the bed end, legs apart a little, yes that is better, makes access easy. Now is that good?"

Cheryl bent. She found it easier to do what Dr Mecuniam said. There was no resistance and, though she could not understand it, the idea did not worry, annoy or upset her. And, yes, it felt very good to have not her own fingers, or the inanimate hardness of the mahogany bed knob, but someone else's fingers inside her. The only thing that would be better would be...

The entrance of the penis was unexpected. What was to happen should have been obvious but wasn't. That Dr Mecuniam had presented his penis to her was now clear. She could feel it, not as hard as the bed knob—indeed it did not feel terribly hard at all but certainly sufficiently stiff to achieve entrance to a very wet vagina. She could feel the scratch of Dr Mecuniam's suit cloth on her bottom. He had not undressed—certainly not had the time. She was being fucked, fucked by an old man she had met only moments before, fucked with­out any resistance on her part. It was not like her, but she felt powerless to re­sist, her mind did not want him to stop—she did not want him to stop. The feel­ing was simply delicious—she could not get enough of it—she so wanted to come and, unlike her difficulty earlier with the bed knob, she could feel suc­cess within her grasp.

The orgasm felt different, different from those she had enjoyed before. It was almost, yes, she supposed thinking back afterwards, almost what it must be like for a man. She felt as if she was ejaculating, as if she was expelling an essence—or it was being drawn from her body—right at the point where she was joined to the man. The whole sensation was of coming in steady spurts as her body shook in electric bliss. The feeling was quite incredible and Cheryl loved it — not wanting it to stop.

Cheryl felt quite drained, quite weak at the knees. As her mind cleared a thought came to her, came to her strongly as Dr Mecuniam continued to push against her, his penis sliding easily within her, his suiting alternately touch­ing, then leaving her bottom—he must not ejaculate within her — she had no protection, had had no need of it. The words tumbled from her — the words a young schoolgirl might use on a date that had got out of control but in fact came from a sophisticated, intelligent, fashionable woman.

"Please, please, not inside me."

Dr Mecuniam withdrew.

But if he was not to come inside her? It did not occur to Cheryl that Dr Me­cuniam did not have to come, that an option was for him to put himself away and not come at all. This simply did not occur to her. If he was not to come in­side her she must ensure he came another way. She got up and turned to him. The penis now rose strongly from Dr Mecuniam's fly as if it had been reinvigo­rated by the unaccustomed exercise.

Cheryl knew what to do, what would be an acceptable alternative. She knelt in acquiescence, the shiny knob inches from her face, shiny with her own lubrication. Her tongue reached, her tongue touched. There was a slight ooz­ing, a pooling at the very tip. She lapped.

It was not surprising that it took a little time, even with Cheryl trying her very best, using all the tricks she thought she knew to make Dr Mecuniam come but no doubt he was in no hurry. Cheryl swallowed as she gently sucked, helping the spurting semen reach her throat. Flaccidity followed quickly and Cheryl released it to stand in some confusion. What on Earth had just hap­pened? The suddenness of the coupling—she could not call it rape—she had most certainly confirmed it was a mutual decision. Cheryl was aware things were not right. A nagging doubt at much of what she had been doing and expe­riencing was there in her head—for a moment.

"My dear. I am sure you feel better for that. Such an important release. Quite calms the inner woman and indeed, for myself, I am most grateful, most touched, at your tender ministrations."

He had her hand, was leading her down the stairs. "Your clothes, I think, perhaps you should put them on now. You must be tired. We will talk tomor­row, you can come again tomorrow. I am sure you can come tomorrow."

Cheryl was surprised to find herself in her car. What had happened? That was meant to have been a meeting about her house, about the papers, yet they had not once discussed that or, really, anything. Instead they had... coupled. It was incredible. Cheryl drove to her flat subdued. She slept deeply that night and was late to work... again.

The thoughts in her head as she drove to the villa were confusing. She was worried about her work, anxious to sort out the house business yet her orgasm yesterday had been so good, so much better than she had experienced before. It was something she wanted to feel again. But sex with an old man, an old man she did not know at all. It was all very odd. She was sure she was chang­ing, becoming someone different from how she was before. Someone was doing this to her, it did not frighten her rather she was in anticipation.

Cheryl had expected to find Dr Mecuniam waiting for her but the house was empty. Surely he was not going to miss another appointment? Despite feel­ing aroused, Cheryl was loath to take her clothes off. It would be strange to do such a thing deliberately when expecting to discuss papers and meet a virtual stranger. But it was frustrating to walk around the house and see her bedpost standing unused or to walk in the garden and imagine the sun on her naked sex. She waited. Dr Mecuniam did not come. The urge to be free of her clothing increased, indeed was becoming almost uncontrollable. If he was not going to appear there could be no harm in... The speed at which she shed skirt, jacket, blouse, bra and panties was remarkable. Cheryl stretched; it was so good to be free. She turned to head upstairs to the bedroom, to the mahogany rod stand­ing waiting for her; she could feel the wetness seeping from her. It would be so good to slide the thick pole into herself, feel it probing, feel the acorn head rub­bing. Cheryl placed a foot on the first stair. There was the sound of a key in the lock.

Cheryl turned and there he was, Doctor Mecuniam, framed in the gather­ing dusk.

"Ah, my dear, were you sunbathing or, ah, exercising?"

The euphemism seemed almost natural, as if it was something to be talked about.

"I was about to... exercise again."

"Good, excellent. Young women need plenty of healthy exercise. Don't let me stop you. May I spectate?"

She was conscious of Dr Mecuniam following her up the stairs, aware that he must be watching her bare bottom, its cheeks swaying from side to side as each step took her up the stairs. She half expected a hand to insinuate itself be­tween them. It would be the thing men would do, would want to do. Cheryl was not sure she did not want that.

Cheryl felt embarrassed at the prospect of being watched at masturba­tion, the prospect of being viewed as she pushed down on the mahogany knob and began to ride. What was the word, if it was a word, Dr Mecuniam had used? Spectate.

Dr Mecuniam sat and watched, hands carefully folded across his lap, sit­ting upright on the bedroom chair, his face almost expressionless though, it seemed to Cheryl, there was a nod for her to begin. It was difficult for her to re­call when she should have been more embarrassed. Standing naked, legs apart, before a fully dressed old man and touching herself intimately and, moreover, placing the ruddy knob of the bedstead finial very clearly at the en­trance to her vagina and pushing so that the smooth dome could distend and achieve entrance. His eyes watched as she began to move, riding the pole, the old wood soon shining with her lubrication, the wetness revealed on every up­ward thrust, her thigh muscles tightening as they lifted her body upwards.

The man did not move but just sat and watched, his eyes on the naked woman as she 'exercised.'

The sweat drenched her body, she was positively glowing with the exer­cise but she was not coming—the orgasm was elusive. Cheryl pumped up and down, her fingers playing her clitoris like a stringed instrument but, pleasur­able as it was, a climax seemed unattainable. She had forgotten Dr Mecuniam now, her eyes tight shut and her whole concentration going to what she was feeling between her legs. The touch on her shoulder took her by surprise mak­ing her literally jump, she lost her footing and went sprawling, the mahogany knob sliding from her as she jumped.

It was Dr Mecuniam — of course. He had left the chair and come silently over to her.

"Perhaps? If I might assist?"

He was slowly undressing, neatly placing his clothes in a pile; he seemed unhurried as if long experience had taught him the pleasure of taking sex slow­ly. Cheryl was in rather more of a hurry; she was desperate for climax and the slow undressing meant delay in getting at what she was now certain she need­ed; the real penis of Dr Mecuniam; she was sure it would give her what she de­sired — a beautiful electric orgasm, perhaps similar to the one he had given her before. Would he expect her to suck first? She was happy to do that, happy to be on her knees suckling but she would rather he fucked her straightway. Cheryl chose to encourage her wish. She got off the floor and lay on the bed knees apart, her sex, red, wet and open from her recent work; revealed to beck­on him — an invitation... or surrender.

Dr Mecuniam smiled as he continued undressing, folding each item of clothing carefully before placing it on the pile. Finally he turned, completely naked, to Cheryl. His penis could have been firmer but it was erect and that was Cheryl's requirement.

"Please, quickly," she said.

Dr Mecuniam obliged sinking himself into Cheryl as her legs locked around his back and she pulled against him just as she had worked on the mahogany knob. Success was not long in coming and once again Cheryl felt the strange, utterly wonderful sensation, it was as if her clit was elongating, stretching itself away from her and pulsing, pumping, squeezing little spurts of electric bliss from her body. The feeling seemed to go on and on as she lay there, still under Dr Mecuniam, just shaking with the pleasure.

Cheryl was a little surprised at how exhausted she was from the sex. She was certainly in no hurry to get up from the bed. The orgasm had quite drained her and it had gone on and on so deliciously. Any more and she would, she thought, have fainted.

"Do you run?"

Cheryl was surprised both by the sound of Dr Mecuniam's voice and by the question, "I visit the gym."

"Ah, yes, popular. Keeping fit is so important. I do like to see young women out running, strengthening their muscles, building their stamina, work­ing up a healthy glow."

Cheryl opened her eyes and looked at him. Was he some dirty old man who ogled girls running in skimpy shorts and sports bras? But that did not seem to be at all what he was saying. Rather he liked to see the exercise, the en­ergy, the heat generated from the exertion.

"I can run."

"Would you? Saturday evening?"

Cheryl was surprised that she had agreed without thinking. It was an odd request and she had not even considered saying no. It was as if he had some hold over her, so she would do whatever he said — but that could not be.

He was making no demand, no request but, lying beside her, he remained hard, his penis and, indeed, all around it soaked with her excitement. With an effort she got up onto her elbows and lent over to please this man who had, once again, been so considerate as not to come inside her. Cheryl licked, run­ning her tongue along the shaft, licking at her own wetness. The smooth head slipped easily into her mouth. How easy it was to suck and play with a penis, teasing it until she went too far. How old was this man she was fellating? Did it matter? She seemed to have no resistance to Dr Mecuniam. There seemed to be no warning of the impending release, no groan, no bucking of hips, no sud­den spoken indication to alert her. All at once he was coming, filling her mouth with a gentle pulsing. Cheryl swallowed, her tongue lapping until there was no more, before falling back on the bed quite exhausted.

She slept; the papers forgotten in her tiredness.

Dr Mecuniam was not there at the villa when she arrived Saturday so she went for her run. There was no need for an excuse to strip naked this time. Cheryl stripped in one room and did not hurry to get dressed in her running things. She even envisaged what it would be like running naked, not some­thing she could of course do in suburbia but in the country it might be differ­ent if she knew an unfrequented path, perhaps one where she could see well ahead and hide if someone was coming the other way. Hide, all sweaty, in the bushes, behind a wall or in the bracken, crouching, sex open, watching who went by. Perhaps playing with herself in anticipation that it might be a hand­some young man she could fantasise about. Of course naked running was easy enough for men or girls with small breasts but hers would be a problem if not restrained — wouldn't they? She hadn't tried. A few laps of the garden con­firmed her thought. The sports bra needed to stay, lovely as the feeling of free­dom was.

Cheryl was looking forward to the run. She could not run naked but there was no need for panties. Sports bra, tee shirt and light cotton shorts would do. The run was good but more tiring than she had expected, her chest heaved with the exertion and in the heat of the late afternoon the sweat poured down her. Despite all this she was aroused. Her thoughts of naked running had turned her on and her mind did not let arousal or the subject go. Panting, she came up the garden path; the door opened and Dr Mecuniam let her in—he had been waiting. His nostrils seemed to expand and his thin smile broadened.

"Why, how you shine with exercise, my dear." His hand touched the wet material of her tee shirt. "How hot you are, and damp, with your running." It clearly excited him. "Might I?"

His hand cupped the mound between her legs. She was very damp there both from the sweat and her arousal. He squeezed, massaging the damp cot­ton and rubbing the mound beneath. Cheryl wriggled. The touch was wonder­ful. The hand came forward to rest over her curls; the material there was damp and had ridden up to tuck itself in her slit. His fingers slipped within the mate­rial and began to massage her bud. Cheryl was transported.

"I think your bra needs to come off Miss Cheryl."

It did. It really did. Cheryl needed her nipples free. The feel of bony hands on her damp breasts brought goose pimples, not of fear but in excitement. Her nipples were on fire as they were squeezed.

"Would you care to lie down, a bed perhaps?"

Cheryl was led upstairs; a young woman in rucked up tee shirt, running shorts, semi-transparent with sweat and pushed up into her sex and bottom, quivering with excitement. A very different image from the sophisticated, intel­ligent, fashionable woman of the week before. She was relieved to lie down, roll off her shorts and spread her legs in invitation. Dr Mecuniam undressed with his usual care and unhurriedness. His penis rose strong and ready for Cheryl's pleasure. He seemed to have put on some weight since she had first seen him. Perhaps he had been getting over an illness, a virus?

Intercourse was long. Dr Mecuniam's stamina and ability to stave off ejac­ulation considerable. Cheryl's orgasm did not come quickly but there were lit­tle mini climaxes on the way. Little spurtings, little jolts of pure delight. It was wonderful, it was ecstatic and it was very, very tiring. This time, when the big one came, she did faint and it seemed hours later that she came to—certainly the room was darker. Dr Mecuniam was lying quietly beside her with his eyes closed and a small smile on his face. His remarkable penis, though, was still erect. Cheryl moved and began to suck. She would have to get contraception if this was to go on for long. Was he still fertile? Dr Mecuniam, however, seemed very happy to come in her mouth. He had neither suggested an alternative nor brought any contraception of his own. Cheryl was happy to let him come that way if he was content.




Sneeze on Monday...Danger Ch. 04



Cheryl dropped her head back onto the pillow after Dr Mecuniam had come; rather copiously she had thought but had been eager to swallow. Was she tired? Very tired? It was not easy driving home—should she have stayed? It was so lucky she had the rest of the weekend to recover. Really she had meant to go into work the next day and try and catch up. She was not up to it and slept most of the day, completely shattered.

Monday came. Cheryl had asked to come to the house again — or had Dr Mecuniam suggested it? She really could not remember, the house was becom­ing a bit of a blur — a delicious one though. She had gone to work; still feeling very tired and had tried to work—rather unsuccessfully she thought. Her secre­tary had asked if she was well. The staff had looked at her oddly.

She knew she should not be leaving work for hours yet, there was so much to do, her control of the company was slipping away but it was five-thirty al­ready and she could not wait any longer. Her glittering career path had stopped short and only a muddy track seemed to lead on; she should be work­ing, working on mending the disaster that her job was becoming; yet she felt compelled to go to the house, to revel in the pleasure.

This time it was Dr Mecuniam who was there first and it was he who was naked. He was standing at the end of the hallway, standing quite naturally, his thin kindly smile lighting up his face just like any host might look receiving a guest except for the unusual feature of being naked with penis standing erect. He moved towards her, ushering Cheryl into the front room.

"My dear, how delightful to see you this evening. Perhaps you would feel more comfortable if..."

Dr Mecuniam certainly looked better, if anything younger, than he had done when she first met him. Cheryl hated what he was making her do. Hating and loving it. She could not believe the pleasure yet she hated his control of her. This was not how she envisaged her life, her career. But she felt unable to do other than comply with his wishes. Cheryl removed her clothes.

The sex, this time in the front room, was good as it always was with him, Cheryl had been surprised at the use of the cane. It was as if Dr Mecuniam had known she would like her bottom to be chastised. Not that she could have re­sisted, she really seemed to have very little strength left. He had bent her naked bottom over his knee and given her a good thrashing. Unlike her own at­tempts with the cane she had not known when the next blow would fall—the anticipation had been exciting and the delivery on her bottom a surprising pleasure. She had knelt before him her hands behind her back, her mouth close to the dome of his erection, tongue touching looking up at Dr Mecuniam.

"You like the picture? It is perfect. I had it painted a long time ago."

She had licked and sucked but he had not come.

"Perhaps young women who have been chastised should be taken from be­hind?"

He had repeated their original act of intercourse and bent her over an arm­chair before sinking himself between her, this time rather red, bottom cheeks. The raised wheals hurt as he pushed against her but the pain mixed delicious­ly with the electric signals from her clit to bring her panting, sweating towards climax. Cheryl bit into her lip, drawing blood as the magic orgasm came again—a pulsing, an electric spurting almost as if her clitoris was ejaculating ener­gy. It was not as strong as before but it still kept going on and on.

"Yes, yes, come dear Cheryl, that is it. Oh, that is so lovely."

Cheryl's foggy mind was puzzled—it sounded almost as if Dr Mecuniam could feel her orgasm.

She staggered to her feet.

"Was that good my dear, really good?" He asked.

She swayed against him, "Yes, quite, quite fantastic, shall I?" She looked at his wetly pointing penis.

"In a little while, just recover yourself. There is no hurry. There is still plenty of time."

"I feel really funny, it's this dust, it's making my nose itch."

Dr Mecuniam looked at her in real alarm. She had not seen him look that way before.

"Please don't sneeze. Really, please don't. Not yet..."

Cheryl looked at him in puzzlement. Why shouldn't she sneeze? Why 'not yet?' It was an involuntary reaction after all — difficult to stop. It was odd the dust, the dust which did not seem to clear from the house no matter how she cleaned it, had not made her sneeze before. What a strange request! She could not help it if she wanted to sneeze. It almost made her cross. She lent against a chair and pulled a handkerchief from her bag. There was no stopping the sneeze; there was no denying it. Cheryl had never felt more like sneezing, it was coming, inexorably, and it was going to be a big one. She felt very peculiar as she put the handkerchief to her face and then it happened — the sneeze came — she sneezed. There was a silence as the handkerchief floated to the floor and a great swirl of dust spread across the room.

Dr Mecuniam sighed. He had been enjoying Cheryl's sweet body. Why couldn't it have lasted longer? He had thought there would be more time. Had been sure of it, she had seemed so full of vitality, so much drive and energy. The enjoyment seemed shorter and shorter each time now. At the beginning it had been months, a year even, before... He shrugged his shoulders and sat down, holding his head in his hands. The dust brought the excitement, the de­sire, the willingness to be controlled but was sternutatory and the result was always the same, more dust apt to cause the same effect as before.

"It's a matter of survival you see, you or me." He was not talking to any­one, just the room and the dust billowing around it, "I can't help it. I am old and have a lust for life: you were young and I needed what you had — your ener­gy. I am sorry." He meant it.

A sudden draught blew in through the door clearing the air somewhat. Within the room the dust was beginning to settle. On a table in the corner it floated gently downwards to land on a pile of old files, tied up in green tape, covering the files' old manila card in a layer of dust. Ready and waiting for the next time.

Dr Mecuniam stood. There were not many of his kind left. The years had taken their toll and, certainly, the hunting had not helped. It was easier with­out the blood, so much easier just to take the essence his way. No real evi­dence; no tell tale puncture marks; no strangely pale, emptied bodies but the police would nevertheless investigate, would want to know where Cheryl was last seen etc, etc - all tiresome and a bother. Perhaps they would send a young policewoman to inspect the house — with Cheryl's car outside the connection could hardly not be made. A young, strong — pretty perhaps but, more impor­tantly, a lively, energetic girl would be very pleasing indeed. Just what the doc­tor ordered, indeed! Dr Mecuniam smiled revealing his white and very pointed teeth.