Jim Dunkerly's daughter-in-law was what most of the community agreed was one of the prettiest brides the town had ever seen. She had looked, as one of the congregation at St Mary's had put it, 'like a million dollars', or, as one of the drunken rabble at the reception later had put it, with a leer, 'Good enough to screw a million ways!' In truth, Tracy Dunkerly was both. At twenty-one she had the glow and pretty innocence of youth -- angelic and pure as driven snow-- but her shape, and how she moved her shapely parts, made men think of other things. Earthier things. Dirtier things, I suppose.
There were few men in town who didn't fuck her in their dreams. Strip off whichever pretty dress she happened to be wearing at the time and release the animal within her -- the animal all men in the town BELIEVED lived inside someone as voluptuous-looking as she. (Me included, truth be told.) She was certainly too good for the Dunkerlys. Fucking waste, excuse the pun.
Jim Dunkerly, whose daughter-in-law Tracy Dunkerly was, was big as a barn and a bully to boot. His son, Dicky-boy as he'd always been called and who now had the honour and privilege of Tracy as his wife, wasn't so big, nor was he such a bully, but he had a murderous temper. Some said that's why Tracy married him. It was either that or get a fat lip! But they had money, the Dunkerlys. Which helped. It came from Dunkerly's roofings. Five offices throughout the county. Turnover in the millions. Jim and Dicky-boy were roofers made good. I was their accountant. Call me Fred.
"It's true, Fred, without a word of a lie," said Jim, voice low, heavy arm thrown across my shoulder. He had a snooker cue in his hand, a half chewed cigar still smouldering bleakly between thick-lips. His face was one of those rugged faces. Like the Himalayas when the sun sets. Big man. Fiftieth birthday last year.
"Getaway," I replied, looking at the table, working out my shot. We were in the Dunkerly's Games Room. Ground floor of the Dunkerly Mansion. Plum in the middle of the Dunkerly estate -- half grouse moor, half deer forest. Dicky-boy (the younger) was passed out in one of the button leather couches that bordered the room. A bottle of claret, empty, on its side, lay at his feet. It was Latour, though not a great year. He had one shoe off, one on. We had dined in town. Celebrating a victory for one of Jim's horses. It had gone on longer than planned. The dinner. Then we'd come back here to The Grange, as Jim called it, for a night-cap. I'd have to stay the night, he'd insisted. Too far to drive back. Too late. Much too much to drink, in any case. It sometimes happened.
"Loves it," Jim chuckled, casting a glance at his son. It was difficult to say how the two of them got on. I still had to make up my mind on that. Secretly I think he despised the little runt. I certainly did. Dicky-boy might have pulled himself a honey of a wife, but he was one lazy sonofabitch.
"Loves it?" I repeated vaguely, wondering if Jim had the inclination, or even the strength, to continue the game. Jim was an heroic drinker. I didn't even try to keep up. I told him I needed my wits about me to do his company accounts, so merely drank one drink for every three of his. He didn't seem to mind. Not any more. Dicky-boy, on the other hand, tried to keep up with his Dad. Which is why he was unconscious now.
"Sure," said Jim, and winked.
I looked at him closely. His eyes were red and bleary, but the customary cunning remained. "How do you know?" I asked.
"What?" He frowned.
I took a deep breath. "Jim. You have just spent the last ten minutes listing for me the various parts of Tracy," and here I glanced at the snoring form of Dicky-boy, "your son's wife, your daughter-in-law," I looked back at Dad, "which she most likes having caressed." I stopped. Then, "How do you know this?"
I was serious here. I'd known Jim a long time and the guy didn't normally lie about stuff. Too stupid to lie was the way he put it himself. So how did he know? Did Dicky-boy share with his father the intimate secrets of his sexual excitement strategies with his newly-wed bride? They'd been married less than a year.
"Ah jist knows," said Jim, looking smug.
I shook my head. Disengaged myself from his arm. Played my shot. Potted red. Blue. Red. Purple. Red ... missed the black.
"Furghuguck," or something, said Dicky boy, nodding awake with a start, staggering to his feet, pushing himself towards the door, belching, staggering on towards the thick wooden door, then somehow getting out of the room.
"Bloody hell," whispered Jim as the door closed behind his departing next of kin like a closing animal trap. Then he added, with contempt it seemed, "Little tosser."
I glanced at my employer, then said lightly, "You are just jealous because he has someone as delicious as little Tracy warming his bed"' I left it there.
"Pfaw!" he snorted. "Little Tracy. Little Tracy. You wouldn't call her little with her titties in your hand. Like melons they are! Great big powerful ..." Both his hands were out in front of him as if a canon ball nestled in each.
"Your shot," I said, thinking balls.
"You have no idea," he whispered, hands coming down to his side, cue in one hand, cigar in the other, awe in his eyes. "She has the plumpest, warmest, softest ..." he shook his head, "... most exciting fucking tits I have ever had my hands on."
"Set your eyes on, you mean," I corrected him. Jim was apt to exaggerate.
"Had my HANDS on," he insisted, making for the table.
I left it at that, but 'eyes on' is what I reckoned. As I say, Jim was apt to exaggerate. And Tracy was kin, after all. He potted the red, missed the blue. Badly out of position. He straightened. "Have I mentioned her legs?" he asked.
"How long they are, you mean," I said, studying the table. "And how if you scratch them in the soft part just behind the knee they straighten, and she sighs?" I said. He nodded. "Yes," I said. For he had. Twice already this evening. It was becoming a bore. He caught my arm as I eyed up a choice of two reds.
"You don't believe me, do you?" he challenged.
I played the politician. "Of course I believe you, Jim. If you didn't do these things with Tracy, who is probably the target of more male fantasy than any other lady in the county, you wouldn't be human. Or you'd be gay." And everyone knew he wasn't gay! Rutted like a stallion so they said. Had done since his teens.
"This isn't fantasy, Jim," he whispered, suddenly earnest, his grip on my elbow strong ... and bugger me stupid, if I didn't just start to believe him.
Had he been touching up his son's wife? More to the point, had she allowed it?
I tilted my head to one side.
"Now you're beginning to get it, eh?" he nodded, suddenly looking superior and crafty. The sort of look he got when he'd figured out how to solve a knotty problem, or transfer money offshore, or outgun an opponent, or win a tender, wangle a contract, cut vital costs ... What was he up to? "I'll show you," he said, suddenly leaning behind him and stubbing out his cigar in an ash tray. "We'll both do it." He turned and grinned, poking his finger in my chest. "You and me. My good mate, my confidante, Fred Barlow!"
That's what he called me, his confidante, because he could tell me things that wouldn't go further than me. Because I knew things about him that only one other person on earth knew, and that was him. But he also knew his secrets were safe with me. It's what I did well. Honour confidences. And he knew it. He took my cue from my hand, turned and replaced it with his own in the rack against the wall. I watched. What was he up to? What is it we would do together he and me? "I'll show you," he said, as if reading my thoughts, setting off towards the door.
When Jim's like this, you follow. I did. We grabbed a soda water each passing through the kitchen. Jim only drank soda water alone, without Scotch, when he wanted to sober up, or sharpen his mind. But with the amount of alcohol he'd drunk tonight it would take a lot more than one can of soda water to sober him up. Sharpen his mind ... for what?
I followed him up the stairs: grand broad baronial things. We got to the top. Jim and his wife, Agnes (who had gone to bed long ago, sensible lass!) lived in the East wing, down a long corridor off to the left. The guest rooms, where I would spend the night once Jim had let me go, were over the porch looking out to the front. The West Wing, where Dicky-boy lived with his ultra desirable young wife, Tracy, was off to the right, along another long corridor. Which is why, when Jim turned right and started off along that particular corridor, I started to wonder.
We came to the three doors at the end, well apart. Jim made for the second. Probably a corner room, I guessed. He reached for the handle with one hand and signalled me to silence with the other. He closed his fingers around the handle of the door and turned it. The lock clicked softly. He pushed the door. It opened. He motioned me in. With a slightly concerned set to my lips I did as he bid. In I went. There was a small lamp, lit, by the window. The light it gave off was minimal. The shade was a dark blood red. A pool of light, no more. Jim closed the door behind us.
I knew we were in their bedroom. I could tell. There was a mix of smells: some fragrant, girlish, fresh; others rough, of sweat and drink. A mix of sounds as well. Soft sleep from one direction, snoring from nearby. Then I saw the bed, my eyes becoming accustomed to the light. A head I could make out on a pillow, body undercover, nearer to the light. And closer ... I screwed up my eyes. Dicky-boy, still fully clothed, sprawled on top of the covers this side. He was passed out. Had she heard him come in? I wondered. The sounds of soft sleep came from the mound beneath the covers her side of the bed.
"She must be a bloody sound sleeper," I whispered, hardly more than a sigh, into my host's right ear -- Dicky-boy's snores were LOUD! I felt it was time we should go, though, so reached out behind me for the handle of the door . "Shall we go?" I said softly, my eyes becoming accustomed to the dark, making out the shape of Tracy on the far side of the bed. But Jim was already creeping into the room, and lest I was in any doubt as to what was expected of me his hand had caught my wrist and was pulling me after him.
We moved from door into the centre of the room. It was large, sumptuously furnished, heavy drapes, plush velvet sofa, framed pictures on the walls -- bright in the day one imagined. Decorated with the assured eye of Tracy, one felt, (she taught art at the primary school). Jim was making his way round her side of the large double bed. I was in his wake, just with the beginnings of concern.
What if they wake up?
Jim stopped. Me too. We were at the side of the bed closest to the light, the side on which Tracy was sleeping. We were both looking down at the mound. The mound in the bed that was Tracy, unmoving. Dicky-boy beyond, equally unmoving. He wore one shoe. I looked over my host's shoulder: Tracy's gorgeous face, deep in sleep. She wore her hair short, like a boy's. Her head was softly shaped. Fine bones. Neat nose. Thick chubby lips. Her eyes, when open, were huge and green. But right now all that showed were lashes, long and dark. I leaned my head to Jim.
"We should go," I whispered.
One naked shoulder and one slender arm, also bare, stuck out from the top of the cover which appeared to be a single thin sheet. Possibly silk. Her arm was lightly bent. The fingers loosely held below her chin. A slim spaghetti strap bisected her shoulder, lightly tanned -- they holidayed well, the Dunkerlys.
Now I was starting to really felt like an intruder ... but my eyes stole all they could of pretty Tracy's privacy. Jim's head turned to mine. With a hand he motioned me down. I sank, obediently, carpetwards. He did the same. Our heads were level with the sleeping form of Tracy, under the sheet. Jim turned to me again. "Watch this," he mouthed.
Okay, I thought, as his hand reached out towards his son's young bride. How she didn't wake when her father-in-law gently slid the sheet from her then raised the hem of her short baby-doll nightie from buttocks to waist, I do not know. How she did not wake when he ran a fingertip over the silk-covered mound that peeked from between her legs, or when he softly cupped her breasts beneath silk and gently brushed the sharp little nipple that poked at the silk on her chest, I have no idea. But she didn't. She didn't move. Nor did her breathing change one iota.
"She likes it, you see," he said, head back, mine forward, lips at my ear -- although I didn't think not waking was the same as 'liking it'. I nodded anyway, and watched as one of his hands continued to fondle her breast. Then I switched my glance to his other hand, the fingers of which were lightly stroking the bulge within her knickers. She wore a flimsy white baby doll and ribbon-wide knickers that matched. Jim's fingers played along the ribbon, then came off it. "Have a go," he said, catching my right hand in his, and lifting it onto the girl.
At first, I didn't know what to do, so my open hand lay where he had placed it, over her pubis. The smoothness of silk cut a swathe across my palm, all of the rest was warm. Warm skin. Warm skin that was smoother than the silk of her panties. I gingerly closed my hand over her. Feeling the palm lift off silk. Feeling my fingertips slide over skin. Feeling the skin on the heel of my hand.
We both froze. My eyes had leapt first to Tracy's angelic face, then to her bad temper-husband's solid form, then back to Tracy ... the closed eyes, long lashes, calm set ... Jim's head came round to mine. Quick face. Evil leering grin. Then he went back to work, two hands this time, on the pretty breasts of his daughter in law. I stretched my mouth. Breathed in. Glanced to my front.
Her hips were an inch from my nose. Her pubis rose from the flat of her stomach like a small mound flanked by the larger more assertive swell of well-toned thighs. I lowered my hand to the central mound, my wrist coming down on her thigh, my fingers in the furrow leading to its pair.
Her legs were slightly apart.
I reached my other hand forward, hardly even daring to breath.
Now both of my hands were on her. On her pubis. Gently up and down the furrows either side. Softly over the bulges of each thigh. Into the soft inner leg. Up into the chubby lips that were packed within silk. Plucking them gently through silk, rolling them lightly, stroking them softly. Trying to arouse her, I was. But then so was Jim, wasn't he?
I glanced at Jim. He was leaning over her breast, her nipple in his mouth, his hands gently stroking the sides. Still her chest rose and fell with the long lazy rhythm of sleep. How could she sleep so soundly?
I started to lose myself in my fingers ... that had already lost themselves in the soft secret folds within silk. Now I understood how Jim found out what she liked -- he'd come in here and helped himself to her. It seemed she slept so soundly he could do what he wanted. Both of us could. Was she on pills? Sleeping pills, or something? Was that it? I suddenly realised my finger was snaking beneath the silk of her knickers. I could feel the skin and the warmth and the moistness of her labia -- it was fattening, clearly engorged. It closed around my finger as it sank into her. Moist. A little sticky.
Had she been at this already? By herself? Was that it?
I felt it before I saw it. An arching of the back. A tensing of the legs. A lifting of the pelvis. And before I had knew it my finger was caught in a gentle closing of her legs. I didn't move. I looked at Jim. But I needn't have bothered, his mouth was wide and his face was pushed as hard onto the sweet girl's lovely breast as it would go. How much of it he had in his mouth? Difficult to say. Certainly a lot! His other hand was over her other naked breast. Spaghetti straps around her elbow, teddy down around her waist. Then I heard her voice.
"Jim," it said, so softly that at first I thought I'd dreamed it. But then it came again. "Jim ... Please"' still soft, but sounding plaintive too. Then I saw her hands, snaking round his head. Trying to lift it from her breast. "You promised," she gasped, little louder than a sigh. But Jim wasn't letting up. If anything he was feasting on her breast more hungrily than before. "We agreed," I heard her gasp as the hands on his head seemed to flatten, as if she were keeping it quiet. What had they agreed, I wondered, my finger trapped within warm and slick labia lips.
I watched her neat hand disengage, steal over towards her snoring husband, close softly on his shoulder, as if to test his pulse, or breathing rate -- his depth of sleep? Who knew. My own hands were frozen, in a state of suspended animation. One finger inside silk, clutched rather pleasantly in womanly lips, other fingers in various states of disarray around it -- one nestling against a possibly-dormant clitoris. My other hand was flat against her leg -- inside, soft, near the top -- clutching it warmly.
What to do now, I wondered, as more whispered objections seemed to emanate from Tracy. This had happened before, that much I could tell. I moved my hand: the one on the inside of her leg. I gently squeezed the pliant flesh. Rather nice! Then I moved my other hand: the one with a finger in her pussy, another nestled affectionately by her clitoris, and yet another, the pinkie, nestled contentedly in a silky thatch of pubic hair. A last, the fore finger, pressed her very gently, as the one within her pussy gave a squirm, and then a press, and the one against her clitoris stroked the little nub.
"What the ..." was all I heard, from a head beyond Jim, as a slim but decidedly womanly hand slipped over mine, feeling all around. But I kept it at work. I could feel her pelvis pulse, as her stomach tried to tense, but with Jim on her chest, his face in her breast, his hands fondling hard, and me with ardour up ... it wasn't effective for it seemed -- I had now figured out, one hand holding her legs apart, a second finger stealing into the furrow of the lips between her legs, a thumb working gently on her clitoris and hood -- that her most important consideration was not so much the attention being lavished on her person, as not to wake her husband.
So that's how Jim had done it!
I leaned over the girl, and as I did I saw her head beyond Jim's suckling head, she was lifted up on her elbows, trying to see who I was, who the hands in her private parts belonged to. Then recognition dawned. Her eyes went to the ceiling. And her shoulders sank back to her pillow. 'Fred,' she keened, but again, little more than a sigh.
My head was over her pudenda. Her knickers were down around her knees. My lips were against her pubis. My tongue was stroking the hard little pea of her clitoris. Her pelvis was twisting and stretching. Pulsing and jumping now and then. I let three fingers open her wide, feeling the honey ooze out. Smelling the tang of arousal. No wonder old Jim was so boastful. This cute little thing was a blast. I wriggled my tongue down the slipway, and thrust it up, into the dock.
"Ngraaah," I heard her gasp as her pelvis thrust into my face. Her legs were starting to flay. I reached out. Catching her faraway knee lest it flay against Danny and wake him. There wasn't really room for another! Not right now.
And especially not with his bloody temper!
"Pleeeeease ..." I heard her gasp, her hand now in my hair, another hauling on Jim, trying to urge us both off. But we were intent on her charms -- so soft and smooth, and hot, and besides, I was already on fire. Her thighs closed hard around my head as her pelvis angled itself to my mouth. Before long she was thrusting hard, her pussy yawning and throbbing as it pressed and squeezed against my open lips, and circled round my probing tongue. I sucked up the honey that came from inside. Kissed back the lips that sought to kiss mine. Nuzzled and thrust, as she nuzzled and thrust in return. A hand was scrabbling at my shirt, pulling and tugging at the buttons.