The Wooden Deckbyshaunreagh©
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"We'll go outside," he said. I nodded, glancing at Jim, 'We're going outside,' my look said. Jim shrugged as if to say, 'If Fletcher wants you to go outside and talk to him, honey pie, then go outside and talk to him'. Okay, I thought. Fletcher was reaching for my hand. I let him have it. With a glance back at Jim -- who had turned and was talking to Fletcher's wife, who was taking her coffee to the fire -- Fletcher and I went out to the deck.
We live in the hills. View of the city. Wide wooden deck.
Once outside Fletcher steered me to an end of the deck. The darker end.
"... one big happy family," he was saying.
The Fletchers were our dinner guests. Dinner to impress the new boss. Fletcher, new boss. He was in his forties. Heavy build, big chest, lots of hair. Jim and I are twenties. Jim's an engineer, just moved to a great new job with Fletcher's firm.
"Come over here, sweet thing," said Fletcher, to me, a tad to my surprise.
But I went, for he's Jim's boss. He had lodged himself in the corner, butt against the rail, legs spread.
Where was I to come to, I wondered, seeing how he was set. But I soon found out. A second broad hand reached for the second of mine, took it -- bigger hands than I'm used to -- and drew me into the angle between his outstretched legs. I felt them, either side of my thighs. "We like all our people to be close," he said, having just ensured we were. He lent towards me and -- again, to my surprise -- lightly kissed me. I let my lips soften into his. I felt I must. I could hardly be rude, after all. Although I did think to myself, as his thick lips pressed, quite softly, into mine, that I wasn't usually regarded as dessert. Besides, we'd already had dessert: a difficult-to-make pavlova, one of my specialities. His lips lifted gently off but his arms stayed around me, my thighs against his lewdly open groin. I didn't draw attention to this, however.
"We have a great view from here," I said instead, stomachs and private parts conjoined, looking over his shoulder at the city.
"Sure do," he said, his eyes staying on me.
I didn't respond. I am regarded as fairly attractive, but keep it to myself as a rule. His hands around the back of me pulled me even closer than before.
"So tell me about yourself," he said, spreading a hand over my left buttock.
"What would you like to know?" I asked, trying to ignore where his hand was, and what it had just done -- gently squeezed me.
"Who kissed you first?" he asked, and as he asked inclined his lips again. He didn't kiss this time, merely moved his lips towards mine. I assumed he wanted another kiss so leaned my lips to his and gently kissed him. His lips were softer than I'd imagined they might be. I had briefly wondered, at dinner, as his hand closed over my knee beneath the tablecloth, and when I glanced at him to see if he realised it was me and not the table leg his fingers were around, he smiled, and I noticed how thick his lips were.
Our lips gently parted.
"An uncle," I found myself saying, not giving it thought, telling the truth.
"Your uncle kissed you first?" he said, our lips playing lightly against each other's, hardly touching, more like the touch of a butterfly wing.
"On the mouth, I mean," I said, explaining, not sure that's what he'd meant.
I'd been kissed on the cheek before that. And the top of the head. But I don't think he meant that.
"How old were you?" he asked. Both his hands now cupped a buttock. One buttock each, being softly felt. I made myself relax, feeling it was best. Feeling that to clench might send the wrong message ... about how much we liked working in his firm -- Jim, at least, liked working in his firm.
"Early teens, I guess," I guessed.
"Did he put his tongue in you mouth?" he asked, giving me a nod.
I wondered at the nod, then figured it meant I should kiss him again. So I leaned into him, and this time putting my hands either side of his face, I kissed him. He put his tongue against my lips and I remembered, as he did, that he'd asked about my uncle, and whether or not my uncle had put his tongue in my mouth. So I let my lips open so that he might. It seemed to be what he wanted.
In order to help, I suppose, I ran a hand from his cheek round the back of his neck. I cupped him there. Surprised how thick it was (his neck) and how strong it seemed (his tongue). It ran along the length of my own. It tasted of tobacco.
My husband, Jim, doesn't smoke.
His tongue seemed bigger than Jim's. We kissed a little longer this time. I let my tongue move against his as it seemed to be what he wanted. His hands gently wandered my buttocks, the top of my legs, my hips. I was wearing a long wrap-around skirt. The bit that wrapped around, was round the back. One of his hands had slipped inside the overlap. Our lips came away from each other's.
"Yes," I said, eventually, once I had my breath back, and remembered what the question was -- and managed to focus my eyes!
"So as a teenager your uncle kissed you and put his tongue in your mouth?" he said, looking at me with interest. As if this set of circumstances was somehow a mark in my favour.
I'd never really thought of it like that. But I suppose it was a little daring. Uncle Ted had always done these sort of things with my sister and me. My sister was older, of course. "Did you like it when he put his tongue in your mouth?" asked Fletcher, his head now angled to one side ... we remained joined at the front, around the thighs, me between his legs, his hands around the back of me, one inside my wrap-around skirt, fondling my backside. I wondered how Jim was getting on with Mrs Fletcher. She looked to be something of a Harridan.
"I'm sorry," I said, forgetting what he'd asked.
His fingertips had dipped into the cleft of my behind, a part of me that tends to be sensitive.
"Did you like it when your uncle put his tongue in your mouth?" he asked, not at all annoyed at the need to repeat. Then his finger was back in the cleft, and I smiled. I wasn't sure what else to do.
"Initially surprised," I said, thinking back, smile drifting from my face.
"And after that?"
"I didn't mind, I suppose,' I said, and shrugged.
One of his hands, the one not engaged beneath my skirt, came round the front and touched my face. He stroked my cheek, and then my ear. He started to play with the ear-lobe. "What else did your uncle like to do to you?" he asked, softly lifting the lobe of my ear and running a square finger-tip beneath it. I angled my head to the side, to make it easier for him.
"What do you mean?" I asked as I moved my chin. His fingers were practiced.
Our eyes were level. His were dark, a little smutty I suppose. But I didn't mind that. As long as they weren't annoyed. With me. Or Jim. He dropped his eyes and then his hand to my throat. "Did he do anything else to you? Touch you other places, things like that?' he asked, as his fingers slipped round my neck, and gently caressed me there.
"No," I said, for I felt it was safe.
I stretched my neck to accommodate his fingers.
"No?" he repeated, eyes wide on mine, as if he knew that wasn't true.
His fingers on my neck were very light. Lighter than I'd thought they'd be. He was broadly built. Much broader than Jim. So were his hands. I dropped my eyes.
"Well ..." I left it there.
In fact Uncle Ted was always touching me. Stroking me. Caressing me. Anywhere he could, every chance he got. Often coming into my room when I was asleep -- or meant to be asleep, though I'd always pretend that I was, even when he touched me.
"Go on," he said, easing my face to his and kissing me again.
Our mouths opened this time. Our tongues gently played. His lips were soft. When he finished I replied, noncommittally, "He liked to touch me," which seemed to cover it.
"I'm not surprised," he said, stroking the skin of my buttock within the pleats of my skirt. He made to kiss me again. I let him, but wondered if there wasn't something I should be saying to him, or pointing out at least, for what he was doing was starting to affect me.
It was quite a long kiss. My tongue rolled right around his. More than once. I sucked on it softly. He kissed very gently for a big man. Quite well too, I suppose. The hand inside my skirt was into my thong, fingers beneath the vertical strip round the back, stroking skin, exploring the cleft. Letting me know he'd found the little private puckered hole of my anus, and that he liked it ... moving on. The hand round my neck was playing with an ear. For a big man his touch was gentle. It would be easy to sink under their spell, I thought, as his mouth moved away. I closed my own.
"Do you think Jim will like working with us?" he asked, changing the subject.
His fingers left my ear, slipped around my throat and dropped to my chest.
"I think," I said ... then stopped, looked down. His fingers had found the V at the front of my blouse and calmly slipped inside. I lifted my eyes back to his. I didn't know what I should do; I didn't know how to react. His other hand, the one round the back at my thong, we both knew was there, but as we couldn't see it, we could sort of pretend it wasn't there. But this was different. This was unmissable, undeniable. Out in the open as it were.
"Yes?" he said, apparently expecting me to continue.
"I think he will," I finished, once I'd recalled where we were -- meaning I thought Jim would like working for his firm. "My husband likes what you do," I added, hoping that sounded right, trying not to appear as if I objected to his hand in my blouse.
"Your husband has what I'm looking for," he said, in a way that made me wonder what it was he was looking for ... precisely. His fingers were stroking the skin that the bra didn't cover at the top of my breast. His eyes dropped down, to watch. I found my own doing the same. We noted the movement inside my blouse. As if a small animal was inside, playing. "Does he mind hard work?" he asked, as our two pairs of eyes watched the movement in my blouse. As if it were some sort of test.
"Grngggg ..." I groaned, then caught my breath. A fingertip had slipped inside my bra, and brushed a nipple. Ludicrously sensitive!
He lifted his eyes with a smile on his face. "What does that mean?" he asked.
I hadn't a clue, so gave a weak smile instead.
He cupped my breast, bra and all, and gently squeezed. My back arched. I tried not to gasp. This was not good. My breasts were starting to flush -- warm up -- get hot! I knew the signs. "He's a very hard worker," I said, doing my best to keep worry from my eyes. Although I didn't want it to happen my attention was on his hand inside my blouse, arousing me -- as I, for reasons I was having trouble figuring out, did nothing to prevent it. I had started to worry about what I might feel ... if he kept this up.
"He seems very diligent," he observed, hands inside my clothing, fondling front and rear.
"Very," I agreed, as it seemed to fit. At least, I hoped it did.
Our eyes rose together from my breast ... and his hand, and what it was doing to my breast. He looked at me. I looked at him. His expression was ... senior, important, something like that. Mine was more ... accommodating, slightly frightened, something like that. As our eyes seemed to 'plug in' to each others he continued to fondle and caress. I wasn't quite sure what I should do. I was the hostess after all. But more than that I was the wife of his employee. A new one at that. Jim had a three month probation to perform. His employment was seven days old, that's all. I tried a modest smile -- 'demure' perhaps a better word -- a smile I felt might display the self-assurance of an efficient hostess, despite what the hands of guests were doing elsewhere.
His eyes appeared to take it in their stride. He didn't smile back. Just looked me in the eye. And played with my breast. And my bare buttock inside my knickers. And pressed his groin against mine.
I made my eyes grow friendly. "How long have you been running the company?" I asked. Merely making conversation. He started to undo a button of my blouse. I made no move to stop him. "It seems very large," I went on, meaning the company, but aware of the growing erection now starting to nuzzle my groin. He pulled on another blouse button. I felt that give as well. "The company, I mean," I said, eyes filled with interest -- I hope. Another blouse button was loosed.
"Three years," he said, as his hand went into my blouse and calmly unfastened the front of my bra.
"Really," I said, showing interest. In fact I thought he'd been running the company longer than that. I gave a nervous smile. He didn't smile back. His hand felt large and broad, almost commanding, on the skin of my breast. I had to lean forward into the pressure as he'd started to knead, quite hard. Not hard as in hurt, but hard as in cause for concern. Demanding attention as it was. I did my best to hold still. His other hand inside my thong had dipped between my legs. Fingertips slipped over labia lips. He was playing with me gently below ... more roughly above ... how did he know I liked it like that?
Jim didn't even knew that!
"Did you like it when your uncle played with you?" he asked, back with Uncle Jim, as he played with me. Intimately now. Fingers sliding deep inside my thong.
"I didn't mind," I replied, truthfully. I hadn't at the time.
"Did he touch you as I am doing now?" he asked. Surprising me. I hadn't thought we were meant to acknowledge that this was taking place. I certainly didn't think we would talk about it.
"Sometimes," I replied, not really wanting to talk about it -- although willing, I suppose, to talk about Uncle Jim, who had, in fact, done this. I tried not to groan as a finger-tip, extended between my legs from behind, brushed my clitoris.
"And did you like it?"
I hesitated. "I didn't mind," I said, staying honest, keeping my eyes on his. He looked straight back as if I was unusual. I tried to keep my expression blank but bit my lower lip as his finger ran across my clitoris again.
"Did he play with your pussy?" he asked, as if he were asking my typing speed.
(I worked as a secretary once. Maybe he knew.)
"Sometimes," I admitted, but my mind was more on the finger that was brushing my clitoris than it was on Uncle Jim, or any of my uncles come to that, when similarly feeling that unfairly sensitively part of me. I arched my back as my pelvis kicked sharply in his hand. My eyes had closed.
"Very," I gasped, teeth clenched.
But it made no difference. He didn't let up as my pelvis, like an affectionate puppy, pulsed and kicked and squirmed as his fingers found my buttons and started to press them. "I don't ... Please. No ... Ngaaar," I groaned, hands flat on his chest, trying to push him away.
"I like sensitive people," he said. Then stopped, and gently eased me from him. He allowed our bodies to draw apart. Took his hands from my clothing, front and back. "I like you," he said, as the space between us grew.
I removed my hands from their defensive position on his chest to a more companionable spot on either shoulder. "Thank you," I mouthed, meaning Thank You for liking me -- as that surely could only be good for Jim -- and Thank You too for releasing me from where we'd been headed, as I wasn't sure what might have happened if he'd gone on like that.
I didn't want to think about it now. I brushed some strands of hair from my cheek. Despite the evening air I found, to my surprise, that I was perspiring. My face and chest were burning up. I would be brightly flushed, I knew, suddenly thankful it was dark out here. His hands had settled on my waist. He was holding me lightly in the 'V' of his legs. I didn't mind. Concern had passed.
Maybe I had passed, as well!
He seemed to be twisting the waistband of my skirt. I dropped my eyes. He was, I saw. I lifted my head enquiringly, to see his eyes were also on the waist-band of my skirt. My own dropped back, a frown of confusion on my face. I could hear laughter, far off in the house. Jim and Fletcher's wife. I wondered what they were laughing at. I looked over the shoulder of Jim's boss, at the twinkling lights of the city. I wondered what he was doing. I didn't want to look. Then, all of a sudden, I had to plant my feet firmly on the deck, so as not to twist round with the waistband. Then the motion stopped.
"There, that's better," said Fletcher, as if he'd just resolved some particularly knotty problem.
What was he talking about?
"Don't you think that's better?" he asked.
I had no idea.
"Go on," he said next.
"What was I saying?" I asked, trying to smile.
Which is when Jim called out from the house, "Mrs Fletcher asks if we can come out and join you?'
"Damn the woman," he snapped, his response so sharp and venomous I didn't dare move. "Not finished yet," he hissed, under his breath. "Tell him to show her some photos, or something," he rabbitted on.
I was at a loss. He clearly saw that. And what happened next explained the movement of the waistband of my skirt. The wrap-around part was now round the front, as I discovered when I felt the flap being lifted and his hand slip inside! As I tried to work out what to say to my husband I could feel his fingers on skin. The top of my leg, my groin, the lower tummy. Then I felt his fingers, slip inside my thong's meagre pouch. My back involuntarily arched, hard, and my pelvis kicked back out of range.
But not far enough!
Short of taking a step backwards I couldn't get distance between us. His hand merely came with my pelvis and all the rest that was inside my thong. But I couldn't step back! In case my husband was in range and wondered what was happening; because this guy was his boss, and would probably be pissed if I took away the toy I had suddenly become. So I stayed where I was, my back to the tall French windows of the sitting room, hoping they wouldn't come out. Hoping that if they were ALREADY out, then all they would see is my back, and the long black pleats of my skirt falling to my high-heeled pumps.
"I think," I said hesitantly, angling my head so that Jim might hear -- if he was already out -- while at the same time leaving my hips and legs where they were -- between his boss's. I swallowed, raised my voice and went on, "We're not quite finished here, Jim dear." Then I stopped. I stopped because the sensation of a stranger's finger casually stirring my private parts while I tried to converse with my husband was unsettling and -- and this part I didn't like -- had started to arouse me in a major way. The next voice I heard was Fletcher's wife.
She sounded slightly drunk. "I know you Dan Fletcher. You just want his cute little lady to yourself." In a quieter voice, clearly aimed at Jim, she added, "He can't keep his eyes off the lookers. Or his hands." She hiccupped. "We're coming out!" came next. My blouse was open. Damn it, and so was my bra! My hands flew to that. I stayed as I was facing him. Our groins close, my legs between his, his hand between mine as I searched for the sides of my bra ... to fasten the thing.
"Leave it!" he hissed.
How the hell could I! "I can't," I hissed back.
"Stay as you are facing me, they won't see a thing."
I didn't see how that could possibly work!
"What am I supposed to be doing, this close?" I hissed, needing a reason for Jim.
"Something in my eye."
"What are you two hatching up?" slurred Vivian Fletcher, not sounding as if she was a million miles away.
"Some damn thing in my eye, Tracy's blowing on the lid to dislodge it," said the guy with his hands in my pants, and a finger agonizingly at work not a million miles from a tingling clit.