A New Georgy-Girl

I'm not much of a dancer, but having Georgy in my arms made me look much better than I actually was. She danced every number with me, and when she sat one out someone would invariably ask her to dance and she'd tell them "thanks, but I don't think my husband would like it!" and they'd look at me, kind of gulp, and back away slowly, while that musical tinkle she used for a laugh rang out.

Slow dancing with her was even more of a challenge; as she rubbed against me I could feel myself hardening, and she'd looked up at me and grinned "Really, Will, I can't take you anywhere!"

That didn't help; it only got more... pronounced, which made her grind and gyrate against me even more.

"Georgy, cut it out, you'll get us chucked out!" I groaned, and she kissed me and grabbed my jaw, turning my head to look at the spectacularly booby blonde in a sparkly dress made of a few fragments of glittery stuff with the boyfriend lost in her awe-inspiring cleavage who was bumping and grinding and basically dry-humping in the middle of the dance floor.

Georgy grinned up at me, her eyes shining with mischief.

"Relax Ty, everyone's watching the floor-show, no-one's looking, so take the fun, honey-bun!"

The way she went to town on my throbbing cock was sheer poetry in motion; what she toned-down in overt dry-humping she made up for in smouldering sexual supercharge; as she gyrated against me I was praying desperately to the gods of premature ejaculation to look the other way, just this once, because not here, please...

After an agony of enduring (is that even the right word?) her subtle version of bump and grind I was ready to drag her home and exert severe punishment with my cock, and she knew it, judging by the taunting grin and teasing looks. A few other couples had caught on to what was happening right out there in public and decided to follow suit, and I needed to get us out of there before a full-on Roman orgy erupted.

The air sang with the sweet, heady cocktail of expensive perfume and arousal, and I wasn't immune to it.

Neither was Georgy, judging by the way she rubbed and ground her mons against mine as we dirty danced just this side of breaking the law until I couldn't take any more.

The subtle thumping of knees in the dark corners of the club as girls dropped to their knees and gave their boyfriends for real what the dance floor had promised was all the signal I needed, and so I dragged Georgy out of there, visible erection be damned; no-one cared anyway, they were too busy taking care of business off the dance floor, and I really didn't want to be there when the cops came calling...

We drove home with my eyes fixed on the road and Georgy's fingers firmly wrapped around my aching hardness; the way I was feeling, the twenty-minute drive home seemed to take half the night, and I was literally drenched in sweat when we screeched to a halt and half-climbed-half fell out of the car. As I slammed the car door Georgy was all over me, kissing me like a crazy person while I groped and squeezed everything I could reach, particularly enjoying her gasp and even harder kiss when I squeezed then pulled her buttocks apart as we kissed with almost bruising force. Her body felt warm and smooth under her dress, and I realised she'd gone commando under that tiny club dress she was wearing.

My cock went from rock hard to absolute blue-steel at the thought I'd been grind-dancing with her in public while all the time she'd been practically naked, and now I wanted to fuck her so hard I couldn't think straight. Georgy apparently felt the same way, if her frenzied groping of me was anything to go by, and we rushed indoors peeling off clothing in our haste to get naked.

I don't remember running up to my room, one minute we were face-sucking like a pair of horny lampreys in the foyer, next thing I knew I was falling naked onto my bed with an equally naked Georgy on top of me. A quick adjustment, a quick thrust, and she was sliding down onto me, her eyes bugging and her mouth open in a soundless scream as my swollen, over-stimulated cock jammed in and stretched her open all at once.

She rode me like a frenzied tiger, growling and gasping as she pounded herself onto me, and all I had to do was hang on for dear life and enjoy the sight of her sexy little boobs bouncing and bobbing as she came again and again, her clutching pussy rippling over my length like it was playing scales on it, sending me into orbit with her.

When I came it was like something had lit the blue touch-paper inside her, because she literally exploded into orgasm, taking me even higher with her; they must have heard her scream half-way across the county, if not my yell as I let go would have been as I came so hard I actually thought my cock had detonated inside her.

Georgy quivered atop me for long, breathless seconds as her pussy rippled and squeezed me, milking every last drop of spunk out of me, before collapsing onto me, our sweat-slick bodies gluing us together into one big orgasmic mass. I was literally speechless, my throat ragged and raw from the way I'd yelled as I came so forcefully inside her.

Georgy looked to be in about the same state; here heart thudded against mine as we slowly climbed down from that place and lay still, muscles too stretched and tired after such enormous exertion to do anything except let us lie there bonelessly, absolutely wrung out.

I was just about dozing off when Georgy stirred and kissed me long and soulfully, before grinning and rubbing noses with me.

"Love you soldier-boy!" she murmured, "make sure you keep giving me more of the same, Tyler Wilmot, now you know how much I need you!"

She giggled when I clamped my hands around her firm, toned buttocks, massaging the pert globes as I replied with my nickname for her since she was a toddler.

"Love you too, Georgy-Girl!"

*****

Work on the house continued apace; I could only concentrate on one set of big problems at a time, and getting the house finished, staged, and sold seemed to be the most pressing if we were ever going to survive, so we forged ahead with it. With Georgy keeping a close eye on our costs, and paying attention to the period authenticity of the features and finishes, we were looking at a very likely sale estimate somewhere near the top end of the market for a property of its type.

My house wasn't going on sale at a low-ball, knockdown price just to get rid of it, the amount we were spending to get it just right didn't allow for that, but the top-market price we were looking for would be justified by the quality and authenticity of the renovation if we got it right, I would have bet the farm on it.

Most of the period detail came about because of an idea Georgy had; she came to me with an idea that suddenly made light-bulbs and sparklers go on above my head.

"Ty, why don't we go through building salvage and reclamation centres, they're everywhere, here, look at this..."

She showed me a brochure from a reclamation yard not a mile from the house, they had stock of reclaimed aged and seasoned wood panelling, Deal, Hornbeam, Oak, and Teak floorboards and, most importantly, reclaimed Georgian Fletton brick.

"We need those, Ty, they'll match the original bricks, modern bricks are too big and they look too new, we need to make the rebuilds and restorations blend-in, not stand out. And look at this, here's a company that takes old panelled doors and tank-dips them to strip off the old lead paint; it'll save us a fortune, and it'll be green and safe, same for the windows and casements; if we use old, reclaimed, and rebuilt, we'll save a bomb, what do you say?"

Of course she was right, those places turned out to be goldmines of period décor trim, fitments, and old, seasoned wood we could use to recreate the wainscoting buyers of period Georgian and Regency properties seemed to think was an absolute essential.

They also yielded a real bonus, several matching silver crystal chandeliers and wall sconces, tarnished black with centuries of tarnish but recoverable and, best of all, of the correct period, and authentic period ornate and fluted doorknobs, escutcheons, and finger-plates. A little elbow grease, some polish and some fine steel wool, and we got the brass door furniture looking like it had been in place and lovingly cared for by generations of housemaids, not salvaged en-mass and newly renovated.

The crystal chandeliers and sconces we cleaned of generations of tarnish by lining an old enamel bathtub with aluminium kitchen foil and submerging them overnight in a solution of washing soda, white vinegar and cold water and letting the chemical reaction strip the tarnish off the silver without aggressively polishing and possibly damaging the antique silver.

As a bonus, it also cleaned the hand-cut crystals of two hundred years of candle grease, pipe smoke, and nicotine, restoring their cut-glass sparkle, and a local company converted them to electric without altering their construction.

What we couldn't find in the reclamation yards we made, and Georgy quickly learned how to use a power-planer and router table with a tongue and groove bit set as well as I could.

After a few false starts (and a lot of me standing behind her and 'instructing' her, which was really just an excuse to get my hands on her; hot girls and power-tools, what red-blooded male can resist that combination?) I had her cutting old oak floorboards on the sliding chop saw, planning them down evenly and turning them into perfect tongue and grooved panelling to make replacement wainscoting to restore that original late-Georgian look.

She cut them, I stained them, and we hired a joiner to install them with criss-cross battens to simulate authentic Georgian 'pigeonhole' wainscot panelling.

I once commented on how well she'd adapted to 'guy-world' and she gave me that smile and tinkling laugh that made hot icicles race up and down my spine.

"I never knew this could be such fun, Will, but it's only fun because you're here," she'd smiled, "and because this is our future, isn't it? I just realised that; what we're doing here is making our future happen, yours and mine... and anyone else who comes along..."

It took me a second to realise just what she'd just said, and so I had to reach out, hit the 'Off' button, and kiss her thoroughly while the idea of a family with her settled through me and made a warm glow I'd never really noticed suddenly brighten and come alive.

She was right, though; once our lives were settled, we had some planning to get down to, a future that had nothing to do with money, and everything to do with us.

Working on the house picked up pace after that, now I knew we had an agenda, and things to do that ensured that happened.

*

Things like stripping salvaged window frames of lead paint and re-glazing them with triple-glazing while still keeping them period-authentic, then installing them, were obviously far beyond us, but there were contractors who could and would do it properly.

Roofing lead-work, guttering, gullies, and downspouts, and tiling and slating was likewise beyond us, so specialists would have to do that, at an unavoidable cost, but we had no choice.

The same for central heating and hot water, electrical supplies, lighting, and electrical ring-mains, gas, clean water-supply, plumbing, and sewage, and modern luxuries like rainfall showers, wet-rooms, bidets, proper toilets, and spa-baths in the main bedroom suites, which was what we saw as ticking the 'luxury' boxes for potential buyers.

Of course, experts and craftsmen would have to do those, we couldn't, and it wasn't cheap, but it was quicker than we could manage it, and frankly, the less time we spent on this project the more profit we were (hopefully) going to realise.

We never really talked about it, but we both knew, if we cleaned up on this project, or even did better than just broke even, then maybe this kind of property development was our way forward, and possibly the best way we had of keeping the lights on at home if the Probate hearings dragged on for more than a year, which, unfortunately, seemed highly likely.

Still, with Georgy on my side helping me, propping me up, and keeping me focused I knew we could do it; we were a team, and we were doing this for us, not just as a way to make money.

Georgy and I didn't do the bulk of the work ourselves; it would have been an impossibly big task and taken forever, so we bit the bullet and dipped further into that trunk and hired specialist tradesmen to carry out the jobs that needed licensed or certified tradesmen to do them properly; we even hired a team of gardeners to pretty-up the ramshackle wilderness that was once a formal garden.

Every so often a woman from English Heritage would show up with a clipboard and a camera and wander through the site, snapping away and making notes, and then she'd tap her teeth with her pencil and go away. A week later I'd get a list from English Heritage of (mostly minor) things to change, things to ensure, things they approved of, and suggestions regarding finishes, colours, and architectural details, which annoyed me, but I had no choice but to comply.

I complied, because if they didn't like something, or I finished something in a way they didn't feel was accurate to the period, or was unsympathetic to the overall Grading and Listing, they were quite capable of making me take it out and redo it, and I'd have no choice, the law was on their side.

I did periodically check with Georgy how we were doing expenses-wise, but she was happy that we were surprisingly healthy on costs; buying, stripping-back, and reworking salvaged materials ourselves obviously made good financial sense, and saved us a ton of money over brand new, plus the old materials blended well into the fabric of the building and didn't look obviously repro or newly constructed.

All things considered, and after a very favourable, detailed safety report from the firm of specialist structural surveyors and architectural engineers we engaged to check out the structural work and repairs, and some very enthusiastic up-checks from the lady from English Heritage regarding the external finish and authentic appearance of the building, it looked like we were in the home straight.

All we needed to do was complete the internal finishes with authentic or sympathetic Georgian-style décor with a subdued modern accent, dress the house properly to show it at its best, and get in a specialist estate agent and valuer to price and hopefully sell the property to our target market.

Yes, we looked like we'd recovered from Mother's loss and the trauma that went with that whole episode, and moved forward with our lives, but we'd forgotten one very important fact: criminals like Max, playing for the kind of stakes he was banking on, seldom work alone, which we were to find out soon enough...

Having received the 'all-clear' from the structural surveyors, we paid a visit to 'The Georgian House' in Bristol, an eighteenth-century house that had been restored, furnished, and decorated exactly as it would have been when the original wealthy family of sugar importers had lived there in the 1780's and now preserved as a museum. We needed to get an idea of how a Georgian/Regency house would have looked, so we spent a couple of days exhaustively photographing colours, finishes, furniture, and drapery, so we could pick and choose for our house from the rooms full of antique furniture stashed in the extensive attics and lumber-rooms back home. As far as we knew, we had everything we'd need to dress the house and hopefully enhance buyer-appeal.

This became our final, and most absorbing phase of the project; Georgy and Aunt Kay winnowed through the stacks of stored furniture and made lists of everything we needed; any furniture out of period or just too blocky and ugly was ignored, everything else that looked the part or was sufficiently elegant to complement a particular room was tagged and noted on the floor-plans Georgy had drawn up.

There were six bedroom suites to stage, and most of the antique beds we had in storage were too obviously Victorian, so we bought modern bedclothes, and Aunt Kay measured and ran up simple brocade counterpanes while our joiner friend made up faux, Period-accurate four-poster bed frames to make the Victorian beds look more in keeping with the opulence and grandeur we were trying to suggest.

The walls were finished in reproduction powder blue or deep red flock wallpaper, as they would have been in Georgian/Regency times, and ceilings decorated with modern reproduction ornamental plasterwork suggesting the intricate John Adam-style plasterwork that would likely have been there originally.

While we were doing this, absorbed in our project, and revelling in our warm, creative glow, we let our guard down and the snakes slithered in...

*****

I was working alone at the house, happily going through my snagging list and tidying up loose ends when I noticed how late it was. Usually, if I was alone at the house and Georgy hadn't heard from me by about five o'clock she called me to check if I was on my way home. It was after seven, and there were no missed calls on my phone, so I called her, only for it to ring then go to voicemail. After my fourth attempt to call her I rang Aunt Kay's number, same result, straight to voicemail too.

Starting to feel uneasy, I rang the house number, but it just rang out. Now I was really worried; all three phones couldn't be out, and I knew they were at home, Georgy had gone home early to help Aunt Kay make dinner. What was going on, and why hadn't anyone tried to reach me?

My spidey-senses were tingling and the alarm bells were starting to ring; something was wrong at home, I could feel it. I decided to head home, the snagging list could wait, and something was telling me they really needed me. Georgy had taken my Jeep when she'd left, but I had my mountain bike with me, not as fast as the Jeep but I didn't have too far to go, just a couple of miles, plus it was quiet; if there really was something wrong at home I could sneak up without advertising my presence.

It took forever to get home, with all the possible trouble-scenarios running through my mind it felt like I was crawling along, but at last the main gates, open as always, hove into view. The house looked fine, peaceful, the aged Cotswold stone glowing golden in the evening sun.

I started to relax, but then I spotted a filthy, nondescript old white Ford Transit van parked mostly out of sight behind the Yew topiary bushes near the central portico. I skidded to a halt and pulled in behind one of the perfectly symmetrical conical Cypress topiaries planted in a feature avenue on either side of the private carriage-drive.

As I did, two large, shaven-headed men in bomber jackets and jeans came out of the front door and looked up along the driveway. My heart leaped into my mouth when I saw one of them was carrying a sawn-off shotgun.

Cold sweat prickled along my spine. What the hell were armed thugs doing in my home, and what did they want? As I watched, one of them called out and a third man stuck his head out of the door, said something, and ducked back inside. At least three men, maybe more inside, in my home, armed. My stomach dropped at the sick, stabbing realisation that Georgy and Aunt Kay were in there with them, maybe injured or incapacitated.

I cast around, what to do, what to do? If I called the police they'd come charging up lights and sirens going full blaze, and who knew what those people would do to Georgy and Aunt Kay; hold them hostage, or maybe even kill them? I couldn't risk that, think Tyler, think!

As I thought it suddenly became crystal clear; those men didn't know I was here, I knew how to get into the house unseen and unheard, I'd been doing it since I was twelve years old, and if I was in there I could do something; I was a trained soldier for Chrissake, a blooded combat soldier to boot, not some logistics desk-jockey supply clerk; tactics, planning, infiltration, and threat-nullification were supposed to be my strengths, it's what I did in the sandbox for four years and I was still alive, so I must have been doing it right.