Oggbashan Stew Pt. 02

"Of course, operator. Thank you. Please put her through."

"Will do, Mr Thomas."

"Mike? This is Wendy. I need your help, please, now..."

Wendy was obviously crying.

"Yes, Wendy," I replied. "Where? When -- OK, now. What help?"

"Could you come to the old theatre behind Simpson's Department Store with your bus?"

"My bus? Yes, I suppose so. It will take about twenty minutes to start it and get there."

"And can you bring your tool kit?"

"Tool kit, Wendy? What tools?"

"Housebreaking tools to get past locked doors. And -- have you still got a spare key to my apartment?"

"Key? Yes. Somewhere. You've lost yours?"

Wendy was renting the apartment that had been mine until two years ago. I ended the lease when I started buying the small house I live in now, with financial help from my parents and a mortgage.

"Please? As soon as you can. I'm not the only one who needs your help."

"OK, Wendy. I'll be there as soon as I can, with tools and the apartment key."

"Thank you. We'll be waiting. Bye."

Wendy hung up. The operator came back on the line.

"Mr Thomas, that call cost three shillings. It will be added to your next telephone account."

"Thank you, operator." I said.

I finished typing the sentence and put the typewriter, with the part-written essay, into its case.

I went downstairs, rummaged in a drawer for the old key to what was now Wendy's apartment, put my driving jacket on, and went out to the bombsite beside my house where I parked my bus. The bombsite had been part of the reason why I could buy my house. The bomb had destroyed the other half of the pair of semidetached houses and damaged the part I had bought. My purchase included the empty plot. Eventually, in a decade or so, I might build a garage on it. I had levelled some of it to park my car and the bus.

The bus was an ex-Royal Navy Utilecon, a Ford 10 cwt van converted to carry ten people. It was slow, noisy and not very comfortable but reliable. When I bought it I had been helping to run a boys' football club. Most of the team would fit into it and all we needed was a parent with a car for the rest. That was then. I had been thinking of selling the Utilecon and my upright Ford car and buying something more modern -- when I was slightly better off.

As usual, I started the Utilecon with the starting handle. The six-volt battery didn't work very well in cold weather, as it was now in January. I left the engine running. I'd forgotten the tool box.

I set off, grateful for the weak sunlight. The Ford's headlights weren't great. I hoped that whatever Wendy needed wouldn't mean driving after dark.

The old theatre was on what is now a back service road behind the High Street. The theatre's original entrance had been on the High Street but Simpson's department store, built in the 1930s, had blocked that.

I was startled to see Wendy standing by the theatre talking to two policemen. I didn't surprise me that she was talking to policemen, but because she was wearing a massive-skirted wedding dress and even a veil trailing down her back. There were a couple of women peering out of the theatre's door. They looked very skimpily dressed for January.

Wendy waved as I pulled up. The policemen turned around as I walked up to the three of them.

"Mr Thomas?" A policeman asked.

"Yes," I said cautiously.

"We have taken statements from everyone involved. If you can get them home, we'd appreciate it."

He turned back to Wendy.

"Miss James, if any of you need help, dial 999 and we'll send someone when we can. Change your locks as soon as possible. We'll be in touch during the week."

"Thank you," Wendy said.

"James?" Wendy said, "You might need to avert your eyes as we get in your bus."

"OK", I replied. I opened the back doors.

I was surprised again as five very scantily-dressed women clambered into the bus. What they were wearing might be appropriate on a beach if it was a hot August day. Now there were goosepimples showing.

Wendy climbed into the passenger seat. I started the engine.

"Where to?" I asked.

"My apartment first," Wendy replied. "You've got the key?"

I nodded.

"Then get us there before we freeze."

It took five minutes. I gave the spare key to Wendy. She rushed inside, returning with a heap of coats. The other five women wrapped themselves as best they could and entered. I locked the bus and followed them.

"Make some tea, please, James," Wendy asked, "while we six try to find something better to wear."

Better? I though Wendy looked fantastic in a wedding gown even if it wasn't very practical for travelling in the Utilecon. I hadn't appreciated just how well-developed Wendy was until I saw her breasts almost falling out of a bodice which was probably too small for her.

The six women went into Wendy's bedroom while I put the kettle on and found the large catering teapot I had left when I moved out. It looked as if the teapot hadn't been used since then. I rinsed it out under the cold tap in the sink before warming it from the kettle. I made two gallons of strong tea, found the milk and sugar, and waited for the women to emerge.

When they did, they were obviously all wearing Wendy's clothes. They fitted two of them reasonably. On one they were too small; on the other two they were very loose and baggy. I didn't recognise the other five women.

I poured the tea, adding milk and sugar as requested. We all stayed in the kitchen, now, as it had been when I lived here, the warmest part of the apartment.

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Story 036

Mrs Lamb Ch 02

This is a continuation of my 2006 story 'Mrs Lamb'.

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Six months ago, after clearing out Mrs Lamb's blocked drains, she had rewarded me first by breast feeding me and then she was my first ever sexual partner. I had been a virgin.

She had been twenty-five years old to my eighteen and a half. I still thought in half-years. I was studying agricultural science at our local university but living at home. I had been commuting by bus. A real inconvenience was that the last bus to our village arrived at 6pm. Until I passed my driving test I couldn't take part in any evening events at the university.

Mrs Lamb had been widowed a year earlier and had a posthumous daughter, six months old and with the grandparents when I cleared Mrs Lamb's drains -- and lost my virgin status.

In the six months since then I had spent more time with Mrs Lamb. My paternal grandfather was getting frail. Grandmother couldn't cope with him on her own so my mother was frequently staying at their house. My father, as a working farmer, had very little spare time for anything. He and I had been helping Mrs Lamb with maintenance on her house and property. In exchange she had been preparing evening meals, in her house because she had to look after her baby daughter.

Now I am nineteen. I think I have finished growing. I am almost exactly the same height as Mrs Lamb, except when she is wearing heels -- which she usually does.

I had thought of her as Mrs Lamb, the beautiful woman neighbour down the lane past our house. Now she has asked me to call her Jean. She calls me Tom but still calls my father Mr Holland. Jean's parents are often at her house to look after their granddaughter, but really to enjoy playing with her. Little Sarah Lamb is always smiling when she's not giggling. She accepts my father and me as part of her family. Until six months ago Jean used to treat me more like a young teenager. Since then she behaves as if I am an adult male. She knows I love her and would do anything for her.

Jean is still the only woman I have had sex with. Or did she have sex with me? I think I was her victim because she had tied me up with her silk scarves before she rode me. Seeing her silk scarves gets me excited. Jean wears them every day. I would be constantly excited by her and her scarves except that I have so much coursework to do.

She knows that I find the lack of a driving licence frustrating. I failed my first test for lack of mirror use and for fluffing gear changes in heavy traffic. There are so few cars around in our village that the traffic in the town where the driving tests are conducted worries me. I would like more driving lessons in traffic but I don't have time to go to the town by bus. If the driving instructor came to me most of my lesson would be lost by driving to and from the town.

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It started when I was just 18 and although at university I was still living with my parents in a small village. As a teenager I had had the normal urges but in such a small place where everybody knew everyone else it was difficult to get more than a kiss and a cuddle from the local girls. They wanted commitment, eventually marriage, and knew too well how easy it was for them to lose their reputation. They would go a little way but then nothing would make them go further. I couldn't link up with women at the university because I had to catch the last bus to the village at 6 pm. Until I passed my driving test, got a car and could stay as long as I liked... I was frustrated as every normally-sexed man would be.

But I had my fantasies. I could dream of film stars, girl singers and the bra models in my mother's magazines. They helped but I wanted the real thing, not illusions on a screen, songs on the radio or pictures on a page.

However there was Mrs Lamb. She was flesh and blood. She was real. She was close. She was much older than me but seemed my ideal of the mature woman. How naive I was. This "older" woman was all of 25 years old but seemed so unattainable. Her husband had been killed in a farm accident 12 months earlier leaving her to produce a posthumous daughter who was six months old. Mrs Lamb was ideal fantasy material for my fevered imagination. She had natural blonde hair with a soft curl. She was slim but well developed in the right places. At the time she was slightly taller than me, even in her bare feet. I had a real case of puppy love for her.

Mrs Lamb lived about 200 metres away down a farm lane. To get to the village she had to pass our house and I watched her push her pram nearly every day. She dressed simply but elegantly, always wearing a calf-length skirt, whatever the weather. The contrast with the other women of the village was stark. Most of them wore jeans or dungarees and looked ready to muck out a stable at a moment's notice. Even those who wore skirts had sensible stiff tweedy ones totally unlike her flowing hems that emphasised her graceful movements. Her winter skirts glided around her legs but her summer ones floated like gossamer. Even her old "gardening" skirts were clean and well ironed. But her real distinguishing item of dress was her headscarf. Apparently she had started collecting headscarves when she was a girl. She wore a different one every day. Some villagers joked that she had one for every day of the year. For all I know that was true because I never noticed her wear the same one twice. I recognised that her headscarves had an air that other women's didn't but it was much later before I realised that all of them were pure silk.

To help to raise money for the eventual purchase of a car I was always willing to do odd jobs around the village which is how I got to know Mrs Lamb better. She'd ask me to get things for her from the village shop, to help her in her garden - little things like that. She was nice to be near and I adored her. I didn't think that she had noticed until the day her drains blocked. It was an unfortunate day for it to happen. The village cricket team was playing an important match and nearly everyone had gone to support them. There was no one around except me and the only reason I was there was some important course work that I'd been putting off. I wasn't that interested in cricket anyway. I'd just finished the final page when I heard Mrs Lamb' voice in the kitchen.

"Is anyone at home?" she called

"Yes, Mrs Lamb, but only me" I replied jumping from my chair and going towards the stairs. She looked up at me. My heart flipped. Here was my dream woman, in my house, smiling at me.

"Hello Tom. I'm sorry to disturb you but I've got a problem with my drains, again. Do you..."

I didn't let her finish. I knew about drains. Dad's drain rods were in the shed and had provided me with a useful income.

"Of course, Mrs Lamb" I said "I can sort out your drains. I'll just get the rods and I'll be with you in a couple of minutes."

"Thank you, Tom. I'll be ever so grateful."

Then I realised a snag. I was properly dressed, not in working clothes. If the drains were badly blocked I'd have to change. I didn't want to go to HER house in my mucky jeans and T-shirt so I hoped that the drains wouldn't be a real problem. If they were I'd have to change. I grabbed the work clothes and shoved them in a carrier bag. Collecting the rods, I followed Mrs Lamb's retreating figure down the farm lane. I watched the way her hips moved, her skirt swayed and her headscarf fluttered in the breeze ahead of me. It was no use. I was getting really excited. If I got too excited I'd have a problem concealing my growing erection. I tried to ignore the evidence of my eyes but...

When we reached the house the smell of drains was obvious. There was a large seepage across the farmyard. I'd have to change into my working clothes even if it meant that I wouldn't look my best.

"Mrs Lamb!" I called "Is there somewhere where I can change? I'll have to put some old clothes on."

"Certainly, Tom" she replied "You can change in the scullery." She showed me the small room leading off the kitchen. Apart from the door, there was a small high window with obscure glass. I slipped in, shut the door to the kitchen, and started to change. My erection slowed me down a bit but it didn't take long.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked through the door.

"Afterwards, perhaps" I replied nervously. A cup of tea with her would be fantastic - but not if I was covered in sewage!

As I came out into the kitchen I realised something I should have noticed before. The baby wasn't around. I'd rarely seen her without the baby. I was so startled that I blurted out...

"Where's the baby?"

"She's staying with my in-laws this weekend. They've wanted to have her visit them but I didn't want her to go until she was easier to cope with. They're not old, but frequent feeding and nappy changes might have been a bit too much of a shock. She feeds regularly now and they've been practising with the disposable nappies I use..."

Even my brain took just a few seconds to make the connection. "disposable nappies" and "blocked drains" were an obvious cause and effect. I laughed.

She looked at me as if I'd gone stark staring mad. I spluttered before I could explain.

"That's the answer!" I said. "Disposable nappies mean blocked drains. Despite what the manufacturers say, you can't flush them down the toilet - at least not in the country."

"Oh. Is that so? I've been using them for a couple of months."

My heart sank. A couple of months! That would be a massive blockage.

"I'd better get started then."

I lifted the first manhole near the house. It was full of nappies. I lifted the next. So was that one. I lifted the third. That was too! By the fourth manhole I was nearly at the road but at last it was clear. I'd have to push all the nappies back up the pipe until all were gone. I fetched a wheelbarrow and shovel and started beside the house. When the first manhole was clear I started on the second. Then with the rods I pushed the blockage back to the first, cleared it again and so on. It took hours! I was sweating, mired to the knees in s**t, and going off the idea of babies. Finally I'd finished. I ran water down the pipes until they were absolutely clear. I'd been so busy that I hadn't noticed what Mrs Lamb had been up to. As long as she hadn't been flushing anything down those drains she could have flown around the farmyard on a broomstick and I wouldn't have been aware of it. I washed down the wheelbarrow, the shovel and the rods and slowly walked towards her house. I couldn't enter it now... not in the state I was in. I'd love a cup of tea but I stank. I reeked. My feet squelched in my trainers. My jeans stuck to my legs and even my T-shirt was stained. My heart sank. I may have helped my ideal woman, but she wouldn't want to come near me now!

There she was! She was smiling at me as if I was something beautiful instead of a smelly object a skunk would run a mile from. Despite the impact of her smile I noticed that she had changed something about her appearance. She was wearing three scarves, one round her head as normal, one loosely knotted around her neck, and a large one tied around her waist, over her skirt.

"Come round to the side door, Tom" she said. "There's a shower room just inside the door and you can clean up."

There was. A step inside and there was a fully tiled room, bath, shower and all. She turned away.

"See you in the kitchen in a few minutes. Just drop your clothes on the floor. I'll wash them for you."

Then she was gone.

That shower was bliss. There was soap, shampoo, towels. I made a good job of cleaning myself, soaping all over three times and really rinsing myself free of that clinging odour. Then I panicked. No clothes! I'd left my other clothes in the scullery! Then I saw a man's dressing gown hanging on the door. I grabbed it as if it was a lifeline and wrapped it round me. I tiptoed through the house to the kitchen and there was the promised cup of tea ... scones, cream and cakes, and bread ... a full meal. At first I enjoyed that meal but then her presence began to affect me again and that dressing gown could barely conceal my excitement.

We'd hardly spoken during the meal except when she offered me more to eat but as I finished I saw her looking quizzically at me.

"What am I going to do with you, Tom?" she asked "You've done a real man's work, and done it well. How can I repay you?"

My thoughts must have been transparent. I thought of one way she could repay me ... but to her I was only a boy.

"I see ..." she said slowly. I couldn't believe that she understood my need, my urge and my desire for her.

She paused. "Today you've behaved like a man. It is only fair that I should reward you like a man. But..." She stopped for a while "... since you are so young, and probably impetuous, I'll have to take precautions."

I had lost her train of thought at that point. The only "precautions" I knew about were bought in the barber's shop in hushed tones and never used, given the local girls' unassailable virtue. What "precautions" could she mean?

She stood up. "Come here, Tom." she said. I stood too, wrapping that dressing gown as securely as I could. I walked round the table to her.

"Slide your arms out of the dressing gown sleeves"

I did, trying to preserve my modesty.

"Cross your hands behind your back for me, please, Tom."

I did, wonderingly.

I felt her hands on my wrists and then the soft slither of one of her scarves. She wrapped the scarf around one wrist and tied it. It held my wrist like a caress. Then the scarf slipped over the other wrist and was wound over them both. Finally she tightened the scarf and my wrists were secured. I was scared. The dressing gown would slip off unless I was very careful.

"Come with me, Tom"

She took me by the shoulder and led me upstairs and into her bedroom. There was the bed. I still didn't let myself believe that she was actually going to seduce me. I hoped, how I hoped, but it couldn't be true, could it?

She pushed me to sit on to the bed. The dressing gown finally revealed what I had been trying to hide. She looked down at me.

"I do believe you like me, Tom" she said. I nodded mutely.

"Well, we'll have to do something to reward you for all your work for someone you 'like', won't we."