Pamela Ch. 06: Lilac Hunt

In my mind I translated his email to say that 'that rather nice little something had called to say she had a problem with waiting all afternoon for his cock so why doesn't he come round to her place earlier than planned so she can spend all afternoon grinding on it?'. I smiled. Lucky bastard.

Munching on my sandwich, I perused the headlines in the paper, soon realising there was little of interest so caught up on the news headlines online. It was much the same so, with a sudden inspiration that prompted a surge in my trousers, I plugged in the name of a certain Canadian tennis player into a search engine. Up came the list of links and my eyes caught something new so I clicked on it.

A second later I found myself looking at a picture of Eugenie Bouchard that I hadn't seen before. She was taking a selfie. How good she looked in those ultra-short cut-off jeans. But it was the way she wore a black halter-neck lace body on top that just about covered her braless tits that made me hard. I slipped the belt on my trousers and unzipped, my right hand travelling down the front of my boxers to take hold of my shaft, revelling in the sensation.

"Oh fuck!" I gasped aloud, my gaze fastened on Eugenie's nipples before I started to talk to her on the screen. "I just want to run my hands under that lace thing and suck your fucking tits and nip your fucking nipples with my fucking teeth!"

I blew out a deep breath. What a girl.

"Oh yes Eugenie," I went on, talking to her picture on the screen, "I want you on your knees, sucking my cock while Pamela takes you with a strap-on from behind, fingering your arse!"

I knew I was getting myself close. Too close.

"Then turn you round," I went on, my eyes closed, imagining the scene. "That's it, Eugenie, get that fucking tongue inside Pamela's fucking cunt ... I'm going to ... oh fuck!"

Desperately, I reached out for some tissues from the box on my desk. For once, a bunch came out easily from the box and I pushed the whole lot down to catch as much as I could of everything that my cock was spurting. It was touch and go. The first jet of cum had already hit my shirt but I managed to stay the rest into the tissues. Oh it had been so good, sometimes a quick cum was the best. Another exhaled breath and it was over.

"You, young lady," I said to Eugenie. "One day, just you wait ... one day!"

I cleaned up, even managing to wipe my shirt clean of cum and with a spray of deodorant, I was restored to standard business dress. It had been a close-run thing though.

The afternoon proved to be busy but slowed considerably by four o'clock so I decided to head off for home early. One advantage of travelling before the rush hour was that the roads out of town were clear and it wasn't many minutes until I was approaching Fucton.

Slowing down for the speed limit, I cruised past the cafe, 'Crumpets', and saw lots of customers enjoying the afternoon sun as they sat at the outside tables, sampling the cuisine on offer. I was almost beyond the place when I caught a fleeting glimpse of a slim blonde who was serving and wondered whether she was the sexy manageress I had heard about. It was enough to know that, had I been a customer, I would have preferred to eat her than whatever she was serving.

Five minutes later, the crunching of my car tyres on the gravel drive as I drew off the road heralded my return to Harlot Hall. I cruised around to park alongside Pamela's car at the side of the house, noticing some vehicle tracks that looked heavier than a car alongside.

"I'm home, baby!" I called out as I stepped through the front door into the hall. There was no answer but she couldn't have gone far without her car, and certainly no farther than the village. She was somewhere in the house.

Thinking I might surprise her, I crossed the hall to my right and passed through the small dining room to enter the large drawing room which took up the whole of the west side of the Hall but she wasn't there. I walked the length of the room to exit into what Pamela referred to as 'The Pub' which was a small sitting room at the rear of the house with a built-in walk-in bar with stools around a bar-counter with a return. No sign of her there.

I moved on through the billiard room where she occasionally liked to upset my practice for the village team by climbing up onto the table to sit in one of the corners with her legs apart, offering me a tighter pocket to aim at than normal. On to the music room, which boasts a grand piano which neither of us play but may do one day, to turn into the library which covers the whole of the east side of the Hall.

I like the library as it catches the sun in the early morning. There was still no sign of the lady. On to the front of the house again, turning left past a cloakroom into the open space of the hall with the front entrance on the right, the foot of the grand staircase behind me on my left, the large Inglenook fireplace facing the front entrance with the stairs down to the kitchen to the left of the small dining room where I had started my search.

"Where is she?" I mused to myself before recalling she was cooking dinner so went downstairs to the kitchen area on the lower ground floor. All was quiet so I returned to the hall and headed off up the main stairs to step onto the gallery landing which furnishes a view over the oak balustrade down into the hall.

I turned to the right towards the master bedroom which, with Pamela's bathroom and dressing room, took the whole of the west side of the Hall, positioned, as it was above the drawing room. Adjacent was my dressing room so I turned into there to change. I threw some jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and continued my search by returning to the landing, turning right, passing the stairs down and those up to the second floor to arrive at the three doors at the end of the corridor.

I pushed open the door to the one on the left which is the guest bedroom suite but that was predictably vacant. Optimistically, I tried the door on the right which is the small drawing room but didn't see anything unusual. That just left the one facing the corridor. The Playroom. Somehow it seemed a given that that is where I would find her. I pushed open the door, totally unsure what I might find.

"Come in, baby," called Pamela. "What do you think?"

I entered, expecting to find the huge room just half-used as normal, but a glass-mirrored wall had sectioned off the area Pamela had suggested be made into her 'dungeon'. Not only that, but where a long wardrobe used to be immediately to the right, this had also been sectioned off by another mirrored wall in front of where the wardrobe had been, making the remaining room narrower by about three feet. The enormous bed still had its head to the right with Pamela sitting back against a bank of pillows, and to the left was still the huge screen to watch 'questionable' videos. I was gobsmacked.

"Now you know why I took the day off," she went on as I gazed around the room. "I ordered the mirrored walls some time ago, before we talked about my plans for playing with maids. They arrived on a truck not long after you left for work this morning and it only took the guys until lunchtime to do the work."

"It's ... it's amazing," I stammered, "but this room is smaller where the wardrobe was. So what's happened to the sex toys and your outfits and the videos and the dirty magazines? What's happened to them?"

She slid off the bed and came over to take my hand.

"Come with me," she purred, leading me out of the room and back to the corridor where she opened the door into the small drawing room. Enlightenment hit me as I recalled there was access into the Playroom, or rather the remaining part of it. We entered.

"Welcome to my dungeon," she announced proudly as we stood in the middle of the room. It didn't look like one, of course, as it was an empty space with windows overlooking the gardens. The reverse sides of the mirrored walls just looked like any other plasterboard walls needing decoration but then I noticed a new door on the far left.

"What's through that door?" I asked, intrigued. She smiled.

"Go and take a look," she invited, obviously enjoying herself hugely.

I went across and opened the door. It was quite dark inside but I saw a light switch on the left so flicked it on. I saw I was in a long, narrow room, about four feet wide at the most, with the 'missing' wardrobe positioned on the right. I opened the last of the three doors and saw the shelves hosting our collection of sex toys. So that was where they had gone. I closed the wardrobe door again and moved further into the room, climbing three steps to stand on a raised platform on which two small armchairs were positioned."

"Take a seat," she invited. "Go on."

I did and she took the other. No more than eighteen inches in front of my face there was a dark grey panel as wide as the platform and from ceiling to floor. It had to be the reverse side of the second set of mirrored walls. I looked at Pamela, unsure what I was supposed to do next. Without a word, she reached over to a small rotatable switch which she turned. With increasing amazement, as the light increased, I realised I could see into the Playroom itself.

"It's the voyeur's lair," she announced proudly. "We can sit here and watch whoever is on the bed."

"But, they would hear us," I challenged. "Surely ..."

"Try the walls," she urged. I placed a hand on the wall to my left. It yielded to my touch, being a leather covering over what I deduced must be sound resistant material.

"The lair is soundproofed all over, including the ceiling and behind the wardrobe," she explained, "and the glass mirror is half an inch thick with a covering of transparent sound reflecting material. You can't see or hear a thing from the Playroom but in here you can see and hear everything. What do you think?"

"I think you're a very naughty lady," I replied with a grin. "You're going to get us into trouble one day!"

"I know," she admitted before taking my hand in hers. "Listen, it's going to be a couple of hours before dinner is ready, why don't we take a stroll to the Rampant Boner and see if we can find someone to help us eat it and maybe we might be able to make use of our new lair?"

"You mean go pussy hunting!" I cried excitedly. "Yes, let's. Oh, hang on! It's Tuesday, and I read something in the local paper about a craft fair this afternoon in the church hall to raise money for the steeple or something. We can go there first and then on to the pub."

"It would be something to pick up a pussy in the church hall," she quipped. "Still, stranger things have happened. I'll go and turn down the oven a little on the way out. Meet me in the hall."

We left the lair and I waited in the hall as suggested, my mind still whirling with what she had arranged behind my back. A couple of minutes later we set off in the sunshine. Emerging from our gravel drive, we turned left towards the village, passing quite a number of parked cars along the way that wouldn't normally be expected.

"Looks like a few of these have come for the craft fair," I observed as we passed under the railway bridge and crossed the river. "Look, they're all the way up The Street.

We strolled between the two rows of buildings, a mixture of shops and houses until we were half way along The Street where the side road, Shaven Mound, leading to St Brassiere's Church is off to the right. People were milling around all over the church green in front of the church hall hosting the craft fair with others taking the opportunity to visit the church itself.

As we passed the church noticeboard, I stopped to view it. There were the usual advices about forthcoming services and parish events in addition to an open invitation to make an appointment to see the vicar by contacting him at the vicarage or by telephone or email. Alongside this was a photograph of the said gentleman.

"The Reverend Warwick Hunt," I read aloud from the official register advice sheet, securely protected behind a glass panel over the noticeboard. "The Old Vicarage, Shaven Mound, Little Pissington, Clitshire. There's the vicarage, over there."

I pointed towards a splendid eighteenth century property almost entirely covered in wisteria and ivy some fifty yards away. Suddenly, the gate in the old stone wall at the front of the property opened and a young woman emerged, carrying a basket. And what a woman. I was lost for words. She was just stunning.

Looking no more than in her early-twenties if that, she had long auburn hair that she wore down, flowing as she skipped along towards the church hall. Wearing an elasticated ankle-length skirt in yellow above matching soft shoes, she sported a tight red t-shirt that did little to disguise her simply spectacular bosom held in place by a matching bra, one shoulder strap of which was just visible on her shoulder as she moved. Not particularly slim, though not overweight, she was the epitome of a curvaceous woman who knew as well as anyone how desirable she looked.

"Mrs Hunt, I somehow doubt," I observed, my eyes fixed on the lady's profile as she passed. "From his picture in the local paper, he looks seventy if he's a day. More likely to be his granddaughter if she's related."

"Let's find out," said Pamela, pulling me by the hand in the direction of the church hall. "Come on."

We made our way into the hall to find the usual stalls offering home-made hats and gloves, jams and preserves, cards and, of course, delicious cakes that had, of course, almost sold out. It wasn't difficult to spot the target of our search as she stood with her back to us, emptying the contents of her basket onto one of the stalls at the far end of the hall. We made our way through the, by now, slowly dwindling crowd and Pamela, never the one to vacillate, moved alongside her leaving me standing behind telling myself repeatedly not to place a hand on the lady's rear.

"Those are lovely," she said, an unintentional innuendo, as she looked down at the delicate lace embroidery table wear the lady was unpacking. "Did you make them yourself?"

The auburn beauty smiled, shaking her head, taking out the last item.

"If only I had the skill," she retorted. "No, the vicar just asked me to bring them over from the vicarage as he forgot them earlier. They were made by some of the parishioners for the fair."

"Are you still on duty at the fair?" asked Pamela, as the lady turned and stepped aside from the stall.

"No, I'm finished now," she replied, shaking her head as she stood holding her basket. "I was supposed to be meeting a friend here before going to the pub but I haven't seen her yet. I think she must have gone straight there."

"Well, that's where we're going," announced Pamela with a smile. "Maybe we could walk up there together? I'm Pamela Hatch, by the way, and this is Frank McMahon, we live in the village."

"Lilac Hunt," advised the lady. "I'm the vicar's granddaughter. Yes, I'll just run back and return this basket and get my bag and we can go."

"We'll wait for you outside," suggested Pamela, as the lady set off out of the church hall with my eyes burning into the back of her skirt. We followed, both occupied with our own thoughts until we stood together on the green.

"We've been living here in the village for what, getting on for two months, and I've never seen her before," mused Pamela reflectively. "So, she doesn't live here but is back, maybe to help with the craft fair, maybe from university?"

"Well, I think I'd have remembered her if I had seen her," I retorted with a touch of relish that wasn't missed by Pamela. "She's quite a girl is our Lilac."

Pamela leaned closer to me.

"I've never had a virgin," she whispered, prompting a laugh from me.

"Some chance," I whispered in response. "You're twice her age!"

"What's that got to do with it?" she asked. "You're more than that!"

Just then, the gate of the vicarage opened again and Lilac reappeared, waving when she saw us, her fashionable glasses a welcome addition at least as far as I was concerned.

"Ready?" enquired Pamela. "Got what you need?"

"I think so," replied Lilac before hesitating to check inside her bag. "Yes, I've got my key. It wouldn't do to be banging on grandad's door after the pubs are closed!"

We strolled slowly across the green, heading back towards The Street.

"Are you away at university?" I asked, speaking to Lilac directly for the first time.

"Yes," she replied as we turned right onto it. "Second year, just one to go then I'll have to find a job."

"Do you think you'll come back to Little Pissington?" I added, somehow doubting it unfortunately.

"No, I want to do modelling, you know, get into fashion, the catwalk, that sort of thing," she replied enthusiastically. "Not much chance of that here."

"No, not really," agree Pamela, looking Lilac up and down, "but I'm sure there's an opportunity for someone like you."

"You mean a big girl," retorted Lilac with a grin. "No, it's alright. I know I'm not a size zero!"

"No, I didn't mean that," explained Pamela. "I meant you're very beautiful. You're bound to be snapped up by one of the big city agencies. In fact, I know someone, a friend, who has an agency in Town. I could put a word in for you if you like."

"In London!" exclaimed Lilac, as we made our way up The Street. "That would be wonderful."

Knowing what was coming, I fished out another of my business cards and handed it to Pamela.

"I'll put my email address on the back of this when we get to the pub," she said. "Maybe you could let me have your contact details and I'll get my friend to contact you?"

"That would be great, thank you," gushed Lilac, "but I don't have a portfolio as yet."

"Don't worry about that," dismissed Pamela as we approached the entrance to the 'Rampant Boner', stopping at the doorway. "I'll make sure my friend understands how you look. She owes me a favour and I think it's time she repaid it."

I pushed open the door of the 'Boner' and Pamela led the way inside, stopping in the centre of the room as Lilac looked around for her friend.

"I can't see her," she announced. "She said she would be here by six. Maybe she's just late?"

"Well, let me get us all a drink," I suggested, knowing my job. "What can I get you, Lilac?"

"White wine," replied Lilac with a lovely smile. "Sauvignon blanc, if they have it, they usually do."

"Coming right up," I said. "Pamela? Your usual tipple?"

Pamela nodded and I headed off to the bar.

"She's called Anna, Anna Walsingham," I heard Pamela say as I returned to the table that she and Lilac had found. "I'm sure she will be able to help you."

"You know Anna Walsingham!" exclaimed Lilac excitedly. "She's one of my idols in the business."

"Do I know Anna Walsingham?" I asked, taking a seat and passing out the drinks before a thought hit me. "Oh, Anna! Is this the same lady you mentioned the other day when you were talking about your trip to Berlin?"

"Yes it is," replied Pamela, nodding her head. "I'll tell you about all that later, but I think she'll definitely be able to help Lilac."

"I'm very grateful," said the lady herself, "and thank you for the drink."

We chatted generally for the next few minutes with Lilac looking across to the entrance every time someone came in to see if it was the arrival of her friend. Suddenly, her phone rang and she apologised before standing to move somewhere quieter to answer it.

"If it's her friend ringing to cancel," I suggested innocently but with a twinkle in my eye, "maybe we should invite her round to dinner?"

"That's exactly what we're going to do," agreed Pamela as the look on Lilac's face as she returned to our table told the story. "Leave it to me."

Always happy to let Pamela lead, I sat back in my seat to enjoy my pint.