Room with a Secret Ch. 10

A hiatus in my progression of this story whilst I have been writing other tales.

A few more chapters are written and will follow about Mr Crowfoot, the aged owner of a large house wherein lies his study, a secret room, which has the rather naughty and useful facility of making women, not men, pliable and forgetful. Following a chance meeting, young Jim Costin, a pleasant but then virginal young man, has been drawn into Mr Crowfoot's games, somewhat as Mr Crowfoot's 'young apprentice' (albeit the setting is about ten years before the release of 'Return of the Jedi' and the popularising of that particular phrase).

Jim clanked the lid on the dustbin and went back inside and up to his flat to wash his hands. If he did not put the rubbish out himself, it was doubtful, he thought, that his flat mates would get around to that, even if overflowing from the kitchen bin. Despite one flatmate being what Jim's father would call a 'shirt lifter,' neither of the other two young men were exactly what you might call tidy or house proud. Jim on the other hand was quite the opposite though, despite what other people thought and perhaps how he appeared, Jim was very much a 'blouse lifter' or 'bosom afficionado' - he did very much like the ladies; only they did not seem to know it! Stereotypes not always the reality.

Since meeting old Mr Crowfoot across the road, Jim's appreciation of what lay within and indeed rather below ladies' blouses had grown greatly and his knowledge had been much expanded. Previously he would have noted and admired his 'straight' flatmate's girlfriend. His friendship with Mr Crowfoot gave him the opportunity for a more 'hands on' and 'in depth' appreciation. He could do more than admire.

Cynthia Attleborough was rather fine, all six foot of her. She looked no less fine appearing out of the bathroom, when staying in Jim's flat with her boyfriend, wrapped in bath towel or robe and with her wet hair hidden beneath a beehive of wound towelling. Not a hint of cleavage showing, if rather pretty ankles were revealed beneath towel or robe, but that did not stop Jim wondering about her breasts, nipples and her pubic hair. A thing young men do wonder. The young lady - and more of that anon - was fair of head and Jim assumed that was repeated below. He wished to know and whereas, a few months before he would not have had much chance, save peeking through the bathroom's or Mike's bedroom door keyhole, of finding out, things were different now. Very different.

Mike was not slow, when Cynthia was not around, to sing her praises. He rather delighted in trying to shock Jim with 'sexual details' - the sort of information that might be though not of any interest to a 'poof' like Jim. In fact, it was all very much to the contrary. Jim was very interested, if Sandy, the other flatmate, was not. The ridiculous thing was Mike thought Sandy was as 'straight' as he. Sandy kept 'mum,' but Jim knew. Sandy confided in him. Sandy, of course, thought Jim gay as well. How complicated!

Mike was somewhat annoying; not annoying enough for Jim to wish to change flats or flatmate. He was alright really, in many ways - he cooked a mean curry - but his gay baiting became a bit tiresome. One night, back from the pub when they had both had quite a bit to drink, Mike started waxing lyrical about cunnilingus and how good Cynthia was at sucking a cock.

"She swallows, you know (Jim didn't, but he was interested)," Mike looked at Jim, "do you?" He did not wait for an answer but went on, "I couldn't do that. She's great. I mean, urgh! No offence, Jim. I couldn't, I mean another man's cum..."

"So, your own's nice then?"

"You coming on to me?"

"Mike, not in a thousand years!"

It was funny, Mike clearly did not quite know how to take that - was Jim implying he was not attractive to men! Jim was amused.

"I'm sorry, Jim, no offence but there's no way I would take another man's cum." His contempt of 'cum suckers' - well male ones anyway, was evident. "But going down on a woman, going down on Cynthia. Ah, man, that's something else. Magic! All wet and succulent. Wish she was here now - not that you're not good company. More beer? But... I always go down on her before we fuck."

Jim wondered, if Cynthia was there, and with all that beer, whether Mike could get it up enough to fuck her. He sat there with Mike seemingly semi-comatose - maybe he was thinking of Cynthia. Jim wondered, had she been there and as drunk as Mike, whether they might have started getting amorous with him still there. Jim would like to have watched that. Into his mind came the image of Mike doing just what he said he did, going down on Cynthia. She with her legs gloriously spread and her, presumed, blond pubic hair parted to show all her fascinating pink bits. How good to push into that, but good enough instead the thought of Mike with his face buried in her sex, slurping away just as he had occasionally done with his beer that evening. The two of them naked and Mike erect. Mike leaning forward with his bottom in the air, his crack open and his hole exposed and vulnerable. That was not Jim's thing - it really was not - but the thought of him coming up behind Mike and shoving his cock in, right in and the expression on Mike's face... funny!

Best, really, if Sandy did the shoving up Mike's arse. Best for three reasons: Sandy liked that sort of thing; Sandy was no doubt experienced at arses and thirdly, and most importantly, Jim would have loved capturing Mike's expression on camera. The picture taken from above Cynthia; Mike's face appearing suddenly from below Cynthia's no doubt delightful curls, eyes wide in shock, eyeballs popping from their sockets and with wet mouth equally open.

A great idea but not at all likely. What was likely, and a plan was most certainly forming in Jim's mind, was not Mike going to be buggered; nor that Mike was going to suck cock but very much he was going to find himself consuming a very generous 'cream pie.' Mike was going to get Jim's cream pie right from Cynthia! Two birds with one stone; Jim would get to enjoy Cynthia and Mike get his 'cum-uppance!' Jim smiled; - not so much a stone, rather a load of cum - indeed it would probably be more than one load; after all Mr Crowfoot's house and study came into the plan and so why not the old boy and his much-used craggy old cock, as well as Jim's, filling the delightful Cynthia?

Jim stood in the bay window of his room up on the second floor of the red brick converted Victorian house, and watched the lovely Cynthia get out of her little sports car. There was clearly money in the family and Lady Cynthia Attleborough, all of 22 years old, was confident in spending it. To be fair it was not a brand-new sports car, a MG of a few years' vintage, but nothing wrong with it for that. He was appreciative of first one long leg and then the other appearing. A tug down of the mini skirt, all so visible to the watcher from above but not a passer-by. His sharp eyesight had even spotted white knickers.

"Now don't fuck Cynthia whilst I'm out!" Mike went off out, a little later, chortling to himself, little realising that was exactly what Jim had every intention of doing - if he could entice the girl across the road and into Mr Crowfoot's house.

Jim found Cynthia in the flat's kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. He had enticed Sophie and Jenny into Mr Crowfoot's study; they had been interested in the old man, had even asked to visit - but how was he to get Cynthia to walk across the road?

Many girls have an interest in horses. This can be a passion in young and teenage years and sometimes it carries forward into adult life. Young girls hanging around the stables, happy to just be with the horses and do all the required tasks - 'mucking out' and grooming; their bedrooms a mass of rosettes from gymkhanas, their reading almost entirely 'pony books' and the like; in floods of tears at the death of Ginger in 'Black Beauty.' Some may follow this into adult life, perhaps may follow the hounds. Jim knew Cynthia hunted. Had heard her speak with enthusiasm all about her local hunt. It all sounded rather wonderful; but Jim did not ride.

Casually he introduced into their conversation in the kitchen that he had seen some fine equestrian paintings on the wall of Mr Crowfoot, his friend across the road's dining room, he ventured that one was by Alfred Munnings. A fine painting of horses and jockeys being led out at Newmarket. Her interest was piqued, the bait was taken; all Jim needed to do was gently draw her in.

And it worked. Minutes later Jim was escorting Cynthia across the road. Mike would be out for an hour or so. There was plenty of time for Cynthia, she said, to meet Mr Crowfoot, see the paintings and return. She was not to know that, for her, time would seem to pass rather more quickly, that she would be admiring paintings and importantly 'other things' and would rather forget the time.

Lovely to stride alongside the tall girl, see her fine legs moving - indeed able to see pretty well most of her leg given the mini skirt - the parts of the leg not hidden by her below the knee black boots. Jim appreciated all of that. He was sure so too would Mr Crowfoot. Up the front path, the scene of Jim's first meeting with the old boy, and a ring at the front doorbell.

Mr Crowfoot was delighted. Jim could see Mr Crowfoot was almost beside himself. The unexpected visit of a leggy blond girl in a mini skirt was so very much what he liked to receive. He had been anxious for Jim to bring young ladies to his door; had very much encouraged the practice and had wished for more. Mr Crowfoot led the way to the dining room. Was very happy to talk at length about his pictures upon the wall. Jim was indeed correct about the Munnings. Not a large picture but most certainly by the celebrated artist, sometime president of the Royal Academy of Arts, and very fine indeed. There were other pictures, some of hunting scenes.

Jim was not unsurprised to hear Mr Crowfoot say he had other pictures elsewhere - indeed, in the study.

"Come, let me show you those. Jim make us some coffee, would you, there's a good lad."

Jim turned towards the kitchen as Mr Crowfoot led Cynthia down the hall towards the special room. Mr Crowfoot was leading her by the hand. The privilege of age; able to take a girl's hand with no question of impropriety. Jim's smile grew: no question of impropriety - yet! He wondered what he might find when he brought the coffee, where Mr Crowfoot's hand might have ventured.

Balancing the tray with coffee pot, three cups and saucers plus milk, sugar and biscuits Jim walked down the hall, his footsteps tapping on the parquet. Ahead, the tall oak panelled door. He wondered what had gone on in that room before. What had Mr Crowfoot's father engaged in, and with whom, behind its heavy door? How interesting, if among the many, many books upon the shelves, there was a private diary kept by Mr Crowfoot Senior. His, no doubt, careful copperplate writing recording in remembered detail the sexual activities of the day. No doubt fascinating reading. The deflowering of young servant maids no doubt; the pleasures had with visiting ladies; perhaps, or probably, revealing just how complicit his wife had been - just how involved she had been in his activities within the study. Mr Crowfoot had certainly speculated a little. Might it hold the secret of the room - an explanation. Thoughts for later. There was business with Cynthia, no doubt, at hand.

A hand upon the doorknob and Jim opened the door. He had not known what to expect but there was Cynthia mounted upon the arm of the Chesterfield settee, clearly as if riding it. A stool had been carefully placed to provide her with support for her other foot, balancing the height of the Chesterfield's seat. Facing Jim and with her thighs spread and mini skirt a little rucked up, Jim received another and even more revealing view of her white knickers, the cotton nicely mounding across her twin labia, there was more than a hint of her womanly divide to be seen moulded by the material.

"Ah, Jim, Cynthia was just demonstrating horse riding to me. This is how a jockey rides as in my Munnings painting, the stirrups high on the horse."

"Why, Cynthia, do jockeys have such short stirrups?" Jim very much wished to join in.

"I don't ride like that, Jim, I'm not a jockey - too tall, and female to boot. I wouldn't have them high like this on a hack or hunt. All quite different. What the jockey is doing is trying to minimise the effect the rider has on the horse. Sort of floating above his mount, the jockey cuts down the effort the horse would use to shove him back up in the air after each bounce down onto the saddle Blooming hard work because the jockey has to use his legs in the short stirrups like springs. Up and down, up and down."

Wonderful to see Cynthia doing just that, bouncing up and down on the padded and wide leather roll of the Chesterfield's arm; seeing the muscles under her so smooth skin bunch and work, delightful ripples to her thighs and movement to that white pair of knickers. All the better because it seemed to Jim a certainty those very same lovely thighs would soon be mounted upon him. Cynthia would be riding him!

"Why do jockeys stand up in the stirrups during a race?"

"The monkey crouch?" The young girl pretended to do that, her arm moving as if whipping the horse. Wonderful to see her raised up above the leather arm, her thigh muscles straining to hold her there, as she bobbed her bottom up and down as if riding to the finish. The mini-skirt riding high. "Again, Jim, it reduces the energy the horse expends on the rider in favour of the gallop."

"Fascinating, Cynthia." Mr Crowfoot poured the coffee and they sat drinking whilst Mr Crowfoot asked the girl about her riding; how she learnt to ride; what she liked about riding and horses until, with a smile, "I have a painting of Lady Godiva on the wall of my bedroom; perhaps it seems more appropriate to have a picture of a naked woman in a bedroom but have you, my dear, ever ridden naked?"

Such an unexpected question. In any other room no doubt Cynthia would have been taken aback; perhaps even shocked at the old man's rather strange question, would have been worried it might have led to more inappropriate enquiries; might have thought he was some sort of old lecher. Well...

But, of course, in that room Cynthia answered as if nothing at all was out of the ordinary. "Not really, well..." Mr Crowfoot leant forward, "yes, a friend and I did once. Just for a sort of dare. It was not as if anything... Not a dare to anyone else - just each other. I mean, the horses didn't mind!"

"And where was this?"

"Out riding, an open field between woods, easy pasture for a trot or a gallop. It wasn't me, it was Belinda. She suggested it. Such a giggle. We wriggled out of jodhpurs and everything but our hats. So silly standing there laughing at each other and then we mounted."

"The hard leather saddle against your naked skin - naked everything."

"Naked everything, indeed, Mr Crowfoot."

"Did it feel good, did it feel sexual?"

Cynthia nodded, "I liked it. We trotted down the field feeling so free, so exposed. My hairy pussy coming down to touch the saddle - so much more noticeable than in jodhpurs and knickers."

"Your breasts would have been bouncing?" Jim was intrigued. It was a very male enquiry.

"Not as much as Belinda's - and then we galloped back. Fuck! So exciting. And I could see it wasn't just me." A pause. "There was a wet patch on Belinda's saddle as much as mine!"

"Did you pleasure yourself - or Belinda?"

"Jim!" But he knew he was so safe asking such questions in that particular room. She would not remember when she left, but he would.

"Answer Jim, Cynthia."

"We did sit down for a bit in the sunshine whilst the horses grazed and... talked of boys riding."

"Riding naked?"

"Well... yes"

"Riding erect?"

The way Cynthia turned a little away before answering was just so pleasing, "Yes!"

"Swinging down from their mounts to mount you?"

"Yes, Jim, that's what we talked about."

Jim was enjoying himself, knowing the talk would lead to a double 'mounting' of Cynthia. He wondered whether the girlish talk in the pasture had envisaged more than one handsome boy riding up with erect cock to service them. Most likely a pair. It was good to hear Mr Crowfoot inveigling further information from her. It was all slowly coming out. They had, after all, it transpired, masturbated together and had each touched the other.

"We pretended the other was a boy." So good to see Cynthia make a male masturbatory gesture with her hand. Had they really pretended to wank each other's imaginary cocks before, presumably, pretending to stroke male perinea, pretending to knead flesh scrota but actually playing between each other's labia? Nice to have seen Cynthia and Belinda playing in that sunny field, perhaps by peeking through a hedge; Jim playing the voyeur. Good to imagine a party of two girls and two boys riding naked together, a naked trot and canter; and then, later, how good it would have been to have seen the mutual pleasuring.

"I think, Cynthia, as you have shown us jockeys riding, you should show us how you ride on a hack. The arm of the Chesterfield being like a saddle, leather and hard. Perhaps naked this time - as in the field. We'd like to see that and perhaps then you could show Jim how to ride."

"Naked?" she giggled. It was always so good to see a girl's natural sexuality, her desires and pleasures, brought out by the strange yet rather wonderful - and mysterious - influence of the secret room, Mr Crowfoot's comfortable study. She looked at Jim, "I've never seen a boy riding naked. You first."

"The lady has asked, Jim."

The reality rather excellent, he had walked in naked and erect on Miss Redmond, now he was to undress in front of Lady Cynthia Attleborough. He had masturbated at that thought, had lain in his bed listening through the deliberately half open door of his bedroom to the sounds from Mike's room. Had envisaged an opening of Mike's door, a knock and a whispered voice at his door, 'Jim - are you awake? Could you come into our room please and take your pyjamas off.' The reason for the request varying in his mind - perhaps Mike had come too soon; perhaps Cynthia wanted to compare two cocks; perhaps Cynthia wanted a cock either end; perhaps she wanted double penetration; perhaps she had tied Mike up and wanted to tease him by copulating with his flatmate - there were plentiful reasons to send his semen spurting up his stomach! Jim kept his organ in trim by regular night-time exercise. He did not want to be let down when Mr Crowfoot had a visitor.

Cynthia astride the Chesterfield; Cynthia with mini-skirt and her white knickers so visible. Jim had no need to be polite, he could stare at the way the cotton moulded her sexual lips, how it mounded upon her pubis. There was, of course, no way he could be other than erect as he removed shirt, shoes, socks and trousers. And then Jim was there in just his underpants. The bulge so obvious.

"That looks nice and chunky, Jim, I'm sure the boys all like that - must be a tight squeeze. May I?"

So good to have his flatmate's girlfriend reach out and hold the elastic of his underpants, pull it away and then down, catching his cock so it was pulled right down with the pants and then suddenly released to slap up against his stomach with quite a sound.

"The girls are missing out, that's a nice one Jim." His pants were down, and his erection was so up and pointing at the girl. "I like a nice prick, Jim." Her voice went husky and low, "I like to fondle them." And she did just that. Her hand reaching to touch, her fingers stroking the smooth head and then trailing down the shaft to lift his balls before returning upwards to encircle and wank.