The Seehofer Chronicles Vol. 01

As Daniel finally plunged his probing cock home Mary gasped and shot her head to her left. Becca ducked, her reactions slowed by alcohol. She swore angrily at herself, hoping that Mary Weaver was too far gone with carnal passion to spot the voyeur hiding ineptly behind the worktop. She heard Mary's groans of pleasure. No, they weren't groans conceded Becca; they were sighs, which terminated with a guttural gasp at the termination of each injection into her cunt.

Becca dared to peek, and watched the object of her current desires fucking Mary Weaver. Becca found the whole spectacle of the fully clothed man and topless woman fucking so vigorously in the kitchen storeroom perhaps the most erotic thing she had ever seen.

Mary's left boob jiggled, compressed against Daniel's chest and she imagined the exquisite torture of the woollen jacket against her nipples. She gauged Daniels stroke and found herself roughly calculating the length of his cock as she had done in the line of duty when shagging a particularly boring and inept fucker. She was drunkenly disappointed that it was no longer than six inches. Despite what men might say, size did fucking matter, or matter in the case of fucking.

Becca suddenly felt a wave of nausea sweep over her, the last quadruple vodka the culprit. Mary's cries grew louder and she was harmonised by Daniel's groans of lust as he approached his inevitable orgasm. Becca desperately looked around for somewhere where she could be sick. Before she could move, she was overwhelmed, fell to her knees and wretched pitifully, gratefully ridding her system of the alcohol, and subsequently collapsed to the floor.

The next thing Becca was aware of was being cradled in the arms of Mary Weaver and was vaguely attuned to the fact that she was still in the kitchen. She had hoped she was safely in bed and had been dreaming. Mary smiled benevolently at Becca as she might to a wayward child.

"Oh dear, Miss Seehofer, what am I to do with you?" said Mary in an affected despairing tone. Becca frowned. She felt wretched and was aware of a pounding headache. Mary took a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and dabbed Becca's mouth, clearing away the dried spittle.

"Your insatiable curiosity will get the better of you one of these days, that or the booze. I worry sometimes that we work you too hard. You are my best girl and I suppose it's the time of year to let your hair down. I trust you enjoyed the show?" Becca did not, could not answer, her mouth was dry and her throat burned with stomach acid.

"I trust I can rely on your discretion?" added Mary. "And before you ask, no, Mr Caruthers did not see you; he walked around the other side of the unit. However, I certainly saw you earlier and I must say that it added a little something to the otherwise sordid little episode. Daniel was most insistent that we make love, couldn't wait until later, not very circumspect and very unlike him. It must be Christmas." Mary smiled and Becca thought she looked beautiful; perhaps it was the post coital glow.

"Anyway, I'm most grateful to you, now we can leave the kitchen together and use your drunken excesses as my excuse for being here, no sneaking out the back door. How do you feel?"

"Awful," Becca finally managed to utter.

"What are you now, twenty three?" asked Mary. Becca nodded.

"I remember when you came for that first interview, a lovely little thing," said Mary wistfully, sounding far older than her thirty-one years. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up. We don't want to ruin that pretty dress, Daniel would be most disappointed."

CHAPTER 4. REVELATIONS - 2012.

The silence within the room, combined with the stifling heat of the July day, was overwhelming. Sybil had at some point during Rebecca's story, removed her jacket yet was still discomforted by the perspiration pricking her skin beneath her fitted white blouse.

She had taken great care over her choice of clothing for her 'assignment' with her grandmother and yet the selection of her underwear had been made not so much in haste but deemed as inconsequential. The bra she wore was not one of the two she had most recently purchased from M&S; it was a bra that her mother had ordered for her over twelve months ago. Although her boobs had not grown appreciably in the year (she had proudly graduated to a C cup by the time she was sitting her GCSE's), there was patently an equipment malfunction somewhere.

The cups felt too tight and instead of offering unobtrusive support, she was assailed by the sense of restrictive confinement. Her breasts heaved uncomfortably against the cups and the underwire support bit into her chest as she exhaled. She tried not to pay attention to her nipples, which had swelled alarmingly against the damp synthetic fabric. She hoped her blouse was loose enough to disguise their stiffness. It wasn't.

"So what happened, did you go back with Mrs Weaver?" asked Sybil, finding difficulty in articulating her words. Had her mother related the story then she would have fled screaming into the garden, but the gap of one generation and the time frame of a different world seemed to imbue the quirky story with a sense of otherworldliness.

"Of course I did. And later that evening having sobered up and taken a few aspirin I returned to her apartment with her where Daniel later joined us," replied Rebecca, her look challenging her granddaughter to pose the next question.

"And did you, um, did you...?" stammered Sybil, her neck and cheeks reddening by merit of the genetic family trait. Rebecca remained silent but her eyes encouraged the girl to continue. "Did you make love to Daniel?"

Rebecca smiled and looked out through the window as if it offered a view back to 1968. "No, we never made love..." answered Rebecca who failed to notice the hint of disappointment on Sybil's face, not that Sybil was consciously aware of exhibiting such an emotion. "No, I never made love to him. I fucked his brains out."

Sybil laughed nervously. She exhibited the rapid adaptational skills of youth by acclimatising quickly to the unfamiliar and bizarre so that she wasn't the slightest bit grossed out by her grandmother's sexual story. Actually, she grudgingly admired her story telling skills though could have done without the vomiting episode. Assuming the story was true, part of her wanted to say, "good for you, old girl!" whilst part of her could also imagine her own mother's shocked expression and onset of the Victorian 'vapours' as she fainted on the chintz sofa.

"What about Mrs Weaver?" asked Sybil.

"We took it in turns with Daniel. He was actually quite a letdown. I don't know if I explained how beautiful she really was. It was lovely watching her make love to Daniel, far better than indulging."

"Make love or fuck," enquired Sybil, emboldened by her grandmother's frankness.

"They made love. They really cared for each other deeply, despite both being happily married to separate partners. I didn't love Daniel, but Mary most certainly did."

"Are they, are they still alive?" asked Sybil. Becca frowned, the questions youngsters ask. To be fair, it was a fair question but Rebecca did not like to be reminded that death's embrace was becoming statistically more likely with every passing day.

"Sybil, to become a writer or a seductress, one must develop the story, not rush to the climax."

"Is that what you were, Gran, a 'seductress'? Was Mum right about you?"

Rebecca noted the sound of disapproval and disappointment in her granddaughter's voice. Indeed, Sybil's excitement over Rebecca's story had faded to be replaced by a questioning doubt of her gran's motives and indeed her true occupation.

"No, I was most certainly not a prostitute!" answered Rebecca indignantly, "one did not go to Cambridge in the sixties to follow a life of whoredom. To become a homosexual spy, perhaps."

"You were a spy?" asked Sybil, familiar with the concept of modern day glamorous Spooks.

"No, I was a secretary."

"But...?

"If we are to continue with my biography, might I suggest we take a time out? You could go upstairs and remove that ridiculous ill fitting brassier? It looks like you've got two puppies trying to get out from under your blouse!"

Sybil was grateful for the solitude, an opportunity to escape from her gran's presence. The last hour had been incredibly intense. Sybil had come well armed for the interview yet conceded she had little idea of the potential content of her grandmother's recollections.

She stood in the smallest guest bedroom at Mount Pleasant cottage. It was the room she had always stayed in over the years, essentially her second bedroom. It was adorned with various familiar knickknacks she had assembled over the years, bestowing the room a comforting, if somewhat juvenile, familiarity in which she was able to relax.

Standing by the side of the single bed, she began to unbutton her blouse. She hastily removed the shirt, reached behind her to unfasten the offending bra, slipped out of the straps, and cast the garment reproachfully upon her overnight bag. She quickly retrieved her blouse and slid into the damp, short-sleeved apparel.

She turned as she gathered the material to re-secure the buttons and caught sight of her reflection in the long mirror that fronted the door of the solitary stand-alone wardrobe. She froze as she surveyed her image. The reflection that greeted her was unexpected.

She lived in jeans, her father often teasing her that it was a shame her legs were so disfigured that she had to keep them hidden all the time. Yet here she was in heels, which she never wore and truthfully found uncomfortable, and the flickering image of Mary Weaver's nylon clad thighs filled her mind. Sybil had worn tights possibly a handful of times and certainly never stockings. She wondered how her legs would appear similarly clothed and nodded approving at her own calf. Okay, perhaps the pale skin was not exactly shapely but she considered it agreeably slim with sufficient profile, admittedly accentuated by the shoe, to appear pleasing on the eye.

The narrow navy skirt fell to her knees, defining her thighs and hips admirably, her hips wide enough to define her slender waist yet not to appear invasive. She clutched the two halves of the blouse across her body yet instead of fastening the buttons she found herself slowly drawing the two pieces of fabric apart. At first, she revealed only her belly. She grimaced at the slight paunch above the waistband of the skirt and tightly pulled in her belly, pleased with the result as it curved beneath her rib cage. As she surveyed the deep depression of her naval, she regretted not going with Trudy Simpson to have her belly button pierced. Her mother would have screamed blue murder but hey, it would look bloody marvellous.

Sybil glanced nervously at the door and bit her bottom lip, another trait of Rebecca had she known it, and nervously pulled her blouse back to reveal her breasts to the mirror. She felt the butterflies dancing in her stomach as she exposed her boobs to the reflective voyeur, which suddenly assumed an organic identity, as if the flaunting of her breasts were for the mirror's brooding gratification.

Sybil knew she had great tits. Okay, it wasn't something to brag about, the gods gave you what they did, one had little say in the matter, but even so, the response they invoked in boys and girls was unjustifiably pleasurable. She had worked hard to attain her grades and gain a place at uni yet amongst her peers she was aware that her fine pair of boobs elicited as much respect and caustic jealousy as her intellect. No, at her age, they definitely exacted more.

She thrust out her chest towards the mirror. Her narrow back accentuating the swelling orbs of her unfettered breasts. She knew her breasts possessed the slight upward thrust as those of her mother's but not that the genetic trait had been passed down by her grandmother. To the appreciative spectator, the small pink areolae pointed jauntily towards the ceiling in the corner of the room.

Rebecca was perceptive in her assessment of Sybil, for she was no virgin. Maybe, thought Sybil, her grandmother would have been shocked at how young she had been when she lost it. In September, she would be nineteen and aside from the exciting prospect of new horizons, her irresistible fantasy concerned meeting boys in the tantalising appealing environment known as 'not at home'- emancipation!

Perhaps Granny Rebecca would be shocked at the number of different boys she had slept with, especially in the last six months when she stayed weekends at her best friend's house. Collette's parent's spent most weekends at their holiday home in Cornwell, leaving the eighteen-year-old Collette home with her two brothers. Several weeks ago, Sybil finally succeeded in seducing Collette's twenty two year old brother after weeks of planning. Now she had her sights on Collette's nineteen-year-old brother, Patrick.

She imagined the mirror was in fact Patrick and it was to his shocked and lustful eyes that she flaunted her tits. She squeezed her already plump nipples, coaxing them a further few millimetres so they stood, to her mind, disgustingly erect and tantalising. She longed for Patrick to take her teats in his mouth, to suck and bite until she shrieked with joy at the persuasive torture.

She again glanced enquiringly at the open bedroom door; she knew nothing elicited the suspicious curiosity of her mother as much as her closed bedroom door and the habit was hard to shake off. To masturbate knowing that her mother might catch her at any moment had become a wonderful thrill. Her hands wandered down towards her skirt and attentively probed the tight waistband. Did she have time? God, she really wanted to bring herself off, to alleviate the burning dampness in her pussy.

"Sod it!" she whispered to herself. She unbuttoned her skirt, tugged down the rear zipper, and in one hasty movement drew down the skirt and white panties to her ankles. Quickly stepping out of her remaining clothes, Sybil stood naked save for her gaping blouse and 'fuck-me-heels' (which she now vowed to practice wearing) before the imaginary eyes of Patrick.

She thrust her hips to the left with her legs together bent at the knee. Arching her back to the right, coyly tilting her head to the left, supporting her head with her right hand against her right cheek. She performed her sexiest pout, practised many times before her own mirror. Her attention was drawn to the recently trimmed dark velvety pubic hair vibrantly stark against the almost translucent flesh of her obscenely plump mound. She lustfully concluded her snipping had been insufficient; she wanted her pussy to be hairless and magnificent.

Her labia, hidden from view were hairless by her mother's concession on the grounds of hygiene (what an embarrassing conversation that was. Never had she heard so many euphemisms used in the course of one conversation and when it had concluded Sybil was unclear of her mother's intimation until the 'ladies hygiene pack' magically appeared on her bed one day). Her pubes would definitely have to go.

Sybil positioned herself on the edge of the bed and slowly nudged her bottom so that she was still facing the wardrobe mirror. Her arse cheeks sank into the welcoming caress of the white cotton duvet cover and she carefully appraised her reflected image. She was some three feet away from the reflective surface and leant back, supporting her weight on her outstretched arms behind her. Almost imperceptibly, she began to separate her clenched thighs. With her white blouse loose but hanging deliciously over her breasts she allowed her eyes to be drawn to the mirrored image of her pussy as it slowly revealed itself.

She imagined the standing figure of Patrick as his eyes feasted upon her most intimate part, the dark maroon of her two petals that symmetrically framed the groove of her pink lips. As she slowly spread her thighs, the petals trembled and gently divorced. The moist folds of her labia overcame the cloying grip of her secretions and parted sufficiently to reveal the enticing pinkness that heralded the promise of the pleasures beyond.

"Do you like my little pussy, Pat?" she whispered to the spectral spectator. With her weight supported only by her left arm, Patrick watched her right hand move without hesitation to her pussy. Her fingers lightly brushed the outer folds of her labia before rising to stroke her shrouded clit.

"You can play with your cock if you like, Pat. Would you like that?" Sybil imagined the youthful and inexperienced Patrick struggling to free his stiff cock whilst he feasted on the image of the girl masturbating before him.

"We can come together; you can come over my pussy." Her whispers morphed into a silent dialogue as she began to work on her clitoris. She allowed her body to fall back onto the bed, permitting her to plunge two fingers from her left hand into the depths of her cunt. All pretence of showing off to the mirror was forgotten as she focused upon climaxing as quickly and as pleasurably as she could.

"Sybil, your coffee is getting cold," announced the composed voice of Rebecca from downstairs. "Sybil?"

Sybil bit her lip to stifle the cry as her orgasm exploded. Her shoulders bucked, syncopated with the blissful contractions in her pussy as she clenched her thighs together in a climatic crescendo of sexual relief from the accumulated torment of her grandmother's erotic confessions.

"Are you okay, Sybil," came her grandmother's more earnest enquires. Sybil gave a huge sigh and reached for the box of tissues by her bedside.

"I'm fine, Gran. Be down in a minute!" shouted Sybil in reply as she dabbed her pussy with the tissues. She gleefully laughed then shrugged her shoulders at the mirror as if in apology for what Patrick was about to forego.

"There's always next time," said Sybil mischievously as she stood up and kissed the mirror before crouching down to retrieve her panties and skirt.

CHAPTER 5. FRIDAY EVENING - 2012.

At seven o'clock Rebecca and Sybil ate in the kitchen, still the coolest room in the house yet cloyingly warm all the same. Becca produced a bottle of wine, which they shared during the meal. They ate discussing matters of trivial interest, to the extent that Sybil almost forgot the nature of the first interview. A reflective silence ensued as they loaded the dishwasher. Sybil had changed into a pair of jeans and green tee shirt and remained braless for she had the impression, rightly or wrongly, that Rebecca had actually encouraged her to dispense with it. She was unused to going 'unfettered'; it was frowned upon by her mother for inducing premature sagging. To be fair to her mother, many of her girlfriends slept in bras, something she deemed above and beyond the call of duty.

She had to confess, there was something liberating about 'going braless', not in a sexual context, more by way of simple corporeal liberty. She guess that's why naturists did what they did, perhaps naturism was the final evolutionary state of her hypothesis?

Sybil also felt a delectable sense of emboldenment, perhaps an aggregation of many facets that had occurred this day, but whatever the cause, it was true and palpable.

"Granny, do you mind if I smoke?" Rebecca maintained her apparent resolve upon removing the stubborn amalgam of chilli concarne ingredients, intractably melded to the bottom of the casserole dish, which was beyond even the capabilities of the dishwasher, despite the claims of the proprietary brand of detergent.

"I'll smoke outside if it upsets you?" added Sybil in a conciliatory tone, interpreting Rebecca's silence as a silent rebuke of displeasure. "I'm sorry, Gran..."

"Go and fetch the ashtray from the front room, and my cigarettes," instructed Rebecca. Sybil walked slowly towards the lounge, her body language flaunting the censure she felt she had foolishly earned. "And Sybil?"