Long Live TMF! Ch. 01bySamScribble©
Uncle Charlie never married. When we were growing up my mother used to mutter that it was because he was 'having too much fun as the man about town'. Mind you, my mother tended to think that any fun was too much fun. This was especially true if someone else was having it.
What I can tell you is that at Charlie's funeral there seemed to be lot of well-presented women of a certain age. 'Charlie's angels,' my father said.
'Charlie's concubines more like,' my mother said.
The other thing I can tell you is that, while Charlie's departure from this world surprised many people, I don't think Charlie would have been too surprised. I think he knew the gig was coming to an end. In the six months before he died, he sold his house and his business, and cashed up all his investments. When Charlie popped his clogs, he left a chunk of change to some charitable trust I'd never heard of, with the rest of his estate to be divided equally among his six nieces and nephews. Thanks, Uncle Charlie.
Charlie also left each of us 'kids' (as he called us) something personal. For example, my sister Molly got three original drawings by Augustus John. My cousin George became the proud owner of Charlie's World War II vintage Harley-Davidson Liberator. And me? Well, I got Charlie's antique desk.
To be honest, I was a little disappointed. For a start off, it's quite a big desk, and I have quite a small apartment. The only place it would fit was in my living room. And then it took up most of one end.
The second reason I wasn't that keen on the desk was the style. All my furniture is really simple -- mainly chrome steel and black leather and smoked glass. Whereas Charlie's desk is ... well, ornate.
I briefly wondered if my sister would consider a swap: the desk for the drawings. After all, she lives in big old house on the edge of town. But Charlie also left me a note.
Jake, this desk has been a source of great pleasure over the years. Now it's yours. Take some time. Get to know it. Because the better you get to know it, the more you'll get to enjoy it. Trust me. -- Charlie
The note was paper-clipped to a photograph of Charlie, sitting at the desk, dressed in some sort of fancy monogrammed bathrobe. He appeared to be studying a pile of photographs. And he was smiling.
OK, Charlie, I'll trust you. At least for the time being.
It wasn't until a week or so after I'd taken delivery of the desk that I realised something was not quite right. In the photograph of Charlie at the desk, there was a shallow drawer open on the right hand side. But there was no drawer on the right hand side. Or was there?
I was in bed and just about to drop off to sleep when this apparent anomaly popped into my head. Once I started thinking about it, there was no way I was going to get to sleep. I got up again and headed for the living room.
It took me about five minutes to find what I was looking for. Along each side of the desk there were five inlaid squares of darker wood. Pressing the fourth square on the right hand side released the secret drawer. Inside the drawer there was a small bundle of photographs, about A5 size, tied with a ribbon. I'd found what was making Charlie smile.
There were 16 photographs in all, each of a different woman. The women appeared to be aged between 40 and 50. A couple may have been slightly older. And they were all shapes and sizes. Two or three of the women were quite slim, but several were of a fuller figure. One in particular definitely qualified as a BBW.
Each woman was looking straight at the camera. And each was dressed -- or perhaps undressed would be a better description -- in stockings and a smattering of undergarments.
Some were wearing knickers. Most were not. Three or four were wearing 1950s-style roll-on girdles. And one of the women was holding the lower edge of her girdle up slightly to reveal a delightfully pudgy pudendum with a deep crease disappearing between her ample thighs.
About half of the women were wearing a bra, but not necessarily a bra that contained their breasts. And, bra or no bra, they were all reasonably well-endowed. One woman had breasts the size of footballs -- and they appeared to be completely natural.
Of the women whose pubic regions were exposed -- and I guess that was about two-thirds of them -- most were showing a more-or-less full bush.
By today's standards, the photographs were not particularly 'explicit'. But there was something quite arousing about them. After viewing just a few of them, enjoying the fleshy exhibitionism and intimate apparel, I definitely felt a stirring in my pyjama pants. And, after viewing a few more, I had developed sufficient wood to make me want to stroke my cock all the way to a thoroughly-satisfying ejaculation. Was this what Uncle Charlie had meant when he said the desk had been a source of great pleasure?
The next day I called an antique dealer I know and asked him what he could tell me about desks with secret compartments.
'You buying or selling?' he asked.
'Just curious,' I said.
'Anything in particular?'
'Yeah. Would a desk normally have just one secret compartment? Or would there be more?'
'Depends,' he said. 'In European furniture, the idea of secret compartments came in during the 17th and 18th centuries as a way of concealing valuables. So I guess it depends on how many valuables the owner of the piece needed to conceal. Of course, some secret compartments are quite large, while others are just big enough to conceal, say, a few gold coins.'
'Thanks,' I said. 'You've been really helpful.' I didn't think Uncle Charlie was concerned about hiding gold coins. They could go to the bank. But I was starting to think his porn stash might extend beyond 16 interesting photographs.
I set about a closer inspection of the desk -- getting to know it, as Uncle Charlie had suggested.
The writing slide was mainly covered in faded red leather. However, around the edges there was a complicated pattern of marquetry. I was admiring this and thinking about how much skill and patience it would have taken to make such a thing when it suddenly occurred to me that, for such a fine piece of furniture, the slide was surprisingly thick. A couple of sharp taps with my knuckles revealed why: part of the slide was hollow.
From there it was just a matter of finding the entry point: a sliding strip along one edge. And, sure enough, behind the sliding strip there was a secret compartment just big enough to contain a boxed DVD.
My joy at having discovered the secret hiding place soon turned to disappointment; the DVD was one of those awful touristy things. It was called Islands of Romance (or some such thing). I think the islands in question were Hawaiian but, from the pictures on the box, they could have been just about any palm-treed islands.
Why Charlie should have gone to so much trouble to conceal such a piece of tourist tat was a bit of a mystery. Perhaps he was embarrassed to have bought it in the first place. Or maybe someone had bought it for him and he didn't like to throw it away. Who knows, I thought, and I went back to exploring the desk.
I hadn't got very much further with my exploration when the telephone rang. It was a woman named Angela, one of Charlie's 'angels' apparently. She said we'd met at Charlie's funeral and that she had a book that she'd borrowed from Charlie. Obviously she couldn't return it to Charlie, so she thought I should have it. I suggested she should keep it. But she said 'No, I think Charlie would have wanted you to have it, Jake,' and we arranged for her to call by.
Since Angela's phone call had already interrupted my search, I thought maybe I would see exactly how bad the touristy DVD was. Thirty seconds in I could see that it was really really bad. It wasn't even well filmed.
But then, just as I was about to hit the eject button, it suddenly changed. Gone were the greyish scenes of scraggy palm trees and self-conscious bikini-clad maidens. In their place, there suddenly appeared a beautifully-decorated, beautifully-lit, interior. It reminded me of a very expensive hotel room. It could have been in New York or London. But it could just as easily have been somewhere in France or Italy, in a chateau or a palazzo perhaps.
A woman walked into the scene. She looked vaguely familiar. I had the feeling I had seen her somewhere before, but I couldn't think where. I guess she was about 45, maybe a little older, attractive, well dressed, and carrying a couple of shopping bags of the style favoured by purveyors of expensive designer clothing.
Quietly singing to herself (in French, I think), the woman walked over to a chair that was conveniently placed in the centre of the shot. For a moment or two, I thought she was about to take a post-shopping armchair snooze. But, instead, she placed her shopping bags on the floor beside the chair and began unbuttoning the jacket of her smartly-tailored suit.
She undid each button slowly, deliberately, as though she knew someone was watching. Of course she couldn't have possibly known that I was watching. But I was.
One button. Two buttons. Three buttons. Four. The buttons unbuttoned, she slipped the jacket off her shoulders and, with a deft twirl, draped it neatly across the back of the chair.
Next, she slowly unzipped her skirt. Again, each little movement was deliberate: the unzipping, the unbuttoning, the careful manoeuvring of the skirt past her broad hips, and then, when the skirt finally hit the deeply-carpeted floor, the way in which she so elegantly stepped out of it. Another deft twirl and the skirt joined the jacket across the back of the chair.
Next to go -- slowly -- was her silky camisole. And then her matching knickers. She was now standing there, facing the camera, dressed in just her bra, a pair of hold-up stockings, and some very expensive-looking shoes.
I don't know why, but I have always found a woman wearing a bra and no knickers particularly arousing. And this woman was no exception. I could feel the beginnings of further pleasure. What the hell; I was on my own; I began to loosen a few of my own clothes.
After a few moments, the woman stopped her gentle singing, smiled and peered, impishly, directly at the camera. 'Are you watching me?' she asked with a glint in her eye. 'I bet you are, you naughty boy.'
Well, poor Charlie wasn't. Or at least if he was, it was from atop a cloud. He certainly wasn't watching from my living room. But I was.
'So ... do you like what you see?' She turned sideways, and then turned still further to provide a better view of her shapely backside. 'Not too bad for a girl of my age?'
After a moment or two she turned back to face the camera before briefly glancing down at her own body. 'I've gone for a new hairstyle. What do you think? Do you like it?' She ran her fingers up each side of the neatly-trimmed patch of dark pubic hair sitting above her clean-shaven outer labia.
'Not exactly a landing strip, is it? A little too wide for a landing strip. Although, some of you boys need a pretty wide strip -- when you get excited. Are you getting excited now? Is that cock of yours getting nice and fat and hard?'
I couldn't speak for the dear departed Charlie; but, if she was asking me, then the answer was an emphatic yes.
'Are you playing with your cock? I bet you are. I bet you're stoking your nice hard cock. And what are you thinking? What are you thinking about as you stroke your cock? Are you thinking about putting your nice hard cock inside me? You boys! Mind you, I think that might feel very nice -- you putting your nice hard cock into my warm, soft pussy. Hmmm, very nice indeed.'
She spread her legs slightly. 'The thought of you putting your hard cock inside me is making me quite wet. Can you see?' She ran an elegant finger slowly along her secret valley and then held it up to the camera. 'Wet,' she said. 'Warm and wet. Can you imagine your hard cock, covered in my juices, pushing its way into my ...' she hesitated, '... pushing its way into my cunt? Can you? I can. I can feel it now. Yes, I can feel it and it feels soooh good.
'It's making me soooh wet. Can you tell? I bet you can. I'm feeling soooh wet, soooh hot, soooh tingly. I'm feeling so hot that I'm just going to have to finger-fuck myself. But then you like that, don't you? You like it when I give myself a good finger fucking.'
One then two fingers of her left hand plunged into her vagina, while the fingers of her right hand worked her glistening inner labia and her clitoris.
'Oh, this feels soooh good,' she said. 'So good. You have no idea how good this feels. So, soooh good.'
I must admit, I was not feeling too bad myself. My cock was hard and fat, and I was matching her stroke for stroke. As she increased the tempo, so did I.
'Cum with me,' she said. 'Cum with me. Feel your big, hard cock thrusting into my hot, wet cunt, and fill me with your hot spunk.'
In my mind, that's exactly what I did. And in my living room, three or four impressive ropes of semen shot joyously from the end of my reddened rod as she enjoyed a squirting on-screen orgasm of her own. 'Oh, fuck, yes,' I said.
'You boys!' she said. 'Don't you ever think about anything else? I expect you've made a bit of a mess, haven't you. I know I have. But it was worth it, wasn't it?'
'Oh, yes,' I said, as though she was in the room with me, 'it certainly was.'
'Well,' she said, 'until the next time ... and long live TMF.'
She blew a kiss and the screen faded to black.
For a couple of minutes, I just stood there, my chinos around my ankles, my cock wilting in my hand.
Who was the mysterious on-screen lover? She didn't look like any porn star I'd ever seen. She didn't even look the type. She looked too real, too natural, too ... well, too much like an ordinary (or perhaps extraordinary) housewife doing what comes naturally. But the filming was hardly home movie quality. The lighting was cinematographic lighting at its very best. And if the woman was just an actress, then her acting was worthy of an Oscar.
Also, what did she mean by long live TMF? And where had I heard that before?