A remote village seething with sexual goings on
Not another misty grey spring morning Kelly Brook thought, throwing back the bedroom curtains of her parents pretty, rented cottage in the New Forest. On the edge of a highly sought after, by townies, village with good commuting by road or rail, a manor, one convenience store, a post office owned by an Indian family, one pub and a small garage, it was a chocolate box scene. Kelly, know as the bike in certain minds, was a local not a grockel and would daily run about three miles using three different routes offering a variety of terrain.
Saturday morning promised some serious down time from her job at a nursery where all the yummy mummys farmed out their offspring for hours or all day. The nursery was fully subscribed with girl and boy brats of all temperament and more importantly status on the ever growing social climb. A lot of that depended on the model and age of the car the brats were transported in.
That’s him again Kelly thought, he looks so like Ms Dover her boss, the owner of the Yellow Dot nursery, but that’s a man running past. He was working his long, stringy, pale legs striding athletically on the gravel leading to a multitude of pony and walking tracks. His shoulder length, wispy, grey hair was flowing free from under a bright red Trump baseball cap pulled down low and his black shorts – she didn’t think they were still available, were the old fashioned, extremely short, loose, that showed a lot of his bum cheeks and his ... well you know. Kelly had seen him at the same time every morning in her regular way out from the village. Sometimes they passed, jogging in the opposite direction, acknowledging each other in a polite nod.
Living six hundred metres past the Yellow Dot nursery where she worked, but not today, it was her day off on the rota system organised by Eileen Dover and her brother Ben, Kelly would run to work in an effort to reduce her weight. Mavis and Herbert, her parents were baffled by their only child’s dedication to emulate her long time idol Geri Halliwell. Once a Spice Girls fan – always a Spice Girls fan. When she had reduced from a size 14 to a size 12, Charlie the plumber, her boyfriend from primary school days had cruelly packed her in, he didn’t like skinny girls he nastily told her and started courting that fat West Indian girl from the shop.
Kelly called down in answer to her mum’s shout saying she was having a lie in and went back to bed, loving the way her nipples had sprouted outside the warmth of the bed to, as Charlie would say, chapel hat pegs. For all his crude country ways, he had a delightful way of stroking her teats. His stubby fingers could feel like feathers – but not any more - and she could never imitate that sensation, but what she could do, was stimulate her clitoris and that was happening more these days. Casting off her night shirt, her hands slipped down her naked belly, the cool outside air filtering through the permanently open window, ensuring her nipples stayed erect. Oh how she missed Charlie’s urgent and quick fucks – or any fucks.
Eileen other wise known as Len, neared completing her daily circuit, glancing up at the Brook cottage windows where he often saw but ignored the girl he knew, she not recognising him, at an upper window and devised the second part of her cunning plan. At Yellow Dot, Ben was receiving the first batch of pushy parents and brats, admiring the slim, tight Lycra clad arse of Tristram Heath MP, the father of Justin, one of the most unruly kids. Cherie Heath was at her weekend Pilates class. Samantha Blair had her eyes on the same rippling bottom as she manoeuvred her obese blonde, pigtailed daughter Clementine from the tail gate of her RangeRover. Ben spotted Len jogging round to the rear entrance, knowing he would have to deal with the classes, distribute the brats to various rooms and arrange a schedule for the morning until his older sister had showered and changed and dealt with her usual routine.
This morning however Eileen went straight to her room and sat before the computer and opened a particular live feed. She grinned, thanking the onset of the weekend, as he threw his baseball cap off, ruffled his hair and unleashed his cock from the slack, flimsy under slip of his Mo Farah shorts. The seventy four year old fit cross-dresser ex-national athlete, zoomed in on Kelly’s fingers dancing on her cunt. The light was perfect and the low angles of the camera was ideal, as the sun had burned off the mist and a bright still weekend was forecast. Ben had done a super job installing the call system, free of charge in Kelly and Yvonne’s bedrooms, being the two senior nursery assistants who lived nearest the business premises. The two, simple country females had agreed to the system in case of emergencies at Yellow Dot, where they could be summoned quickly. They wholeheartedly agreed with the two Dovers it was a necessity, however it had never been actioned.
Yvonne, a dumpy, brunette, thirty one year old, lesbian - therefore now single mother of four in the village, who worked shifts at the Spar convenience store, to augment her salary at Yellow Dot and Kelly had no idea that the call gadget in their respective bedrooms, concealed a tiny powerful camera aimed at the beds but encompassing quite a large area of the room. High quality vision and sound was transmitted to Eileen’s computer. Ben had also fitted the same system to the only male nursery employee and Ben’s current beau by the name of Tony, a twenty four year old gay with pink dyed hair and known amongst the local yokels as BumBoy.
Kelly masturbated in the simplest way, rolling her fingers over the hood of her clit, slopping some of her ample cunt juice up on to the prominent ridge before it folded inside. A quiet low key cum ensued and she unfolded the bed covers to stand near the alert gadget where Ben had agreed with her was the best place. Len watched a pale rotund bum, complete with pimples, in glorious close up until Kelly turned and faced the window on the other side of the bed. She seemed to be interested in her pubic mound, bending her legs, widening her knees and peering as low as she could. She diddled in her fine, long, fair hairs, then dug deeper and seemed to be pulling and to Len’s fascinated surprise a part bloodied tampon swung free. Kelly studied it, grimaced, pursed her lips and waggled her head, as if to say nearly over it - could do with cock to clean it properly and wrapped the tampon in a tissue. She wrapped a robe round her and disappeared off camera.
On reaching the bathroom, Kelly nearly puked on the foul odour her dad had left after his bath, shave and shit. In the bath he’d looked down at his wrinkled little uncut cock and couldn’t remember the last time he had got it up, it didn’t react these days.
Len, the elderly cross-dresser remembered there was a time four weeks ago, when a young couple used Kelly’s room over a weekend, the usual occupant telling the Dovers her sister and husband were visiting, and instead of the young woman as per normal, Eileen/Ken had superb views of non-stop sex and body. They were a very randy duo and one was a very fine examples of pure male beauty. He was inky black in colour, squat but extremely well muscled, with a prodigious cock, so much so that Eileen had told Ben who enjoyed the voyeuristic heterosexual peep as much as his favourite BumBoy. Kelly’s sister was a mousy little sprat of a girl who obviously was gagging for it. Ben remarked to Eileen that so many body builder had little dicks and this had been different. She wasn’t bothered, she/he could take it either way she told him to much mirth.
The brothers Dover got on with the Saturday work. They had less staff through demand and economics and helped with several tasks assisting the assistants they employed. Eileen had plenty of time to think about his devious plan to fuck Kelly. It had been fortuitous that he had seen the tampon incident, so next week would be clear. She never appeared on the surveillance cameras Ben had installed in the female changing room, arriving and leaving in her uniform. Other girls had though.
Eileen was collared by Samantha Blair when she came to collect Clementine. Samantha, a solicitor in London with two nannies, as usual, even over a weekend, was wearing a pencil slim, black, knee length skirt, leopard print kitten heels, al la her heroine Theresa May, a gunmetal grey, vee neck blouse and sheer hose. Len reckoned she had flat droopy tits, but not bad legs. She had taken on an unofficial dresser role to Eileen and was suggesting that the tall, stringy boss of Yellow Dot should try shopping at the trendy designer Amanda Wakely’s boutique in posh Beaulieu. Eileen hated this domineering hard faced woman and her snooty ideas.
At the end of the nursery hours she was wearing a dirty blonde shoulder length wig, her make-up was precise and tasteful, an tailored corporate style blouse, over her false boobs, a flared, loose, beige calf length skirt and tan hose. On her feet were brown court shoes. She was glad to get the Blair woman off the premises and had to deal with Sarah Brown, a softly spoken, sweet village mum, with a problem about being able to collect her equally soft gentle child next week. When she got home, Sarah always mentioned to Gordon her husband there was something strange about Eileen, but couldn’t put her finger on it. The area clergyman with an annoying tick, being a gruff, ugly Scot ignored her, more concerned with thinking how to put a finger on the big tits and fanny of Serena Williams, the live-in busty black barmaid at the Swan.
.... There is more of this story ...