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.
Herbert asked Kelly why she wasn’t running while his daughter polished off a large bowl of cereals, toast, Marmite and home made Seville Orange marmalade. Mavis butted in, saying he was a silly old bugger, it was Saturday and her and Kelly were going shopping in the city and it wasn’t long before they had to scuttle along for the hourly bus service. In the half hour before they left, an excited Herbert phoned his pal Maurice Oakenshaw, the landlord of the Swan. They decided the pub would be the first meeting, then the Brook household.
Kelly’s denim clad shapely bum attracted attention at the bus stop, the sallow youth following her to pay the conductor, was dangerously close to nudging her butt as he stumbled on, distracted but her visible panty line and toned sturdy bare legs below. Mavis already bagging two seats, had ignored Kelly’s suggestion that maybe her mother’s huge bosom was a bit too much exposed by her choice of flimsy cotton dress.
Maurice told Herbert that Serena, had gone by a much earlier bus to “the smoke” as he called London, to visit family. He had called in Sarah Brown to deputise, only for lunchtime trade, knowing the sweet natured wife of the village curate was much loved by the punters when they asked her to get old fashioned dimpled beer glasses from beneath the bar and ogled her droopy tits. Maurice wondered if she knew. Maurice’s wife Agnes was lustily fingering salami and cucumbers thinking those were the days when the miserable old git she was married to could get his sad little winkle as they called it, up. She was in the pub kitchen with two staff, busy preparing food for the lunch menu, so the two old codgers went upstairs and entered Serena William’s bedroom door.
Ben was very much in charge at Yellow Dot so Eileen, got on the internet and checked her contacts in the world she operated in and made a depilation appointment for her face and in the same salon, a further appointment for some more make up advice and new products. She checked social media on a chap who had tried to make contact with her several times, initially setting himself up as a wig maker and consultant, finding that he was very tasty, so she answered him and made a date. He returned to front desk and relieved his brother. Mark was on duty and Ben and he wanted a quicky relief in the cellar where lots of playground equipment was stored and needed cleaning before the outdoor area was made ready for the onset of summer.
Maurice mentioned quietly to Herbert that a customer had tried to sell him some smoke alarms and had told him that the pub was already fully kitted, as per health and safety. However when the salesman – nudge, nudge, wink, wink - had said his items were more usually fitted in non public areas and were really cameras and microphones so the staff could be spied on, you know – if the were up to no good, stealing stuff or even have a sly fumble, Maurice had placed an order for two. Herbert, being a simple pig breeder and castrator, was baffled and had no interest. The landlord of the Swan had dived into Serena’s laundry basket and unearthed loads of undies and outer wear for the two elderly perverts to sniff and lick lusty odours and stains. Herbert was told by an incredulous Maurice for the umpteenth time that the black girl didn’t shave her armpits and was asked if any of Agnes’s dirty washing was around. His pervy pal brought in the bathroom wash basket and let Herbert enjoy himself two fold. They giggled as they compared the size of the knickers and brassieres, Agnes’s being enormous against Serena’s ample but much daintier gear. Much mirth ensued when the landlord mentioned Gordon’s interest in the statuesque black barmaid and how he loved to watch the pastor’s comical and bumbling approach. Herbert chuckled that the randy Scots git curate would get off with one or two of her armpit hairs.
Kelly tried on some underwear in Debenhams changing rooms. She bought one pair of lacy square cut briefs and then tried some thongs, while her mum sat patiently watching. The shapely girl made sure the protective film the store provided was secure in the gusset because she couldn’t possibly try them over a pair of knickers as the string wouldn’t fit right. Mavis giggled it was a bit like placing a sanitary pad into knickers and Kelly saying she was pleased her period had finished. She stood and preened, tweaking the elastic pulling the tiny garment up, Mavis not bothering to ask the question asked and answered many times when Kelly looped a finger inside the rear string and hooked it out. The mature villager was just thankful that Herbert didn’t know about these wretched flimsy articles, thinking she would never be able to find one up her crack, once she had pulled a thong on, if she had one.
Maurice and Herbert transferred to Kelly’s bedroom, saying good morning to several people near the village green and waving to Ben who was sweeping the porch door of the nursery, wearing a pair of very small and close fitting pink shorts. They were on their way for another bout of sneakily searching underwear for things Kelly and indeed Serena wouldn’t like them to know. The master of the Brook cottage told his dirty mate that Kelly had just “come off the rag” and they should find something. His daughter hadn’t emptied the waste bin near her dressing table and Maurice knowingly pounced on the tissue wrapped tampon, dangling it, sniffing the lightly stained piece of soft cotton. Herbert offered Maurice the contents of Mavis’s dirty washing but he declined, saying Kelly’s was fine – but he wouldn’t mind peeping at Sarah Brown’s though. Maurice asked what the little gadget on the dressing table was and Herbert hadn’t a clue. They discussed a smoke alarm, but Herbert said it was all down to the manor who owned the cottage, he just rented.
Returning home on the bus Kelly declared she would run twice the distance tomorrow to make up for missing out today. Mavis shook her head in despair.
Kelly, having got up for a piss before she went for her runs, saw the lone, rangy mysterious jogger, admiring the old man’s dedication to his sport exercise and his slender wiry legs, the sort of man she’d like to have once she got to his age. She heard her mum go off to the Methodist chapel in the next village and realised it was 7am. Yellow Dot was closed on Sunday. She also heard her dad splashing his piss in the toilet bowl and farting just before he pulled the chain to flush. She dressed and ran the first five miles, she would run again in the day, realising that she felt so good after the exercise, her adrenaline kept her buzzing and the fact she hadn’t been shagged last night wasn’t too much of a miss.
It was a filthy cold morning when the clergyman took morning service at 10.30, the usual sparse congregation depleted further by the weather. The church was heated and his sound system was functioning perfectly. His sermon opened with a laugh when he referred to the weather but he was uplifted by the presence of three significant ladies of the parish, his wife Sarah and their four offspring, Samantha Blair and Eileen Dover. Samantha had claimed the front row, with prayer mats but no fixed shelving. Her obese daughter wriggled at the end of the pew, playing on her Smart Phone. Mrs Blair was aiming to snare by fair or foul means, Gordon, to head up her annual charity appeal and knowing his reputation had chosen a daring, tan leather, knee length skirt and hold up stockings. Her sensible dark brown pattered cardigan covered an off white high necked blouse.
Not worried by the presence behind the pastor of eighty four year old Mrs Bogworthy on the organ and all three male members of the choir, two youths and a spotty, white faced, middle aged, balding man with buck teeth who sang in a high pitched tone, Samantha surreptitiously, opened her legs and flashed her thighs as Gordon floundered through the service, his sermon and weighed up the contrasting charms of a black barmaid or the silky sophistication of a city solicitor. Bugger it, he thought, why not both. The two choir boys, went to the cricket pavilion after the service and wanked to photos one of them had secretly taken up Mrs Blair’s skirt from their vantage point in the choir stalls.
Later that week