“Do I have to mummy?” whined Lyn Dedbeet. “ I like being like this.” “Oh do shut up Lyn and stop moaning. This is going to be momentous day for you and Gran is the best person, to show you how,” ratted Mandy Dedbeet, to her perennially naked 14 yr old daughter. “Besides daddy and I haven’t got time today, to teach you these things and after all that’s how we learned, you know from our parents.” “Yes but you and daddy are my parents so why do have to learn for an old woman like Gran?” persisted Lyn, flicking a crumb off her stout erect nipple. “Don’t let Gran hear you say that darling,” tittered Den Dedbeet, chewing a piece of toast and straightening his tie, thinking my step daughter is a stunner, what a catch for a bloke, if it wasn’t for her wayward manner. It’ll be a fucking miracle if I don’t shag her before long. “Gawd no, mummy would be furious and she’s not old she’s only 77,” giggled Mandy his fifty year old, twice divorced, CEO wife as they both made ready to leave the smart upmarket development in Wilmslow, Cheshire. “Look honey, try to put these on before she comes down for breakfast.”

A tiny pair of crisp white knickers and large tee shirt were tossed over the mock marble kitchen island, the crotch of the knickers landing in Lyn’s bowl of Weetabix. She dipped it further into the crumb decorated full fat milk before having a suck. She liked soft soggy cereal. Den shook his head, stooped and kissed Lyn on her cheek, gazing down, between her full, shapely and firm tits at the forest of blonde pubic hair spilling over her groin and draped over her stool. How he wished Mandy wouldn’t persist in waxing hers smooth. If I don’t bury my head in that bush before long ... he pondered. Lyn, stretched up an arm round his neck and dragged his head down and smooch kissed her father as if they were lovers until he managed to pull away and trot to the downstairs bathroom and swipe traces of her breakfast from his face.

Mandy shouted upstairs, that they were leaving for the international conference, reminding her that they would be staying overnight. Mandy was due to be the main keynote speaker on her companies range of toilet products. “Lyn is having her breakfast and don’t forget the list” were the last items to shout up the stairs. Sybil Taylor returned the call, while sat on her en-suite toilet and thought bugger the list. They left.

In their Mercedes C class saloon negotiating an arrogant young male driver in a silver Audi SUV who seemed to think he owned the tarmac while waiting outside a property, Den spoke. “Your mum hasn’t had the pleasure of Lyn totally like this for a whole day. Think she’ll be OK?” “Look Den, I’ve left mummy a list and if mummy can sort me out and four other army brats while daddy was roaming the world, not always with us in tow, Lyn is no problem” replied Mandy, agitated being distracted from her Smart phone issuing instructions, more like orders, to many of her staff. “Well the nice thing is that Sybil knows about art ... did you see that charcoal work Lyn did yesterday, it’s amazing.” Den chuckled shaking his head at the quality of their daughter’s artistic skills.

“Yes I did but like all her stuff, she won’t be able to exhibit ... I mean it’ll be censored...” “Not necessarily. Erotic figure work is one of the oldest subjects in painting ... look at that drawing I was given by your father, that Japanese bloke ... er can’t remember ... oh yeah Kiyonaga, it’s in my bathroom ... oh shit, look at the traffic ahead.” “Yes I know Den but it’s not exactly the sort of thing you could hang in the lounge is it and as for Lyn’s piece, yes it’s brilliant, but it’s her fanny with all that hair and a dildo stuck in. Not the sort of thing people are going to buy or even want to see is it?” “Oh I don’t know...” Den answered airily, I’d like to see ... the real thing, he thought to himself, gesticulating at an old man who hadn’t signalled at a roundabout, and nearly carved him up.

“Mummy does know about Lyn disappearing through the hedge for ages next door anyway.” “Good ... yes of course, Mrs Mackenzie is lovely with her, they seem to have a lot of fun, not that she says much about it, her or Lyn,” added Den. “She’s been disappearing as you put it ... er ... what? for about four years. Nice really.” Mandy shook her bottle blonde frizzy style hair in doubt, her black painted fingernails fluttering over her device. She glanced up. “At least we can be safe knowing that hole in the laurel hedge is the only way Lyn can escape, Mrs Mackenzie’s back garden is so secure with that horrid high fence she likes. She’s very private isn’t she, I rarely see her and that hound, hear it now and then. Yes well anyway, I happened to see her painting that monstrosity ... well drawing it the other day. She had a big mirror against the wall and was propped on her bed, legs wide apart and well ... you know...” Den could imagine the scene and wished he’s been there and eased the car down the slip road onto the M56.

“Mornin’ Lyn,” said Sybil brightly, entering the kitchen, to see Lyn attempting to wash up and managing quite well even though the tall naturally blonde girl had a courgette stuck up her bottom. “Morning,” nonchalantly answered Lyn, turning to stick her tongue out ... Sybil rolled her eyes, realising she was in for a tough day, but if a retired Royal Engineers Major couldn’t sort out her seriously troubled 14 year old grand daughter out no-one would. Suddenly Lyn, abandoned the washing up and strolled across the huge trendy designed kitchen, through the utility room and out into the garden. Sybil watched through the window as Lyn stood in the pouring rain, beside the mass of bird feeders on a pole, the courgette having been dislodged from her bum lying on the grass. The girl gathered some birdseed, Sybil wondering if she was going to eat it the way the girl fiddled and examined it, then held her hand out. Seconds later two Blue Tits and a Greenfinch were arguing on Lyn’s hand vying for the choicest nibbles. A Goldfinch landed, fed a little at it’s Nyger seed then waited.

The old lady was mesmerised with the amazing relationship between avians and humans, then even more so when Lyn stooped and retrieved the long green vegetable and reinserted it from where it had fallen, still balancing birds and seed in one hand. The rain shower deteriorated, soon a heavy downpour, Lyn not caring, she was doing her own thing as Sybil realised and keeping a careful eye outdoors, made and ate her breakfast. She scanned the list. Dressing, toilet, listening, writing, eating, undressing.

The girl again surprised Sybil. Absolutely soaked, stark naked, Lyn started to perform what her grand mother recognised as movements from Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake ballet. They were graceful, poetic and active movement in such accurate detail and control, it was difficult to surmise that such a professional performance was being acted out on a drenched, albeit large and spacious lawn – with no music. “My she is good,” Sybil exclaimed to herself. Regardless of her ungainly figure – well, not corps de ballet figure, but with exquisite grace and composure Lyn floated around, her bare feet splashing up drops of water somehow adding to the bizarre beautiful scene. Sybil pondered whether to call her in, knowing that Lyn would stop and come indoors in her own time and it was best not to disturb her, such was her unpredictable manner. She recalled some of the tasteful yet erotic paintings, in the spare bedroom which Sybil had not chosen to use while visiting and how accomplished and complete they were, eight in charcoal, some in acrylics and then others in startling use of mixed media, including in one pieces a used condom and in another two tampons, one new, the other used. All Lyn’s work – which had to be removed if other guests used the room.

“All those specialists have been saying our girl will – will grow up to have an absolutely brilliant skill and expertise in a subject which is beyond many grown ups, the problem we have is which one to help further and find her a place in life,” Den said, parking the Merc. He got out and ran to the ticket machine, not bothering to find a non-existent umbrella. He returned to find Mandy, head down, still working on her device as she had the whole journey to the conference centre in the Marriott hotel. “We’re remarkably early, the valets’ll move the car into the hotel car park later, as they told us in the blurb, fucking weather,” he moaned, patting down his soaked tousled black hair. Mandy had hardly noticed they’d arrived and certainly hadn’t heard any of his words.

Before he’d a chance to get their briefcases from the boot of the car, Mandy had scuttled off to the entrance. Her haste was hindered due to her black mini pencil skirt and her attempts at holding the hem down as she scuttled, to prevent it riding up and showing the tops of her hold up dark tan stockings. She was also holding a discarded newspaper over her head, her six inch heels clacking noisily on the concrete. Another guest arriving, leered at her frantic dash, running the way women do as if they’ve still got a cock in their cunts and trying to keep it intact, knees together, lower legs flicking out to the sides. She dashed inside, checking that Den was bringing her bag as ordered, more or less straight into the waiting arms of Fabrice Bush, her black senior assistant waiting for the Dedbeet’s late arrival. Being a raging queer, he took no notice of Mandy’s startling cleavage, where her turquoise blouse had bloomed open in her frantic scramble to remain dry, but he did like her Miu Miu L’eau Bleue perfume very much.

Sybil followed a still naked and very wet Lyn upstairs, having persuaded her indoors and resolved to start on the list, the bloody list, in Lyn’s room, which was surprisingly tidy. “First of all we’ve got to get your ... er mess dried off down there,” said Sybil pointing at the long straggling clutch of golden hair hanging below the girl’s pussy. Some of it was draped to her inner thighs. She’d followed the dripping mess as she’d called it, upstairs despairing why her daughter hadn’t got round to teaching Lyn to trim the pubes back when she was a teen.

Sitting her grand daughter down, Sybil found towels and dabbed and wiped Lyn’s crotch dry, the girl loving the action, happily spreading her legs as far wide as possible. Sybil mused, this girl wouldn’t know the meaning of keep your legs together and sit gracefully. “We need to learn a few things about the outside world Lyn and as you’re always naked, you need to learn how to dress, if you’re going to this specialist centre,” Sybil told a distracted by a buzzing fly Lyn. “Lyn please listen and watch me. First of all I am going to start as you are and be naked, hopefully you can follow me better.” The girl’s face followed the fly as Sybil removed her military style khaki shirt, her brown pleated skirt, her tights, her droopy white brassiere, and finally her plain pale pink knickers. Lyn immediately beamed with pleasure and moved closer to where Sybil had sat and cuddled her, fondling Sybil’s full blown low slung bosom. Hmm! Thought Sybil, not sure how this is going to go but stick to your plan of action, as one of her hands was lifted and placed on Lyn’s firm high breasts. The girl beamed happily, cupping her Gran’s knockers, cooing and groaning with pleasure. Sybil stood and stepped to a wardrobe. “Gran?” “Yes my love?” “You’re fat,” said Lyn, matter of factly. Out of the mouths of babes, thought Sybil.

The once fit as a fiddle army officer and pride of the parade ground, netball and gymnastics team had admittedly let herself go, liking food, drink and more drink a little too much. She posed as women do, in front of a wall mirror, Lyn grinning at her and saw the flab of her belly, the suggestion of another crease below that and the distinct creases at her sides next to her sagging boobs. Lyn dashed forward and pointed to her grand mother’s smooth hairless fanny. “Gran, Gran, where’s it gone?” comparing the bald pubic mound to her own hirsute display. Sybil recalled one of her paramours in the Special Forces who ditched her after a female subaltern told her the ultimate hygiene she could achieve by shaving it all off and keeping it ... Brazilian she remembered, or something look that. When Lyn touched Sybil’s stubble leading down to a dramatic formation of labia, the girl’s finger was swiped away, Sybil realising there had been and would be a lot of distractions. “No Lyn that’s naughty, you mustn’t do that ... er now lets try and get you dressed.”

“Now - your mummy told me, yes here it is” she announced, delving in to the antique furniture and surfacing with a small pile. “The clothes she wants you to practice with and remember we are going out to town later, did you know that?” There was no reaction from Lyn who was following the buzzy fly, then stuck out a hand and caught it, holding it to triumphantly to Sybil who could hear it buzzing in the girl’s loose clutch. She opened her fist and the insect remained moving around just as if it was on a window pane. That was amazing, thought the old woman, first the birds then this ... she held up a pair of plain white M&S briefs and suggested she follow her lead.

She pulled on her own, slightly soiled pink ones slowly and watched Lyn still taunting the fly, then it flew off. She grabbed her attention by flapping the panties at Lyn’s puzzled face receiving a fit of giggles in reply as if it was another playtime. She stressed the importance of checking where the label is, starting to explain the problems when thongs are the chosen cover, then didn’t, thinking that was far too advanced for her troubled grand daughter. In Lyn’s case, which took some hands-on from Sybil to place them properly, an important detail in Sybil’s experience, was tucking all the stray hairs of which there were many, back into the cotton. “But I like to play with them Gran.” searching inside her gusset, and pulling them. Her hands were dashed away and Sybil, produced a pair of tights swiftly.

Lyn gathered the gusset of her new underwear together and ran her other hand through her crotch bunching the reinforced cotton together and trying to tuck it into her slit. Then she stood at the mirror, grabbing the waist band and pulling it up very tight, posing, tilting her head side to side, as if judging the effect it would have. Her muff blossomed out each side and her full flabbed labia bulged. Lyn swivelled, peering over her shoulder to assess the effect the bloom of her arse cheeks, split with the white cotton. She quickly grabbed a camera and took a rear selfie to Sybil’s amazement and anger. “Make a good painting Gran,” said Lyn without humour. The old lady shook her head and pursed her lips not wanting to lose her temper – not easy with such provocation, but peculiarly innocent provocation.

“I’ll get this dried and pressed Mrs Dedbeet,” simpered Fabrice, delicately picking up Mandy’s rain splashed skirt off the bed she was sat on, using two beautifully manicured fingers with a little finger cocked high “Do this as well Fabby,” ordered Den handing him the jacket of his Paul Smith designer suit. The slenderly built black man took it with an obliging smile. “You got another skirt darling?” “Yes tthree actually in the case, why?” asked Mandy, scrolling her device. “Well if you’re aiming to stand up on a stage and deliver your speech in front of two hundred delegates, they’re going to see up it, did wonder if you’d thought of that, logistics you know – never your strong point.” Mandy shook her head at his impertinence, still scrolling. “At least I’ve got some knickers on,” she managed a giggle. “Well what I can see of them they’re not much heh heh,” Den pounced on her and thrust her flat on the bed. Her shapely legs shot up and apart. He snickered, holding his wife down. She shrieked “My hair ... get off you cunt.”

“Yes that’s what I’d like to see down there - hair,” he fingered the minute tiny sliver of a black thong which was nearly eaten in the slender lips of her completely smooth waxed snatch. “Fuck off Den, not now, you idiot, there’s things to do,” she protested being allowed to lever herself up. “It’s a good job old Bushy’s queer seeing you like that. You know what those black French buggers are like, randy bastards at the best of times without having a gorgeous middle age rich woman provoke them like that” “He’s safe and you know it,” she moaned – preening at her husband’s kind words, recovering her device from near the double pillows. “Shit! I’ll have to change this now,” Mandy grumbled, standing and smoothing without success her creased silk blouse. She took it off and rummaged through her case, as Den turned the volume up on the TV where a big race was ready to start at Goodwood. Neither of them heard the discreet knock at the door and Fabrice’s silent entrance and a waiter.

Sybil managed to get Lyn partly dressed, not without difficulty, so many fascinating distractions and interests popped into the 14 year old’s mind. Sometimes she just walked round her room, endlessly, touching or scratching the wall, turning and going to another repeat after repeat after repeat. Sybil observed but didn’t interrupt, knowing that was a fruitless task. Thanks fully the rain had stopped, the sun emerged and she thought at least when we go out it will be less stressful.

Knowing Lyn had many things to keep her occupied and thankfully not TV or Ipads, Sybil tidied up, then went to the toilet. When she finished, Lyn wasn’t in her room or anywhere in the house. She’d hear movement on the stairs and the French windows slam in the breeze, How many times does Lyn need to be told about securing the door from slamming? She thought and made some phone calls guessing that her grand daughter had drifted next door to that nice Mrs Mackenzie. Trouble was, how long for?

Cosh, Mrs Mackenzie’s brindle boxer was happy to see Lyn saunter up the path and let herself in to the old fashioned kitchen. He barked, bounced and fussed round the girl, his tongue lolling, saliva dribbling, his snub nose forever searching Lyn’s crotch, clad only in her briefs, which remained tight up her crack from her posing and taking a selfie earlier.

“Oh hello dear. I saw your parents leave, your nanny’s here yes? Nice knickers,” Cynthia Mackenzie chuckled, surprised to see Lyn wearing such a lot of clothes, including a tee shirt. “Gran’s here, not a nanny Cyn,” corrected Lyn, using the short name Cynthia had told her to use ever since the girl appeared through the chunky laurel hedge, the one side of the garden not dominated by a six foot close boarded fence in deference to her neighbours, from thirty years ago, long before the Dedbeets had moved in. “I washed it today,”Lyn declared, pointing at her slippery thighs and crotch, where Cosh continually sniffed and licked. “So did I matter of fact,” Cynthia snickered, lifting her delicately patterned multi coloured dress and flashed her hairy but trimmed pudenda. “I’ll put some knickers on later, I let Cosh have fun until I go out, got a WI meeting this morning, but you’ll be OK won’t you, he’s enjoying himself already.”

Lyn ignored her and left the kitchen. She skipped upstairs and raided Cynthia’s bedroom and returned, with Cosh scampering behind her all the time, his snout up her fragrantly, for now, crotch. She sat and coked a leg up on the chair and carefully and precisely painted her toe nails a dark blue colour, Cynthia distracting Cosh with a pair of her dirty panties from a basket piled on top of the washing machine for later. “He won’t like that smell, but he’s happy,” Cynthia snorted. “I’ll just get on and make some calls before the meeting, it’s committee,” she pulled a face. “Give him another pair if he bothers you, plenty in there, lovely colour.”

Carrying a room service tray, as ordered when checking in, Urgan, the bruiser looking Estonian waiter stood transfixed at the sight of a near naked sumptuous rear end divided by a black thong, virtually invisible between luscious middle age cheeks. Standing at the desk and making calls on the land line, Mandy’s stocking were slightly wrinkled and down on one leg, her blouse rumpled over her butt. He had a fetish for women’s legs in stockings and to see such a polished specimen, without shoes on, the hell and sole of the tan hosiery against the pale cream carpet, made him tense his cock.