Inspired by the annoying cackle of the TV presenter of the programme, TO BUY OR NOT TO BUY

“Shit! How did you get in?’ she gasped, her eyes glancing back to the door, which I was slamming behind her.

“Never you mind Rani, I hoped you would be along,” I told her, stepping close, knowing she wouldn’t see my ugly mug through the stocking mask over my head.

Instinctively she moved back, but I grabbed her thick winter coat and clasped my hand over her mouth. She struggled valiantly, but she was no match for my strength and bulk, she was about five foot two inches tall, as I manhandled her into the lounge of the very, large, but old cottage on the edge of Twyford in Berkshire, UK. I threw her onto the large old fashioned sofa with wooden arms and grabbed the torn off piece of duct tape, from the top of the roll I had already placed on the arm. It was over her mouth in a flash. I put her shoulder bag next to mine.

Her thick black hair was partly covering her flustered face, her eyes boggling as I approached, unzipping my slacks and dropping them on the floor right next to where she lay. I reached down and she flinched away as if I was going to hurt her, but I simply brushed away her lush locks and savoured the scared look on her pretty Asian face. I guessed she was either of Indian or Pakistani descent, I didn’t care, but the light, smokey hue of her skin was extremely attractive to me, as she would have remembered following the TV programme my then wife and I had been on with her some months before.

To Buy or Not to Buy is a popular house purchase series on BBC and we had done the usual, getting a free day out at their expense, nosing around a few people’s homes and not buying. However it did provide me with useful insights into what there was available to steal, once I had unpicked the security systems, if any; surprising how many don’t install them.

Rani Price and the obligatory male presenter, can’t remember his name showed us round four properties and we’d Oooed and Ahhed over them all, but of course not buying. However this Liverpudlian cow, had flirted heavily with me, when I got split from my viewing partner, but not letting me get anywhere with her.

In one of the bedrooms, she had hinted how well made and sturdy the bed was, it being included in the sale. In a wet room, how nice it would be double up under the rainfall shower, how cozy it would be to snuggle up on a huge sofa in front of an open fire. All comments made with what I took to be a definite twinkle, wink and come on from the married, forty two year old bitch. I was available then and very much so now, since the cow I married has buggered off with one of my drinking buddies, the situation was just coming to a head when we were televised but we still carried on with it.

Dressed in a light weight, pale blue cardigan over a form fitting, white tee-shirt over a black knee length skirt and no stockings or tights, her painted toes peeping from two inch high wedge raffia sandals, she had looked extremely tasty in the summer light. She was what I would call pear shaped, with small tits and a wide arse and hips, but her legs were shapely and toned. Her gorgeous perfume which was Gucci Guilty (I asked her) had me in her spell, her hair curled and flowed round her cute, big smiling face, with its just nicely prominent nose. Her teeth were an incredible array of whiteness.

The gentle contrast between the overall tone of her skin and the slightly lighter shades of the palms of her delicate, well manicured hands with pale paint on her nails was an extra draw as I lust after coloured girls of every hue. As we aimed to meet the others and were off camera, I whispered to her how much I had enjoyed her personal tour with my arm round her waist until I briefly dropped it over her wide butt. She gave me a blistering look and hissed.

“Don’t fucking touch the goods mister. It’s not me you’re buying.”

From then on whether we were on or off camera she took the piss out of me relentlessly, about my size, my taste, my car, my clothes and I didn’t like it. I’m not used to girls treating me like that. Yes OK - take the piss in good nature and with humour, but hers was biting and aimed like barbed spears.

Weeks later, the wife fucked off and I saw Rani on screen a few times and she annoyed me with her non stop cackling laugh, which I must admit I hadn’t noticed on the programme, probably because I was too busy concentrating on getting into her knickers and not the house we weren’t going to buy. By sheer chance I happened on a conversation in a pub one lunchtime, where a group of people were saying their house was to be featured on the programme. I delayed my journey in the locality and when they left I followed them home. It was a superb, large and expensive looking property, right out in the sticks. I made some telephone enquiries locally and found names, based on I was from the Beeb and had got lost and hadn’t been issued with a file of directions. That evening it was easy to make up an ID card that matched the one I had seen many times round Rani’s neck on the initial interviews and pre-camera part of ‘our’ show. One of my business sidelines besides stealing stuff, was forging documents and ID cards was a gift. I found the house again and bullshitted my way in with the woman who owned it, recognizing her from the pub.

I claimed I was from the BBC and needed to do some notes and measurements for camera angles and such. She was mid sixties, plain, dumpy and dowdy and of no interest, although stripped off I would have no doubt found a cunt and arse to fuck, while playing with pendulous blue veined breasts and she was busy, grooming a horse out back so she left me to it. As usual a set of keys was hanging in the kitchen door and I pressed the right one into a pad I carry for such purposes. I checked the alarm system control and deduced it was very basic, no line to the cops or anything and then I found a key in a utility room which was not alarmed. That key was also copied. There wasn’t much in the way of valuables as far as I could judge and I’ve nicked a few in my time. Even the TV sets were old and not plasma. There was quite a stack of turntable, amplifiers etc in one room where a huge collection of vinyl records was racked, but apart from that, nothing really. I found out, the occupants were moving soon and a lot of stuff had gone elsewhere.

Upstairs, again no great pictures, sculptures and odd little collections of porcelain you often see on landings. I thought about checking the underwear as I often do, being an inveterate panty sniffer, but she didn’t grab me as sexy or remotely interesting, sex wise, I know you can be wrong judging a book by its cover, but not this time I surmised. The other three bedrooms seemed to be stale and unoccupied, so no young daughter’s panties around either.

“All done,” I called out from the kitchen.

“Ah OK, ‘ she replied, waving and coming to the house. “Sorry, I should have offered you a cup of tea or something.”

“No problem and you’re busy. We scheduled for the... ?” I fussily queried my notes in a clipboard, fishing for an answer.

“Fifteenth,”she bit the bait. “We are moving out to Spain on the twelfth anyway and your people know that and have a set of keys.”

“Fine, perfect, they are usually organized like that. Not sure if I’ll be in the crew on the filming days,” I bluffed, said goodbye and left.

On leaving, I checked out the lane it was on, the untidy entrance to an adjacent copse which could be easily reached across the garden. It was easy after that. Keys made and the plan.

Having talked to Rani during our filming, always curious about how are things made and done, she told me she always gets into the houses the day before with the vendor’s agreement to wander round and thoroughly immerse herself in the place. This was done alone without hindrance or being sidelined by her co-presenter. All I had had to do was enter early and wait, as I didn’t know the order she would allocate the houses.

So now I stood over her in the unoccupied and to me, now familiar residence, wanking my seven inch, teasing pre-lube from my knob slit and letting it drip wherever. The mini camera I had clipped to my shirt would capture every nuance of our encounter, from when she entered. I intended to unclip it later to capture some essential detail. She was trying to mumble something as I stooped and pulled her wrap-around coat loose and roamed my eyes over her black mini skirt which was over opaque black tights. She wore a black jumper with a thick roll neck and looked very cozy, warm and terrified. I unzipped her knee high brown boots and teased them off.

Easing her upwards, her coat was dragged off, she was not wriggling much, but to save any fighting while I enjoyed myself, I taped her wrists up above her head to the arm of the sofa. Rolling the chunky jumper upwards revealed a lovely expanse of heaving light brown belly and a very ornate white lace bra with delicate pink and red patterns inset, amongst some sheer sections. Her small tits were still completely encased in it, even though her arms were stretched above her head. The flood of warmth from her body was powerful as I bent to slip my hands under Rani and unclip her bra. I checked its size, 34B and then checked her tits.