"I must've been fucking insane," I cussed, staring around the cavernous attic. "Why did I sign up for this?"
"This" was cleaning out my deceased mother's house. Large, traditional, and draughty, she'd bequeathed it to me. But, being a city girl, I'd decided to sell this country dwelling.
After a morning of hard graft, broken fingernails, and filling a gigantic skip, what used to be my former home, was now nothing more than a husk.
Mum had disposed of most of the rubbish before she died. An accomplished organiser, and not wanting to leave me with a horrible task, she'd started the clearing out process in her last few months. To be truthful, calling her possessions "rubbish" wasn't fair. Much of it was the odds and ends gathered during a lifetime, and being a natural hoarder, she'd collected many things. Now the house was virtually empty.
I'd taken care of the furniture, the clothes and the special items, that help form a home and shape it into an individual's personality. The quality of the most of the items wasn't disputable but Mum's old-fashioned taste was not mine. I had three options: take what I desired, give away what I could, and scrap what I didn't want. I donated an incredible amount to charities — Mum would approve — and that eased my conscience. A few items I put in my car. I wanted them because of the memories they evoked and I would regret throwing them out. The rest, as they say, was 'taking the high road' straight to the county dump.
But, my work wasn't yet finished. I had to dispose of an old travelling trunk, discovered beneath a grimy bedspread. A sleeve absorbed the sweat from my brow as I glared at the damn thing and let the dust settle. Robustly built with bulging, brass buckles protecting the corners, and brackets along the edges, it looked indestructible. Despite its dirty state, the rich texture of the wood was obvious, as was the quality of the joinery. Both bore witness to the craftsman's skill, and it was clear, even with a cursory glance, that the chest had cost a tidy sum.
Because I'd never seen it or heard Mum mention it, I stood there perplexed. What should I do? Chuck it away and return to my apartment before tea? Or open the cursed thing and risk blowing the rest of the day sorting through the contents? My hands shook when I reached to prise open the top. Being honest, a part of me hoped the lid wouldn't budge; it would save time and energy. Trouble is, I'm nosey. I had to look inside the damn thing.
Certain my saint of a mother wouldn't have owned anything distasteful, I gripped the cover, and after fortifying myself one last time, lifted. What I discovered both astounded and delighted me.
Bunches of letters lay scattered over some notebooks. On closer scrutiny, the books looked more like diaries. Intrigued, I slumped cross-legged on the cold floor, fished out a letter, and read. The paper, wafer thin and discoloured from age, was fragile. Unfolding it required caution.
I'd automatically assumed the correspondence was Mum's, but after studying the initial few lines, it became clear I was wrong. The first sign was the handwriting: it wasn't hers. And the second clue was the name: Daphne. It was then I realised these belonged to my Grandmother. My heart pounded.
I hadn't known Grandma that well because she'd died when I was a toddler. Although I could recall sitting on her knee, to my childlike mind she'd been just one of many kind, old people who pampered me with love and affection. Mum never talked about her although she had a few photographs of her mother scattered around the house. I didn't appreciate how beautiful my mother's mother had been until I reached adulthood. Tall, elegant, and immaculate, she commanded attention.
After painstaking efforts to decipher the scrawny handwriting, I found this was a love letter. Harry, the writer, had known Grandma during the Second World War, according to the date on the letter. Reading the romantic words, my cheeks flushed. However, that was nothing to what I experienced when he described, in explicit detail, how he liked what she did to him when they were together. By the time I returned the letter to its envelope, my cheeks were a deep crimson, and I had no illusions about how enamoured he was with my Grandma.
Extracting a different pile from the trunk, another surprise lay in wait. I'd assumed all the correspondence was from Harry. The fragile paper was the same, the declarations of love were equal to those professed by Harry, but this Romeo's name was Bert. I wrinkled my nose and hated myself for not being able to let things be. Damn. Abandoning all hope of finishing my task, I checked through the other bundles.
I picked a random letter from each bunch and was shocked to discover that a different Casanova had penned each stack of letters. Among the group of young men wooing Grandma, was a Tom, a Dick and a Harry, along with a tinker, a tailor and a candlestick maker, each smitten if their words were true.
Okay, I'm joking — but there were more names than I would have expected.
Even more surprising, a few young ladies had also confessed their feelings. A soft whistle escaped my lips as I concluded that Grandma Daphne had been quite a woman. If the different names were genuine — why wouldn't they be? — then she'd had her fair share of admirers.
Despite so many expressions of affection, I had a sense of unease. It gnawed away in my gut and I could not shake it off. It was like hearing the rumble of thunder, far, far away, and knowing trouble was heading your way. Taking a deep breath, I loosened up. Having suffered enough sentimental claptrap to last me a lifetime, I assigned the bundles to the floor and picked up a book.
Flipping through the pages, my brow furrowed. It wasn't a diary, as I'd assumed, but a ledger. Each row comprised a weird sequence of letters and numbers. One example read, '10/7 Harry 10q BC,' another, '12/8 Clifford 15q QF.' My eyebrows arched. I could quote more, but every page contained these equations. I puzzled over the peculiar combinations for a few minutes but got no nearer to grasping their meaning than when I first viewed them. Despairing at my ineptitude, I lay the ledgers on the floor, next to the discarded letters, and picked up one of the thinner books.
I grinned when I read the first page. Grandma had kept diaries, and I had them here. Her handwriting was exquisite, but her style was not what I expected. It wasn't flowery, or wishy-washy, it was direct and to the point, written by someone who had a good understanding of the English language, but wasn't obsessed with it.
A lot of entries, describing her life in the Wrens and how her day had progressed, soon had me flipping through the pages. Although interesting, the life she narrated was one of austerity. It was easy to imagine the dark, sombre period in our history but, despite this, Grandma looked to enjoy life.
Then came an entry detailing events that had great repercussions on her life.
o0o
Having won my promotion to Captain, I'm being transferred to London, to work for the ministry of defence. I can't wait. This could be the opportunity I've been waiting for.
o0o
Then she explained what she needed to organise, who she should contact, and other mundane stuff involved with moving. My chest tightened and my breathing slowed. It was as if I was reading a page of my own diary. Grandma's statement about "the opportunity I've been waiting for" sent a shiver down my spine; without having known her, we were kindred spirits. I had done a similar thing at her age because the narrow-minded inhabitants of Mum's village had driven me insane. It was easy to understand the enthusiasm and excitement she'd experienced. I continued reading, and it wasn't long before another entry sent a ripple of anticipation through my body.
o0o
21st May 1943. Enjoyed lunch at the Ritz with the girls. Met someone called Arthur. A shady character, if you ask me, although his outfit was very snazzy. He oozed charm and sophistication and asked me to dinner. I know I shouldn't but I agreed. Tomorrow evening. Dinner then a show. Could be fun.
o0o
I could not recall reading a letter from any Arthur. I peered into the chest to see if any letters had escaped my attention. "Thought not," I mumbled. My search had revealed nothing. Although I was alone, the smug expression on my face would have done a second-hand car salesman proud. I turned the page.
o0o
22nd May 1943.
Dinner with Arthur tonight. I'm not sure about him. He is handsome and debonair but... that is the nub of my problem. He looks and sounds like a gentleman but he doesn't behave as one should. Once or twice yesterday, I caught him leering at me. The look in his eyes was unmistakable and I'm wondering what to wear. If I choose a dress, maybe I'll send him the wrong signals, but if I wear my Wrens uniform... well, we all know what men think about women in uniform. Hmm, decisions, decisions. I'll make my mind up this evening.
o0o
My heartbeat quickened, and I flicked to the following page. Grandma hadn't let me down. There was her account of the date with Arthur. I trailed my finger down the words, scanning for the interesting bits. I soon came across the first juicy titbit.
o0o
He couldn't keep his eyes or his hands from my body. More than once I had to remove a hand from my thigh in the restaurant. Even though I enjoyed his attention, other patrons were staring, and I didn't want them thinking I was that sort of woman.
o0o
I shook my head and smirked. "Oh dear Grandma," I muttered, "times sure have changed since your day." I continued reading. Grandma's journal surpassed all expectations, and I was glad I'd checked the chest. I was also thankful nobody else was around because I didn't want to explain why my nipples were protruding in my sweatshirt. I didn't know how Grandma had lived, what her job was, or what her personal tastes were, but I hadn't expected this. It was a real eye-opener. The images her words imprinted in my mind were vivid — and the damp patch in my knickers continued spreading.
o0o
It would be wrong to say what happened next was due to alcohol. It wasn't. I glanced around the table but nobody was paying attention to us. Misunderstanding my actions, Ernie flashed me a nasty grin. "Looks like your Dolly bird's got cold feet, Arfur. You're wasting your fucking time wiv 'er."
Arthur looked like a child who'd lost his favourite toy to the local bully. My waning interest in him evaporated. Turning to face Ernie, I showed him my pearly whites. "You're a right bastard," I said. "Show me the money." He reached into his suit and pulled out a well-filled clip. I've never been one to shirk a challenge and Ernie's supercilious grin spurred me on. I knew I would enjoy earning my fiver.
o0o
Reading Grandma's explicit explanation of how she improved her financial position, I couldn't believe my eyes. Maybe five pounds doesn't sound that big of a deal — but it was more than double her weekly wage. The erotic images her words conjured in my imagination played out like a film. In quick time, my hand was inside my sweatpants and lewd squelching sounds soon echoed around the empty attic.
o0o
"C'mon Doll, 'ike that skirt up. I want to see some flesh." Ernie's coarse words turned me on and forgetting Arthur's presence, I did as asked. "Further," he demanded when my stocking tops came into view. Seeing Arthur jealously watching, I continued inching the garment up my thighs and didn't stop until I'd exposed my fancy French knickers. Both men gave a huge sigh of appreciation but only Ernie thrust a hand between my legs. My sex yielded to his touch, and the moan that escaped my lips pleased him. He pressed harder into my moist apex. "Yeah, you're up for it, Darlin'."
I was. Without wasting a precious second, I undid his fly and slipped my hand inside. The heat his cock radiated could have scorched my fingers, but I gripped his hard member. I moved my hand as much as I could within the confined space and heard Ernie's satisfied grunt. "That's it, Doll, keep that up and we'll get along just fine." A large masculine paw covered mine to help guide my movements. Simultaneously, the pressure between my legs increased. This went on until I couldn't stand it any longer.
"Make it a tenner and I'll suck your cock," I murmured.
"Good girl. Let me 'elp you," he said and pulled down his trousers. I slipped from the seat and knelt between his legs. Seconds later the dim club lighting illuminated his engorged flesh. I wrapped my hand around his throbbing prick and continued wanking him. The obvious pleasure Ernie had seeing me beneath the table was infectious, and I resolved to give him the best blowjob ever.
"Oooh, you dirty little whore," he said when my mouth closed around his sensitive rim. He entwined his fingers in my hair and pulled me toward him. His cock slid between my lips, over my tongue and into my throat. Ignoring my gagging noises, he kept forcing me into his lap and muttering encouragement.
When I released his prick, it was a huge turn on seeing the long tendrils of saliva linking us. I wasn't the only one who appreciated the view. Ernie shook his head and chortled. "My, my! Arfur 'as found 'iself a right corker. You'll do just fine 'ere in the Smoke." I didn't understand what he meant and cared even less. The only thing that interested me was the huge cock in front of me.
o0o
I slumped against the trunk and rested the open journal on my heaving chest. My nipples ached, but I didn't have enough hands. I wanted too many things at once — to continue reading, pursue my oncoming orgasm, and play with my breasts. I chose to finish reading Grandma's account and give myself a wonderful climax. Tugging my sweatpants over my knees, and bunching them around my ankles, I spread my legs.
With easier access, I grabbed the soft, wet, triangle of cloth covering my pussy. The cool air collided with my super-heated sex and sent shivers down my spine. I trailed my fingertips along my slippery slit and dipped them into my honey pot before bringing them to my swollen clit. Using small circular movements, I teased myself while reading the next paragraph. Within seconds, I was back in war-torn London, lost in the scandalous events unfolding in a Soho nightclub.
o0o
For the next few minutes, my world was Ernie's erection, his balls and my best efforts, to empty them. Using every trick in the book, plus my lips, tongue and hands, I soon had Ernie reaching for my hair. "Jesus, girl, you'll 'ave me popping my cork in no time." Then he bucked his hips and held my head steady. "That's it, girl, swallow the lot like the dirty cock sucker you are." Not that l had much choice in the matter. But, then again, I didn't mind. Before I slackened my jaw, the nightclub boss was shoving his prick down my throat.
Ernie might have been in charge, but subtlety wasn't his strongest point. It was obvious what he wanted, even without the obscenities regarding my status. His manhood glided between my soft lips and in an effort to live up to his expectations, I grasped hold of the greasy pole. "That's it, Doll make Daddy pop."
He continued pumping before pulling my head towards his groin to bury his pulsating cock in my throat. He moaned and stiffened and an expulsion of thick, salty spunk filled my mouth and disappeared into my stomach. His abdomen spasmed again, delivering another warm load for me to swallow, and I lost all sense of propriety. Kneeling beneath the table, gulping down the seemingly never-ending stream of semen, I was enjoying myself too much to care what people thought of me.
When he'd finished, Ernie released his grip on my hair and reached for my hand. He helped me up from my knees, a triumphant smile competing with the mischievous sparkle in his eyes. "You certainly know how to please a fella, young lady."
I looked around the table. Apart from Arthur, who was sulking, smiling faces and knowing winks greeted me. It was like I'd passed an entrance exam into an exclusive club. Ernie pulled my head towards him and spoke into my ear. "If you want to earn lots more money, and have fun doing it, then come with me to my office upstairs." The stunning woman sitting beside him must have overheard. She nodded at me.
"Lead the way, Sir..."
His lewd guffaw drew attention to our table, but he didn't care. He stood, his semi-erect prick still hanging out of his trousers. "Would you do me the 'onors, Charlotte?" The beautiful advisor, wearing a wicked smirk, was restoring his dignity even as he spoke. When he offered me his arm, the surprise was mine when I saw her stand up as well. "My pleasure, Miss..."
o0o
Although Grandma's filthy behaviour was a pleasant surprise, the lurid images, plus my sticky digits, kept me on edge and I needed relief... Now.
I raised my top and pinched an erect nipple. Sweet oblivion beckoned, and I thrust my fingers into my dripping cunt. A stream of moans and profanities reverberated around the empty attic and, as expected, I soon tensed and then shook uncontrollably while a flow of sweet, sticky, nectar, swamped my fingers, and coated my inner thighs before dribbling down between my buttocks. Ecstatic, I allowed powerful emotions to sweep me away.