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Forgive me if I’ve said this before (which I most certainly have done!) but, to protect the not-so-innocent, I am going by the alias of “Nat” or “Natalie” and I’m also withholding lots of personal details. All I will reveal is that I’m a final year student at a university somewhere in the south of England. And I am almost twenty-one; five foot six with a good body, nice tits and long auburn hair.
Otherwise I want to slink into the background. I have, you see, recently been indulging in certain activities that are officially frowned upon.
Okay, so I’ve recently been fucking my daddy.
Is that up-front enough? Am I omitting any relative details?
Is “relative” a word I shouldn’t be using?
Please accept my apologies if I’ve started a little bluntly. It is rather stressful to tell all, isn’t it? And trust me, this latest round of confessions is going to be stressing to the nth degree.
Bugger my finer feelings, though. Let’s get on with it . . .
Where to begin?
I have previously outlined the breakup of my parents’ marriage and the way I consoled my daddy. And I do not regret anything I did. Cards on the table, Mother is a heartless bitch who never deserved Daddy in the first place. The idea of her ditching him is frankly ludicrous.
Except that’s what happened.
Let’s just say he never saw it coming. There he was, a happily married man with one (cue polite cough) quite comely daughter, a lovely family home, an adoring wife . . .
Okay, so scrap the adoring wife. Mother really had been a bitch as long as I could remember. Hugs with her as a toddler? My arse! When I was a toddler I got my hugs from Mrs Brown, a playground supervisor at school, who loved just about everybody without reservation. She even hugged the little shits from “the other side of the tracks”. But as far as hugs from Mother were concerned . . .
Well, I more often got the soles of my trainers clogged with rocking horse shit.
Not that I had a deprived childhood. My home was relatively affluent; the worst hardship we ever had was choosing between fish and chips or Keema vindaloo. I didn’t have to depend on hand-me-down uniforms or free school meals. I never cringed in the games dressing rooms, having to wear United’s old shirt from six seasons ago.
Yes, we were relatively well-off. Our part of town was for minor success stories. Every family on our road had at least two cars.
Did I just say road? Apologies, I should have said avenue.
Let’s get back to basics. After twenty-three years my darling mother kicked Daddy out of the home he had paid for with the sweat of his brow. She also branded him as useless in bed and brought in a replacement called “Lionel”, complete with an add-on daughter. No, make that a younger replacement, young enough to be her toy boy.
Excuse my language but fuck me!
Add-on daughter aside, who could seriously have sex with a guy called “Lionel”?’
Okay, so his daughter was reasonably okay and, at the outset of these renewed confessions, I had very, very recently fucked her. But that had been in a vengeful sort of a way. Much as we’d both enjoyed it, the ultimate target hadn’t been us holding hands and tripping carefree over fields of golden corn.
Well, maybe it had been for her but not for me. Oh no, for me free loving hadn’t come into it. She’d shown willing and I’d thought why not. screwing the ass off her had seemed like a good idea.
Or should that be unscrewing the ass off her?
And that was before I’d realized who and what she really was.
Let’s get this straight. I don’t dislike guys but I love girls, even though Amy was only my second lady. It’s as simple as this; the variation gets me every time. I enormously enjoy having sex and the more varied it gets the better it is.
Pretty obvious I’d end up fucking Daddy, no?
Anyway Lionel’s darling little Amy had given me the come-on. And, as she’d taken over my bedroom and treasured Nintendo, it had seemed apt to fuck her there on my bed. The traffic was, by the way, all in one direction. She seemed to think I’d let her have a go later . . . I’d fibbed when she mentioned it but may just have given her opportunity . . .
Except Mother rolled home early, devastated at having been unexpectedly made redundant.
Lionel was, coincidentally, her new line-manager, but not at a high level. In the scheme of things he had little say in making redundancies. But try telling that to Mother when she was at first shell-shocked, then increasingly furious.
Trust me, toy boy Lionel had been given his marching orders tout suite.
Not that life ever was as straightforward as that. I’d lingered in the (one-time) family home while good old Mother stormed off to the pub. And while Lionel and Amy (supposedly packing and vacating) plotted and schemed, unaware I was listening in.
Then, after a brief face-to-face in which Amy discovered she’d been had in the oldest way of all, the two of them were gone, not necessarily for good ankara escort but for the time being at least.
Double-checking that Amy hadn’t looted my possessions I swiftly changed clothes, dumping my student togs in favour of a short denim skirt and a flimsy white blouse, all the better to showcase my tits. Not that I was dressing up for Mother. Oh no, I had arranged to meet Daddy in a different pub in the not-too-distant and I wanted to look good for him.
In all honesty I didn’t really want to see Mother again in the meantime. But, although she’d only left home half an hour ago, I was concerned. A lot can happen in half an hour when Mother and bottles of gin are in close conjunction.
So off I toddled, aiming for the conveniently located hostelry not five minutes away, walking quite briskly, wondering what I might find when I arrived . . . and being totally surprised when I did.
Rather than slumped and maudlin, staring into a supersized glass at the bar Mother was at a dining table, staring into a pair of very sexy blue eyes. The owner of those eyes looked to be about her age (that is to say he looked early forties while she looked to be at least ten years younger) and was attractive indeed. I didn’t know him and for some reason felt embarrassed, as if I’d walked in on something children weren’t supposed to see.
I’d fuck him, I thought nevertheless. Wonder if Mother already has?
Before I could back away Mother spotted me and waved. ‘Get yourself a drink,’ she commanded, ‘and put it on table 47; I have a tab going.’
No surprise there, then. I went to the bar and got a third of a bottle of chilled white in one large glass. And then, not at all sure what I was getting into, I went to table 47 and sat kitty-corner to Mother and whoever on earth guy was.
‘This is my one and only offspring, Natalie,’ Mother said by way introduction. ‘She’s home from university, supporting me in my hour of need.’
That was a crock of crap but I smiled and said nothing.
‘This is Brian,’ Mother went on, ‘he practically runs the local building society.’
At that moment Brian was practically devouring me with his eyes. Not that I complained. And he did seem to possess a modicum of tact and restraint. So far he’d only mentally stripped the top half of me. The age of chivalry was not quite dead.
‘Surely Natalie’s not your daughter,’ he exclaimed, those eyes of his twinkling dangerously, ‘surely she’s a slightly younger sister.’
Believe it or not, that had been said before, and not just by guys with a hard-on. Well, mostly by guys with a hard-on, but not always . . .
‘Mother was a child bride,’ I said, surprising myself by playing the game. ‘Biologically I’m not possible but hey, here I am!’
All three of us laughed as if Mark Twain had just told the world’s funniest joke. Then Brian got up.
‘I’ll leave you sisters to it,’ he said, tearing his eyes off my chest and onto Mother’s (even more intriguing) breasts. ‘But seriously, Joan, be there at ten on Monday. This can work for both of us.’
I watched Mother watch his ass all the way back to the bar. She wasn’t salivating . . . well, not too very obviously . . . but her interest was plain to see.’
‘Who in fuck was that?’ I enquired.
‘Natalie,’ Mother scolded, ‘your language only ever gets worse.’
‘So who is he?’
‘I just told you. He practically runs the building society.’
‘What’s this ten o’clock Monday business? Is he trying to get you to re-mortgage?’
Mother’s broad grin shocked me. Cup-winning goal-scorers had looked less pleased with themselves.
‘No, Natalie, he isn’t a salesman,’ she said softly. He’s the answer to me losing my job.’
I had to hand it to Mother. Some article I’d once read warned “responsible employers” to never make any redundancies on a Friday afternoon. Apparently that key time of the week triggered clusters of suicides.
Not that Mother was suicidal. No, barely an hour after getting the bad news, she had as good as wangled herself a better-paid position in a conveniently local head office of a business that oozed job security.
I laughed inwardly, telling myself I should have known. As well as being an absolute bitch my mother has always had similarities to a cat. Chuck her off the White Cliffs of Dover and she’d land on her feet.
Like every time, without fail.
‘So how well do you know this Brian?’ I wondered.
‘He’s a regular in here and he’s in the director charge of personnel. Or should that be human resources in these modern times?’ Mother’s laugh was light and carefree. ‘He asked why I was looking glum. I told him and guess what? One of his fellow directors lost her PA today, out of the blue. And I’m the perfect fit.’
‘You’ve never been a PA,’ I objected, reasonably enough.
‘Now, now, Natalie, speak about what you know. I was an important personal secretary before you came into the world. And I’ve worked in offices for over twenty-five years. So the job title’s changed; so what?’
I escort ankara dithered over that little outburst. Having no office experience whatsoever I wasn’t qualified to argue. And I couldn’t deny that Mother had put in the months and years.
‘What about a CV?’ I asked rather limply.
Mother was there ahead of me. ‘I’m going to spend Sunday on the Net,’ she said. ‘I’ll read up on being a PA and download the perfect PA’s CV. Then I’ll merge my latest with it and bingo, job sorted.’
‘Isn’t that cheating?’
‘Isn’t it what everybody does whenever applying for anything? Now stop whingeing, Natalie. Go order us steak sizzlers and lashings more wine.’
I hadn’t intended on dining with Mother but the steak sizzlers were to die for. So too were the lashings of chilled dry white. Sadly, our conversation was less delightful.
‘Have those two gone?’ Mother enquired, early on during our meals. ‘The traitor and his miserable bitch of a daughter, I mean.’
‘Yep,’ said I. ‘I saw them off the premises and the family jewels are safe.’ Then I scowled. ‘Leastways the family jewels are safe for now. Lionel still has plans.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘They must have thought I left with you. I was on my way upstairs to guard my Nintendo and I heard then talking off the record.’
Mother’s naturally ten-years-younger face didn’t have one crease or line on it. Leastways it didn’t unless she was dubious or intrigued. Dubious or intrigued she developed a vertical furrow between and above her strong, shapely eyebrows. Knowing her as well as I did, I always struggled to decide whether it was a warning sign or a show of encouragement.
‘So you snooped on them?’
‘Not deliberately. And no more than you would have done in the same position.’
‘Okay, fair enough. So what exactly did they say?’
I swiftly gathered my thoughts. Regardless of the innate animosity between us, I was on Mother’s side on this occasion. Yes, however I looked at it, I was with her all the way. ‘Amy isn’t his daughter,’ I began, ‘he calls her “Ames”. They have sex together.’
‘You heard them having sex?’
I squirmed a little. I’d overhead “Ames” telling Lionel what a good fucking I’d given her. And I could hardly pass that on to Mother, could I?
‘No,’ I said aloud, ‘I heard them talking about having sex. And there was no doubt about it, that girl is not a teenager.’
‘And . . .’
That was typical Mother; never accepting my version of events at face value, always querying.
‘Lionel reckons he can give you a few days’ space then move back in,’ I said. ‘They must be after your life savings, the house . . . or both.’
‘Forewarned is forearmed,’ said Mother after a second and with an air of finality. ‘They’re both out on their arses, so sod them. No, fuck them to hell and back.’
‘Mother,’ I cried, delighted, ‘that was nearly as uncouth as me!’
‘Like heck it was,’ she countered, ‘and shush; here comes Brian again.’
This time Brian had a tall blonde woman with him. And I sussed her on sight.
I know, I know. I keep calling myself “straight” but I have sex most nights with my female flatmate. And it had been only too easy to fuck Amy. So I’ll admit it openly: my sexuality is uncertain even to me.
There was no question about the tall blonde, though. She must have had “lezzie” tattooed on her labia.
Well, maybe that would be too painful for anyone, but you know what I’m getting at.
Brian introduced the blonde as “Yvonne”. She was the director suddenly in dire need of a PA and her hair said a lot about her . . . or at least it did to me.
Cut short on top, virtually shaved at the sides, it definitely went with the rest of her: early thirties; trim body and good looks, supremely self-confident and fitter than fuck.
Not an easy person to take orders from, I presumed. Had mother gone a furlong too far?
Heckers-like she had. She shook Yvonne’s hand and stared rapt into her eyes. ‘Brian’s told me so much about you,’ she purred, ‘I really hope we can work together.’
To my surprise Yvonne switched her attention to me.
‘Joan’s daughter-stroke-younger-sister,’ said Brian. ‘She’s at uni else I’d have recruited her as well.’
My cheeks flushed. So did Mother’s, but I’m sure she looked more becoming with it.
Yvonne switched her attention back to Mother. ‘My last PA was a bloke,’ she said, her voice sexual to the ultimate degree. ‘He was young and stupid and now he’s effing off to France of all places, with an au pair. Please tell me that is not on the cards with you.’
Double-edged question or what?
Mother sailed through it.
‘I’m older and wiser,’ she said. ‘Effing off to the bar is as far as I’m likely to go. And speaking of bars, can I buy you a drink?’
‘We need to regroup with Trevor,’ said Brian, nodding towards a far corner where yet another guy in a suit was checking his watch. ‘Friday in here is our final weekly debrief, if you get my gist.’
‘I think I’d fit into your building ankara escort bayan society like a hand into a glove,’ said Mother.
Coming from anyone else that might have sounded needy or even desperate. But Mother delivered it with the timing of Jack Benny crossed with Rowan Atkinson.
Even I slightly wet my knickers in appreciation.
‘You’ve been a PA before?’ the sexy blonde enquired.
‘Several times,’ Mother lied. Then, more truthfully, ‘I’ve worked in a dozen offices. There isn’t much that I haven’t experienced.’
Fucking whore, I thought automatically.
Yvonne was significantly less cynical
‘What notice do you need to give?’ she asked.
‘Officially I have to work a month,’ said Mother. ‘In practice they have to give me as much interview time as I reasonably need. So I guess I could book a load of interviews and start on Monday afternoon.’
Yvonne laughed. ‘That useless guy doesn’t leave until this time next week. And I don’t want him teaching you all of his bad ways. Let’s interview Monday and start a week on Monday. Meaning start fresh, just me and you, writing our guidelines as we go along.’
I gaped at the pair of them . . . and at Brian too. Was his the way high finance really worked?
Come to that, was arbitrarily finishing somebody for no good reason on a Friday afternoon the way things should be?
Watching Brian and Yvonne leave us my hackles rose. Nothing to do with them, understand.
No, I was seething with the way things were in the “new world”. Daddy had worked for the same company forever. Mother had swapped and changed every two minutes. And guess what? Swapping and changing suddenly guaranteed career progress. Faith and loyalty counted for nothing.
Who’d have ever guessed that was the way things would turn out!
Before I knew it we were closing in on five thirty and I was due to meet up with Daddy at six. I told Mother in a (I hope) conciliatory way and asked if she wanted to tag along with me. ‘You know,’ I added, ‘so that you can tell him your news.’
That vertical crease was there again.
‘Listen,’ Mother said, surprisingly gently, ‘me and your daddy are done. There isn’t going to be a great big reconciliation.’
‘I know that,” I said patiently, if gritting my teeth, ‘but you are still tied together, aren’t you? You still have a joint mortgage and everything. There are only two ways to go: fighting furiously, so the only ones who emerge victorious are lawyers on both sides. Or civilized and reasonable, keeping down the legal costs as you piss the scavengers off. That way you might both come out with enough to start over.’
Mother nodded and for once didn’t criticize my crude language (maybe it wasn’t quite crude enough!).
‘You’ve always been a clever girl,’ she said, still in gentle mode. ‘But tonight is not the night. Tell him that I’ll be in touch soon; that we can make it clean, easy and not at all unpleasant.’
‘Should I tell him about your redundancy?’
‘Yes,’ said Mother, ‘why not? But make sure he knows I’ve bounced back.’
‘As good as,’ I cautioned.
‘No, tell him I’ve bounced back for sure.’
I leaned over the table and almost whispered: ‘That Yvonne wants to get into your knickers. Can’t you see that?’
‘Yes, and I suppose you can too.’
Mother’s ready admission startled me. I’d really supposed she hadn’t a clue. I’d also supposed she’d had no idea about my own tendencies.
‘Let’s just say I know one when I see one,’ I managed. ‘So how will you handle her?’
‘What the hell does it matter. New ground or not, it can’t kill me, can it?’
I gaped at her. Mother always could take me unawares.
And there I’d been, thinking Yvonne might take her unawares!
‘What about Lionel and Ames?’ I managed. ‘Should I mention them? To Daddy, I mean?’
Mother seesawed her hand in the closest she’d ever come to indecision. ‘Okay, just as long as you don’t make me seem needy. Last thing I need is to be made to seem needy. Understand?’
‘Yes,’ said I, ‘you and Daddy are over and done with. It’s time to draw lines and keep down the legal bills as much as possible.’
If I’d expected a concession I’d have been disappointed.
‘Perfectly correct,’ said Mother. ‘Let’s keep it civilized.’
‘So you’ll ring him soon?’
‘I’ll do it early next week. Say Tuesday or Wednesday. And tell him I want to stay friends.’
I won’t bore you with my trek across town to Daddy’s new local. Or with a description of him having his evening meal while I slurped more vino. Let’s cut to the action.
Let’s cut to our arrival at Daddy’s new digs, also known as his mate Cookie’s “apartment” or, rather more accurately, “penthouse”. Yes, I kid you not. Spread out on one floor it was a place out of Ian Fleming. All it lacked was a young Ursula or Britt.
Well okay, it did have me . . .
Not that I’m in the Bond-girl league. And not that Daddy proposed watching that sort of a film. While I was quite ready to retire to bed he suggested . . . maybe insisted . . . on watching one of Cookie’s DVDs.
Basic Instinct would not have been my choice but just ten minutes of watching a thirty-something Sharon Stone was sufficient to arouse me.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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