A Tangled Web Ch. 07

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All Sexual Activity In This Story Is Between Characters Who Are 18+ Years Old

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“Get me Uptown two zero eight one, please.” Sgt. Flynn’s gravel voice and gruff demeanor concealed the marshmallow heart he hid behind his police star and brass buttons. While the phone rang at the other end, he covered the mouthpiece and looked down at Henry Campbell. Trying to allay the citizen’s clearly displayed concern, he smiled and said, “It’s probably just a mix-up of some sort, sir. Let’s see if the gentleman comes to the phone, eh?

Henry was agitated. “Eli Farragut may be seven-two years old, Sergeant,” he replied testily, “but he’s no dunderhead. Something’s WRONG, I tell you. I feel it in my bones!” Silently hoping Eli had gone out of town, as he sometimes did, and that he, himself, was the fool who had forgotten, Henry worried that his friend had fallen and could not get up.

After twelve unanswered rings, Sgt. Flynn cradled the receiver and picked it up again. He dialed an internal number, then held up his right palm to Henry, signaling patience, and spoke quietly into the instrument. Hanging up again, Flynn looked at Henry. “Well, he didn’t answer. An officer will be here in a minute, or two. He can take you for a pop-in on your friend.” The sergeant did not advise Campbell that the dispatcher was also ordering up an ambulance. “There’s no telling what shenanigans are going on,” he thought to himself, while hoping there was none.

Twenty minutes later, Officers O’Rourke and Janssen arrived at 46 Garvey Street in their black-and-white 1939 Chevrolet Master four-door police sedan. As they stepped from the car, followed closely by Henry Campbell, Janssen said, “I’ll scout around the back, Sean, while you and Mr. Campbell ring the doorbell.”

“Right you are, Steve,” O’Rourke replied. “Give a whistle if there’s a problem.” He started up the path from the sidewalk while his partner walked along the right side of the huge Victorian house toward the rear garden. On the porch, he stood back and suggested, “Go ahead and ring, Mr. Campbell.”

Henry pulled a small metal dog-knob beside the frosted-glass and oak front door. A set of brief high, low and middle-note tones chimed in the hall as the slide activated the doorbell. The men stood for several moments and, when no one answered, O’Rourke tested the door. “Unless you have a key, we can’t get in this way,” he observed.

Just then Janssen appeared behind the glass and opened the door from inside the house. “Nothing particularly strange, Sean,” he announced. “The backdoor was unlocked, but closed, and there’s signs of cooking, with most of a chocolate cake left on the kitchen table.” He grinned and said, “Maybe Mr. Farragut went to town for some ice cream.”

Henry blurted out, “Did you see his green Cadillac in the garage, Officer?” While Janssen admitted the garage door was closed and he did not specially check for a vehicle, two ambulance attendants walked quickly into the hall and joined the party.

“What’s up, fellas?” Asked the first medic.

“Don’t know yet,” O’Rourke replied. “Probably nothing, but stand by while we check the house. I’ll go up. You look around down here, Steve. Mr. Campbell, could you wait here with these men, please sir?”

The police divided according to the plan. Less than a minute later, over the baritone bongs of Farragut’s Sandiford clock striking the three o’clock hour, O’Rourke sang out, “JANSSEN! Get UP HERE!” Henry aimed for the staircase, but the second medic grabbed his arm and held him back while Officer Janssen rushed from the library and bounded to the second floor.

He found his partner standing in Eli’s bedroom beside the huge canopied bedstead. Farragut, with his eyes closed and his mouth open, as if in mid-snore, appeared to be asleep. He was, however, obviously quite dead. Double-checking anyway, Sean laid his right index finger beneath the old man’s nostrils, then shook his head. “You better get the white-suits up here, Steve… and keep Mr. Campbell company. This fellow’s gone.”

Janssen, noting the silk stockings strewn on the big pillow beside Eli’s head, and remembering the cake in the kitchen, said, “Looks like the old geezer went out having had a good time… I’ll call the sarge and report in while I’m downstairs.”

O’Rourke nodded acknowledgement and noted Farragut’s black-and-silver satin pajamas. The shirt lay tossed against the legs of the near end-table whereas the pantaloons had apparently been kicked off the end of the bed. Except possibly for the slightly askew lamp shade on the end-table, nothing indicated foul play or supported a conclusion other than the crass assessment by his partner.

Sean saw a glimpse of bright white in the pocket of a shiny gold paisley silk dressing gown which was piled on the Oriental carpet, between the pajama top and the mattress. Thinking it might be important, he reached down and retrieved a balled up pair of women’s drawers. The ‘Made in Paris’ label in the narrow waist band explained, to his mind, the extremely naughty nature of their skimpy design. bahis firmaları The slightly soiled, but otherwise snow-white, pearly sateen fabric gave further evidence of Mr. Farragut’s final hours.

Looking again at the corpse, O’Rourke did not need to lift the covers to feel sure it was naked. He dropped the underwear onto the robe and said, under his breath as the medics entered the chamber, “Let the coroner do his job, and I’ll do mine, but sure and begorrah, you left us soft in your sleep as a happy man!”

When Henry Campbell was walking from Riverside Park to the police station, Edward Trotter was sitting, naked and bow-legged, backed up against the sloping wall of Arlene Hart’s oversized porcelain bathtub. Between his knees, reclined on his chest, lay Arlene’s eighteen-year-old daughter, Cynthia. her legs were akimbo with her bare soles wedged on top of the tub’s front wall against the taps.

Cynthia’s eyes were closed and her jaw was slack, much the same as were Eli Farragut’s, except that she was breathing. In fact, her breaths, though short and irregular, were very strong. Trotter, playing upon her body as if he were recording for RCA Victor, drew sweet melodic notes from her delicate throat. The crescendos were wonderfully damped by the thick steamy fog left from Arlene’s shower and added to by the currently drawn bath.

While his left hand’s fingers performed pizzicato in her pussy’s antechamber, and his thumb strummed complementary chords on her clitoris, the warm sloshing water rushed in and out of her brunette fringed bay, providing a percussive bassline. Meanwhile, his well-soaped right hand slid sudsily back and forth between Cynthia’s breasts, palping the firm slick mounds and tweaking their puffy taut tips to keep them in tune.

Ted’s cock, trapped between Cynthia’s back and his gut, throbbed and grew harder, despite the lack of space or the brevity of the interlude since he so gloriously fucked both the girl and her mother. Cynthia felt his powerful pulse, through his prick’s great undervein, as it lay pounding, flush to her spine. Gasping, she whimpered and came in his recumbent active embrace. Ted grinned and whispered in her left ear, “Squeaky clean… inside and out, eh, Cindy?”

Cynthia lolled her head and whispered back, “Mmm-hmmm, but what about YOU, Mr. Trotter? Is there SOMETHING MORE you can give me?”

“I can but TRY, Cindy,” Ted answered, remembering however, that she was too near ovulation to risk another unprotected fuck. “Let’s do our ‘something’ differently.” He kissed the corner of her mouth and pushed her forward. “Scoot onto our hands and knees for me, please,” he directed softly.

Water spilled over the tub’s edge to the tiled floor as the teenager twisted and re-oriented herself while Ted slid his ass up and perched, flag flying, on the tub’s back rim. “Now, what, Mr. Trotter?” Cynthia asked, looking over her right shoulder and grinning at his seven-inch pole. Sticking out her tongue and wiggling her glistening dripping haunches, she exulted, “Yay! I THOUGHT I felt ‘something’ besides your FINGERS!”

Ted quickly crouched on his knees over her backside and pushed the soap bar between her legs. When Cynthia’s taint was slathered with suds, he dropped the bar and massaged her bottom with his right hand while he squeezed her tits together with his left. “Oooo! That’s nice… and ‘different’,” Cynthia agreed, as she felt his fingertips enter and spread her virgin asshole.

There’s going to be PRESSURE, Cindy… but no pain. I PROMISE,” Ted assured her huskily as he pulled his fingers away from her butt and substituted the soft fat velvet nose of his rock-hard rod. She grunted. Twice. He pushed his helmet’s rim below her sphincter’s surface and held.

After some seconds, Cynthia’s buttocks twitched. She pushed back against her new visitor. Ted grinned and met pressure with pressure, all the while distracting and teasing the girl with calculated sharp pinches to her aching nipples. She yipped and mewled until he was fully lodged in her rectum with his hanging nuts slapping her hams as she rocked back against him.

Ted brought his hands to Cynthia’s hips and held her steady while he began his slow short strokes, widening his way with every push. She snorted and cried. Her tension rebuilt but, tenaciously, refused to release. Desperately, Cynthia begged, “UHNN! Mr. TROTTER! Please, I want to COME… HELP me!”

Ted kept pumping surely and regularly. “Help yourself, Cindy,” he advised kindly. “Brace one hand on the tub by the faucet and use the OTHER one to tickle yourself.”

No sooner did Cynthia follow Trotter’s guidance, than her pent up orgasm wracked her. Her shoulders shook and her torso twisted while she twerked her hips in Ted’s vice grip and crunched her anus around his concrete pillar. Only a little behind her, Ted slapped her little behind and shot his streaming seedless semen in staccato bursts to her bottom’s bottom. Cynthia screeched, “OH! MY! GOD! NYAAAAHHHH!”

In the kitchen, Arlene laughed at the cacophony and scooped helpings of potato salad kaçak iddaa onto three lunch plates, beside the peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches she had already made and served. By the time the lemonade was poured and snickerdoodles were set out on a platter, Ted and Cynthia, scrubbed and glowing, had joined her. All three sat at the kitchen table at 639 Locust Avenue, wearing nothing but thick wet bath towels, while they ate their post-orgy repast in happy loving silence, interrupted only by the maple Regulator striking the three o’clock hour.

At that same moment, in another kitchen, seven blocks away on Oak Avenue, Isabel was bent at the waist and sliding her roast into her oven. Jock stepped through the back door and stared at his wife’s broad bumper, exactly as he had done six hours earlier before he left for the docks. His thoughts were the same, too. Moving swiftly, using the noise of the closing oven door for cover, he crossed the room and hugged her from the rear, pressing his groin hard into her ass as he growled in her ear, “Miss me as much as I missed you?”

Isabel smiled inwardly. Her husband’s strong hands slid over her cotton housedress behind her apron’s bib and covered her heavy breasts. Her heart raced, as it always did, when he hefted them, juggled them and squeezed them until her nipples popped. She sucked in air when he plucked her nubbins. “Jock! You’re INSATIABLE!” She knew he knew her protest was fake. “And you’re SMELLY! Go take a shower, for goodness sake!”

“Yes, Papa,” Mary said into her father’s neck as she laid her body, covered only by her thin blue flower-print summer frock, against his broad back, sandwiching him against her mother. “You ARE smelly.” She inhaled his warm pungent sweaty odor and crushed her breasts to his scapulae. Too soft for her mother to hear, she breathed, “Shall I COME and wash your back?” Then quickly she stepped away and released her surprised parents.

“MARY!” Jock and Isabel exclaimed in near unison.

“What on earth?” Jock continued, while his wife interrupted.

“When did YOU get home? Where did you COME from?” Isabel’s questions overrode Jock.

“Just now,” Mary answered, as if nothing could be more normal or expected. “The door was open, so here I AM.”

Just then Cecilia and Arthur entered the kitchen. After quick ‘hellos’ all around, Cecie pulled her companion’s sleeve and said, “C’mon, Artie! They’re gonna yak for a while, I can tell… I want to show you something up in my room!” Faster than they appeared, the children disappeared, leaving the adults alone once more.

“So, anyway, we just got back from our outing at Lakeside Park,” Mary explained. Shrugging her shoulders and making her mouth a moue, she added, “I’m sorry to have interrupted…” Her voice trailed off.

Isabel blushed at so nearly being caught. To her knowledge, Mary had no idea that she and Jock had an active sex life. Jock was a little embarrassed too, and hoped Isabel would chalk up his incipient hard-on to his feeling her up, rather than to his daughter crawling up his back and blowing in his ear.

Isabel smiled in her recovery and said, “Actually, honey, your timing could hardly be better. I have a quilt I need to take to the parish to add to their rummage sale stock. I didn’t want the house to be empty when Cecie or Jock got home, so I put it off.” She tipped her head to the side and made a pleading face. “Since Jock is going to TAKE A SHOWER,” she said, shooting a hard glance his way, “could you stick around and supervise the children until he is cleaned up and presentable again?”

Mary shrugged again. “Why sure, Mama,” she answered amiably. “Anything I can do, you know I will. Do I need to do anything with the meat?” She nodded her head to the oven, but she eyed her father’s crotch.

“Oh, no, gracious! I won’t be gone THAT long,” Isabel assured her. “Probably no more than a half-hour… an hour tops.” She turned to Jock and said, “Maybe I’ll go to confession while I’m there and get THAT out of the way!” Hurrying by her daughter, Isabel went to the front room of the bungalow, picked up her quilt and walked through the kitchen again to the back door. “Thanks again, honey… Be back soon, Jock, and we can… FINISH our conversation.”

When the screen door slammed and her footsteps receded from the porch, Mary rushed her father and gave him a proper deep lover’s kiss while she shimmied against his burly chest. “I meant what I said, Papa,” she said as she let him up for air. “Get in the shower. I’ll scrub you good just as soon as I check on the kids.”

At the foot of the half-stair in the hall, Mary watched Jock go into the bathroom and then skipped up to her old bedroom. Arthur and Cecie were sitting cross-legged on the iron single bed looking at her copy of ‘Pinocchio’. When Mary entered the room, Cecie was pointing and saying, “SEE? I TOLD you Jiminy Cricket was squashed and a ghost.”

Mary smiled, knowing their discussion would carry on for quite some time. “Mama had to go to the church for a bit, Cecie,” she said to her sister. “Are you two going kaçak bahis to be OK up here for a while?”

Arthur answered immediately, “Sure, Mother, we’re fine. We’re comparing the Disney movie to the TRUE story of Pinocchio. It was a fun movie, but it didn’t follow the book in some ways.” Mary patted his brush-cut and backed out of the room, closing the door behind her. Downstairs, she slipped into the bathroom and slipped off her dress. Fred Dawes never did manage to remember to give her back her panties and bra. “If this weekend is any indicator,” she thought, while hanging up her frock, “I’m going to have to buy my lingerie by the GROSS!”

Separating the shower curtain Mary stepped nude into the tub behind Jock. Rubbing her hands on his belly and her tits on his back, she squirmed her pussy against his taut buttocks. He covered her hands with his and pushed them down to his waiting semi-fat cock. She stroked upward and cradled his eggs. “Turn around Papa,” Mary cooed. “You KNOW I like to SEE what I’m doing.”

Jock spun slowly in her arms, careful of his footing on the slick tub floor. Mary kissed him long and hard while he wrapped her in his arms and groaned into her throat. Breaking, Mary said, “Turn off the spigots, Papa… I don’t want to have to explain wet hair.” Then she slid down his trunk and knelt while he reached behind and closed the taps.

Taking his stiff dick deep to the back of her mouth, Mary mewled as she worked her tongue and cheeks. Jock was always hard pressed to maintain control when she sucked his cock. Her mobile mouth was delicate, but firm at the same time, and she knew exactly where his trigger points were. Today was no exception.

In no time, Jock was gyrating and jigging his hips. Mary gathered his legs and butt, holding him in the crook of her left arm while her right hand tugged and twisted his tightening ballsack. He felt his seed rising and pulled his daughter’s face tight to him. When she was ready for him, Mary jammed her left middle finger in Jock’s ass and tickled his root with her thumb. He growled and shot, filling her mouth and throat with his hot load.

When his legs stopped shaking and his prick quit spurting, Mary pulled back and stood. She kissed Jock and stuck her tongue, with a deliberately saved gob of his cream, between his lip and gum like a pinch of tobacco. “Mmmmm,” she moaned as she chased it around and then sucked it, coated with his saliva, back into her mouth and swallowed. “Thank you, Papa,” she said softly, backing out of the tub. “THAT makes my DAY!”

Jock chuckled and said, “Mine, too, Mare. I only hope you left me enough to share with your Mama. Wouldn’t do for her to think I was all talk and no action.”

While Mary toweled off, she watched Jock watch her. His erection was already returning for a second round. Pointing at his renewed stiff staff, she said, “I wouldn’t worry about that, Papa… but you’re right about ‘sharing’… of course, I don’t think of myself as a glutton.” She laughed, buttoned her dress, and left him to finish his washing up.

The grounds of St. Luke’s enclave covered the entire city block between North Ninth and Tenth Avenues and East Beaman and Corinth Streets. Isabel parked the McGuinness’ REO in the lot off Ninth, between the parish administrative building and its school, then took her gift to the rummage sale coordinator’s office. No other donors were there and the entire drop-off procedure took less than five minutes.

Deciding not to move the car, Isabel walked through the connecting garden to the church, which faced Tenth avenue, but had an informal building access door in the back. The late afternoon air was warm and carried myriad invigorating floral scents to her nose. She inhaled deeply and happily as she marched.

Bryce Logan sat in his personal library, with its doors open to both the ambulatory, leading to the church areas, and to his private office. He appreciated the cross-draft as he stewed over minor edits he was making to his upcoming sermon. He looked up when he heard Isabel McGuinness knock on the hallway door jamb and ask, “Father Logan? Are you very busy?”

“I’m always busy, doing the Lord’s work… ‘idle hands’ don’t you know,” the priest answered, jocularly. Then, smiling beneficently, he added, “But, never to busy for a lamb. What do you need, my child?” Bryce was painfully aware of the difference between his callow twenty-nine years and Isabel’s middle age. A year into his first full-charge assignment since seminary, he remained uncomfortable addressing older parishioners in the formal paternal manner he had been taught. He sighed silently.

“Thank you, Father,” Isabel began. “I know I missed the scheduled Reconciliation hours for today, but I wondered if you could find time to hear my confession?”

Logan looked pleasantly over Isabel’s open face and took in her full matronly figure, which modestly revealed itself through the light fabric of her summer-weight cotton dress. Among his female congregants, she was a favorite of his, because her confessions were always heartfelt and detailed. He felt a thrill between his legs and his pulse quickened. “Well, Mrs. McGuinness, I AM trying to hammer out the wrinkles for tomorrow’s pastoral message, however, that’s not as important as your reconciliation.”

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