mastiff with huge jowls and a bad case of doggy drool.
Stephen and Paul were impressed with the results, and immediately decided to install a more carefully hidden camera and get some more. I was left to mind the shop, first trying to be good by sitting attentively behind my desk, then playing minesweeper on the computer. I almost gave into my curiosity to explore, but it occurred to me that a pair of control freaks like Stephen and Paul probably had the entire warehouse wired, and I had no intention of providing video evidence of me going through their things, or even scratching my bum for that matter.
Instead I began to play with the database, firstlooking at my own head and Stephenâs from different angles, then exchanging his for the slobbery mastiff, only to quickly set things straight for fear I would leave some sort of electronic trace. It was a terrible feeling, not being sure if I was being watched or tracked in some way, and I knew it would be worse once their system was set up in the town. There would be no escape, nowhere I could be sure I wasnât observed except the deepest woods, and then only because I was likely to know where the cameras were.
The thought made me feel tense, adding to my unease at the reactions Stephen English provoked in me. Iâve always hated men like that, who think the whole world should dance to their tune, and it wasnât just his general attitude either. He was a condescending bastard to me personally, so why did I have such a strong urge to go down on my knees to him, naked, and pay court to his cock and balls until heâd satisfied himself in my mouth.
When they got back they were well pleased with themselves. Theyâd put up six cameras in various locations in the Breckland, and I at least had a chance to see the map theyâd made before I left. Two lay-bys were covered, along with four sections of logging track, all quiet, likely places for the sort of mischief I love. Iâd decided to fight my emotions and tried to be cold and formal, but as before Stephen appeared completely oblivious, behaving towards me exactly as he had earlier.
My head was full of contradictions as I walked back home. It was a beautiful evening, tempting me to go out, but I couldnât help but think of those cameras, and that I had to be up for work in the morning. It was as if something had taken up residence in my head, like aprissy guardian angel chiding me for my behaviour and providing instructions on how to correct myself. After tea I began to feel tired as well, and it would have been all too easy to slump in front of TV and give up, only for a white knight appearing in the extremely unlikely form of Dave Shaw, who rang for me, greeting Mum in his usual suave manner.
âFizz in?â
âOne moment, Iâll call her. Felicity, itâs your friend David.â
My angel was telling me I had work in the morning and that Dave was a bad influence, and that he was a spotty little oik unworthy to tie the laces of Stephen Englishâs immaculate black brogues, but I went to the door. He was as lanky, red-haired and scruffy as ever, the complete scally, and behind him, parked right across our driveway, was an ancient, rusting Rover 800. Mum had gone in.
âWhere did you nick that? Why did you nick that?â
He sounded genuinely hurt as he answered.
âIt ainât nicked. Itâs mine. I got it down Reardonâs Scrapyard. Itâs a 2.7. You coming?â
It was a death trap, but I was coming. I had to get out.
âSure.â
He was grinning all over his face as we ran out to the car. I knew what he wanted, and I knew that he knew Iâd turn him down too, but weâd enjoy the drive anyway. Sure enough, he headed out on the Lynn Road, exactly the same route Stephen English had taken that morning, and with more stopping places per mile than any other I know. Like Stephen he drove fast, only instead of the muted purr and effortless power
Stephen and Paul were impressed with the results, and immediately decided to install a more carefully hidden camera and get some more. I was left to mind the shop, first trying to be good by sitting attentively behind my desk, then playing minesweeper on the computer. I almost gave into my curiosity to explore, but it occurred to me that a pair of control freaks like Stephen and Paul probably had the entire warehouse wired, and I had no intention of providing video evidence of me going through their things, or even scratching my bum for that matter.
Instead I began to play with the database, firstlooking at my own head and Stephenâs from different angles, then exchanging his for the slobbery mastiff, only to quickly set things straight for fear I would leave some sort of electronic trace. It was a terrible feeling, not being sure if I was being watched or tracked in some way, and I knew it would be worse once their system was set up in the town. There would be no escape, nowhere I could be sure I wasnât observed except the deepest woods, and then only because I was likely to know where the cameras were.
The thought made me feel tense, adding to my unease at the reactions Stephen English provoked in me. Iâve always hated men like that, who think the whole world should dance to their tune, and it wasnât just his general attitude either. He was a condescending bastard to me personally, so why did I have such a strong urge to go down on my knees to him, naked, and pay court to his cock and balls until heâd satisfied himself in my mouth.
When they got back they were well pleased with themselves. Theyâd put up six cameras in various locations in the Breckland, and I at least had a chance to see the map theyâd made before I left. Two lay-bys were covered, along with four sections of logging track, all quiet, likely places for the sort of mischief I love. Iâd decided to fight my emotions and tried to be cold and formal, but as before Stephen appeared completely oblivious, behaving towards me exactly as he had earlier.
My head was full of contradictions as I walked back home. It was a beautiful evening, tempting me to go out, but I couldnât help but think of those cameras, and that I had to be up for work in the morning. It was as if something had taken up residence in my head, like aprissy guardian angel chiding me for my behaviour and providing instructions on how to correct myself. After tea I began to feel tired as well, and it would have been all too easy to slump in front of TV and give up, only for a white knight appearing in the extremely unlikely form of Dave Shaw, who rang for me, greeting Mum in his usual suave manner.
âFizz in?â
âOne moment, Iâll call her. Felicity, itâs your friend David.â
My angel was telling me I had work in the morning and that Dave was a bad influence, and that he was a spotty little oik unworthy to tie the laces of Stephen Englishâs immaculate black brogues, but I went to the door. He was as lanky, red-haired and scruffy as ever, the complete scally, and behind him, parked right across our driveway, was an ancient, rusting Rover 800. Mum had gone in.
âWhere did you nick that? Why did you nick that?â
He sounded genuinely hurt as he answered.
âIt ainât nicked. Itâs mine. I got it down Reardonâs Scrapyard. Itâs a 2.7. You coming?â
It was a death trap, but I was coming. I had to get out.
âSure.â
He was grinning all over his face as we ran out to the car. I knew what he wanted, and I knew that he knew Iâd turn him down too, but weâd enjoy the drive anyway. Sure enough, he headed out on the Lynn Road, exactly the same route Stephen English had taken that morning, and with more stopping places per mile than any other I know. Like Stephen he drove fast, only instead of the muted purr and effortless power
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