The estate agent was handsome. Intimidatingly handsome. I took an immediate dislike to him. I have always felt reasonably tall, at five foot eleven and a half, but this man towered over me by at least three inches. His hair was dark, his strong jawline clean-shaven but with the greyness of a man who could probably grow an impressive beard in a matter of days. His eyes were green, his teeth white and perfectly straight. He was wearing an immaculate white shirt with a burgundy tie, and expensive-looking navy blue trousers. There was probably a jacket to go with the latter garment, but today was very warm.
“Mr and Mrs Cowerd!” he said, extending a hand and flashing those infuriating teeth. I shook his hand reluctantly; he almost crushed mine with his powerful grip. “I’m Kent Noble.” His accent was American.
“Nice to meet you!” I gasped. Then he released me, and I stuck my poor hand under my left armpit, nursing it back to health. “I’m Lindsay.”
“What a beautiful wife you have, Mr Cowerd,” said Kent, taking Layla’s hand gently, and bringing it up to his face. “You are a very lucky man.” He kissed the back of her hand. “I’m so very pleased to meet you, Mrs Cowerd.”
Layla giggled and blushed. “You can call us Layla and Lindsay,” she said.
“Thank you Layla,” he said, smiling warmly at her, then looking her up and down appreciatively. “You can call me … whenever you like.”
Layla giggled again, and I frowned in annoyance. Kent looked at me, and winked. “Just kidding, Lindsay!” he said. “You’ll have to forgive my salesman’s banter. Come – let me show you the house. The owners are both at work right now, unfortunately, otherwise I’d introduce you to them. Lovely older couple, the Beckwiths.”
As we followed Kent up the garden path, I noticed that his shoes did not seem to match the rest of his outfit: they were trainers, albeit very clean and expensive-looking ones.
He unlocked the front door, and led us into the house. “Standard three-bedroom semi-detached,” he said. “Perfect for newlyweds like yourselves. The thing I love about this one is the closet space … sorry, cupboard space. You’ll have to forgive me if I sometimes use American terms; I’ve only been in this country for a year, and I’m still getting used to your vocabulary.”
“Seems like we’ll be having to forgive you for quite a lot,” you quip, a little tersely.
Kent laughed – a great big, hearty guffaw – and clapped me on the shoulder. “Probably!” he said. “So here’s the living room – very cozy, I think you’ll agree. I always find a large living room unnecessary; who wants to squint at a TV that’s twenty feet away? The important thing is that you’ve got not only a decent-sized kitchen and breakfast area, but also a dining room! Not a lot of three-bed semis can say that, particularly round here.”
“I like it,” said Layla, nodding.
“Seems a bit small,” I said dubiously.
“It’s not the size that matters,” said Kent, with a sly grin at Layla, “it’s how you use it. Layla knows what I’m talking about, don’t you Layla?” He nudged her with his elbow, and winked.
Layla giggled again, and I pursed my lips. I was liking this arsehole less and less every minute.
He showed us the kitchen and breakfast area next, followed by the dining room. Then his phone rang, and he said, “I’m sorry, I need to take this. Perhaps you can compare notes, look around the garden for a couple of minutes.” He put his phone to his ear, and walked out of the room.
“Well,” I said, “what do you think so far?”
“It’s nice!” said Layla. “I like that it’s on a quiet road. And I love the bay window in this room.”
I nodded. “Yes, those are good things. I also like the kitchen. But the living room is pretty small…”
“I don’t mind that,” said Layla. “So far I much prefer this house to the previous two we looked at with Darren.”
“Yeah, me too,” I conceded. “I preferred Darren to this chap though.”
Layla laughed. “Yes, I’m sure!” she said. “This one’s a bit flirty, isn’t he?”
“I’ll say,” I muttered. “I wish you’d worn a different dress.”
Layla swatted my arm, grinning. “You like this dress!”
“Normally I do,” I said. “I just don’t like the way Kent’s been looking at you.”
“Oh, you worry too much,” she said dismissively. “He’s just being a good salesman.”
Maybe she was right; maybe I was worrying too much. But it was hard not to, with a wife like Layla. She was a beauty – and that was not just my opinion; my friends all agreed. She was out of my league, without doubt, and it is likely she would never have gone out with me, let alone married me, if I had not saved her life last year. Or at least, if she had not thought that I saved her life...
We had been at a party – my cousin Phil’s thirtieth birthday – on one of those big pleasure boats. I think there were at least a hundred of us on board when a much larger ship ran into us out of the darkness. The ship tipped over, and a bunch of us went into the water. In terror I struck out for the shore, swimming as hard as I could. I crawled out on to the muddy beach, and rested a while to get my breath back.
Then some other chap crawled ashore nearby, hauling a young woman out of the water. He checked that she was breathing, then he turned and saw me. “Oi, mate,” he said. “I’m not supposed to be here. Can you stick around and make sure she gets to a hospital?”
“Um, sure!” I said. “But when she wakes up, she’ll want to know who rescued her. What should I tell her?”
He chuckled. “Take credit for it yourself if you like. As I said, I’m not supposed to be here.”
I took that to mean he was some kind of criminal, and I did not dare ask him any more questions. He slipped off into the night, and I went to check on the girl. To my surprise, I realised that I knew her; she was Layla Foster, the little sister of an old school friend of Phil’s. I had only met her once before, but she had made quite an impression on me (as she did on everyone).
When she woke up, she found me cradling her head in my lap. Smiling up at me, she asked if I had saved her life, and – I could not help myself – I told her I had. She asked me what happened, and having embarked on the lie, I felt obliged to flesh it out. I concocted a heroic tale of diving beneath the surface to grab her sinking form, bravely and powerfully swimming to shore while keeping her afloat, and then giving her mouth to mouth and chest compressions in order to get her breathing again.
She lapped it all up. After a brief stay at the hospital, she was up and about, and insisting on introducing me to all of her friends. We went out on a few dates, and she seemed to find my bumbling incompetence charming. Indeed, my one fictional deed of bravery seemed to make up for all of my many shortcomings.
I managed to devise a few romantic gestures, thanks to some helpful advice I solicited from Dougie, my older, wiser brother. This culminated in a marriage proposal which, to my delight and bewilderment, Layla accepted with a scream of excitement.
Our engagement was short, which suited me just fine; I did not want to have enough time to screw everything up. But in truth, there seemed little danger of that. Layla had grown to know me very well, and my lack of ambition or social skills did not seem to bother her. When I let a car salesman walk all over me, insult me to my face, and then sell me a piece of junk that broke down a week later, she merely resolved to involve herself more directly in my future financial decisions.
Our wedding and honeymoon were both low-key and inexpensive. But Yorkshire is very pretty in the autumn, and we enjoyed several very pleasant walks together. After our return, we resumed a house-hunting mission that we had started before the wedding. I was desperate for us to move out of my father’s house; he insisted we sleep in separate bedrooms before the wedding, and since then has frequently walked unannounced into the master bedroom he gave up so that we could share a bed.
Lovemaking has been … problematic. But I need not get into that. Things will be better when we get a house of our own.
Looking down at my wife’s pretty face, I smiled. Her gorgeous blue eyes, framed by long black lashes, were irresistible. “You’re probably right,” I said, running my hand through her long copper-coloured hair. I was about to stoop and kiss her, when Kent walked back into the room.
“Right!” he said. “Shall we go upstairs?”
“Sure!” said Layla.
Kent smiled at her, and gestured to the doorway. “After you,” he said.
I would have followed straight after my wife, but Kent stepped between us and began to ascend after Layla. I looked up past his elbow, feeling anxious. Layla’s dress was very short, and since Kent was several steps behind her, he might very well be able to see her bottom and panties. I certainly could, though I was lower than he was.
Then my fears were confirmed. “I like your panties, Layla,” said Kent. “Very pretty!”
I gasped, shocked, but Layla merely giggled. “You naughty man!” she said. “You shouldn’t be looking!”
We reached the top of the stairs, and Kent showed us into the master bedroom. I glared at him, but he was not even looking at me. “Good size, this bedroom,” he said. “And look at the view! Can’t beat a hillside view.”
Next we looked at the other two bedrooms, both of which had windows at the front of the house. One of them was a decent size; the other was rather tiny. The bathroom was bigger, fortunately, and had some nice counter space surrounding the sink.
“Would you like to see the loft space?” Kent asked.
“Yes please!” said Layla.
This meant pulling down a ladder, which I was not very happy about, not being very fond of heights. Layla, however, did not seem to mind at all. “No peeking at my panties this time!” she teased Kent, as she began the ascent.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, though he apparently could not resist glancing upwards as Layla’s knees reached the level of his head. He grinned, then looked at me and winked. I fumed internally.
“I assume there’s a light switch up here somewhere…?” asked Layla, pausing her climb.
Kent looked up again. “I’m sure there is,” he said. “Keep looking.” He then proceeded to follow his own advice, blatantly staring up at my wife’s panties as she continued to fumble around for the light switch. At least, that’s what it seemed like he was doing. But then it occurred to me that maybe it was my paranoia talking; that maybe he was peering past her, trying to figure out where the switch might be. I forced myself to unclench my jaw and fists.
“Got it!” Layla reported, as the dark space above suddenly lit up. She disappeared into the loft, and Kent climbed up after her.
I was personally not all that keen to climb up into the loft. I don’t particularly enjoy tight spaces, or heights, and I am not very good with ladders. But I could not bear the thought of Layla and Kent being up there alone together. It was not that I did not trust Layla – of course not. We were newlyweds! But I did not trust Kent in the slightest; he seemed like a man who might take advantage of Layla’s sweet and innocently flirtatious nature. In my opinion she was far too careless about accidentally letting strangers see her panties; whenever I brought up the subject, she would simply laugh and say there was no harm in it, and nothing I said would convince her to take my concerns seriously.
I climbed up the ladder into the loft, and found Layla and Kent standing up and looking around. I had been expecting either bare rafters or perhaps a basic floor of chipboard or plywood, and was therefore pleasantly surprised to find a carpeted floor, proper painted walls that were partly vertical and partly sloping, and a narrow ceiling with a light fixture. The room was currently being used for storage – stacks of boxes filled much of the space – but I could see its potential.
“And there’s more space in the eaves,” said Kent, pointing to two small doors. “There’s even a light back there, and I believe you can crawl from one door to the other – something the Beckwiths’ grandkids love to do.”
“Ooh, I have to try that!” said Layla, laughing. “It sounds fun! If I’m not too big to fit…”
“Wanna give it a try?” said Kent. “Go ahead!”
Layla skipped over to the little door at the left-hand side of the room, opened it, and then – to my dismay – got down on to her hands and knees in order to crawl in. “Found the light switch!” she reported, as the interior of the eaves lit up. Then she began to crawl in.
“Layla!” I said anxiously. “You’re showing…”
“Oh hush, man,” said Kent, patting my shoulder. “Just enjoy the view.” Then he sauntered over to where Layla’s panty-clad bottom was just crossing the threshold into the eaves. He squatted down, staring unabashedly at the narrow strip of soft white material that covered her vagina. “How’s it looking in there?” he asked.
“Well it’s sort of blocked,” came Layla’s muffled response. “There are boxes. I think maybe if I rearrange them a bit, I’ll be able to squeeze through…”
“Take your time,” said Kent with a grin.
“Kent,” I said peevishly, “would you mind not staring at my wife’s underwear please?”
“Uh-oh – busted!” said Kent, chuckling.
“What?” Layla inquired.
“Your husband just caught me looking at your pretty panties again.”
I could hear Layla giggle, and groaned. I loved my wife with all my heart, but her lack of caution sometimes drove me a little batty. “Stop doing that, you naughty man!” she said. “Or I’ll have to get my husband to teach you a lesson!”
“Well I wouldn’t want that,” said Kent, and he winked at me, then made a pretense of covering his eyes. I was not fooled at all. “I’ve stopped looking,” he said, peeking through his fingers.
Layla now all but disappeared into the eaves. All I could see was one foot and ankle. But then she said, “I need help! I’m a bit stuck, and don’t have much leverage. Can you give me a push?”
“With pleasure,” said Kent, uncovering his eyes. He began crawling into the eaves after her, and then he stopped, his body blocking the doorway and my view.
There was a squeal. Then an exasperated exclamation of “Naughty man!” Then a thump, and then a creaking sound, and a few seconds later, the second door was pushed open. Layla, looking cheerful, emerged from the eaves and stood up. She was covered in cobwebs, which she began to brush from her dress and hair. “That was fun!” she said brightly.
I helped her pull bits of cobweb off her dress. “What did he do that made you squeal?” I inquired with a frown.
“Oh, don’t make a big thing of it,” she said. “He was just doing what I asked him to. It was just a bit of a shock to feel his hands on my … on my bottom. But really, it was the most sensible part of me to push.”
I ground my teeth. “I just don’t trust him,” I grumbled. “He was staring right at your panties!”
“And you told him off,” she said, and she put her hands on my shoulders and kissed me on the cheek. “My protector.”
“Shall we go and have a look outside?” Kent asked, already climbing back down the ladder.
“Ooh, yes please!” said Layla, skipping over to the hatch. As she turned around and began to descend, I groaned internally; Kent was no doubt staring up at her panties again right now.
Once I had climbed down the ladder, Kent folded it up and closed the hatch. Then he led us downstairs, and out through the back door into the garden. There was a small lawn, flanked by flower beds, and a path of flagstones that led to a shed at the end. Next to the shed was a wooden gate about seven feet high – only a little lower than the wooden fence that surrounded the garden.
“That gate,” said Kent, pointing to it, “is the best thing about this property.”
I regarded it sceptically. “Really?”
“What’s so special about it?” Layla asked.
“Come,” said Kent. “Let me show you.” He walked down the flagstone path, and we followed him. Beyond the gate there seemed to be a wilderness of tall weeds and shrubs, and I was a little mystified as to why we would want to venture out there.
But then Kent paused, nonplussed. “Oh – it’s locked!” he said. He tugged experimentally on the small padlock attached to the gate latch, then he pulled a bunch of keys out of his pocket, and examined them. “Well that’s a bummer! I don’t have the key to this padlock.”
“Oh!” said Layla forlornly. “Now I’m doubly curious about what’s on the other side of this gate!”
“It’s a secret path,” said Kent in a hushed tone. “You wouldn’t know it even exists unless you lived here, and accessed it via this gate. Actually I think a bunch of houses on this street have access to it, but I don’t know if they all use it.”
“I want to see the secret path!” said Layla, pouting.
Kent shrugged. “Well, I know the Beckwiths would be fine with it; it’s one of the features they were most excited to tell me about. It seems they just forgot to leave it unlocked today.” He tapped his chin, then put his hand on top of the gate, and rattled it. “It’s very sturdy,” he said. “We could climb over if you like.”
“I don’t think we ought to do that,” I said doubtfully. “What if we damage the gate?”
“Oh come on, Lindsay!” said Layla excitedly. “Live a little! Kent says it’s sturdy enough.” She jumped up and caught the top of the gate with her hands. “Someone give me a boost?”
“Sure!” said Kent.
I immediately realised that in climbing over the gate, she would almost certainly show Kent her panties again. “Wait!” I said hastily. “Um … shouldn’t Kent go first? If anyone’s going to make it collapse, it’ll be him. If he gets over safely, we’ll know it’s fine.”
“Oh Lindsay!” said Layla, a little reproachfully. “You worry too much.”
“He makes a good point though,” Kent remarked. “I’d better go first.”
“Thank you Kent,” I said, relieved.
Layla reluctantly let go, dropped to the ground, and stood back, whereupon Kent vaulted over the gate with the ease of a gymnast. Because of course he did. Then Layla, eager to do the same, jumped up, grunting with effort as she hauled herself up and hooked her elbows over the top. Then she scrambled up using her feet, until she had hauled herself up high enough to throw a leg over. Sitting on the top, she swung her other leg over, then turned herself around and lowered herself down.
“Okay, I’ve got you,” said Kent’s voice, and then Layla squealed and giggled.
Frowning, I grabbed the top of the fence and then jumped, pulling myself up until I could see over the top. My heart sank as I saw Kent with his arms around Layla, holding her from behind while her dress was hiked up around her middle. He was grinning down at her cleavage, and she was giggling.
“Hey!” I said, annoyed. “What are you doing?”
Layla smiled up at me as she disengaged from Kent’s hug. “Kent caught me as I jumped down,” she said, pulling her dress down to cover her panties. “I might have hurt myself otherwise – it’s a bigger drop on this side.”
“Just looking out for your safety,” said Kent. “Wouldn’t want you to sprain an ankle!”
“All right, fine,” I muttered, climbing up and then turning around to descend to the ground on the other side. I heard a gasp and a giggle behind me, and when I landed, I turned to see what was going on. But Kent was standing apart from Layla, his arms folded.
“Come!” he said. “Follow me.”
We were on a narrow path that ran along beside the fence. It was a little overgrown in places, but navigable. We passed behind three houses before coming to a junction, where another little track ran downhill between walls of dense vegetation.
“This is it,” said Kent. “The secret trail!”
“How exciting!” said Layla, following Kent as he trotted briskly down the hill.
“How long is this trail?” I inquired, stubbing my toe as I hurried to keep up.
“Not long!” said Kent cheerfully.
The gorse and hawthorn thickets either side of us gave way to rosebay willowherb and foxgloves as we descended into a patch of open woodland. I spotted oak, beech and horse chestnut trees, though none was particularly large, and I surmised that these woods were quite young.
“This is lovely!” said Layla. “What a cool place to be able to get to from your own back garden! I love it!”
“Yeah, it’s pretty nice,” I conceded. “Bit of litter there though.” I pointed at a half-crushed Pepsi can lying at the side of the path.
“And there,” Kent announced, “is the river!”
“Ooohh!” Layla exclaimed. “Do you know which river it is?”
“No I don’t, sorry,” said Kent.
“I’m guessing it’s a tributary of the Cherwell,” I said.
In fact the river in question turned out to be little more than a large stream, which tinkled along pleasantly among some large boulders. The far bank sloped up fairly gently to the near edge of a broad stretch of cow-grazed pasture, bordered by a wire fence. This side of the river, the bank was very steep and, in places, almost cliff-like.
“Great spot for a picnic, don’t you think?” suggested Kent, gesturing to a large flat rock overlooking the stream.
“Yes!” Layla agreed. “Pity we can’t get down to the water just here though.”
“Sure we can!” said Kent. “I’ll bet there’s a way down. I’m not really dressed for clambering, but … ah, what the heck.” He walked up to the edge of the steep slope, and peered down. “Ah yes, right here, look.” He stepped down, then down again.
“It looks a bit muddy,” I said dubiously, as I approached the place where Layla was now following Kent’s example. “I think I’ll stay up here.”
“You see?” said Kent. “You’ll have beach access! That’ll normally add 30% at least to a house’s value.”
Layla laughed. “Not much of a beach!” she said.
Indeed, the ‘beach’ was barely two feet wide and extended for perhaps ten feet along the base of the steep bank. It consisted of small pebbles and silt, and I could see Layla’s shoes sinking slightly into the latter. “Careful you don’t sink into that stuff,” I warned her.
Kent stepped up on to a rock, then jumped to another rock, and from there leapt to the far bank. “There!” he said. “Who needs bridges? You could go and say hello to the cows.”
“Ooh, a fish!” said Layla, pointing into the water. “He’s so tiny! I love him! I’m going to call him Marcus.”
“How do you know it’s a he?” I asked, amused.
“He’s got this fierce look on his face, like ‘I’m the king of this stream!’” Layla explained. “But he’s all talk. When the frogs come along, he’s the first to swim away and hide.”
Kent laughed, and jumped back across the stream. “Shall we head back to the house?” he asked. “Layla, I’ll help you up the bank.”
“Thank you!” said Layla. And as she climbed back up, clinging on to tree roots, Kent stood behind her and gave her a push, with both hands on her buttocks. She squealed, and laughed. “Kent!” she giggled. “Outside the dress, if you please.”
“My apologies,” said Kent, though he did not seem particularly contrite. I glared at him, but he ignored me.
When we returned to the house, though, I was not about to let him ‘help’ my wife, from either side, as she climbed over the gate. “I think you should climb over first this time,” I told her. “I’ll help you up.”
“But who’ll catch me on the far side?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“You can manage to get down on your own, surely?” I said uncomfortably.
She smiled. “Of course,” she said. “Kent’s probably sick of the sight of my panties by now anyway.”
“Not true!” said Kent, chuckling. “I love seeing your panties, Layla.”
My fists clenched, and I felt a hot flush coming to my cheeks. But after stifling a giggle, Layla quickly defused the situation. “That’s as may be, Mr Estate Agent!” she said. “But please turn around while my husband helps me over.”
“Certainly,” said Kent, turning his back on me and Layla.
I helped Layla up by clasping my hands beneath her right foot, and lifting. Bent over as I was, I did not see anything of her panties, nor whether Kent was sneaking a peek. When I straightened up, Layla was already swinging her second leg over, and clutching the top of the gate with both hands. Then she dropped. There was a scuffling sound, then silence.
“Ugh!” she said. “Bother. I landed badly, and fell over! Oh dear, I’m afraid I’ve sat on some plant or other, and crushed it!”
“Oh no!” I said. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I think so,” came her voice. “Ugh – actually I seem to have hurt my ankle a bit. I turned my foot over on this stone thingy, and lost my balance.”
“Uh oh,” said Kent. “I guess I should have helped her after all, huh Lindsay?” He vaulted over the gate.
I scrambled up and over the gate, feeling guilty. “I’m sorry!” I said anxiously. “I suppose I should have let Kent catch you…”
“Awww, don’t blame yourself,” said Kent, stooping and picking Layla up as easily as I might pick up a five-year-old child. “It’s completely my fault. I should have made sure I had the key to the gate, rather than make the two of you climb over it.” He turned and began walking back to the house. “Would you get the back door for me please, Lindsay?”
I trotted past him, opened the door, and held it while he carried Layla across the threshold. I was disconcerted by the fact that her panties were brazenly on display, but relieved that Kent could not currently see them. He was, however, smiling as he openly stared down at her cleavage. Layla has a lovely pair of breasts – her bras are all DD and E cups – and she enjoys showing them off in low-cut tops and dresses. Today’s yellow sundress was no exception, and the view Kent was now getting would be enough to drive most men wild with desire.
“I appreciate your help, Kent,” you say rather stiffly, “but really I should be the one to carry Layla.”
“Oh it’s no trouble,” said Kent, and he carried her through into the living room. There, he sat down in the middle of the sofa, setting her down next to him, with her legs across his lap. She looked as startled as I felt, and I frowned in annoyance as he took her ankle in both hands and began massaging it. “Is this the one you twisted?” he asked.
Layla nodded, wide-eyed.
“Now look here…” I began crossly.
“I hope you’ll forgive my presumption,” said Kent, “but I used to work as a physiotherapist, and I have a lot of experience with ankle injuries.”
“Oh!” said Layla. “Well that’s useful!”
“Yes, very convenient,” I said, scowling slightly. If the man was indeed qualified in this area, then I could not very well prevent Layla from getting the benefit of his experience. I sat down in an armchair across from the sofa, a little huffily.
“Do you mind if I take your shoes off?” Kent asked Layla. “They’re a bit muddy, and I don’t want to get any dirt on the Beckwiths’ couch.”
“Oh, sure!” said Layla. In short order, Kent had removed both shoes and set them down on the floor.
My paranoid mind was working overtime. I knew that aside from her shoes, Layla was wearing just her panties, her dress, and a bra. It might seem silly to think of it this way, but I could not help calculating that Kent had just removed 40% of Layla’s garments. I realize that he had uncovered nothing but her feet, but my mind inflated the significance of this. My face felt hot, and I had to force myself to unclench my hands.
“Mmm, you’re good at this!” said Layla.
Kent nodded. “Before I went into real estate, I developed a lot of skills as a masseur,” he said. “If you like, I can give you a proper massage; least I can do after causing you to hurt your ankle.”
“Oh, that would be lovely!” said Layla, before I had a chance to voice an opinion on the matter. “I get the most terrible backaches, thanks to my big chest…”. But then, bless her, she looked over at me, with a slightly guilty expression. “But it’s really up to Lindsay…”
“Far be it from me to deprive you of what I’m sure would be a very professional and above-board massage,” I said, “but we do, after all, have other things we’d like to get done this morning.”
“Oh, the bank,” said Layla regretfully.
I nodded. “And Homebase.”
“Can’t we do Homebase this afternoon?” Layla asked. “We’ve got a long list of things to buy there, and I wouldn’t mind having lunch first.”
“I suppose we could,” I conceded reluctantly, “now that we’re not visiting Grandpa until tomorrow…”
“I certainly don’t want to make things awkward for the two of you,” said Kent. “If me massaging you bothers Lindsay … which, you know, I guess is understandable. You’re a beautiful woman, Layla, and in Lindsay’s place I might feel a little jealous and insecure too…”
My jaw dropped. “I’m not jealous or insecure!” I said indignantly. “You don’t think that, do you Layla?”
She hesitated. Then, “Of course not, darling,” she said. But her tone made it seem like she was reassuring a small child, and my heart sank. She was being diplomatic – a good wife – and the truth was that I probably was both jealous and insecure, at times. And who could blame me? Men were always flirting with her, and she always seemed to enjoy it. And she always wore such sexy clothes, and did not seem to mind if men ogled her and sneaked peeks at her panties.
But then … that was just who she was, and I had fallen in love with this woman. Perhaps I just needed to be more accepting. Suppress my paranoid, jealous streak and let her be herself. Maybe this was my opportunity to prove to her that I am not the jealous, insecure type.
“You know what,” I said, “we have plenty of time. If you feel in need of a massage, and Kent’s offering you one for free, then by all means go ahead.” I smirked at Kent; perhaps he would think twice next time before disparaging me!
But he seemed unruffled. “Excellent,” he said. “Well since I’ve already done this ankle, let’s begin with your feet, and work our way up.”
“Sounds good to me!” said Layla, leaning back against the side of the sofa. Kent began to massage her right foot, and it somewhat eased my anxiety to see that he apparently knew what he was doing. To my admittedly inexperienced eye, he looked like an expert.
“Mmm, yes,” said Layla contentedly. “You have good hands.”
“Unlike me,” I said ruefully. “Remember when I tried to massage you on our first night in Redcar?”
“Ugh, yes!” said Layla, and she chuckled. “I was in such pain afterwards! Couldn’t even move my right arm for three days.”
“I’m afraid I just don’t have that magic touch,” I sighed.
“What were you doing in Redcar?” Kent inquired, now massaging Layla’s right calf.
“Our honeymoon,” Layla explained. “Two nights in Redcar, three in York, two in Scarborough.”
Kent stared at me. “You honeymooned in Yorkshire?”
“Our budget was tight,” I explained, feeling rather embarrassed. “But we had fun, didn’t we Layla?”
“Yes!” said Layla. “We definitely did.”
“Well that’s all that matters, then,” said Kent, reaching Layla’s knee. He lifted it up and pulled it out to the side, spreading her thighs a little, and I frowned at the sight of her panties, which Kent could no doubt see too. Layla saw me looking, and self-consciously tucked her dress between her thighs, covering her panties. I was grateful for this.
But as Kent massaged his way up Layla’s thigh, I became more and more uneasy. I told myself I was being silly – of course a leg massage would go all the way to the top of the leg – but that did not make it any easier to watch a strange man touching my wife so close to her most intimate parts.
And close he certainly got. I found myself feeling rather queasy as he massaged her inner thigh, right at the top, the fingers of his right hand nudging against the material of her dress where it covered her panties. Layla seemed almost in a trance, a contented smile on her lips, her eyes half-closed. “Um, that’s high enough I think?” I said, with a forced little laugh that sounded weird in my ears.
Kent smiled. “Other leg now,” he said, and for the next couple of minutes, my nerves had a reprieve. But inevitably, he was soon massaging Layla’s left inner thigh, and getting so high that the fingers of his left hand were disappearing beneath her dress.
“Um,” I said, fidgeting nervously.
“Actually this angle’s a bit awkward,” said Kent. “Do you mind if we try a technique that I kinda pioneered? It’s a little unconventional, but I’ve had great results with it.”
“Sure!” said Layla without hesitation. I simply shrugged, unsure of what this new technique involved but glad he had stopped massaging beneath her dress.
Kent lifted Layla’s legs off his lap, and she turned and sat up, facing forward. Then Kent removed the cushion from behind his back, and slid himself backward. Spreading his knees apart, he patted the upholstery in front of his crotch. “Sit here,” he said, “and lean back against me.”
Layla got up, then sat down where he indicated. As she settled back against him, I pursed my lips, but said nothing. I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, since he seemed to know what he was doing, but I was a little uncomfortable with the intimacy of this position.
“Now lift your legs up,” said Kent, putting his arms around her waist. As Layla raised her legs, he caught her behind her knees, pulling them apart as he drew her thighs back, until her knees were either side of her shoulders. In doing so, he caused the front hem of Layla’s dress to be pulled back, so that her panties were almost fully displayed.
“Steady on!” I said, aghast.
“Relax!” Kent said. “Don’t be so uptight, Lindsay. It’s not like I haven’t seen Layla’s panties already. Shoot, most of my massage clients were naked, so this is really quite tame. Are you comfortable, Layla?”
“Yes thank you,” she said, not seeming at all bothered by her exposure.
“Now pay attention, Lindsay,” said Kent, “because if you’re lousy at giving massages, you could learn a lot from this.”
“Uh-huh,” I said warily.
Kent began running his hands up and down the backs of Layla’s thighs. “Straighten your legs please,” he said, then when she raised her feet, pointing her toes at the ceiling, he rubbed all the way up her calves from her knees to her ankles. And then back down again, past her knees and down her thighs, all the way to her panties. And then back up again. “The trick is in the amount of pressure you exert,” he advised me. “You’ve got to really work those muscles. But don’t crush them! And don’t trap any nerves in the process.”
“Easier said than done!” I remarked. “I have zero idea where the nerves are. The doctor we saw in Redcar told me I had pinched a nerve in Layla’s arm, but I’ve no clue how I did that.”
“Look up a diagram of the human nervous system,” said Kent. “You’ll soon figure out where the major nerves are. If you took out Layla’s whole arm, you probably pinched the radial or ulnar nerve. Not easy to do in a standard massage, I gotta say; I’m guessing you just got lucky. Or unlucky, I should say.”
“I was going for a deep tissue massage,” I admitted.
“Oh man,” said Kent. “Yeah. Best leave that to the experts.” He had worked his way back down to Layla’s panties for the fourth time, and was now massaging her groin, either side of the seams of her pretty white undergarment.
“Mmmm, that’s nice,” Layla murmured, her eyes closed.
“That’s a little intimate!” I protested.
“Lindsay, you gotta lighten up,” said Kent, chuckling. “My full body massages frequently involved a good rub of this part…” And to my horror, he actually laid his left hand on Layla’s pussy, cupping her vulva through the soft material. Layla gasped.
“Dup! Bup! Bah!” I objected incoherently.
“Kent!” said Layla.
“Oh, don’t fret,” said Kent, gently patting her pussy. “I think your husband would probably have an aneurysm if I gave you a proper pussy massage in front of him. Shame really – it has lots of health benefits. You’ve got a lot of tension in your legs, still, and a good orgasm would do wonders for releasing that tension.” He was now slowly rubbing her pussy, pressing his fingers into the material and moving them around together in an elliptical shape.
“You … really think so?” asked Layla, growing a little breathless.
“Um … excuse me!” I said, finally finding my voice – albeit a rather strangled version of my usual manly tone. “Could you stop rubbing my wife’s panties please! Layla, surely you’re not okay with him doing that?”
“It does feel nice,” she confessed, her cheeks turning red. “And if it’s a normal part of the massage, I don’t mind…”
Kent grinned. “Good girl,” he said, rubbing a little harder now, and undulating his fingers as they explored the contours of her vulva through the white fabric. “But perhaps we should move on to your back – which is, after all, the biggest problem area I think?”
“Yes!” I said, more loudly than I intended. I quickly moderated my volume. “It’s your back, Layla, not your … panty area … which needs attention – remember?”
“That’s true,” Layla admitted, looking a little disappointed as she put her legs down and sat up. “How do you want me, Kent?”
“This is fine, actually,” said Kent. “Most masseurs prefer a horizontal client, but I think this position works well for most types of massage. We’ll have to lose the dress, though – I can’t work very well around it.”
“Lose the … what?” I asked anxiously. “But then … she’ll be in her underwear!”
Layla giggled. “Oh Lindsay, you can be such a prude!” she said. “How do you think massages are normally done? Kent already said he mostly massages naked people.”
“Well not this time!” I insisted. “We came here to look at this house, Layla – not to get naked in front of the … the estate agent! No offence, Kent.”
“None taken,” said Kent. “And I quite understand your feelings. But I didn’t ask Layla to get naked, did I? I just need to be able to massage her back without her dress being in the way. I think your jealousy may be getting the better of you again, Lindsay. Yes, she’ll be in her undies. But I’ve already seen her panties, right?”
And rubbed them! I thought to myself angrily. But he was probably right; I was getting unreasonably jealous again. “Fine,” I grumbled.
Layla wasted no time in standing up and shrugging out of her sundress. As she tugged it down over her hips, I gazed upon her bra-clad breasts with a mixture of desire and possessiveness. Her white bra was large and sturdy, and opaque except for pretty lace strips that ran across the top of each cup. And as Layla sat back down, Kent – as bold as brass – unhooked the clasp at the back of that bra.
“You have such lovely skin, Layla,” he said, grasping her shoulders and beginning to knead them. “You’re a masseur’s dream.”
Layla smiled happily. “Thank you Kent!” she said. “I use a great exfoliating body wash.”
“Not that you need it, I’m sure,” said Kent. “This feels like good genes to me.”
“My mum does have lovely skin,” Layla conceded. “Mmmm, ohhh, Kent, that feels so good…”
He seemed to be working on her upper back now. I watched nervously, watching her bra straps creep closer and closer to the edge of her shoulders. If they slipped off and dropped down her arms, her bra cups would surely fall away from her breasts. She had already lost 60% of her garments; I was not about to let that become 80%!
“Careful of those bra straps,” I warned them.
Kent laughed, and slid both straps back along her shoulders in the direction of her neck. “Wouldn’t want a wardrobe malfunction, would we?” he said.
This was surprisingly decent of him; I had been half-expecting him to try to get her bra off completely. Seeing him rubbing Layla’s pussy through her panties had brought me close to an incandescent rage, but perhaps I was overreacting to even that. Did masseurs really give their clients orgasms? Health benefits or no, it seemed unprofessional. But maybe it was fine if both masseur and client were okay with it. But what about clients’ husbands? Didn’t they get a say?
Kent had reached Layla’s lower back, and she was practically groaning with pleasure. “Ohhh, so good!” she gasped. “This is like magic!”
“With breasts like yours, back pain is kind of inevitable,” said Kent. “But regular massages can mitigate that pain to the point where it is barely noticeable and doesn’t impact your daily life.”
“I can believe it!” said Layla. “Do you want a job?”
Kent laughed. “I have a job,” he said. “And one that pays way better than physiotherapy! But heck – you’re a pleasure to massage, Layla. I’d be happy to massage you for free, if you’re willing to drop by my office – anytime, as long as I’m not out showing houses.”
“Thank you!” said Layla happily. “I’ll certainly take you up on that.”
“Okay, now lean back against me,” said Kent. “I’ll do your chest next.”
“What?” I asked, startled. “The pain’s in her back!”
“But caused by her chest,” Kent pointed out. “Do you need me to give you an anatomy lesson, Lindsay?”
“No, of course not,” I said, my cheeks growing hot. “I’m aware of the problem. I just thought it could be fixed … at the back.”
As Layla leaned back against Kent’s broad chest, he massaged her shoulders again, from her neck out to her arms, dipping his fingers down and kneading her upper chest. Her bra straps quickly slipped off her shoulders, and only friction was now keeping the cups in place. I clenched my teeth, my overbite worrying at my lower lip.
I was really trying to keep my jealousy in check, but it was hard! And when Kent’s fingers began pushing into Layla’s bra cups, so that he was very definitely massaging the soft upper parts of her breasts, I could keep silent no longer.
“Are you really going to massage my wife’s breasts in front of me, Kent?” I demanded, frowning at him.
I was hoping he would deny it, apologise, and withdraw his hands. But no – he merely raised an eyebrow and said, “Are you really going to deny Layla an important part of the massage, just to protect her ‘modesty’ or whatever? Come on, man. Allow her some agency.”
I felt rather abashed. It was quite a gentle admonition, but I took his point. “I suppose,” I said grudgingly, “if Layla doesn’t mind…”
“You don’t mind, do you?” asked Kent, deftly pulling Layla’s bra straps down her arms and off her hands.
“Um,” said Layla, instinctively covering her breasts as Kent tossed her bra on to the floor. 80%! I felt rather sick.
Kent gently pulled on Layla’s wrists, tugging her hands away from her breasts. Once again my breath was practically taken away by how beautiful they were: so plump and full and firm, the skin so smooth, the nipples and areolae so round and perfect. But then the view was ruined by Kent slapping his huge hands over them and squeezing them with his strong fingers. Layla gasped, and I’m ashamed to say I may have uttered a sound that was suspiciously like a whimper. I immediately cleared my throat noisily, in order to cover it up. It wasn’t even really a whimper; just a small expression of discomfort.
And I would have objected strongly, had Layla not then closed her eyes and arched her back, smiling as Kent groped and fondled her breasts with a confidence and thoroughness that – if I am honest – I found somewhat instructive. Even in the midst of my stress and discomfort, I was taking mental notes. But while it seemed to be very pleasurable for my wife, I was not convinced that this was a valid massage technique. It seemed, indeed, like Kent was simply having a lot of fun playing with a beautiful pair of breasts, at Layla’s and my expense. But I was not confident enough of my assessment to say this out loud; Kent would no doubt mount a professional-sounding defence of his actions.
“These breasts are amazing,” he said, in quite an awed tone. He squeezed them, sliding his thumbs down to her nipples, which he pinched between thumb and forefinger. Layla moaned.
I continued to watch in horrified fascination for another couple of minutes. At least, that is my guess – it felt like half an hour but could have been as little as thirty seconds. Time seemed to be running slowly, and the sight of Kent’s hands massaging Layla’s breasts became the sole focus of my brain.
I shook myself, coming to my senses. Kent had moved on; he was now massaging Layla’s belly with both hands, squeezing her breasts together between his arms. Layla had slid forward a little on the sofa so that she was reclining more, and her knees had drifted away from each other. As Kent’s hands circled lower and lower, Layla closed her eyes, uttering soft moans and spreading her thighs even wider apart. I watched Kent’s creeping fingers get closer and closer to her panties with an increasing sense of foreboding, and my heart sank as the fingertips of his right hand reached the waistband and then kept going, sliding down over the white material, following the soft curve of her pussy.
“This again, Kent?” I complained, as Kent resumed his sensuous exploration of Layla’s vulva, causing her to moan with pleasure. “I thought you were done with this part.”
“Well this is kinda the climax of the massage,” he said. “We’re almost done. Hang in there, Lindsay; you’ve been very patient.”
I folded my arms, hugging myself and tapping my heel anxiously on the carpet as Kent pleasured my wife right in front of me. Then my eyes bulged and I almost choked on my saliva as I saw him draw back his fingers and then slide them back down beneath the waistband of her panties.
“Ohhhh!!!” Layla gasped.
“Kent!” I squealed, jumping to my feet and staring in horror at the contours of his hand through the fabric of Layla’s panties. He was rubbing her pussy directly! His fingers were on her labia and clitoris, no doubt getting wet from her juices! This was a step too far!
“Yes, Lindsay?” he said calmly, stroking away as if he was doing nothing less innocent than scratching a cat behind the ears.
“Kent, this is … you can’t…” I blurted out, my vision blurring due to a minor buildup of moisture in my eyes. “Not inside her panties!”
“Honestly, Lindsay,” said Kent, “I do get where you’re coming from. But rubbing Layla’s pussy through her panties has a certain drawback in that it’ll take longer for her to reach orgasm, and the material will chafe her in the meantime. Stimulating her directly will achieve the desired result much faster, especially if I … slide my finger … inside … wow, so wet…”
I almost threw up at this point. His hand had pushed further downward into Layla’s panties, and it was obvious he had just stuck his finger into her vagina. Jesus Christ – the nerve of the man – and Layla was writhing and moaning in apparent bliss, and in a way she never did with me. She must have felt his finger penetrate her … yet did she scream or close her legs? No! If anything she had spread her legs even wider.
“Come on,” said Kent to Layla. “This angle isn’t the best – let’s change position. Lie down on your back.”
Layla sat up, scooted over his left leg, then lay down on her back as he grasped the sides of her panties. Pulling them up her thighs as she raised her legs, he whipped them past her knees and then up over her feet, while I watched in stunned silence. 0%! Layla was naked!
Kent pulled her knees apart, and slid the middle finger of his right hand into her vagina. I balled my fists as he began thrusting his finger in and out of her. I felt like grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him off her. This was beyond unprofessional; it was practically assault!
And yet Layla was clearly in the throes of ecstasy. “You know about the g-spot, I assume, Lindsay?” Kent inquired in an infuriatingly casual manner. “That’s what I’m stimulating now, and you can see the effect it’s having on Layla,” he said.
My fury momentarily derailed, I snapped, “I know about the g-spot, Kent! And I have a vague idea of where it is. But I don’t need you to give me lessons on that!”
“No need to get tetchy,” said Kent. “Lindsay, you seem upset. Just remember I’m doing this for Layla; I’m doing it to make her feel good and happy. If you don’t want that for her, then you need to take a good look at whether your possessive streak is having a negative impact on your relationship. But you know the saying, “Happy wife, happy life”? It’s absolutely true. You’ll benefit from Layla being happy. And this, trust me, will make her happy.
A scream of frustration welled up inside me, struggled to get through my constricted throat, and came out as a strange high-pitched snarl. “All right!” I said, sitting back down heavily in my chair. “Just get it over with!”
“Of course,” said Kent. But his thrusting finger seemed unhurried, and when he introduced a second finger, his pace even slowed a little. Layla, her legs spread wide, was uttering moans of delight as her whole body writhed sensuously. The sight of Kent’s fingers, glistening with Layla’s juices, leisurely sliding in and out of her moist vagina, was making my stomach tie itself up in knots.
“You know, Layla,” said Kent, unexpectedly withdrawing his fingers, “as misplaced as Lindsay’s feelings of possessiveness and jealousy are, it would be wrong of me to ignore them, or write them off as unimportant. He’s your husband, and his feelings matter. This is obviously bothering him, and I can’t in good conscience continue while he’s so upset.”
Layla opened her eyes, looking at him in dismay. “Oh, you can’t leave me hanging like this!” she said. “Please! I’m so close!” Then she looked over at me, her expression desperate. “Please, Lindsay?”
My heart had been filled with immense relief and gratitude at Kent’s words, but now I felt guilty for having robbed Layla of the literal climax of her massage, so close to the end. The last thing I wanted was for her to resent me, and I was very afraid that she would, if Kent did not continue.
“Kent, I can’t let you leave Layla unsatisfied like this,” I said stiffly. “Please, continue with what you were doing. I insist.”
Kent hesitated, then nodded. “If that’s what you want,” he said. “Okay.” He slid his index and middle fingers back inside my wife, and resumed fucking her with them. I felt sick, but put on a brave, tight-lipped smile.
Kent’s thrusting grew faster, and faster, and faster still. Then Layla screamed, bucking her hips high above the sofa and shuddering in a powerful orgasm, the like of which I had never seen her undergo before. And still Kent’s fingers pistoned in and out of her, prolonging her pleasure, driving her out of her mind with ecstasy.
Then Kent withdrew his fingers, and wiped them clean with a tissue he pulled from a box on a table in the corner of the room. “I hope that didn’t disappoint?” he asked Layla.
“No … no!” she panted, her legs akimbo. “That was amazing!”
“Well, now that that’s over,” I said, feeling nauseous, “shall we go?”
“Just … give me a minute,” said Layla.
“I’ll give the two of you some space,” said Kent, and he left the room.
Layla smiled up at me. “I know that was hard for you,” she said, “but I’m very grateful you let him finish. As a reward, how about you decide on a film for us to watch tonight? Anything you like.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Even … Fitzcarraldo?”
She rolled her eyes, and chuckled. “Even that, if you really want. You and your old foreign films…”
I helped her up, and she put her clothes back on. Then we went out into the hall, where Kent was waiting for us. “Well it’s been a pleasure,” he said. “Think about the house, and call me to let me know what you decide, or if you have any questions.”
“We will!” said Layla. “And I’m sure I’ll be coming to your office for more massages. My back feels wonderful!”
Kent smiled. “Good!” he said. “Goodbye then. I won’t come out with you; I just have to make a call, and I’m going to do that out in the back yard. I also found a key on the kitchen wall, and I want to try it on that gate.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks for … everything, I suppose. I’m sorry if I overreacted to … you know…”
“No apology necessary!” said Kent. “There’s a reason husbands don’t usually sit in on their wives’ visits to gynecologists, masseurs, and so on. It’s bound to stir feelings of jealousy, even in the most secure of marriages. Nobody likes seeing their spouse touched intimately by someone else. I totally get it, man. No reason for you to feel bad.” He extended his hand, and I smiled, and shook it. He really was a decent sort of chap, it seemed.
Layla and I left the house. But halfway down the garden path, Layla stopped suddenly. “You know,” she said, “I’d like to run back in and go to the bathroom, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh!” I said. “Sure.”
“Wait for me in the car,” she said. “I won’t be long!” Then she turned, and hurried back to the front door. It was still unlocked, so she opened it, and disappeared inside.
I climbed into the car, and waited. This seemed like a good opportunity to play some Temple Run, so I loaded it up, and played for five minutes or so.
Then I switched my phone off, and looked back at the house. Layla had still not reappeared. What was taking her so long? I frowned. Had she stopped to chat some more with Kent? Maybe she had thought of a question to ask him. But he had said he had to make a phone call in the back garden (or ‘yard’, as he called it). Maybe his call had finished?
I was about to start another game, when my paranoia got the better of me. I pocketed my phone, got out of the car, and trotted back to the house. Opening the front door, I stepped inside.
“Layla?” I called.
“I’m … still in the bathroom!” she replied, sounding distant and breathless.
I climbed the stairs, and paused outside the bathroom. I could hear panting sounds coming from the other side of the door. “You’ve been in there a while,” I said. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes!” she gasped.
The panting sounds continued. Something was wrong; I felt sure of it.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked. “Can I come in?”
“No!” she said quickly. Then there was a shuffling sound, and the door opened. Layla’s head appeared, looking flushed. She seemed like she was bending over; the rest of her body was out of sight behind the door. “Really,” she said, “I’m fine.”
But then her eyes rolled a little in their sockets, she began panting again, and I noticed that she seemed to be rocking forward and backward, in a regular rhythm. Not quite evenly, though – it was as if she was lurching forward suddenly, then rocking backward more gently, in a pattern with an amplitude of just a couple of inches, repeated over and over, with a frequency of about two cycles per second.
“Well something’s wrong!” I said, starting to get upset. “You don’t seem … normal!”
Layla’s face contorted with anguish. “Lindsay!” she gasped. “Just go back to the car – please. I’m … I’m just, you know … masturbating.”
“Oh!” I said, astonished. “Oh – well, I’m sorry for interrupting. But, um, didn’t you just climax already? Thanks to … Kent?”
“Yes,” she panted, “but it was all just so intense … I needed another orgasm.” Her knuckles of both her hands were turning white as they gripped the door and doorframe. The back-and-forth rocking seemed to intensify.
“Okay,” I said, “well I suppose I’ll just leave you to it then…”
“Ahhhh!!!” she moaned, her eyes closing as her body was wracked by another orgasm. The rocking continued, however, for a few more seconds before it slowed, then stopped. Layla’s head drooped, and her panting began to slow down. “I’m done,” she murmured. “Just give me a minute.”
I stood back, waiting patiently. Then Layla stood up straight, and the rest of her body came into view. Her dress was tidily in place; I would not have guessed she had just been masturbating, if she had not admitted it.
As she stepped out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her, I said, “How did you manage to … you know … with both hands free?”
She bit her lip. Then she said, “Oh, um … I was rubbing myself on … the handle of the shower door.”
“Ah,” I said, nodding. “That explains it.” So that was why she was rocking back and forth! Naughty girl. But I could hardly blame her for needing to let off some steam, after the intense treatment Kent had given her.
Layla took my arm. “Come on,” she said, “let’s go.”
I trotted down the stairs, and she followed me. We headed outside, and got into the car. I put my hands on the steering wheel, and sighed. “I’m sorry if I got too, um, possessive,” I said. “You know, when Kent was … massaging you. I just … sometimes it’s not easy, having such a sexy wife who attracts so much attention from other men.”
She leaned over, and kissed my cheek. “It’s okay,” she said. “Now let’s go to the bank.”
I started the car, and we set off. A couple of minutes later, Layla shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Actually, do you mind if we go home first?” she asked. “I sort of need to change my panties. They’ve got a bit … wet.”
“Oh,” I said. “No surprise there, I suppose. Sure we can go home first – it’s pretty much on the way.”
A little while later, however, Layla wiggled in her seat again. “Actually, never mind,” she said. “I’ve decided I quite like it.”