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It was as he feared. No electricity. Likely, no phone. Fuck. There were antique couches, positioned around a hearth the way modern people positioned furniture around a television set. Entire homes, where the focus of design was wherever they were watching movies. The hearth had a partly burned log in it, though the dust around the brickwork, and on the tongs, and poker showed its disuse. Next to the hearth was a small bundle of cut logs, well over seasoned wood, probably dry enough to go up in flames over so much as a spark. The mantle held various porcelain figurines, similar to the ones his grandma kept in her lifetime, if not much older looking, and more rudimentary in their sculpture. Looming over the mantle was a large oil painting of a girl – a young woman – in a forest green dress. It looked like it could have been satin, or silk, or crushed velvet. The artist captured what must have been her likeness, but was very ambiguous with the material in the dress itself. Freddy. Such was the magic of his fingers, the effect was both soothing and erotic. My arousal was building. "Higher?" he asked, always the gentleman and always thinking of my feelings. "Yes please," I said without hesitation. This was GOOD. Parting my legs to allowing him access meant he could see the most private part of me, a secret place I knew well but very few others had seen. It would have been impossible for him not to take a good view. "You're so neat and tidy," he said, a guarded way of saying I'd shaved my pussy, "Unlike mum." He squeezed more gel, but now it was much more the massaging of my thigh muscles. "Wait," he said, and went to fetch a bottle of baby oil. "You don't have to be a baby," he quipped, "It's excellent for massage and moisturising." As he gradually worked up my inner thigh my eyes closed. Noises escaped my lips that were unplanned, noises of contentment, of pleasure, of erotic delight. "Am I OK?" daddy asked, "Further?" "Daddy, this is absolute bliss. Yes, yes,.
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