Chapter 2 - The FootTime app
She called me again the night before she was set to arrive. It was very late on a Friday evening. My wife had gone to bed hours ago and I'd had a few nips, well more than a few, of the Octomore Port Charlotte, a single malt that could euthanise a small canary with just the smell. I'd finished about a quarter of the bottle in the course of two hours so I was a bit sozzled.
Never mind, I was only watching Netflix on the big TV in my office. My office is nice. It fits the old house. Dark green skirting boards, striped wallpaper, some sturdy oak cabinets I had specially made a few years ago and which looked magnificent here, a desk the size of a torpedo destroyer but with a silky smooth black leather top, one of those globes where everybody knows you stash booze and a lot, I do mean a LOT of boys toys. Playstation 4, massive TV, speakers in every corner and a very comfy leather couch that has seen me taking more than a few naps once that house had been done up.
I was watching something on Netflix with a lot of titties in it and as usual I was playing with myself. Hey, it was my room. I cupped my balls and every time a girl on the screen flashed some boob or even just some skin, I'd give myself a few tugs. And then my iPhone, in my pocket as always, bleeped.
"Still awake?" asked Lizzy.
"Ever vigilant," I replied. I shall never be drunk enough to make a typo. "So excited 4 tomorrow."
"I'll pick you up from the station, sweety. Just let me know." "(heart) Sweety (smiley face)"
"I call all my nieces sweety you're not special." I very obviously did not and she very clearly was and always had been.
"Smiley face smiley face smiley face." I didn't reply. Then came:
"FaceTime?"
"I'm not decent."
True enough. I was jerking off and didn't really want to put it all away. And even though people use hearts and smiley faces even on letters of condolence these days, they still felt nice to me so chatting was fine with me. I was thinking of her feet. The picture would still be in the camera roll of this iPad. I looked it up and wanked off to the soles of my niece. Not a proud moment.
"I don't mind," came back after a minute or so. I'm a genius when I'm drunk, so I replied:
"Don't want to look up your nostrils."
"I can fix that."
She called me. I route all my calls through a jailbreak app called Plaxify, which records the entire chat. I set it up to record her audio and video, but only my audio.
My iPad has a cover too, so I positioned it so she'd only see my upper body. If it fell over, it would fall so that she'd only see the ceiling of the room. I turned down the telly, used my remote to give the room just a bit more light so she'd be able to see me and connected. "Took you a while," she said. She was wearing her headset. The iPad was now at the side of her bed, leaning against the wall. She had propped herself up with her legs tucked underneath, so that the screen was mostly filled with her feet. Not the soles, but the tops.
She had red nail polish, I'm a sucker for that. It seemed like my nostril complaint had been anticipated, but at the time I was a bit too drunk to worry about it.
I could see the wire coming from the iPad, to her ear. She didn't have to speak loudly and in fact she whispered. It sounded very seductive, what with the new quality of her voice. She was wearing very girly pyjamas, but nothing you could call indecent. Though you're not supposed to FaceTime in them with your drunk uncle, I think. She was beautifully lit up by her desktop lamp, that must have taken some doing.
"Hi kiddo," I said, winking. I only ever wink when I'm drunk. My dick was still out, but she couldn't see. I felt like touching it. No need for me to whisper, my wife was one floor down and on the other side of the house.
"Having a good time?" she asked. I just showed her my glass, which was almost empty. "Be right as rain tomorrow, don't worry."
She smiled. She smiled all the time but this was an extra smile, just for me. Then I refocussed on her feet and gently squeezed the tip of my penis.
"I'm so looking forward to it. I want to see your house and the office. And Torquay. And bake pies with aunt Linda."
She wiggled her toes as she spoke. I gripped my dick, careful not to give that away with my arm movements. She must have been able to see where I was looking, given that my face was about 1/3rd of the image on her side. Now I wanted to keep her talking, which was exactly what she wanted too. I couldn't jack off, that'd be way too obvious. But I could squeeze my dick and move up and down really slow. "So how is your brother doing?" I asked.
"Still at that restaurant. They seem to like him. Apparently he CAN be polite for more than five minutes, he just needs to wear an apron and carry a corkscrew."
"Who knew?" Her toes wiggled again.
"So is aunty Linda going to be there at the weekend?"
"Yes, yes she is. She swapped some shifts, so you two can bake me a lovely, lovely cake. Just like the old days."
Did I sound like a drunk?
"Good. I have an open ended return. If the weather is nice I could stay Monday too." "I don't care if you move in, sweety. But I'm not driving you to school."
I was drunk. But what I said made her very happy, it seemed. She laughed sweetly, then bit her lip and fluttered her eyelids. She was looking for ways to prolong our chat too, since she'd obviously caught me in a playful mood. I figured she had no idea I was stroking my cock at that same moment, but from the way she sat and how she'd positioned the iPad, it was obvious she enjoyed my attention.
"Will you send me to bed every evening or can I come and watch TV with you in your office?" she asked. Well, whispered. In that new, husky voice of hers.
"I think the Teletubbies go to bed at nine, I'm not sure there's anything on for you," I teased. She didn't bite. She just gave a very serious, obvious answer to prolong the chat. I could tell she was angling for it to become a bit dirty. 'Shall we sit on the couch together at night indeed...'
"I like detectives. The gruesome ones. When they find a naked woman in a field and have to work out what happened. And the head is up a tree somewhere down the road."
"Ewww that's horrible! Why do you know about that stuff, about headless naked ladies."
"Okay, not headless. A naked lady with a head. I sometimes think that must be a weird job, to be a corpse like that. You go to a field, there are people with camera's, you take off all your clothes..."
She mimed taking her top off. Like I have trouble with the concept of clothes or something. "... and then you're naked in a puddle for three hours while people are filming you. And then you do one scene where you walk up to a phone booth and are dragged into a car and that's it. Isn't that strange?"
"Yes. But I'm pretty sure they use dummies for that. You can't put a naked woman in a field for hours, she'll die of pneumonia."
"Maybe. But dummies are expensive. Actresses are cheap." "Oh that's very nice. Coming from a former model, no less."
She giggled. That was the giggle I'd heard ever since she first laughed after she had learned to talk. The teenage girl trying to be an adult was gone, if only for an instance. I'd made her think back to the photo shoot on the tricycle. She didn't remember the event, but she'd gotten to keep that bike and some prints from the shoot.
She recovered herself and then tried to circle back to the subject of nudity, thinking it would be a nice entry point into lewd topics.
"Well yes, since I am already an experienced model I could be naked in a puddle any time now. But I'd have to grow more pubic hair. Those dead ladies always have a massive bush."
What did she think, that I was going to ask her to show me her lack of pubic hair? She tried to move, because that position couldn't possibly be comfortable. But it took her foot out of shot and she didn't seem to like that, since she kept checking herself out on her screen. Then she tried to turn so I'd see the sole of one foot, but that position was apparently too painful. I had a few quick tugs when she wasn't looking. After a few seconds, she'd resumed her original position. Then her iPad fell over, which gave me the chance to get a few seconds of good hard wanking in.
"I'm sorry, I'm back. Where were we?" she asked, the perfect image restored. She'd taken the opportunity to pull up her cozy shirt so that a big part of her midriff was now exposed.
The neckline on her shirt was high so pulling it down was useless, at least this way she could show a bit of skin. "Merkins," I said. "What?"
"Merkins. Wigs that simulate pubic hair are called merkins. For actress who are supposed to be nude but are wearing a wig on their head in a colour other than their own. The curtain needs to match the drapes, so that is why they have merkins," I explained.
"Really? But why not use hair dye?"
"I've no idea. Maybe women don't like having to do that. And if they wear a merkin, they won't feel so nude. That's my theory anyway," I said and saluted her with what remained in my glass.
"I think it's probably for ladies who shave down there. Everyone is shaved nowadays, but you can't put that on the telly. Big bush of pubic hair, no problem. Shaved bits, that's not allowed."
"You are very wise for one your age," I said. She didn't like to be reminded of that, with her dainty feet on display, her tits thrust forward as much as she could, whispering to her uncle from her bedroom, her skin exposed for no particular reason. She sulked. But then she found a way to continue the subject of pubic hair.
"How do you suppose they keep the merkin on?" she asked. "I mean..."
She gestured vaguely at her groin, as if to make the point there were no hands there. And to point out to me that she, too, had a vagina.
"Well, if the lady in question has pubic hair, I suppose they can use a hairpin." I'd thought about this a while back and then I Googled it.
"But what if she has a nice shaved pussy?" asked Lizzy, all of fifteen, trying to sound confident and sexy.
"Then I suppose they use gaffer tape. Everything on a movie set is done with gaffer tape." "Ouch!" she giggled, but this was a sexy giggle, to indicate her lady parts were sensitive and she knew all about it.
"I don't think so," she replied, keeping it going. "There is," I whispered, "a third option." Her eyes went wide.
"What?" she said, conspiratorially. As in: 'It's okay to discuss vaginas with me, uncle, we're all adults here.'
"Well, remember when you were an ickle bickle baby? As in: when I last bought a new pair of shoes?"
"I don't remember being a baby," she said, trying to sound aloof.
"Well I remember you as a baby very well. And you often had a pacifier in your mouth. Remember that?"
She didn't, but who doesn't know what a pacifier is, right? I could see her tense up. This sounded like it could be sexy... Her tongue appeared out of her mouth, just a tiny bit. Her lips were getting dry. I was able to double check by looking at her nipples, which were now showing under that flimsy shirt.
"Well, suppose you cut of the ring on the pacifier," I proposed. "And stick on the merkin. With a bit of glue."
I made a needlessly long mime of putting glue on a non-existent pacifier and sticking on a merkin.
"Yes, I see, then what?" she asked, licking her lips a second time. Dry mouth. Obvious clue. "Well, then a girl could hold up the pacifier without holding her hands. Don't you see?"
Of course she saw. But either she wasn't entirely sure or she really wanted to hear me say it. I squeezed my cock real hard and said:
"Don't you see? She could put the pacifier in... there... and the merkin would be where it... needs to be." I wasn't saying any more than that. But the idea clearly appealed to her. A mischievous grin appeared on her face.
"I see..." she said. "Well... I don't think I'd be able to concentrate on acting with..."
It seemed for a moment like she'd back off, as if she couldn't say something that explicit. But she did: "... a pacifier up my pussy." I saved her.
"You won't have to. You're playing a corpse, remember?" She giggled daintily.
"Oh yeah. I was in the mud for three hours. Well, I don't think I'd mind being naked outdoors for a few pictures, but not for hours on end."
Seems she was already planning a busy weekend for the both of us. I needed to end this call, not because it was too long but because I really wanted to come.
"A bold new phase in your modelling career, Elizabeth. What time does your train leave tomorrow?"
She understood I was wrapping up.
"Central line 9 am, Bakerloo 9:45, Great Western at 10:21. I should be there between four and five. And I won't have had any tea. Just sayin'."
"You have my mobile number too, right?"
"Yes, Martin. I hope I can sleep. I'm so excited!" "See you tomorrow, sweety."
She blew me a kiss that can only be described as indecent, then waived like a ten year old saying goodbye to the animals at the petting zoo and signed off. As she did, the photo app reappeared, showing that picture of her feet. I reapplied myself to my dick and just about managed to grab a tissue from the box under the couch. Too little, too late though. My right hand was dripping with sperm. I should have gone for option number 2, really.
Cabinet meeting
When we bought the house, it became clear that we wouldn't just need vast amounts of wallpaper, paint and carpets, but also a lot of stuff such as cabinets, coat racks, guest beds, coat hangers, you name it. And so I would pay several visits a week to charity shops in and around Torquay, where I'd buy cheap furniture and such like from grannies that had died. A lot of it was cheaper than IKEA, of better quality and came pre-assembled.
One day I found a bathroom cabinet with a mirror door, which I quite fancied. It was simple and white and it would fit well in the guest bathroom. To hang it on the wall, I removed the door. That's when I discovered that it wasn't actually a regular mirror but a one way mirror. I couldn't quite see the point of that. Linda surmised it was so you could put a light IN the cabinet and you could then see what was inside. But then the thing stopped acting as a mirror. My guess was that the original mirror had broken and someone had just replaced the glass with whatever was at hand. Anyway, I installed the wall cabinet over the sink, across from the shower cabin and forgot about it. But as I was waiting for Lizzy to arrive, I'm rather afraid I crossed the line between a nice and a creepy uncle...
First, I went to my shed and found a white plank, left over from a self assembly pack, which I hung up as a shelf underneath the cabinet. It looked fine. Then I took my old wide-angle action camera, which hadn't been doing much lately, and took out my soldering iron to permanently disable the little speaker. I used masking tape to cover up the LED.
I inserted the battery and hid the camera on a shelf behind the glass. I washed my hands, stepped into the shower, waved to myself, then took the memory card to my office. Sure enough, I was perfectly visible.
Next I took a LiPo battery that held as much energy as twenty of those tiny power cells that came with the camera. Essentially, the thing could run for fifty hours on a charge. I reconfigured it to overwrite itself when the 64 GB card was full, which I figured would be every 24 hours or so. The thing also had a wifi transmitter and I found I could get streaming video of the camera in the room next door, but not quite in my office. This was all very well, but now it remained for me to find a way to close that cabinet and make damned sure only I could ever get in.
The solution was simple. I took an old curtain rail and made an edge around all sides, except the top side. I used eight screws to secure it to the cabinet and used white caps to close them off. Then I added the original hand grip again, or there'd be a hole in the glass. Sadly this gave the distinct impression it should swing open like a regular door. Also, it would allow you to raise that glass plate fairly easily. And so I took out the knob, sawed through most of the axis and made damned sure that anyone who would try to exert serious force on it, would snap it off. You could then see inside, but the camera was on a higher shelf.
To open the cabinet now, you'd have to slide the glass upwards and I prevented that with a simple clip. Unless she got on a ladder, discovered the clip and managed to lift a heavy, smooth glass plate upwards, she'd never find out she was being filmed. And just in case she was a curious type, I went to my shed and took the truly massive dead spider that had quietly died in its web the other week and put it on the bottom shelf. That would stop her, I figured. If she did snap off the knob, she'd only see that dead spider.
I myself could lift up the glass with a suction cup I kept in my desk drawer. I needed about two minutes and the stool next to the shower to retrieve the camera, or rather just the memory card. Then I took the chair out of the bathroom and provided a much smaller one that no right thinking person would ever want to stand on.
All of this kept me nice and busy for a few hours. I stopped twice, just to consider what I was doing. She was a child. She was here because she trusted me. And now I was preparing to film her in the shower? But technical problems like this were right up my alley, I told myself. It all came together so beautifully. I just couldn't resist. I told myself it was prep for when her mother would come over. This was just a trial run.
She kept me informed of her journey all day, an average of one message per hour. I live about half an hour from the railway station located in the heart of Torquay and pulled up to the curb almost in sync with the train.
The railway station isn't much to look at, but it was built as the final destination for hundreds of thousands of people from 'up north' who came to the South coast on the Riviera Line, sometimes after seven hour train rides. They'd stroll along the beach, have an ice cream and then the family would have to get back for the return journey. That was perfectly normal in around 1870 and so the station at least needed to look nice, since it was where most people spent the majority of their stay. And so it looks a bit like a castle, with some towers and crowns on it. There's another, much simpler version of that building across the rail track, with a footbridge running over it. 'Imagine that mother, a footbridge! Let's head to t'beach and get ourselves an ice-cream afore we're headin' home ta Scunthorpe'.
I waited just outside the main doors, leaning against my car. I revelled in playing the part of landed gentry. I drove an old Bentley, I had a checkered sports coat and I wore a grey flat cap. I usually looked like an extra from the Hercule Poirot movies and people loved it.
"Uncle Martin!" cried Lizzy as she came charging out of the station, inasfar as someone carrying a twenty kilo bag can charge. She dropped it on the curb and jumped into me. Literally, I mean. Her arms went around my neck, she slung her legs around my waist and gave me a big slobbering kiss on my cheek, just a little too close to my mouth. I can't say I minded, though. Two elderly ladies came out of the station behind her and smiled at us. "She'd been fidgeting since Breckin' Grove, that one," said one.
"Me husband weren't that happy wiv' me when he came back from the war," said the other, as she observed how Lizzy carefully climbed out of me. This is precisely why I love this country. How is that not a perfect oneliner? A casual remark delivered with perfect timing by an octogenarian on her way to the bus stop. I'm not and never will be a proper Englishman, but dammit if I don't want to live and die here, amongst these people.
I loaded her bag into the trunk and opened the passenger door. She curtsied. I doffed my cap.
"You did bring some nice weather with you," I said as we drove through the village.
Romford isn't that bad, but it's a city like hundreds of others so Lizzy was enjoying the change of scenery. As we drove towards my house she caught a glimpse of the coast, but I don't live ON the coast. Those houses are unaffordable for a loafer like me. They're all in use as bed & breakfasts.
I'm somewhat to the south, about five miles from the coast. It's a nice walk when the sun is out, though I prefer not to walk back as it is mostly uphill.
"Did you have this car when you lived with us?" Lizzy asked, splayed out on the front seat. "Yes, in storage. I didn't have time to fix it up then. It's okay now, but it still needs some work."
"Looks amazing."
She turned her head and checked out the rear seat. I will swear blind on my mothers life that she was, at that very moment, working out if there was enough space in that rear seat to have sex.
"Did you get something to eat on the train?"
"Yes, well I brought stuff from home. Mum gave me a packed lunch and juice. In one of those juice boxes for little kids. I went to the buffet car and asked for a glass, though.
Didn't want to sip from a straw for four hours."
"Did you get one?" Buffet car staff are generally not the most amenable people. "Sure. I'm cute."
"Are you?"
"Oh yes. I am very cute. Especially for men. I can make them do anything." "Oh, right. And how long do you think that will last?"
She just giggled. She knew better than to have silly arguments with me.
Torquay has maintained at least a little of its splendour as a seaside resort. It was one of many so there wasn't a whole lot of stuff to begin with, but some buildings were well maintained. We're famous for being the location of the Fawlty Towers hotel, of course. The
Gleneagles Hotel served as its inspiration, but the exterior of the building is actually a country club in Buckinghamshire.
The Gleneagles is now a Best Western. Basil Fawlty is actually based on a guy called
Donald Sinclair, who ran Gleneagles when John Cleese and the rest of the Pythons spent three weeks there. The rest is history. Especially to fifteen year olds. I was chatting about all this, when it suddenly dawned on me that Lizzy had absolutely no idea what I was on about. She didn't know what Fawlty Towers was and Monty Python to her was something like the Beatles or the Goonies: something from the distant past, when TV was fuzzy and women had beehive hairdo's. But she humoured me by nodding and asking questions. I felt very old, all of a sudden.
"Maybe we can watch some Folty Tower tonight?" she proposed. "Yeah well it's not in 3D so..." I grumbled.
She patted my leg. She, a kid, patted MY leg reassuringly. "You're not that old. You haven't been in the war, you know."
I had been, actually. Not WW2, but I'd served in Bosnia for three years, with the UN peacekeeping force. Good fun, nice bit of pocket chance, killing Serbians. I'd do it again in a heartbeat. Or maybe not. The main reason I hadn't signed on for a new tour was the ungodly hours that the military insists on keeping, plus the improvised toilet facilities. I didn't really mind being shot at if I'm honest. It makes you feel alive. But I hated having to take a shit in full view of four other soldiers, over a ditch. Anyway, I got a commendation out of it and a massive downpayment for our first house.
We turned off what passed for the main road in our area, into a private road marked by two pillars I have been meaning to give a wash with my pressure cleaner. Thing is, they're 200 feet from my front door and I'm sure as hell not cleaning them by hand.
You can't see our house all that well from the road and the driveway is on a fairly steep incline. I have a deal with John, the postie. Letters go in the mailbox behind the left pillar, actual deliveries on the porch. Saves him three minutes and a three point turn most days.
My mailbox is an American one, with a little flag. Nobody in Britain uses those but I found one in a charity shop. The flag was down, so no mail. I continued up the road, parked in front of the house rather than in my own spot, dashed out of the car and opened the door. Emma Watson herself wouldn't have been able to get out of a car with more elegance and grace.
"Wow," she gasped, taking in the house. It is three stories high. Ground floor has the kitchen, a dining room which doubles as our living room, a service kitchen, a 'smoking room' (nobody smokes but there's a fireplace, it's our idea of a joke - my wife has her office there) and a massive double garage that used to the maids quarters. Upstairs are four rooms, with two set up as guest bedrooms. The master bedroom has two 'en suite' bathrooms, one on each side of the bed. My wife and I both have one to ourselves. But there is a third one for the rest of the house, the one that now had video surveillance. I felt a pang of guilt. Maybe I should get rid of that, try to be a decent chap.
The top floor is technically the attic, but it's essentially my domain. It has only three rooms: my massive office, with a view of the ocean (five miles away so not much of a view on most days), a small 'restroom' and a tiny kitchenette, where I make tea throughout the day.
I carried her bag inside and gave her a grand tour, which stopped at the second floor. That's the middle one, for our American cousins. Do try to keep up. She wanted to see all the rooms, which was fine by me. She was far away from our Master bedroom, which is also at the front of the house. Her view was just of a dense forest, but she seemed thrilled with her bedroom, particularly because it connected directly to the main bathroom with a door that can be locked if there are multiple visitors. In that case, everyone needs to go through the door in the hall.
"So this is your room. I'll do you a placard, we'll make it official. The Elizabeth Suite. And here's your bathroom, you have it all to yourself so you can use this door. Mind the shower, you get hot water from the start because it comes from a heating tank."
I showed her how to work the shower without getting scolding hot water over yourself, explained about the automatic fan and opened her closet.
"So... Take your time to get settled, we'll do a cup of tea when you're done. Aunty Linda should be here any minute."
The Elizabeth Suite really is quite lovely. It has a four poster bed, which came with the house. We put a new mattress in there, did the poster bed up with a rose motif, laid new
carpets and I even replaced some of the windows because they had become grey and dull. There was a TV and obviously the room was within reach of our wifi network. That seemed to be her main concern. She dug out her iPad and started taking pictures. Then she looked for wifi networks.
"Which one is it, Xanadu or Extender!?"
Extender! was actually the camera hidden behind her mirror. I think of everything. "Xanadu. The password is, oh gives us it here, it's very long and hard."
She chuckled. Kids today. I typed it in for her.
"Got any more devices?"
"My phone. But it's empty now. I need to recharge." I pointed her to a socket and left her to unpack.
I went downstairs and got my iPhone from my coat. Then, as I stood in the middle of the living room I connected to the Extender! network and fired up the app. Sure enough, I got a video signal from the bathroom. She had the inner door open and I could see her unpack, but only vaguely in the distance. Then I heard footsteps and about two seconds later she appeared in the bathroom. Apparently, there was a delay in that signal. She reached for the handle and tried to open the cabinet. It wouldn't open so she looked at both sides. Then she shrugged in that way only teenagers can and noticed the plank underneath, which she began to fill from her toiletries bag.
She combed her hair and I saw her looking at the door that connected to the hallway instead of her room. It opened as well and she seemed to be experimenting with it. She opened it a little, then a bit more, then even more and apparently wanted to see if it would open or close by itself. All doors in my house are perfectly levelled thank you very much, so it remained still at any position. I couldn't actually see how far she'd opened it but I guessed she left it on the tiniest crack because I didn't hear it close.
Then she took off her sweater and her white shirt. I saw her tiny tits, about the size of a mandarin orange. She played with her nipples, staring to her right all the time. Was she hoping I was there to watch her? She practiced kissy mouths in the mirror and tried to push her breasts together. It wasn't all that impressive, really. They looked a lot more like breasts when they were under a shirt, because although they weren't large they were at least firm and pointy. She seemed a bit disappointed with herself. Then I saw her pulling her left nipple out, quite hard. She squeezed it, rolled it between her fingers. A pang of pain rolled over her face, just for a second.
I heard my wife's car, a sturdy Volvo, roll up the driveway.
"Aunty Linda's here!" I bellowed up the stairs. In the app she needed two seconds to register it. so I heard her say: "Coming!" before her lips moved. I deactivated the app and started to boil water for tea.
For a few hours she was our innocent, little niece again. Linda and Lizzy reconnected and became as comfortable with each other as they'd been when she was a regular at our house, dropping in for homework and baking, or just because we didn't have bloody Wimbledon on. I became the butt of their silly jokes, assigned the role of a well-intentioned simpleton who should just stick to driving people around and eating whatever cake is it they've baked. It is a role I can easily play. Lizzy wasn't worried about her breasts, she didn't do kissy mouths at anyone, she went on another tour of the house with Linda and was shown things I completely took for granted (mainly to do with fabrics, I gathered) and called her parents on speakerphone to tell them the house was fantastic and that they should come and see it. The girls got dinner started and I planned to retreat to my room for a bit. Before I managed to get up the stairs, Lizzy found me in