“Batching it isn’t all that it’s cut out to be,” I thought.
My dad had left a to-do list that kept me pretty much occupied. The gardener still came once a week to do the flower beds, but it was up to me to take care of the grass and clip the shrubs. Their new maid, Angela, tidied up on Wednesdays and did some of the laundry, but he would rather wash his own underwear than have her messing with them.
Some days, I aimlessly wandered around the house, and poked into my Dad’s den. I had my own computer in my room, and Dad’s was off-limits, since he often used it for business. Angela had left the den unlocked for a change, and I decided to do a little exploring. The room key was in his Dad’s top desk drawer;
I slipped it into my pocket.
As I looked around, I noticed some wiring I hadn’t noticed before. I booted up the computer, and realized that my Dad had hooked up a nanny-cam, probably when they first hired Angela. It was hooked up to some motion detectors around the house, and let his Dad keep an eye on the help to make sure they weren’t poking around where they shouldn’t, or picking up things to take home.
The software was new to me, and I spent some time nosing around until I discovered the video cam icon that activated it. When I clicked on it, the screen lit up with five displays, showing different rooms in the house, all showing still pictures. Apparently they came live only when someone was in the room, and then recorded what was going on.
I clicked on the Living Room icon and scrolled down to history, and sure enough, there was a video of Angela cleaning the room. I wondered if Dad had a voyeur streak, since the shots of her bending over to dust were mildly titillating.
I tried to check out some porn sites, and discovered that Dad hadn’t installed any software filters like he had on my computer. Not that it mattered, since any kid with computer savvy could easily bypass that crap.
My Dad also hadn’t set his browsing history to auto-delete, so I got a good idea of where Dad had been surfing. Nothing really weird, but not all business stuff, either.
Most were business news and stock market reports, which were of little interest. Among the “Favorites” list were some erotic story sites, and a few lesbian websites, with streaming video.
I checked them out, of course, but girl-girl stuff wasn’t really my thing. One of them had a really hot session with two girls having dinner together, undressing, and then jumping into the sack to do the nasty on each other.
Scans of the recordings from the other rooms were as boring as the Living Room shots. Nothing much interesting had apparently ever really gone on in their house. The garage cam showed their three cars, and reminded me that part of my responsibilities while my folks were away was to keep them spotless for when they returned from their trip.
I had especially liked to drive his Dad’s Miata, but seldom had a chance. The last time I was allowed to take it out, my folks smelled beer on my breath when I came home. Grounded me for eight weeks. What a bitch!
They must have figured that having to take a bus to get around would cure me of driving after drinking. Dad also mentioned that the odometer readings had been written down, just in case I got any ideas.
It wasn’t all that bad, since I could ride my bike up to the club when I felt like some tennis, or to check out the chicks. The golf club was only a five minute ride away, but I wasn’t really all that interested. Most of the kids were from private schools in the East End, and I didn’t really know any of them all that well.
“OK, I’ll do the damn cars,” I decided, and shut off the machine. When I got to the garage, I punched up all the doors and tried to figure out where to start. The Miata seemed like a good place.
I stripped down to my shorts and polished off the dust. “Damn, that’s one fine car,” I thought. It was British Racing Green and had a finish like a mirror. “Not bad,” I thought, as I looked at my own reflection in the hood, showing my broad swimmer’s shoulder, and a nice tan.
Before I could move to the next one, I heard a car crunching on the gravel drive. It was the white convertible.
Laura jumped out and came over. “I thought you didn’t have a car.”
“I don’t, these are my Dad’s, but I’m grounded until the end of summer.”
“That must be a bitch.”
“I’m cool with it, but life goes on.”
“I just wanted to drop off the racquet and swim trunks you left at our place last week.”
Big deal, I had an ample supply of both at home. The trip really wasn’t necessary. Why did she bother?
She handed me the gym bag.
“Gotta Go, I’m running late. I was over in the East End and thought you might need these.”
“Hope you can over again soon. We all enjoy your company.”
”Likewise.”
As the car pulled out of the driveway, memories of their encounters flashed back into my head. Not that they were ever that far away.
“Who is this lady, anyway,” I wondered.
Back in my father’s den, I started by trying to Google “Mrs. Jack Morgan” with no luck. “Laura Morgan” didn’t get any useful hits either, but there were a shitload of Laura Morgans that popped up, including some Facebook pages. None of them were her.
“OK,” let’s try “John Morgan.”
The trouble with Google is TMI. There is more chaff than substance, unless you know specifically what you are looking for.
I had heard Laura say that her husband was an investment advisor, so added that as search term.
Bingo!
Most of the stuff was business-related, but a few were about his political and charitable contributions. Apparently the couple were patrons of the arts, and served on the Symphony and Art Institute boards. One photo, taken at a gala, was surely Laura. Interesting, but no big deal. Nice dress, but hardly any cleavage showing.
Then I tried Facebook, searching for Buddy Morgan. About half the entries were for dogs named “Buddy,” but I finally found my friend. There were dozens of photos on the page, but I was especially interested in those of his Mom.
There she was, standing on the beach with Leah, with sand palm trees in the background. The picture wasn’t very hi-res, but I downloaded it anyway.
A little photo editing brought the resolution up, and I had a nice view of the two of them in bathing suits. Laura could have been Leah’s sister, and they both looked really hot in their bikinis.
Zooming in on her breast brought back memories of the other night, and I could feel the rise in my shorts. I turned off the computer and lay down on his bed, and stripped to my briefs.
“Oh, Laura, someday I’m going to fuck you flat!”
Relief came quickly.
CHAPTER 6
My cell phone buzzed.
“Hi, Tim, it’s Laura. The kids are away for two days and I thought I could bring over something to eat. It’s lonesome over here all alone.”
“Chinese OK?”
“Pizza would be better.”
“With?”
“Your call, I’ll eat almost anything.”
Hell, what I really wanted was to do was eat HER!
I gave a little grunt to myself, thinking about munching on that sweet pussy of hers.
“See you in half an hour.”
“Just let me get a shower.”
“OK, Bye.”
“Hot shit,” I thought, “She’s really coming over again.”
Then I had an inspiration. I headed back into his Dad’s den and booted up the computer. Firing up the nanny-cam, I activated it to record when motion was detected in any of the rooms. I also clicked on the “mic” icon, to see if the sound would be recorded, too.
Just maybe I could get some better pictures of Laura than the lousy vacation shot from Buddy’s Facebook page.