Eliza Havering Ch 2
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Eliza Havering. Ch.1 free porn video
.An introduction.
I was in my mid-thirties before I bought my first house. I had recently got divorced after she ran off with a chicken farmer, of all people. It took me a while to recover from the trauma of it all, but I slowly got my life back on track. Once I had cheered myself up, I determined to enjoy my new freedom. I was still relatively young, and the world was out there waiting for me. I decided the first thing I needed was a base, so I bought a house.
It wasn’t a new house but had been built in the mid-fifties according to the estate agent. It was the last house in a street of respectable detached houses in the suburbs. They were all more or less identical apart from minor changes various owners had made over the years. A variety of porches added and most now held the obligatory double-glazed windows, some in white plastic and some, like mine, in dark oak. Opposite was a green space and then the countryside beyond. They all had very 50’s bow window fronts and a certain post-war feeling of opulence trying to combat the general austerity of the time.
When I said it was the last house on the street that isn’t quite correct. Next to mine but separated and standing apart from the rest of the us was a large house, almost a mansion. It was much older, and the rest of the houses looked like interlopers. I wondered who lived there but all the estate agent knew was that her name was Miss Havering. I had immediate visions of some wizened crone brandishing a walking stick at me if I made too much noise. Luckily, I enjoyed the quiet life.
I’d been there about three weeks and had almost finished moving in when I first met her. Apart from work my time had been spent unpacking boxes, putting up shelves, doing a little redecorating. All the multitude of jobs when one first moves in. Finally, I had decided to take some time out and chill. It was the height of summer and the middle of a heatwave. I grabbed a book and a glass of wine and went to sit in the back garden. At the front, the street was open plan with one front garden flowing into the next. Apart from the final big house that had a high wall surrounding it. At the back it was different.
The previous owners had put up a high wood-weave fence on both sides and at the far end which gave me a nice privacy. There was a gate in the far fence that led onto a lane and, most curiously, there was a second one halfway along the fence that separated me from the big house. I thought this was odd, but I had yet to summon up the courage to try and open it and peer inside. I sat on the patio, also provided by the previous owner, in a folding chair and enjoyed the sunshine. I was wearing an old t-shirt and a very tatty pair of shorts, both paint spattered and needing to be thrown away, but both still useful until I had finished the decorating. I closed my eyes as began to drift off, the warm sun lulling me to sleep.
I was brought back suddenly by a click and a squeak. I blinked as the sun hit my eyes.
“Hello,” came a distant, female voice.
I looked around trying to locate its source. I became aware that the side gate was now open, and a figure was occupying the space, silhouetted by the sun behind her. I sat up still dazzled by the light.
“Sorry to disturb you but I saw you sitting out, so I thought I’d come and say hello … I’m your neighbour.”
“Oh, hi,” I said, stammering like a confused idiot, “pleased to meet you.”
“Delighted to meet you,” she replied, “may I …?” she asked taking a step into my garden.
“Of course,” I said, standing up, “let me grab another chair.”
Clumsily I got up and grabbed one that was leaning against the wall and opened it up. I put it down next to mine and stepped aside. She smiled and walked over.
“That’s very kind of you,” she said, taking her seat.
“Would you like a drink?” I asked, suddenly remembering my manners, “tea? … coffee?”
She looked at the wine glass on the paving next to my chair and smiled. “One of those will do nicely.”
“I’ll be right back,” I said breezily.
I walked into the kitchen and fumbled around looking for a clean wine glass. Something told me that grubby finger marks would not do. I couldn’t work out quite why I was feeling this way, but the woman had an undeniable air of being in control despite having intruded into my space. I opened a new bottle of wine, one of my more extravagant purchases made in a moment of madness. I had the sense that she could taste cheapness. I went back out and filled both our glasses and then sat down. I could not take my eyes off her.
This was most definitely not the wrinkly old crone I had expected. She was young and slim and absolutely gorgeous. Her hair was brown with a hint of red, cut into a short and elegant bob. She was dressed simply but, I was guessing, expensively. I don’t know much about these things, but I reckoned her simple white t-shirt cost the same as my weekly food bill. She wore nicely tailored white slacks and white, low sandals. I was already totally in awe.
“I’m Eliza, by the way,” she said, interrupting my stunned silence. she held out her hand and I took it gently.
“Hi Eliza,” I managed to blurt out, “I’m Duncan.”
“So, what is it you do, Duncan?” she asked, taking a first sip of her wine. Something in me seemed to melt as she smiled and nodded her approval. I’m not sure she was aware of the effect she was having on me, but I have a feeling she was. I also felt I wasn’t the first to fall under her spell.
“I work in the accounts department for a large firm. Not the most exciting job in the world but it suits me. It’s that large industrial bakery on the edge of town. You’ve probably smelt it on the road out to London.”
“I know where you mean. Don’t you get fed up with that sweet sickly smell?”
“Our office is separate from the main factory and is air-conditioned, so we don’t really get it. Unless we go outside.” I realised I was babbling like an idiot.
“You live here on your own?”
“I recently split from my wife. For the time being I’m enjoying my freedom, and you?”
“It’s just me rattling about in that big house but I often have company staying for a few days so it’s not too bad.”
“Do you work?” I asked, wondering if I was prying too much.
“Ahhhh …,” she said and paused, looking at me, assessing me. She seemed about to be making some sort of revelation.
“My ‘job’,” she said, putting air quotes around the word, “is a little more difficult to explain than accountancy.”
Again, she paused. It was as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether I was ready to be told or whether she was prepared to unveil her secret. All sorts of thoughts whirled through my mind. Was she a spy? Did she do secret work for the government? I’m not very up on modern celebrities but I certainly didn’t recognise her so it couldn’t be that. Was she some kind of high-class escort? But I put that thought quickly away. Finally, she broke the tension.
“I’m a disciplinarian,” she announced and then watched for my reaction.
I felt stupid but I could not work out what that could possibly mean. I gave her a puzzled look. She was clearly used to such a reaction.
“It’s not easy to explain …” again she paused, choosing her words with care, “clients come to me, or more accurately, are sent to me. They might, for example, have a bad attitude. I try and change their mind-set and their behaviour.”
To be honest I was none the wiser and my expression must have shown this. “Like a ther****t?” I ventured.
“Almost but not quite. It is quite often parents with unruly sons or daughters,” she went on, “who send them to me and over a few days I try and work with them to change things.”
“But how?”
“My methods are various, and some might consider them extreme, but I am sought out mostly as a last resort.”
My mind was beginning to be taken over with fantasies and I shook my head to clear it. I looked at her. Was she winding me up? But her cool features, as she took a sip of wine, made me think she was serious.
“I never advertise,” she went on, “… excellent wine by the way … people find me. Mostly by word of mouth. I have gradually built up a list of satisfied ex-clients who are happy to pass on their thanks by recommending me to others.”
“Is it mostly parents who contact you?” I asked still trying to work out what was going on.
“Mostly, but sometimes one half of a couple will send me their partner. But, yes, mostly it is parents, at their wits end with their offspring’s misbehaviour.”
“I still don’t …”
“It isn’t easy to either explain or understand.”
“Is it both sons and daughters you deal with?” I asked, having no idea where that questioned came from.
She looked at me with the slightest rise of one eyebrow. “It is both, but fortunately mostly girls. I find boys too easy. One hint of sex and they are so easily led. Girls, on the other hand are more complex and more challenging. But I have taken enough of your time and I have a prospective client due quite soon. They wish to discuss another case. Thank you for the wine. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”
I was dying to know more but apparently it was not to be. She carefully put her now empty glass down and stood up, holding out her hand. Dumbly I took it and got the same delicate hand as before. It wasn’t a limp handshake but firm and assured, but still very soft. Without another word she walked across the lawn and went through the gate, pulling it closed behind her. The latched clicked shut and she was gone, and I was left dazed and confused. What had just happened? Was all that real? What does a ‘disciplinarian’ actually do? I was left with more questions than answers but no time to ask them.
I sat back and took a large gulp of wine. What had started as being a nice relaxing rest in the sunshine, some time out from all the ‘new home’ chores had turned almost surreal. Things lingered in my head for the rest of the day and most of the rest of the week. I went inside as it started to get chilly and switched on my laptop. I googled ‘disciplinarian’ and was shocked at the results. Lots of images and a few videos that made my head reel. Surely, she couldn’t …? I asked myself but there seemed no other explanation. But if it were true why had she chosen to open up to me at our first meeting?
The weather continued to remain hot and sunny and I sat out on the patio every evening after work, hoping she would make an appearance. She never did. I saw her briefly one morning as she backed her car out as I was setting off for work. She gave me a smiling wave as she drove past. I’d almost given up hope of another encounter until it came to Saturday. It was mid-afternoon and I was sat in my usual chair. I had left what I now thought of as ‘her chair’ out all week and I’d brought out a small table that I set between them. I had religiously placed an empty wine glass next to her chair every day, but it stayed unused. I was just beginning to think it wouldn’t happen again today either when I heard the unmistakable sound of the gate latch click open. On squeaky hinges it slowly opened, and she appeared. In her hand she held a bottle of wine which she lifted in the air.
“May I …?” she asked.
“Please do,” I replied, overjoyed to see her.
“I thought I’d repay your kindness from last weekend. This is one of my favourites,” she said, sitting down and gesturing with the wine bottle. “I see you have been expecting me,” she added tauntingly, gesturing at the empty glass.
She ignored my blushes and filled the glass and held the bottle out in my direction. I drained the last dregs from my glass and held it out and she poured a generous measure. I did all those things one is expected to do like swirling the deep red liquid around the glass and holding it up to the light. I had no idea what I was doing, and I think she knew it. I caught her looking at me with amusement. I was so far off not being an expert the whole act was silly. The wine, however, was not. I thought mine had been good, in fact the off-licence had told me that, but this was amazing. It took my breath and my speech away for a while.
Eventually I sat back and relaxed. I looked across at her as she gazed into the distance. At least this time I had bothered to dress more carefully. I had found a pair of light tan slacks that I hadn’t worn for ages and a freshly laundered t-shirt. I’d made an effort, I thought to myself. With Eliza it was the opposite. Unlike last weekend when she had dressed with such simple elegance, this time she was more casual. To my surprise she wore a long and fluffy bathrobe and a pair of pink flip-flops. Both seemed slightly incongruous and out of place for her. She also shone with a sheen of perspiration, as though she had broken off from a work-out to make her visit. Perhaps she had converted one of her rooms to a small private gym, I thought. My mind had visions of her naked under her robe. Little did I know how wrong I was. The silence between us stretched until I felt I had to break it.
“How were your clients last week?” I asked, with trepidation, “was it a successful meeting?”
“Very,” she replied without hesitation, “I have their daughter with me for a few days, maybe longer. She’s proving to be exceptionally difficult.”
“I’m sure you won’t let that get in your way,” I commented. I was now more than ever convinced that the images and videos I had found online were accurate if slightly exaggerated.
“I haven’t failed yet. They don’t pay good money for failure and my reputation precedes me.”
“You get paid?”
“Yes, and very well. I am the solver of other people’s problems.”
“And this new…?” I asked uncertain what to call her.
“I’m getting there. She is not used to discipline at home and is finding it hard to accept it.”
“Is she safe to be left on her own?”
“She is currently naked and locked in my cellar, feeling sorry for herself. She needs to say ‘sorry’ for her behaviour so far and will have no dinner until she does so. She will learn.”
I slowly let that information sink in. “That sounds a bit … harsh,” I ventured.
“Some respond to kindness and gentle guidance and some do not. Sadly, she is one of those who do not. Therefor a harsher method is called for.”
She made it sound so simple and straightforward. I had visions of a young girl shivering, despite the heat, lying naked on the stone floor of a cellar wondering if she was ever to be free again. I was awash with strange emotions. I knew I ought to feel sorry for her but part of me wondered if she deserved it. It was all so new to me.
“I’m pleased to see that you haven’t leapt up and shouted or rushed off to call the police,” Eliza commented after her revelation, “most people would be appalled so I thank you for that at least.”
What she said next came like a bolt out of the blue. It made me sit up and look at her in disbelief.
To be continued …
I was in my mid-thirties before I bought my first house. I had recently got divorced after she ran off with a chicken farmer, of all people. It took me a while to recover from the trauma of it all, but I slowly got my life back on track. Once I had cheered myself up, I determined to enjoy my new freedom. I was still relatively young, and the world was out there waiting for me. I decided the first thing I needed was a base, so I bought a house.
It wasn’t a new house but had been built in the mid-fifties according to the estate agent. It was the last house in a street of respectable detached houses in the suburbs. They were all more or less identical apart from minor changes various owners had made over the years. A variety of porches added and most now held the obligatory double-glazed windows, some in white plastic and some, like mine, in dark oak. Opposite was a green space and then the countryside beyond. They all had very 50’s bow window fronts and a certain post-war feeling of opulence trying to combat the general austerity of the time.
When I said it was the last house on the street that isn’t quite correct. Next to mine but separated and standing apart from the rest of the us was a large house, almost a mansion. It was much older, and the rest of the houses looked like interlopers. I wondered who lived there but all the estate agent knew was that her name was Miss Havering. I had immediate visions of some wizened crone brandishing a walking stick at me if I made too much noise. Luckily, I enjoyed the quiet life.
I’d been there about three weeks and had almost finished moving in when I first met her. Apart from work my time had been spent unpacking boxes, putting up shelves, doing a little redecorating. All the multitude of jobs when one first moves in. Finally, I had decided to take some time out and chill. It was the height of summer and the middle of a heatwave. I grabbed a book and a glass of wine and went to sit in the back garden. At the front, the street was open plan with one front garden flowing into the next. Apart from the final big house that had a high wall surrounding it. At the back it was different.
The previous owners had put up a high wood-weave fence on both sides and at the far end which gave me a nice privacy. There was a gate in the far fence that led onto a lane and, most curiously, there was a second one halfway along the fence that separated me from the big house. I thought this was odd, but I had yet to summon up the courage to try and open it and peer inside. I sat on the patio, also provided by the previous owner, in a folding chair and enjoyed the sunshine. I was wearing an old t-shirt and a very tatty pair of shorts, both paint spattered and needing to be thrown away, but both still useful until I had finished the decorating. I closed my eyes as began to drift off, the warm sun lulling me to sleep.
I was brought back suddenly by a click and a squeak. I blinked as the sun hit my eyes.
“Hello,” came a distant, female voice.
I looked around trying to locate its source. I became aware that the side gate was now open, and a figure was occupying the space, silhouetted by the sun behind her. I sat up still dazzled by the light.
“Sorry to disturb you but I saw you sitting out, so I thought I’d come and say hello … I’m your neighbour.”
“Oh, hi,” I said, stammering like a confused idiot, “pleased to meet you.”
“Delighted to meet you,” she replied, “may I …?” she asked taking a step into my garden.
“Of course,” I said, standing up, “let me grab another chair.”
Clumsily I got up and grabbed one that was leaning against the wall and opened it up. I put it down next to mine and stepped aside. She smiled and walked over.
“That’s very kind of you,” she said, taking her seat.
“Would you like a drink?” I asked, suddenly remembering my manners, “tea? … coffee?”
She looked at the wine glass on the paving next to my chair and smiled. “One of those will do nicely.”
“I’ll be right back,” I said breezily.
I walked into the kitchen and fumbled around looking for a clean wine glass. Something told me that grubby finger marks would not do. I couldn’t work out quite why I was feeling this way, but the woman had an undeniable air of being in control despite having intruded into my space. I opened a new bottle of wine, one of my more extravagant purchases made in a moment of madness. I had the sense that she could taste cheapness. I went back out and filled both our glasses and then sat down. I could not take my eyes off her.
This was most definitely not the wrinkly old crone I had expected. She was young and slim and absolutely gorgeous. Her hair was brown with a hint of red, cut into a short and elegant bob. She was dressed simply but, I was guessing, expensively. I don’t know much about these things, but I reckoned her simple white t-shirt cost the same as my weekly food bill. She wore nicely tailored white slacks and white, low sandals. I was already totally in awe.
“I’m Eliza, by the way,” she said, interrupting my stunned silence. she held out her hand and I took it gently.
“Hi Eliza,” I managed to blurt out, “I’m Duncan.”
“So, what is it you do, Duncan?” she asked, taking a first sip of her wine. Something in me seemed to melt as she smiled and nodded her approval. I’m not sure she was aware of the effect she was having on me, but I have a feeling she was. I also felt I wasn’t the first to fall under her spell.
“I work in the accounts department for a large firm. Not the most exciting job in the world but it suits me. It’s that large industrial bakery on the edge of town. You’ve probably smelt it on the road out to London.”
“I know where you mean. Don’t you get fed up with that sweet sickly smell?”
“Our office is separate from the main factory and is air-conditioned, so we don’t really get it. Unless we go outside.” I realised I was babbling like an idiot.
“You live here on your own?”
“I recently split from my wife. For the time being I’m enjoying my freedom, and you?”
“It’s just me rattling about in that big house but I often have company staying for a few days so it’s not too bad.”
“Do you work?” I asked, wondering if I was prying too much.
“Ahhhh …,” she said and paused, looking at me, assessing me. She seemed about to be making some sort of revelation.
“My ‘job’,” she said, putting air quotes around the word, “is a little more difficult to explain than accountancy.”
Again, she paused. It was as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether I was ready to be told or whether she was prepared to unveil her secret. All sorts of thoughts whirled through my mind. Was she a spy? Did she do secret work for the government? I’m not very up on modern celebrities but I certainly didn’t recognise her so it couldn’t be that. Was she some kind of high-class escort? But I put that thought quickly away. Finally, she broke the tension.
“I’m a disciplinarian,” she announced and then watched for my reaction.
I felt stupid but I could not work out what that could possibly mean. I gave her a puzzled look. She was clearly used to such a reaction.
“It’s not easy to explain …” again she paused, choosing her words with care, “clients come to me, or more accurately, are sent to me. They might, for example, have a bad attitude. I try and change their mind-set and their behaviour.”
To be honest I was none the wiser and my expression must have shown this. “Like a ther****t?” I ventured.
“Almost but not quite. It is quite often parents with unruly sons or daughters,” she went on, “who send them to me and over a few days I try and work with them to change things.”
“But how?”
“My methods are various, and some might consider them extreme, but I am sought out mostly as a last resort.”
My mind was beginning to be taken over with fantasies and I shook my head to clear it. I looked at her. Was she winding me up? But her cool features, as she took a sip of wine, made me think she was serious.
“I never advertise,” she went on, “… excellent wine by the way … people find me. Mostly by word of mouth. I have gradually built up a list of satisfied ex-clients who are happy to pass on their thanks by recommending me to others.”
“Is it mostly parents who contact you?” I asked still trying to work out what was going on.
“Mostly, but sometimes one half of a couple will send me their partner. But, yes, mostly it is parents, at their wits end with their offspring’s misbehaviour.”
“I still don’t …”
“It isn’t easy to either explain or understand.”
“Is it both sons and daughters you deal with?” I asked, having no idea where that questioned came from.
She looked at me with the slightest rise of one eyebrow. “It is both, but fortunately mostly girls. I find boys too easy. One hint of sex and they are so easily led. Girls, on the other hand are more complex and more challenging. But I have taken enough of your time and I have a prospective client due quite soon. They wish to discuss another case. Thank you for the wine. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”
I was dying to know more but apparently it was not to be. She carefully put her now empty glass down and stood up, holding out her hand. Dumbly I took it and got the same delicate hand as before. It wasn’t a limp handshake but firm and assured, but still very soft. Without another word she walked across the lawn and went through the gate, pulling it closed behind her. The latched clicked shut and she was gone, and I was left dazed and confused. What had just happened? Was all that real? What does a ‘disciplinarian’ actually do? I was left with more questions than answers but no time to ask them.
I sat back and took a large gulp of wine. What had started as being a nice relaxing rest in the sunshine, some time out from all the ‘new home’ chores had turned almost surreal. Things lingered in my head for the rest of the day and most of the rest of the week. I went inside as it started to get chilly and switched on my laptop. I googled ‘disciplinarian’ and was shocked at the results. Lots of images and a few videos that made my head reel. Surely, she couldn’t …? I asked myself but there seemed no other explanation. But if it were true why had she chosen to open up to me at our first meeting?
The weather continued to remain hot and sunny and I sat out on the patio every evening after work, hoping she would make an appearance. She never did. I saw her briefly one morning as she backed her car out as I was setting off for work. She gave me a smiling wave as she drove past. I’d almost given up hope of another encounter until it came to Saturday. It was mid-afternoon and I was sat in my usual chair. I had left what I now thought of as ‘her chair’ out all week and I’d brought out a small table that I set between them. I had religiously placed an empty wine glass next to her chair every day, but it stayed unused. I was just beginning to think it wouldn’t happen again today either when I heard the unmistakable sound of the gate latch click open. On squeaky hinges it slowly opened, and she appeared. In her hand she held a bottle of wine which she lifted in the air.
“May I …?” she asked.
“Please do,” I replied, overjoyed to see her.
“I thought I’d repay your kindness from last weekend. This is one of my favourites,” she said, sitting down and gesturing with the wine bottle. “I see you have been expecting me,” she added tauntingly, gesturing at the empty glass.
She ignored my blushes and filled the glass and held the bottle out in my direction. I drained the last dregs from my glass and held it out and she poured a generous measure. I did all those things one is expected to do like swirling the deep red liquid around the glass and holding it up to the light. I had no idea what I was doing, and I think she knew it. I caught her looking at me with amusement. I was so far off not being an expert the whole act was silly. The wine, however, was not. I thought mine had been good, in fact the off-licence had told me that, but this was amazing. It took my breath and my speech away for a while.
Eventually I sat back and relaxed. I looked across at her as she gazed into the distance. At least this time I had bothered to dress more carefully. I had found a pair of light tan slacks that I hadn’t worn for ages and a freshly laundered t-shirt. I’d made an effort, I thought to myself. With Eliza it was the opposite. Unlike last weekend when she had dressed with such simple elegance, this time she was more casual. To my surprise she wore a long and fluffy bathrobe and a pair of pink flip-flops. Both seemed slightly incongruous and out of place for her. She also shone with a sheen of perspiration, as though she had broken off from a work-out to make her visit. Perhaps she had converted one of her rooms to a small private gym, I thought. My mind had visions of her naked under her robe. Little did I know how wrong I was. The silence between us stretched until I felt I had to break it.
“How were your clients last week?” I asked, with trepidation, “was it a successful meeting?”
“Very,” she replied without hesitation, “I have their daughter with me for a few days, maybe longer. She’s proving to be exceptionally difficult.”
“I’m sure you won’t let that get in your way,” I commented. I was now more than ever convinced that the images and videos I had found online were accurate if slightly exaggerated.
“I haven’t failed yet. They don’t pay good money for failure and my reputation precedes me.”
“You get paid?”
“Yes, and very well. I am the solver of other people’s problems.”
“And this new…?” I asked uncertain what to call her.
“I’m getting there. She is not used to discipline at home and is finding it hard to accept it.”
“Is she safe to be left on her own?”
“She is currently naked and locked in my cellar, feeling sorry for herself. She needs to say ‘sorry’ for her behaviour so far and will have no dinner until she does so. She will learn.”
I slowly let that information sink in. “That sounds a bit … harsh,” I ventured.
“Some respond to kindness and gentle guidance and some do not. Sadly, she is one of those who do not. Therefor a harsher method is called for.”
She made it sound so simple and straightforward. I had visions of a young girl shivering, despite the heat, lying naked on the stone floor of a cellar wondering if she was ever to be free again. I was awash with strange emotions. I knew I ought to feel sorry for her but part of me wondered if she deserved it. It was all so new to me.
“I’m pleased to see that you haven’t leapt up and shouted or rushed off to call the police,” Eliza commented after her revelation, “most people would be appalled so I thank you for that at least.”
What she said next came like a bolt out of the blue. It made me sit up and look at her in disbelief.
To be continued …
Charlize
- 13.09.2022
- 48
- 0
