The Liberation Of Father Mortimer
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Doing Time Ch. 03 free porn video
The third and final part of the story. It won’t make any sense at all, unless you read the other parts.
Posted under ‘Romance’ as that is what happens.
Sorry but not a lot of actual sex.
++++++++
It was then that I thought about writing, to see if I could do as well as others who’s works I by then regularly read on the Literotica site. The above story was the first I tried my hand at, and it was well received, not getting very high marks, but lots and lots of comments which I really appreciated. Some were completely stupid of course, but I even grew to be able to smile at them.
———–
So there I was, my freedom, my new Jag, new clothes and money in the bank. Yes, I hadn’t wasted the opportunity that my years in prison had afforded me.
A couple of days down in London to sort out some business, and I found myself back in the Huntingdon/Bedford area.
I had unfinished business, and that was the place to start.
It was the area where Angela and I had been bought up in, met, married and split up.
If I was going to find her, then that was a good place to start. I didn’t know what to expect, and had no idea what I would do if I did find her. I just needed to find her to get some sort of closure.
I needed to be able to write her out of my life!
Who was I kidding?
The Internet is a wonderful tool, and the electoral roll throws up some interesting combinations.
Would she still be going under the name of Merchant, or have reverted to her previous name, Jones. Probably not Jones, as that was Alf, her previous husband’s name. So if it wasn’t Merchant then it would be Simpson, the name she was born with.
Then again Angela could have been living under any damn name. She had divorced me and could have re-married.
She could have done anything.
I had a few false leads and was on the point of calling in some professionals when suddenly it stood out like a beacon.
23 Bean St
Occupants
A Simpson
C Simpson
M Merchant
Too much of a coincidence maybe.
‘A’ could be Angela, ‘C’ could be anyone, but who the hell was the ‘M’?
To make it worse, right underneath that entry was the following for the house next door.
25 Bean St
Occupants
A Jones
T Jones
G Jones.
Again, ‘A’ could be Angela. But how likely was that?
Dammit — it was only just down the road and I was fed up with sitting around, so I simply decided to go and find out for myself.
I parked the Jag a few doors down from number 23, in a street of nondescript terrace houses, and sat there staring at that house for some time, willing some unknown person to walk in or walk out, so that I could drive straight off again.
Patience was never my strength though, and after half an hour or so, I was pushing the doorbell, almost praying that nobody was there.
The door opened, and a very pretty young lady stood there looking at me. Not Angela for sure, but somehow familiar.
I was tongue tied — didn’t know what to say, despite all my preparations.
‘Hello Jim,’ the attractive young woman said to me. ‘I’ve been half expecting you to call for the last few days. How did you find us?’
To say I was surprised would indeed be an understatement.
Following her into the house and through to the lounge, my mind was racing trying to sort out who on earth this woman was. Why was she expecting me? How did she know me? And where did I know her from?
‘Cup of tea of something Jim?’ She asked me with a smile.
‘Please,’ I replied, and watched her as she went over to the open plan kitchen, admiring the way her bottom looked, clad in the tight jeans that she had on.
‘Still support the Arsenal Jim?’ the girl asked, surprising me with her knowledge of my favorite football team. ‘That’s all I get from the two of them next door — Arsenal this and Arsenal that.’
Who the bloody hell was this lovely young woman?
‘I guess you know about Angela Jim,’ she asked me, a more serious look clouding her face.
Then it came to me —- bloody hell!
‘A Simpson’ —- this was her, but not Angela Simpson, This was Anne Simpson, her younger sister. The one who had been a snotty nosed little teenager the last time I’d seen her. The one that I hadn’t thought very much of at the time.
But Gawd Blimey —- look at her now. What would she be, late twenties at the most. Very trim figure, possibly a bit curvier than Angela had been, and tits just that little bit bigger, which didn’t go amiss at all. Long shapely legs which those tight jeans failed to camouflage, and long lustrous dark hair, with maybe, just maybe a tint of red in it.
Yes, even the familiar little turned up nose, and the big green eyes.
But those big green eyes were looking at me sadly, and I wondered what I was about to discover about the current situation of my ex wife.
‘No idea Anne,’ I answered her, not giving on that I hadn’t recognized her from the start. ‘Afraid I haven’t really heard from her for years. How is she?’
‘You really don’t know Jim?’ Anne demanded, her eyes visibly misting up.
I shook my head, indicating that I didn’t, wondering if she’d got involved in yet another bad marriage or something.
‘She’s gone Jim.’
‘Gone —- what do you mean gone.’
‘Dead Jim. I’m really sorry but she’s dead.’
ZONK!
My mouth must surly have gaped open as that was something that I really hadn’t been expecting, and stood there like a zombie not knowing what to say or do.
‘I’m sorry Jim, but I thought you would have known,’ Anne told me, crossing the room towards me, and putting her arms round me to give me some comfort.
Angela may have been a bitch —— But dead?
‘I think I need that cup of tea please Anne.’
——————–
Anne spent the next twenty minutes explaining what had happened. How after I’d gone to prison and Stan was no longer around, that Angela had retired back into her shell somewhat.
There was something else there that she wasn’t quite telling me, but I didn’t push it, and let her get on with the story.
After a few years she’d taken up with a new chap Mike, who had pots of money and had started to give her the life she had always dreamed of. The like of which apparently not even Stan, never mind me or poor Alf before me could have provided.
But the dream was short lived, and some five years previously, they had both been killed when his private jet had crashed somewhere in the sea off the coast of Spain.
I was stunned by quite how much that shook me. I admitted to Anne that I hadn’t so much as opened any of Angela’s letters, and that I knew absolutely nothing about her life since I’d been imprisoned.
I confess —- I don’t know why, but I felt extremely guilty.
Silly, but I felt as if I’d let her down in some way.
‘Well Jim,’ Anne continued with a somewhat resigned tone. ‘You’ve got a bit more catching up to do yet.’
However, before she could explain further, a miniature bundle of energy burst into the room.
It was about three foot or so tall, maybe three or four years old, dark ginger hair and female. With freckles.
‘Hi Mummy,’ it, or should we say she, called out at the top of her voice. ‘Garry’s got a new computor for his birthday and it’s a proper one.’ Adding, when she noticed me standing there, ‘Oh — who’s this man Mummy?’
‘This is your Uncle Jim,’ Anne told the little bundle of energy. ‘You know Carrie, the one that I warned you might be calling round.’
Well that explained who C. Simpson was didn’t it.
‘Is he as nice as you said he was Mummy?’ demanded little Carrie, bringing modest smiles of embarrassment to both the adults faces.
I never did get to find out what
Anne would have answered, as at that moment her attention was diverted back to the door that Carrie had just burst through.
I turned my head to see what had caught her attention, and there stood another young girl, maybe four years or so older than Carrie, as pretty as a picture, with the same dark red hair and little turned up nose.
‘You must be my real daddy,’ the girl stated confidently, only the look on her face giving away how nervous she really was. ‘Why have you never been able to come and see me before?’
ZONK —DOUBLE ZONK!
What had she just said?
Did I really hear her correctly?
For Christ’s sake, how many more surprises was I due to get that day.
‘This is Mary Jim,’ Anne told me as gently as she was able. ‘Sorry I wasn’t able to warn you, but she seems to have introduced herself.’
Mary?
Mary Merchant?
But that was my mother’s name, God bless her soul.
From the first instant I never doubted it. I never doubted that she was my daughter. There was simply something about her that looked so familiar, and the longer I spent with her, the more and more I saw the likeness of my own mother in her.
Apparently Angela had discovered that she was pregnant while I was on trial and had written to me, frightened at how I would react if she confronted me face to face with the news.
And what had I done —- fool that I was?
I’d thrown all her letters away unopened. I’d had a daughter of my own all those years and never known.
Fuck me what a bloody, damn waste!
I asked why the authorities had never let me know about it, but all Anne could do was shrug her shoulders and tell me she didn’t know. The only person who could maybe tell me was by then dead, and she had presumed that I just didn’t want to know.
How sad.
How really, really sad.
————
For the first ten minutes or so, Mary and I skirted around one another cautiously. Both desperate but frightened to get to know one another better. I wanted to hold her in my arms, but was terrified that she would reject me or something. I simply didn’t know how to handle it, and poor Anne looked on, equally unsure.
In the end it was the bundle of energy that came to our rescue.
‘Mummy, can he be my Daddy as well please,’ sweet Carrie demanded in what seemed to be the only level of volume that she conversed in. ‘If Mary doesn’t mind that is.’
‘We’ll have to see about that Carrie,’ replied her mother chuckling at her daughter’s innocent cheek.
‘I don’t mind sharing my Daddy with you Sis,’ added my own dear daughter.
‘Let’s give our new Daddy a cuddle then Mary,’ screamed the little one, and made a charge towards me.
My daughter needed no further excuse, and to everyone’s surprise Mary beat her to it.
And that was it —- we never looked back.
Within moments the two little darlings were clinging to me, cuddling me, climbing up onto my lap. It was difficult, but I gave back as good as I received.
I glanced up, and there stood Anne, tears streaming down her face, sporting a smile the like of which would light up a huge room.
I held out my hand to her in offering.
She hesitated.
Uncertainly, she covered the few feet between her and us three, slid down onto the floor in front of us, and threw her arms around us.
Could the day get any better?
Before long all four of us were bawling our eyes out with happiness. It had been years since joy anywhere near this level had ever passed through my life.
‘Why am I crying when I feel so happy Mummy?’ Carrie demanded.
‘Oh, you’ll understand when you’re a little older sweety,’ came back the reply.
—————
I stayed for supper, and caught up with a lot of news.
After we had tucked the two little ones in bed, Anne told me about her life since we had last met.
She had taken over the care of Mary after her sister’s untimely demise, fortunately being left a reasonable sum of money that enabled her to put down a good deposit on the house we were then sat in.
I neglected to point out that the money in question, could well have been the proceeds of our house after Angela had sold it.
It no longer mattered, and I didn’t care. Besides, someone had been paying for the upkeep of my daughter.
Then Anne had taken up with some guy, she didn’t even mention his name, but when she found herself pregnant, he scooted off as quickly as his legs could carry him.
‘Seems to run in our family,’ she commented, thinking no doubt of the father that she had never met.
I was reluctant to leave, but I wearily made my way back to my hotel, the Swan, on Bedford Embankment, and had one of the most relaxed sleeps that I had enjoyed in some time.
The next morning, earlier than good manners should have dictated, I’d rebooked my room for the week, and was soon on my way back over the A1 to Anne’s place.
Just in time for breakfast.
My first ever breakfast with my daughter. Or was it two daughters, because it certainly felt like it.
We went out for the day.
Can’t remember where.
It was wonderful.
By the time we got back, the girls were full of ice cream and sweets and McDonalds and everything that you shouldn’t normally allow youngsters to over indulge in.
It was wonderful.
We put the girls to bed, and sat there talking again but this time about everything and nothing. Time came for me to go back to my hotel and I didn’t want to leave, but I had to.
It was like being a teenager again, and having spent several hours chatting and talking, we then proceeded to chat for another forty minutes at the door as she saw me out.
You must have done that.
It’s different somehow. Seeing someone off at the door gives you an excuse to stand close to them, hold them a little, and yes, you may have already guessed it, to give your girl a good night peck on the lips.
That’s all it was, a little peck.
But it was wonderful.
Silly sod that I was, I was falling in love.
The following day, I realized that I had heard quite a lot mentioned about someone called Garry.
Who was Garry, other than the boy next door that is?
That must be G Jones, Garry Jones. Anne was obviously very friendly with his mother, who of course was called Tracy, and I eventually worked out that they had been to school together.
I did wonder when I would be introduced. After all, it did appear that we were all Arsenal fans.
It was that afternoon while the girls were out at dancing lessons, that I had my third surprise. Not as great as the others, but they do say things come in threes.
It began when Anne was explaining how she came to chose that very house. How Angela had helped the guy next door to start up his gardening business, not with money, but helping him with his books and paperwork and how to market his services. It appears that all had gone extremely well for the first couple of years, but then when, alas, poor Angela was no more, things slowly fell apart.
‘I’m really worried about them,’ Anne told me mournfully. ‘They’re such good friends, and the kids get on so well together, but they’re in a terrible financial situation.’
‘Has he gone bust?’ I enquired.
‘More or less,’ continued the lovely Anne, her concern written all over her face. ‘He should go bankrupt I suppose, but he’s so damn proud and won’t duck out from his debts.’
‘Very creditable,’ I interjected. ‘Most people might well just cut and run.’
Anne looked at me, and sniffed. She was obviously more upset than I had realized. ‘Trouble is, they’ve fallen behind with all they’re payments, and now the bank are threatening to take their house away from them.’
I asked why he just didn’t sell his house, but she told me that in the current market th
ere were few buyers, and they had just about run out of time.
‘Tough,’ I commented.
‘And where would they live?’ Anne asked. ‘Me and the kids would miss them terribly.’
Deciding to leave it there for the moment, I changed the subject, and she cheered up a little. It was only when I asked if we could maybe pop next door and meet her friends, that she pulled a strained face.
‘Well we could Jim,’ she admitted. ‘They are both in.’
‘But?’ I queried. ‘There seems to be a ‘but’ in there somewhere.’
‘Well I’m not sure you remember him Jim, but in many ways, that was the reason Angela helped him in the first place.’
‘Remember who?’
‘Alf,’ Anne mumbled quietly, almost embarrassed to tell me. ‘Alf Jones. The chap my sister divorced to marry you Jim.’
Well bugger me!
That explained ‘A Jones’ didn’t it, and the other two turned out to be Tracy and Garry of course, his new wife and son.
I thought about it. What a turn up for the book. Angela wasn’t all bad then after all, not if she came back and helped him set up his business.
Oh what a sorry mess!
‘Let’s go see them,’ I decided. ‘No problem for me.’
‘Not you I’m worried about,’ said Anne, but she started to put her coat on anyway.
—————–
It wasn’t easy. I have to say that.
Tracy and Garry were friendly but reserved, whereas Alf was certainly reserved, but not exactly very friendly.
Couldn’t blame him, could I?
Much as with my daughter when I first met her, we skirted carefully around one another, but this time it was Garry who broke the ice.
‘Are you the guy with the Jag?’ he asked.
‘What Jag?’ butted in Alf, his interest suddenly sparked.
‘Yer that’s me,’ I admitted, though I had been fairly careful about not parking it obviously outside of Anne’s house up to that point. ‘It’s an XKR coupe.’ I aimed the last comment directly at Alf himself.
‘The one with the back like an Aston Martin?’ he demanded.
Golly — he was interested. I nodded in agreement.
‘Four point two litre job?’ Alf continued.
I nodded again.
‘Nice car,’ he commented unsuccessfully hiding his enthusiasm. ‘Not like the old Jags though. Not like the old E-Type.’
‘If you’re talking old Jags Alf,’ I retorted, getting into my stride. This was a subject that I had studied at some length while in Prison, having plenty of time on my hands. ‘The car that I’d really like is an old XK, the model before the E-Type.’
Alf’s face lit up.
It really did, and I noticed that Tracy, who had been observing her husband with some concern up till then, suddenly started to smile.
‘Which one Jim,’ he asked me. For the first time he actually used my name to my face. ‘I worked on a 150, last year with a pal, and that was fantastic.’
‘I’d go for the XK140 myself.’ I was by then really getting into my stride. ‘The 120’s a bit rustic for regular use, and the 150 a bit soft. I think the 140 is a great compromise.’
‘With a ‘C’ type head of course,’ Alf added.
‘Of course,’ I agreed.
The ice was indeed broken.
‘Can I go for a drive in your Jag Jim,’ Garry butted in, managing at last to get a word in edgewise.
‘Course you can Garry. If it’s OK with your parents.’
Alf agreed readily, and Tracy simply looked up at the ceiling, maybe trying to conceal the grin on her face.
‘Want to drive Alf,’ I asked cautiously, offering him the keys.
His smile was as wide as his son’s by then, and we all grabbed our coats and made for the door.
‘Jim supports Arsenal Dad,’ piped up Garry.
‘Might have guessed it,’ laughed Alf, smiling at me and offering me his hand which I took willingly. I decided that Alf was probably one of the nicest guys I’d met in a long, long time, not capable of holding a grudge, and I had a feeling that we were going to be friends.
‘We’ll probably stop for a pint down the Crown while we’re out,’ Alf informed his missus.
She smiled and nodded, the two women giving one another knowing looks.
‘Men!’ commented Tracy.
‘Little boys and their big toys,’ replied Anne happily.
————-
Later on, after we’d got back to Anne’s place, I excused myself for an hour or two, as I had a little business to attend to back in Bedford.
By the time I got back, dinner was on the table, and the girls had returned from their dancing lessons.
That evening was as good as the previous few, and after cards, monopoly, and lots of swinging around, the girls eventually retired to bed again as exhausted as they had been before.
Anne and I ended up sat side by side on her sofa chatting, simply enjoying being so close. Till then other than a simple goodnight kiss as I left, there had been no close physical connection between us.
Geraldine
- 27.07.2020
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