Nellie's Sketchpad Ch. 03

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Tinkerbell and Peetie Pan and the Office Party.
3.4k words
4.45
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Part 3 of the 4 part series

Updated 06/07/2023
Created 09/18/2015
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When I was a boy, Saturday mornings in the winter were for ice fishing on Lac Renaud. My dad and I huddled in parkas in our ice hut over the hole we'd cut with the power auger and watched our lines disappear into it. Dad would always tell the same corny jokes, such as:

"Pete, do you know how to fish with a can of peas? Well, you open up a can of peas and leave it by the hole. When the fish comes up to take a pea, you grab him."

And so forth. I laughed the first dozen times he told it, then politely chuckled, then I just groaned.

"What do you want to do when you grow up, then?" he would ask between sips of coffee or beer, depending on what time of day it was. Walleye were stacked on the ice in the corner looking up with dead, milky eyes at the roof of our ice hut. A French language radio station would be playing in the background of that small cold space.

"I want to play for the Alouettes. Or the Canadiens. Maybe both," I would say. I was a boy, and it was all still possible then.

"Well, wouldn't that be something, eh?" he would say.

When Mum and I moved to England, Puberty was there to greet me. Then Saturdays were for sleeping late, watching the telly, then a little studying and then a nap. And if Mum left for any length of time, surfing porn and wanking.

These days Saturdays are spent being active. Nellie gets me up early and drags me to yoga, spin class, the gym. It varies from week to week, but we always cap it off with a run in Hyde Park. She's fitter, quicker than I am, and she's always ahead of me when we run, which suits me fine.

I like the way she fills out her running tights, and I like the bounce of her hair, which has stopped changing colours and has settled for a platinum blonde. When we're done, her hair is sweaty-wet against her head, and her tights are clinging to her figure, curving tightly over buttocks that are sleek and round and firm. We stop in the Starbucks on Brompton Road to get a bottle of water and a coffee. She seems to enjoy the attention her camel toe gets as she sprawls out on a stool to display it, the little bulge with a cleft in it. She turns her head to talk to me as she slouches back on the stool so that the neatly indented mound seems to greet people: Hello, everyone! I'm Nellie's pussy!

Beneath her loose tank top the vine-and-bird tattoo winds up her side under the hot pink sports bra. The cold air has her nipples nudging against the pink fabric. She knows everyone is stealing glimpses. Oh, she knows, all right. I've seen her nonchalantly put an iced latte to them to get them to nudge harder at the fabric.

After our post-run coffees, we return to our flat and shower (together), soaping each other (naughty bits need extra attention), until she's bent forward with the spray pattering on the smooth skin between her shoulder blades, water cascading over the vine-and-bird on her side and down the small of her back between the smooth white cheeks of her bum and down to the tub like a rainspout. The pouting vertical lips are gaping pink and ready for me. She puts a foot on the side of the bathtub to open herself up, and from behind I slide my cock into her smooth pussy. That first slow shove makes her head lift, and she moans above the spray of the shower. Her white-blonde hair is plastered down, parted over the ballet slippers tattoo on the nape of her neck, and the mist clings to her eyelashes and makes them mat together. My hands are around her sides and on her front, and her tits, perfect handfuls, fill my palms just so. She puts one hand on the tiled wall and reaches down to feel where I enter her, fondling my swaying balls and rubbing her clit. We slap together in the spray, and when I feel her pussy clinch and contract and clinch and release and clinch again, I grab her hips and pull myself deep into her and let go. Our exclamations are hollow and muted by the falling water and the tile.

And then it's only the tinkle of the shower and our panting. I ease out of her, and she turns to me with a soggy grin and eyes like little green suns with misty rays. She rises on the balls of her feet just a little to kiss me, and then she melts into me with her cheek against my chest.

"Oh, Peetie," she coos.

It certainly beats ice fishing.

Then it's time for a healthy lunch (she insists, easy on the crisps, love), and we're off to the museum. The National Gallery is her favorite. She sits on a bench in one of the quiet rooms in a short skirt and a blouse with the top button open, or maybe the top two, sketching one of the masters, usually one of the impressionists like The Ballet Dancers by Degas. I've noticed she likes art that she can perceive movement in. She sits in a position that growing up we called Indian style, and she's unconcerned that her pretty knickers are showing, whether they be lacy or sheer or both, white, black, plum coloured, aquamarine, thong, bikini. She has quite a collection, and she always wears a matching bra whose lacy cups just cover her pink nipples. If I could draw, I would sketch her.

She's changed her hair and wears it up like a pixie, and I've begun calling her Tinker Bell instead of Nellie Bell. She didn't like it at first, but she sees the affection in it now and has begun calling me Peetie Pan. She'll even pose like Tinkerbell, pouting with her arms crossed or sitting with one leg pulled up while she clutches her knee.

So when the office has a costume party, we naturally go as Tinkerbell and Peter Pan. Where did she find the little green dress with the short hem cut in triangles? Her toned legs are perfect for it. And I guess pixies don't wear knickers.

According to Nellie, Peetie Pan only wears tights under his costume, no underwear. During the course of the night, Tinker Bell keeps reaching under my costume to feel my cock and balls through the stretchy green fabric. And that makes Peetie Pan as hard as Captain Hook's hand.

The marquis at the door says "Morrison Wedding Reception" so we go down a separate hall and there it is:

"Corporate Concepts, Quarterly Celebration Party".

The music behind the door seems to push it open the way a strong wind might, and there's Mr. Grisham to greet us.

He's dressed as a sea captain, of course, in a double breasted blue suit with gold piping on the sleeve. With his whiskers, there's no need for a mask or makeup. He's arranged a reception hall at this fancy hotel in Knightsbridge for the occasion. It's all possible now that the firm is going great guns, in large part due to Nellie and me. We've even made the cover of London Business Matters, have you seen it?

In it, Mr. Grisham is leaning back against his desk with his arms folded, and he's sporting a grim, businesslike smile. I'm on one corner of the desk in a suit and tie, sitting with one thigh resting on the edge. Nellie's on the other side of him in a pose that's a mirror image to mine, wearing a smart little pinstriped business suit with low heels, a knee-length skirt and white striped blouse, smiling a metal-bracketed smile. Only I know that underneath she's wearing a garter and stockings and nothing else. Shhh. Don't tell anyone, just enjoy the picture if you see it. It's on the newsstands now and should be there through the end of the month.

Captain Grisham greets us at the door of the party.

"Well, I'd say the young lion Pete has been domesticated," he laughs as he shakes with one hand and claps the other on my back. Nellie gives him a kiss on his whiskered cheek.

The braces are no longer hurting her, though oral is still on the back burner. Her bisexual fantasies are most certainly not, however. I don't mind them, and in fact I enjoy how aroused she gets from them as long as they stay just that, fantasies. To act on them would make them realities, now, wouldn't it?

At least once I've come home to find her wearing one of my dress shirts and slacks and a tie, all hanging too large on her. My dress shoes swallow her little feet. Her hair is slicked back, her breasts bound down with a wrap.

"There you are," she says in a theatrically deep voice. "My wife would divorce me if she found out about me fucking another man," she says, trying to make her voice husky. "Get on your knees and suck my cock, I'm aching for your mouth and tongue."

She lets the trousers fall, and then my boxers that she's wearing follow them. I fall to my knees and reach behind her to squeeze her arse. She pulls back on the hood of her clit to make it stand out and become more cock-like. Then I lick her engorged little clit, swollen and small, and move my lips on it as if it were bigger and swirl my tongue over it. Her hand presses into the back of my bobbing head. I'm on my knees before her, sucking her little cock, feeling it jerk and spasm when she cums, feeling her knees weaken, feeling as if I'm holding her up with my wet face pressed into her crotch.

Nothing gets her wetter. It's as if she really does cum on my face.

At the party, Nellie is making the rounds in her short green triangle-bordered skirt. She gathers and tosses pixie dust (glitter, actually) at everyone from a small pouch at her hip. The music is pulsating vigorously, and the lights of the venue shimmer purple and red and blue off her wings. She grabs my hand, and we're the first on the dance floor. Everyone else follows us.

Mr. Grisham is out there with us, doing some dance that I can only describe as a barefoot sailor on a hot deck, some sort of maritime reel. Mrs. Grisham, massive and matronly, dances near him though much more conservatively. She reminds me of Mrs. Doubtfire.

The drinks flow and the night does, too, loud music pumping over us and through us, every joke is hilarious, every voice gravelly from shouting over the noise. The music stops for a moment, and my ears ring. Mr. Grisham makes a slurred announcement over the microphone. No one understands it, but everyone raises their glass with him. He makes another toast, and everyone turns to Nellie and me, and glasses are lifted to us.

He calls me up to the front of the room, and I'm embarrassed as I look out at all the policemen and schoolgirls and gorillas and clowns sipping drinks. Mr. Grisham puts his arm around my neck and sings his school song. I pull my head out of his headlock and smile and straighten my hair. He gets involved in another drunken conversation with the gorilla whose muffled voice is Asbury's, I think. The music resumes, and I walk around the reception hall. It's filled with sound; "Don't Stop Till You Get Enough" is playing at the level of a jet taking off.

I find Nellie talking with Janice, our dour chief accountant and a lesbian who's chronically 'in between relationships.' She's not bad looking, really, pale in that English way, with dark hair and blue eyes that seem gray behind her glasses. She's a little heavy, but not bad. I'll have to admit, I've wanked off thinking about her, particularly thinking about her and the trim little intern from Bristol we had a couple of summers ago. Nothing ever happened between them in real life, not even close; my imagination just put them together rather randomly. I bet they have no idea what a hot time the three of us had up in my room, up there in my imagination.

Tonight Janice is wearing a simple pair of cat's ears, the kind on a strap that you just push down on your head. She's otherwise dressed in everyday clothes, gray trousers, faintly lined by her sensible knickers, a white blouse faintly lined by her sensible bra, both straining against her considerable bosom.

Nellie's in rare form thanks to the open bar, and Janice is actually smiling, possibly for the same reason. She can be a little prickly, which might account for her always being 'in between relationships.'

"I love your ears," Nellie says as she rubs the fake fur between her thumb and fingers. "Tell me, is it a strap-on?"

Janice pats them as if she's forgotten about them. "They're not my real ears, of course."

Hahahahaha.

Janice should laugh more often, I think to myself, it's really a nice laugh. Perhaps she's drunk enough to conceive that she really might have cat's ears. Janice begins going on and on about her cat, who has some fanciful mythological name like Minerva or Mercury or something like that. Nellie keeps referring to the cat as Janice's pussy.

"So tell me about your pussy," Nellie says. "Is its fur coarse, or is it soft?"

It goes right over Janice's head, right over her pussy ears.

"Yes, quite soft, really," Janice says, shouting over the thumping music.

"Do you like to stroke it?" Nellie asks with a straight face but heavy-lidded eyes.

"Oh yes," Janice shouts.

"Every day? Do you stroke it every day?" Nellie shouts back into Janice's ear. The music thumps on. Blue and purple and magenta lights swirl over their faces. I'm sure it swirls over mine, too.

"Well...yes," Janice says.

"It must like that. I bet it feels good."

"What?" Janice shouts again.

"I bet that makes your pussy feel really good," Nellie yells.

People at the next table, a pirate (Yancy) and a merry, Caribbean-looking hooker ((his wife) turn from their conversation and look at us. Nellie looks serenely at Janice. How can Nellie keep such a straight face?

"You know, I haven't stroked someone else's pussy in quite a long time," Nellie says a little lower but still above the music.

Janice finally gets it and even laughs.

Hahahahaha.

"Neither have I," Janice chuckles a little wistfully, and then she tilts her head and her eyelids lower and she runs a fingertip over the circular rim of her wine glass as she looks at Nellie without speaking. Her gesture is clearly an overture, and I presume Janice is thinking about having her pussy stroked. And I presume she would like Nellie to do it.

A new song plays, and then Nellie's off again, grabbing a swift sip from her drink and leaving Janice simmering in her own juices, I'm sure. Nellie steps up on a chair, and then she's dancing on one of the long tables, her green slippers leaving footprints on the white table cloth amongst the decorations and glitter. She waves her arms side to side to James Brown's "I Feel Good" and squats down from time to time and then struts down the table and back again like a runway model. People break from their conversations, and some clap. The ones next to the table can look up and see the truth about pixies and their underclothing habits.

I coax her down from the table, embarrassed for her, and she falls forward into my arms and slurs, "Say, there's my boy." She gives me a metal kiss and reaches under my costume.

"Nellie!" I exclaim as I look around, but no one seems to be watching. Perhaps they've looked away quickly and politely. She pulls me under the table. We can hear conversations close enough to comment if we wanted to.

She kisses my neck and drags her tongue over it while she pulls my tights down around my ankles and pulls me on top of her. She guides my cock, and I slide into her. It takes me a while to cum, but not Nellie. I suppose she enjoys the thrill of being caught, but I don't. At one point she shouts with her orgasm, and I put a finger over her lips, lips that are stretched over her braces. I think I hear the conversation pause, but then it resumes, and I resume my thrusting in and out of her. Her eyes squint in ecstasy again, and her fingers clinch into my back. My Peter Pan hat falls off onto her face, and she pushes it off absently. I think of the view someone might have if they were to lift up the table cloth, my white arse working like a seesaw, my tights gathered around my ankles. I shake off the image and focus on Nellie when she whispers to me.

"Fuck me, Peetie, fuck my pussy, fuck me under the table. Cum in me, baby," she breathes into my ear, and then her lips pull my earlobe. Her hand drapes over my pumping arse, a soft, slender finger finding the center.

I cum, shooting deep inside her, groaning loudly, forgetting where I am, only focused on how good it is to be inside her, releasing inside her, filling her. She giggles and mockingly puts a finger over my lips and shushes me. The music and conversation, which seem to have faded out, fade back in. I put my wet cock back in my tights for its last few twitches. Nellie pushes my head down.

"You've made a mess down there, Peetie Pan. Be a good lad and clean up Miss Tinkerbell," she slurs. Her hands firmly push me all the way down, and I do it. Her fingers weave in my hair as my tongue feels her tautness, her firmness, her rigid lips and clit, smelling my musky scent, tasting her, tasting me. She cums again and I can't shush her, I can only hang on while her thighs squeeze my head and roll us around in half-circles.

Afterwards, I need a serviette to wipe my face. I look for one that might have fallen under the table, but there's not one.

My face is crusted and flaky when I wake up from a vague dream that has its roots in the fantasy of Janice and the Bristol intern. I stare up at the underside of the folding table where written in marker is "Ballroom." I realize that I'm horny, but when I move my head I find I'm hungover as well. Nellie is next to me, still asleep. She's missing a green slipper.

The table lifts up with a rush of light, and there towering above us is one of the hotel's custodial staff. Nellie's skirt is lifted up, and her bare mound and cleft are exposed. We both shade our eyes against the bright lights. I pull Nellie's skirt down when I notice the man staring.

"What's this, then?" the man says in a Yorkshire accent. "It must've been some party, I'd say."

Nellie and I stand up, first on our knees, then slowly to our feet. Her other slipper is under a chair, and I give it to her. She balances against me to slip it on. The lights are up, a vacuum blares over the carpet somewhere, glasses and dishes rattle and tinkle as they get loaded into trays. Everyone else has gone home. We shuffle to the door and when it opens, the light hits us like a blast furnace.

And then we go home, too.

In the back of the taxi, she falls asleep again, curled up next to me, clutching my arm. I watch the shops on Oxford Street pass by, bright, eager people looking in their windows, coming in and out of their doors, people with clear heads and no hangovers. People who I imagine have happily mundane sex lives in which rear entry is as daring as it gets, and then only on holiday in the summer after some fruity cocktail or two. People who are happily used to missionary man-on-top sex the rest of the year, twice a week, Tuesday and Saturday. Hop on, hop off, and be quick about it, then, now there's a good lad. There must be some comfort in that.

I 'm beginning to envy them.

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