My Cousin Gail

[neerathemall]

The little Datsun's six-cylinder 2.4 litre engine breaks into a purr.

'Take it around the block,' I tell Howard. 'Probably a bit more traffic than Chalfont St Giles, but it'll give you an idea.'

'Yeah. Thank you,' he says. 'Oh... that's my Audi across the road. Am I likely to run foul of the parking wardens?'

'You should be OK,' I tell him. 'But leave me your keys. We'll keep an eye on it for you.'

'Thanks,' he says.

'Sale, Miss Jones,' I say to Gail as Howard nudges the Datsun out into the Saturday morning traffic.

'Has he bought it?' she says. 'Just like that?'

'Not quite. But he will.'

Howard returns about 20 minutes later.

'How was it?' I ask.

'Nice,' he says. 'But I think that Miranda is going to want a rather more up-to-date entertainment system. I'm not sure that she still has too many of her old cassette tapes.'

'We can sort something,' I tell him.

'In that case, we just need to talk about the price,' he says.

'Aww. And just when I was getting to like you,' I tell him. 'Let's go and find the paperwork.'

At least he has the good grace to laugh.

As it turns out, we have a pretty good Saturday. In addition to selling the 240Z to Howard, we also sell a Mini Cooper S to a chap who wants to recapture his youth, and we buy a BMW E36 series M3 Cabriolet that the owner has long since fallen out of love with.

'Well... it's going to need some work,' I tell him.

'Yeah. I know. But I'm ready to move on.'

Actually, the car just needs a bit of a tidy up. But, if he's ready to move on, who am I to stand in his way?

'Selling cars looks a lot more fun that selling houses,' Gail says, as we head back to my place at the end of the day.

'Does it?' I say. 'Yes. I suppose it's fun on a day like today. When everyone comes away feeling that they've had a win.'

'Are there days when people don't feel that they've had a win?'

'Mmm... possibly a few,' I tell her. 'Not many. In fact, not many at all.'

When we get home, Gail and I get out of our suits and into something a little more casual, and I find a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio.

'Just as a matter of interest,' Gail says, 'did you make money on both of those cars today?'

'Oh, yes. Probably not as much as you would have made from selling a couple of moderately expensive houses. But how often do you sell a couple of decent-priced houses in less than three hours? And we still have the M3. That should turn a handy margin.'

I have some langoustines in the freezer. I take them out; prep a loaf of garlic bread; and then prep a Greek(ish) salad (tomatoes, cucumbers, capsicum, red onions, feta, plump black olives, oregano, a slosh of red wine vinegar and some olive oil, salt and pepper). And then it is time to fire up the barbeque.

'Perhaps I should sell cars,' Gail says, as we sip our wine and wait for the grill to come up to temperature.

'Do you like cars?'

'Would I need to?'

'I think it helps,' I tell her. 'Do you like houses?'

'Not especially. Well... not the sort of houses that I normally get to sell, anyway.'

'Maybe that's the problem,' I say.

Gail frowns. But then she says: 'No. I think it's just the system. The attitude. The way you're supposed to see both the sellers and buyers as know-nothing mugs. The way you are supposed to mislead one or the other. Sometimes both. Sacrifice anything and everything in pursuit of the commission.'

'Perhaps you just picked the wrong agency,' I say.

'I think they're all, to a greater or lesser extent, a bit like that,' Gail says. 'It just seems to be the way that it works.'

It has finally reached the time of the year when the sun has moved around far enough -- and for long enough -- to warm the little patio, and so that is where we eat. The langoustines are succulent and the salad complements them perfectly.

'This is nice,' Gail says, gesturing with her hand to include both of us and the small garden.

'It is,' I say. And my brain starts having another argument with itself. One half is telling me that I'm just having a pleasant little supper with my younger cousin. Move along, folks. Nothing to see here. The other half is telling me that I'm having a hot date with a very sexy woman, a hot date that can only end in one way. I will need to be careful. I will need to be very careful.

'After spending a few days with you, I'm starting to wonder why everybody rushes to buy new cars,' Gail says. 'Whey don't we all just buy classic cars?'

I laugh. 'I think it depends on what you want from a car,' I say. 'Modern cars tend offer a lot more by way of creature comforts. And, on the whole, they are probably more reliable. But, that said, most of them lack soul. Well... I think so, anyway. I suppose it's a bit like buying a Georgian terrace house versus buying a new-build with all mod cons.'

Gail nods.

For the next hour or so, we sip our wine and talk about everything and nothing. And then we decide it is time to head inside. We gather up the dishes, take them inside, and load them into the dishwasher. And then Gail kisses me. 'You liked that,' my brain tells me. 'You liked it a lot.' My good intentions are melting faster than a block of ice on a hot griddle pan.

Gail smiles, as if she too has heard my brain. 'It's umm... a bit warm, isn't it,' she says. And, keeping her eyes firmly on mine, she crosses her arms and slowly removes her sweatshirt. 'There. Better.' I'm not sure whether 'better' is a question -- 'Is that better?' -- or a statement -- 'Yes, that's better'. And then she begins to unbutton her jeans. And, as she steps out of both her jeans and her knickers, she announces that it is now my turn. 'Perhaps I could give you a hand,' she suggests.

I am pleased that she makes no attempt to remove her bra. There is something -- I'm not sure what -- particularly sexy about a woman wearing just a bra. And then, almost before I know it, I am wearing just my polo shirt. We kiss again, and then Gail looks around the kitchen. 'Perhaps the table,' she says. 'I think that's about the right height.' And she perches herself on the edge and spreads her thighs. She is not wrong. The sturdy farmhouse table is exactly the right height. But first, I crouch down and go to work with my tongue.

'Oh, god, yes,' Gail says. 'That is one educated tongue you have.'

And then it is time for the main event. My cock has long since given up listening to the cautious part of my brain. I run my eager cockhead along the length of Gail's now-slick cuntal valley and then place it at the entrance to her wet and warm opening. 'Ready?' I say.

'Ready.'

'Are you sure?'

'Don't tease,' she says.

'I just wanted to make sure that you were sure,' I tell her.

But she isn't listening. She thrusts forward -- just an inch or so -- but it is all it takes to engulf my hovering cockhead. 'Oh, fuck, yes!' she says. She says it softly. But it is quite loud enough to drown out the censorious voice from the disapproving part of my brain. Thank goodness.