Pauline's Diaries Ch. 04

It has been a week since William Lovett was hauled away by the police. From what I've heard from Mr Spratt, he has admitted trying to hurt me, but said nothing about the murders he has already committed. I guess he is watering down what really happened. I'm just glad he is behind bars.

I still can't get over what I did to Doctor Trent the night she stayed. Hopefully she enjoys the flowers I have sent her. I've been back to the house which was my grandmother's brothel a second time, and yes I had fun with Samuel.

For the first time in a week I'm reading my grandmother's diaries. I've moved back to 1970, after skipping forward to 1972. I'm eager to read them all, and I'm going to have to control myself from jumping forward in future. February and March contain little, apart from baby talk. For a moment I stop myself and go to the window, just to come back to the here and now. I'm sure for the first time since I found out about my grandmother and Mr Cox, in my mind I called him, "my grandfather!" Am I letting him in when I should perhaps be ashamed to call him that? Another thing hits home about this sorry mess, did my grandmother ever see me. Maybe she looked through the school gates watching me play.

I'm pulling open my drawers in a rush. Yes I'm one of those sad women who have kept most of her Christmas and birthday cards, from when I was around 11 to this very day. After 10 minutes of frantic searching there it is...and another...and two more after that. How can I not have thought of this sooner?

"Happy Christmas darling, love Pauline."

It's the same wording every time, apart from when it's a birthday card. My tears have started as I check the hand writing in Pauline's diaries; it's identical, even in the old ink she used instead of a ballpoint pen. So much for my mum telling me it was a distant aunt who had immigrated to America before I was born.

I'm screaming and cursing my dead mother for keeping the truth from me. My favourite perfume gets thrown at the dressing table mirror. The mirror cracks but doesn't smash. Both my sister and I wrote thank you letters for the money in the cards we received. Did my mother post them like she said she would, or did they go in the rubbish bin when we weren't looking?

Samuel said Mr Spratt had burned everything other than Pauline's diaries. But Mr Spratt said, "I have a couple of boxes, well one really containing your grandmother's personal diaries. Your mother wouldn't take them, and told me to burn them, but I just couldn't."

I remember the way he corrected himself, and the little look he had on his face like he had let something slip. Well I'm going to demand the other box, just as soon as he comes back from his Spanish holiday.

April had just two entries, and most of that Pauline talked about her baby, her disgruntlements about not going out of the house, and Mr Cox spending nights elsewhere. May 1970, seemed to be a mega month of entries.

May 5th.

Today I had the chance to ask my husband's two employees about where he spends his nights. They looked a little sheepish. I was told I should ask Mr Cox. Kenny the ginger haired younger of the two, waited until Dave the driver had left the scullery, and then he told me, my husband had a business I didn't know about, and I should ask Albert about it, but not to mention it came from him. He asked me to think about whether I really wanted to know.

Dear diary I know my husband makes a lot of money, and I want for nothing, but I am bored out of my skull with just Helen to look after. I searched his office in our home but found nothing, apart from locked drawers.

Sat in the rocking chair singing lullabies to calm Helen from her screaming fit, I made my mind up to have it out with my husband, not just his business, but his staying out until the early hours. I suppose I should be happy that he is not here every night, but I crave adult company, even his, and I am fed up tipping his evening meals in the bin, hours after he does not come home.

May 8th.

After a couple of days of nagging, he could not take it anymore. He blew up at me and confessed to having shares in a brothel. He told me the building belonged to him, and I was to keep my trap shut about it. I was a little shocked at first, but I soon got my second wind. Plates and cups hit the walls, smashing to a pile on the floor, as I yelled at him.

He got the better of me and my tantrum, ripping open my dressing gown as I struggled. I yelled at him, telling him I did not want a disease from one of his whores. As his cock forced its way in me, he told me he wore rubbers. Both our struggling stopped and I started to accuse him of lying about his rubber allergy. He just smiled and resumed fucking me.

As he pulled off me after he had come, he told me he only went with one woman, and I should be grateful for that.

May 17th.

For the last few days I have been breast feeding Helen when my cheating husband's workmen turn up. With both my breasts hanging out of my nursing bra, I make them tea and they sit and watch me breast feed, while my husband dresses up stairs. I had been giving the two men faint smiles as they watch, covering my breasts when I hear my husband coming down the stairs.

Today was different, as my husband's arrival was delayed, because of he came home late, and he was only stepping into the bath when his men arrived. Helen had been fed earlier, but it did not stop me leaving my breasts uncovered and my dressing gown open. I wore stockings, brown in colour with a white suspender belt. I walked around the kitchen knowing they would be able to see my trimmed hair through my thin white panties. They sat sipping their tea as if in some sort of robot mode. One of my suspender clips let go, and I put my foot on the chair and reattached it, taking much longer than was necessary. I smoothed my nylon with my hand from my ankle to my thigh, as slowly as imaginable. They sat there as still as could be, eyes fixed on my hand as it travelled up my leg. I told them I knew about my husband visiting a brothel, and I found it very upsetting. I asked them if they thought I was sexy enough to keep a husband from such a place. They nodded still drinking in my teasing.

I then asked them where the brothel was. They told me, still half transfixed as I sat on the kitchen table, and crossed my legs right in front of them. I even got out of them which girl in particular he saw. It was the madam of the brothel. I asked them the girl's name, but they would not say anymore. Not to be defeated, I stretched my legs out wide, putting my feet on their erections, and rubbed them slowly through their trousers.

I groaned and tipped my head back, as my fingers slipped down my belly. A single finger slipped in the leg of my panties, and Kenny blurted out her name, as I peeled my panties to one side, showing them my pussy.

Kenny had already unloaded into his trousers; I could feel wetness on the bottom of my foot. I stood up as Dave was jerking his cock through his trousers with not a care. He grabbed my hand and sniffed my pussy coated finger as he whimpered and came.

So dear diary, it was my old friend, and now madam of the brothel, Sandra Smith who my husband has been seeing behind my back. I have two snitches who succumbed to my teasing, who will give me information as I wish, unless they want my husband to know, they touch me when he is not looking. It would appear my days in the Glory Care Home teasing the residents has not been wasted after all, and who have I got to thank for teaching me, Sandra fucking Smith! I have not forgotten her offer of a job back then, and when I asked doing what she would not tell me. I think we both know what she had in mind.

I wanted to run up the stairs and howl at Mr Cox, but the knowledge I now hold I will put to use at a later date, how and when I do not yet know. Plus it will keep my two snitches under control, if I do not confront my husband just yet. Dear diary I have learned a thing or two, being married to a corrupt, deceitful, cheating little man, and whether I end in heaven or hell, I will not regret a single thing from now on.

"Go Granny!"

I close the diary and find myself elated. She's fighting back now, and although I know the outcome, it is still quite tense. I wish I hadn't skipped forward in her diary, and I make another mental note to read every word from now on.

My sister turns up and we go shopping. I need the real world after reading the last entries in Pauline's diary, but I don't need Julie nagging me about getting my tits done, after she slapped some drunken guy across the face, when he asked in front of his mates, where her tits were.

We end up in another pub for lunch, and one of the local drunks has been smiling at us.

"If he mentions your tits, I swear it'll be a closed fist this time."

Julie won't put up with anyone taking the pee out of her or her friends. If she found out about me and her son, I'd be thumped until she ran out of energy. She is wary of things, like when we went to our grandmother's house for the first time. She's the more serious of us, but when riled like with the guy in the first pub, she is a lioness. Having said all of that there is something simmering underneath. I know.

"Come on, out with it."

She glances sideways at me.

"I know something is up, what is it?"

"Him, he's what's up?"

Oh dear, it's her husband, she never spits out, him or he, like that for anyone else.

"It's your fault."

"Oh yes, obviously," I say rolling my eyes, and wondering what I am supposed to have done now.

"He won't stop going on about, those."

I frown not knowing what she talking about.

"Your bloody tits," she hisses and then looks at them, "Oh for god's sake," she snaps, and pulls a piece of lettuce leaf out of my cleavage.

"I can't help it they get in the way when I eat. So what's he said?"

"Last week I waited outside the doctor's for him. I asked how things went. He ignored that and said he thought I should get my tits done like you have. Just like that, not even any lead up to it."

"God don't worry you've got plenty. Maybe he was just thinking aloud, I had an ex boyfriend like that. Remember Dopey Declan from round the corner at mums?"

"Sylvia, shut up and listen for a minute."

"He said he made an appointment for me to see our doctor. Just to enquire mind you, about having my tits done. I mean can you imagine that?"

"What you having your tits done?"

"No for God's sake, him asking fucking Doctor Trent about it. I'm going to change her for another doctor, I never liked her, and she's weird."

If you only knew dear sister, I think to myself.

"Well everyone knows she's a lesbian. Before you say anything I've got nothing against lesbians, she's bloody rude, and she, well never mind."

"Julie, that's just her way, she's helped me a lot you know. Anyway if he only said it once what's the problem?"

"It isn't only once," she hisses, "last night he pulled his dong out, and told me he wanted a tit wank, and won't it be good when I get them done. He's talking about it like it is already decided."

"Shall I have a word with him?"

"God no, that'll make things worse with those bloody things still swaying about, 5 minutes after you've stopped walking. Anyway forget it I don't know why I tell you things. I've got to go."

"So what are you going to do?"

She stands up and puts her jacket on.

"I'm going to see Doctor Trent next week, and tell her hubby, the kids, and me are leaving her surgery. I've had issues with her and I won't have anyone discussing my...bra size, and certainly not a boob job with my husband behind my back. I'll pay on the way out, and don't forget to sort out about selling Granny's house."

I watch her pay and go past the leering drunk. He turns on his stool, just about managing not to fall off, and watches her ass sway as she walks out. He turns back to me and slips off his stool, and slowly stumbles his way towards me with a drunken grin on his face. By the time he reaches my table I'm up on my feet and past him. He leans on the table, and like all drunks, he's a few seconds behind realising what has happened, and now he's staring at my empty chair.

May 23rd.

My two snitches are wary of me. Even so with my husband going out of town on business, I convinced them to take me to the brothel yesterday. It is amazing what a flash of pussy will get men to do. Helen was left at home with a babysitter, the girl from down the road. She's 14 but seems more mature for her age.

Sandwiched between the two of them with my cream miniskirt pulled up exposing my black bush under cream tights, I enjoyed myself more than I thought. I ran my finger around my pussy, and pushed it in myself, taking my tights with it. I even promised them a little fun in the back of their van. They knew they wouldn't get to fuck me, but I had told them they could jerk themselves, as I tease my pussy for them.

We stopped over the road from the brothel and waited. Half an hour later Sandra Smith came out looking every part the madam. Dave reminded me we only had an hour before she returned. We went in through the gates and Dave went into the house first. Two minutes later he came out. He told me three girls were in bed sleeping. We crept into to what is the office. I'll admit that at 9 am, long after the night activities had finished, the smell of sex still hung in the air. Both men were twitchy as I glanced through the accounts. I don't know much about that sort of thing, but I figured out a nights takings, and the pitiful wages Sandra paid the whores. There were references to certain influential gentlemen, some of which are well known in the town, and photos of six or seven of them taken with some sort of hidden camera.

Dear diary, I felt like a female spy, rummaging through the drawers. I took one photo from each set, making sure I had the faces of all the different gentlemen. Kenny was most agitated by this.

We slipped out of the house and back to the van. As well pulled away Kenny shoved my head down. He hissed my husband was driving towards us. Kenny cursed Dave for stopping. Dave wound down the window and I heard my husband's voice talking. Albert could not see me, as the van is higher that the car and Dave had to lean down out of the window.

Kenny still held my head down, and when I heard Sandra's stupid chuckling he had to renew his force on my neck. Two minutes later we pulled away, I sat upright staring into the distance. So my husband by his own admission was taking his fancy piece with him away on business. Not only that but he told Dave and Kenny to keep an eye on me, and Sandra added, "Don't fret so over the lazy bitch. She doesn't give a monkey's uncle about you."

I was seething when we reached home. Kenny was too scared to speak, but Dave found the guts to tell me to leave him. Dear diary, if I had not found what I had in the brothel, and heard that cackling cow sat next to my husband in our car, I might well have done. The men did not get their teasing. They knew when to leave me alone.

I flicked through the photographs again. The judge who had entered me into this sorry mess was in one, with one of the whores lapping at his cock, and a local police chief was stood over a girl, and appeared to be having anal sex with her. Another photograph showed a local MP who I only just recognised, because he was dressed in some over sized baby clothes, and bonnet having his nappy changed by one of the whores! The only other one I know was believe it or not the vicar, whose church is opposite the Taylor's hotel. He was sat on a bed with two topless laughing whores either side, smoking what I assume is drugs.

Again dear diary I do not know what I shall do with these photographs, but can you imagine the stir I would cause taking them to the local paper?

May 27th.

My husband returned yesterday from the trip with his whore. It was all I could do to stop myself from telling him what I know. One thing which has troubled me for some time since I found out about my husband's cheating is the betrayal, jealousy, and sadness I feel. Watching Albert feeding my Helen with bottled milk had my knuckles turning white. I want to snatch her away from him, and refuse him access to her, because of the ongoing affair with my once friend. I want for nothing in terms of money and clothes, but I wish my husband's bitch of a fancy piece dead, with no regret.

I lay under him yesterday and I felt sick as he fucked me, thinking of that whore with him. Again should I care less about it? Should I be happy that he is fucking someone else, instead of bothering me? Dear diary if only you could talk and answer me. I have no one.

May 30th.

Yesterday I had other plans for my two snitches. I opened the door with my dressing gown wide open, and with a smile on my face, only to pull my dressing tightly over my body, as my smile dropped in shock. On the doorstep was the judge. My husband appeared by my side and let him in. The judge enquired if Albert had told me about his arrival, or did I greet every knock on the door in my underwear and with a smile on my face?

My husband is not slow, he realised the only visitors we had at that time of the morning was his two workmen. His eyes were full of rage as he accused me of having sex with them. In the end, and in front of the judge, I admitted teasing them. My thinking was such that I wanted this settled before they turned up, and one or the other blurted out I had asked questions and had been to the brothel.

The judge watched as Albert ripped off my dressing gown as the doorbell went again. My cream sleeping panties were torn from my body and handed to the judge, who seemed to be taking a great delight, in my husband's rage at me. I was marched to the door in just American tan stockings, and pink suspender belt and he yanked the door wide open. Dave and Kenny's eyes were out on stalks, as was the cycling postman's eyes who witnessed me on the door step.

I was thrown in the chair, and gradually the two men admitted I teased them. At least they never told Albert the whole story. The two men were given their orders for the day, and they were only too happy to scuttle off.

My husband then turned to me and pulled me to my feet. I was hauled to the scullery and shoved over the kitchen table. My backside was spanked by my husband's hand, while the judge looked on with a growing erection in his trousers.

I pleaded that I wouldn't tease them again, but something came over me, and I felt the power in my husband's hand turning me on. He kept using the words, whore, and slut, and I heard the judge mumbling faint agreement with Albert, as he was unashamedly rubbing his exposed cock for all to witness.

Albert move aside still panting with his exertions, and the judge stood behind me and pushed excitedly into my pussy. He shoved his hand in my stocking top and pinched my leg. The judge came within no less of a minute of entering me, but the strangest thing was Albert stroking my hair affectionately, as the Judge had his way with me.

Albert then directed me to get on my knees on the floor. I was forced to suck him right in front of the judge. I took his cock in my mouth, and then pulled off a way. For some reason, and I do not think I will ever know why, I shut my mouth like a clam. He told me to suck him like a whore. I shook my head still with my mouth closed tight. The judge had recovered and was now stood by my side. I licked his cock and sucked him, with my head twisted enough so I could see my husband's eyes.

My husband just looked down with a smile on his face. I did not understand his reaction, but he pulled me to my feet, and told the judge to finger me. The judge's fingers plunged in my pussy, amongst the remains of his last entry. My husband had me repeat the words, I am a cheating whore, and then he forced his tongue in me.