Tom Pt. 01

Thank you for reading my story, I hope that you enjoy it. Love Mica xx, Yorkshire England.

Please note that I am a British female, and I write in British English and vernacular, so for me a fanny is the correct term for female genitalia, a pussy is a pet cat, and the ass is a bum or arse.

I apologise for any typo errors in my story - I edit these myself, and I'm not perfect...

There was a quick stir of the air, more of a breeze, it caught her hair and flipped it over her eyes, and just for a moment she couldn't see. Her handbag was in her left hand, her shopping in her right, there was no hand free to clear her eyes. She stopped briefly and flicked her head, clearing her vision. She was by the Rude Statue, a Goat of sorts, rather well endowed with masculinity. Someone's idea of a clever joke she assumed.

She looked up into the sky, a mix of blue, grey and white. 'Typical' she thought, bringing her attention back to the path in front of her. She was looking forward to wearing her new dress out with Tom, they were off out for a meal, the first either of them wouldn't have cooked for themselves for some months. New lingerie and a new thin strappy dress that flared as she walked.

It had taken a slow leisurely few hours wandering the boutiques and designer shops before she found the one. She knew it as soon as she saw it. She had pulled it from the rack, held it to her, twisted it on the hanger, held it back, held it before her, held it back to her again, and she knew. She loved it. Tom would love it, she smiled as she walked towards the car, she couldn't wait to see his face when he saw her in it. She could imagine the smile in his eyes, the curl of his lips, the moistening of his tongue. She knew exactly how he worked. And she loved it. She loved him. He, she hoped, loved her.

There was a knock, someone bumped into her, she looked around, surprised, she felt a sharpness at her chest and then everything stopped. The skies went dark, the path faded and she fell, her bag spilling her new dress onto the ground, where it lay, soaking up the blood seeping from her lifeless body.

A woman screamed, another cried. A man rushed over and put his fingers at her neck, shaking his head as he looked at the gathering crowd, focusing on no one, not hearing any voices, not taking in any details of the crowd, nor of the growing pool that he was knelt in.

He felt himself being pulled away. "Sir, Sir, come away" a voice said, presumably belonging to the hand that was pulling at him. He stood, quiet, not sure of what to do or what to say.

"Sir," the voice said again, "Sir, did you see what happened?"

He shook his head. He had seen nothing, just a woman fallen to the floor.

"Tom?"

He looked up. Bill was standing by his desk. Tom had been so engrossed in the plan that he hadn't noticed Bill.

"Hi Bill, sorry, it's this process. I think I have finally found a way to get all the sites done in this FY."

"Tom, can you come and see Helen, it's important?"

"What now? Bloody hell Bill, I have just found the solution, if I don't write it down, it will fade away, just give me a few minutes, tell Helen I will be there in a moment." Tom turned back to the screen and moved the mouse, clicking on the field that would solve all the problems that had been facing them for two weeks. He felt Bill's hand over his.

"Sorry Tom, she said now and that is urgent."

"Oh Christ Bill, you know someone has fucked up the returns, it'll wait a minute."

"Tom, now."

Bill pulled Tom's arm and left him in no doubt that he had to go there and then. Standing, Tom grumbled as he clicked the screen saver and headed off to Helen's Desk at the end of the office. He waved his hands to his side, lifting them up then dropping them, the universal 'what now?' gesture.

"Tom," said Helen, "Let's just pop into the room next door." She didn't wait for a reply but headed straight for the door. One of the many small meeting rooms was just beyond, Tom was following close enough that he was through the opening door before it closed behind them. Helen turned the window blinds to stop anyone being able to see in to the room and gestured to the chair, she spoke quietly. "Sit Tom."

'But, Helen," Tom began

"Just listen. There has been an incident. The police will be here in a few moments, they are just clearing security."

"Incident, what bloody incident?" Tom found it difficult to profane in front of Helen, it was odd, perhaps a quirk of his upbringing, but foul language in the hearing of women was an absolute no, no in his books.

"Tom, it's Jo, something has happened."

"What? What has happened?" Tom stood, staring at Helen, noticing for the first time the woman sitting quietly in the corner. He vaguely recognised her. HR? Occupational Health? He wasn't sure, but then people moved around so much that knowing where someone worked was not really a valuable piece of office knowledge.

"Tom," the other woman said, "I'm Kathleen from HR. The police phoned a few minutes ago. Jo has been taken to hospital. I am afraid the news is not good."

Tom looked at Kathleen then at Helen, noticing that Helen appeared to be crying. He suddenly felt very scared and knew that if he hadn't been sitting down, his legs would have failed him. This news was obviously more than not good. It was the worst. "What happened?"

"We need to wait for the Police Tom" Kathleen said quietly, "they would not give us any details, beyond, well," she paused.

"She's dead" Tom said, looking at the white board on the wall, mentally reconstructing the partially erased words, unable to comprehend what was being said, what to do, what to say. If she was dead, then nothing actually mattered. He tried to get focus.

"Yes, I am sorry" Kathleen said.

There was a quiet knock on the door, and it opened, a man looked in, dark skinned, middle aged perhaps. Open necked shirt, chinos and trainers. 'Christ who the hell wears trainers these days?' Tom thought.

"Sorry, are you Tom Masters?" the man asked?

Tom nodded and looked away. He wanted to shut his ears, close his eyes and then wake up from this nightmare, laugh at too much cheese before bed, shower and go to work. He had an idea about that scheduling conundrum, and had a few things to try.

"Tom, I am DCI Frobisher, Aaron Frobisher." He came fully into the room and held the door open behind him. "Thank you ladies, I will take it from here if you don't mind." Kathleen and Helen exchanged a look and then quietly left, Frobisher closing the door behind them, and then looking directly at Tom he spoke again "I am sorry Tom."

Frobisher was quiet. He looked at the man before him. Studied him, watched the reactions. He had been in this position too many times and knew when the person before him was a victim or a person of interest. Tom was easy to read.

"Tom, Jo was found today on the Promenade. She had sadly passed away before the ambulance arrived."

"What do you mean, passed away, what the fuck happened?" Tom's voice rose in pitch as the words fell out, his eyes widening and his breath deepening. He fixed Frobisher in his gaze.

"Well Tom, we are not too sure of the exact events. She fell to the floor, a number of people came to her aid, but nothing was able to be done. A nurse could find no pulse and called 999. An ambulance was there in minutes Tom. We don't think she could have suffered."

Tom stared at Frobisher for a minute, eyes unblinking, and then pointing at Frobisher, "Why are you here? Why a DCI? Why not a constable?"

"Because Tom, you know what she was working on, you know what she does, and the only part of her death that is unexplained is the who. We know the how. We are containing it. We have put out a communiqué, that a woman sadly suffered a heart attack whilst shopping today and fell to the floor, smashing a jar of Beetroot syrup that she was carrying, causing some distress at first to passers by."

"Fuck off" Tom looked away, the white board once more taking his attention. This was ridiculous. They were research scientists. No one outside novels and TV dramas attacked research scientists. And even if they did, no one would try and cover it up. "I take it she wasn't actually carrying any beetroot?"

"No Tom, she wasn't. She was stabbed directly into the heart."

"I presume you have the CCTV footage from the area, and I presume you know who the fuck killed my wife?"

"No Tom, no we don't. That area is a blind spot, it doesn't have any working cameras. Presumably that is why the event took place in that spot."

"It is not a fucking event Frobisher. It is a murder. It is the murder of my wife, not a fucking event".

"I apologise Tom, yes it was, that is exactly what it was. We currently have no leads. We are examining CCTV footage from further away, looking for any behaviour that is out of place." Frobisher paused and then looked directly at Tom. "What was she working on Tom? What could cause someone to do this, what could they gain?"

Tom stood up and looked at Frobisher. "I'll tell you what," he said, his lips tightly pursed, the words almost spit out. "I'll tell you this for free, your name sure as hell isn't Aaron fucking Frobisher."

Tom knew that he could not trust anyone, not even this man that said he was a policeman, no one. He and Jo had been on assignment at the labs for only six months, they hadn't found anyone that they could not be suspicious of, the place was unsettlingly normal.

When he got home, he sat on the settee nursing rather large glass of ice-cold water from the fridge. So far all had not gone to plan, Jo was not supposed to be dead, she was supposed to be sitting next to him on the settee, their unspoken language confirming that their plans were on track.

They didn't speak of the plans in the house, in the house they were simply the married coupe that they purported to be. They laughed, they bickered, they cuddled, they fucked, all exactly as a loving couple would do, only, they weren't a loving couple, they were simply assigned a role, and they were acting it out.

It was known that someone was trying to obtain the secrets from the laboratory, and they both had enough knowledge to understand the work that was happening, the Security Agency they worked for had approached them and asked if they could play a part in tracking down who it was. They would live together as a married couple and both transfer to the Laboratory as a team.

They had to assume that the home would be bugged, they could never reveal the real them at home, nor in the car on the way to the laboratory, nor at their work stations at the laboratory. There was a room at the laboratory complex that was swept for bugs daily, only there could they talk freely, the room had no windows, no electrical sockets, only a buzzing fluorescent light fitting and some plastic chairs.

"I don't love you," Jo had said to him, "you do know that?"

"Yes, of course, and I don't love you either."

"I just say that because you really do a fabulous job of it appearing as if you do. I am fooled and I know the truth." The truth for Jo was that she had fallen in love with Tom, it wasn't supposed to happen, but it had, she knew that her heart would get broken, but that was the job, the life. Their assignment included them behaving like a madly in love couple, they were not supposed to actually fall in love.

He shrugged, it was difficult to live a life that was inherently false, they both had to appear to be what they were not, and Tom found it easier to live as if the lie was the truth. He told himself every day that he loved Jo, and he reminded himself every night that he didn't. He wasn't even especially fond of her, he didn't dislike her, he was just doing his job, living a lie.

The postman brought a letter, it was a simply statement, The Brown Cow, Bingley, 1200. He destroyed the letter, cutting it into small pieces and then putting it into a mug and filling it with boiling water. The ink used was dissolvable, he knew that, and manually shredding the words meant that even if they could reconstitute the letter pieces, he had ensured that reassembly was impossible. He used the rolling pin that turned the contents of the mug into a mush, he then flushed that down the toilet.

He was officially on compassionate leave, Kathleen from HR had insisted, two weeks, longer if necessary. Going to the pub may seem strange to a casual observer, but he didn't really care about casual observers, it was the trained observer that he wanted to isolate and identify. Someone had arranged this, this senseless loss of a life.

He drove to the pub and parked up in the car park, there were few cars there and he managed to park such that he was facing the exit and his driver's door was at the aisle end, it would be difficult to block him in. Part of his training years ago had been to always identify and protect your exit.

He walked to the bar and ordered a pint of low alcohol beer, low alcohol because he was driving, but to an observer it would appear as if he were drinking and driving. He didn't yet know who the observers would be, if any. He had no idea who from the agency had called the meeting although the why was obvious, the plans had to change now that one of the team was lost.

He was sat at one of the outdoor tables adjacent to the river, the sound of the water would help obfuscate any words he might say, he had also learned how to speak with a tight mouth and confuse lip readers, all part of the training.

Someone sat at the table behind him, he had seen them approach, a drink in their hand, and then walk passed him.

"Tom, don't look around," he heard.

"Okay," he said, his lips barely moving.

"A shock?"

"You think?" Tom said, "that was never on the cards."

"No. However, what we want you to do is to act the bereaved husband and see what evolves, they must have a plan. Can you do that?"

Tom sat and thought about his reply. His feelings were loss of a colleague, not a husband bereaved of a loving wife, so, yes he could.

"Yes, of course. I suggest that we set up counselling for me, that might be a way to talk securely."

"Yes, we think so too. We'll be in touch."

Tom didn't turn around, he wanted to appear unconnected to the person that had been behind him; he heard the receding footsteps, and he sat and slowly drank his beer. When he had finished, he went and stood on the bridge looking down at the river, perhaps someone might consider his thoughts suicidal, but this wasn't the place, the river wasn't deep here, the most he would do if he flung himself off the bridge was break an ankle. He headed back home.

Events progressed over the next few days, Jo's body was released by the coroner for burial and Tom made arrangements that she should be cremated. There was a small service, Jo's parents attended, in the belief that their daughter had simply had a heart attack. A few people from work attended and a couple of the neighbours including the Hendersons who lived opposite. John Henderson worked at the labs where he, and Jo, worked, but they never crossed path at work.

Helen Henderson had spoken quietly to Tom, expressing her profound sorrow and inviting him over during the day for a quiet cup of tea, Tom thanked her, he had no plans to return to work just yet, he was giving the protagonists as much as he could to show themselves, he was playing the bereaved husband to its limit.

A couple of days after the funeral his front door knocked.

"Oh, hello Helen," he said to Helen Henderson who was stood on his doorstep.

"Hello Tom, right, it's been a few days, we spoke at the cremation, you haven't left the house, come over, drink tea and we will not talk about Jo, unless you want to. Your life needs to go on, you know that, and you know that Jo would want that."

"Okay Helen, you're right. Give me five minutes and I'll come and knock on your door."

"You won't need to knock, the door will be open, just walk in."

He had nodded and shut the door after she had gone. They hadn't really had much to do with the Hendersons, they said hello when they encountered each other, but that was about it. They knew each other's names, but never went into each other's houses. Tom had never seen John Henderson at work, and he wasn't sure he could remember how he knew that John worked there.

In his bathroom he stripped, washed groin upwards, put a clean T Shirt, underpants and shorts on, slipped into his sliders and walked over the road to the Henderson house. As Helen had said, the front door was open, he pushed and announced his presence.

"Only me Helen," she said shutting the door behind him.

"Come on through, I'm in the kitchen," she replied.

Helen was wearing a sheer top that clearly showed her lack of bra, her nipples covered with a denser lace that almost, but not quite, hid them. Her skirt was a light white fabric, cotton he guessed, and would no doubt be almost see through with a light source from behind. He may be in mourning, but he recognised her intentions, he was a man and he was no fool.

She turned to face him, "how do you have your tea?" she asked.

"Just a little milk please," he answered as he looked at her, a critical study, on the few occasions that they had met her clothes had never been so revealing, her actions had to be premeditated, he just had to decide how to respond.

"Come, let's sit in the garden, it is warm and we are not overlooked here," Helen said as she passed him his tea.

In the garden there were two chairs facing each other, each with a small table at the side. Tom sat in the chair with the sun behind him, he wanted to see her expressions, not be dazzled when the sun appeared from behind the clouds.

She sat opposite him and Tom saw immediately that he could see up her skirt, her knickers had small flowers on them, his dick stirred.

Helen had made sure when she selected her clothing that Tom would be able to see up her skirt, and as she sat she watched his trousers and saw the slight movement in his groin. Good, he was a man then, that would make her life easier.

"How are you feeling Tom, in yourself I mean, I guess the shock will have faded?"

"Okay Helen, I need to think about getting back to work I suppose, nothing will bring Jo back, so, I need to move on with my life."

"Indeed, getting out and meeting people will help, feeling normal, being a man I suppose that is what you need." Helen wasn't exactly being subtle.

"Perhaps, but I am no good at socialising Helen, I find it difficult to talk to people and when I am talking with a woman I just get distracted, and that distraction is not easy when I haven't got a wife to keep me focussed."

"Well Tom, you are talking to me okay, so talking doesn't seem to be an issue and there really isn't anything to distract you I wouldn't have thought, there's only me."

He smiled inwardly, she was playing her part well, he wondered how far she would go.

"Only?" He said, his eyes lingering on the tight fabric stretched across her crotch, his dick firming even more.

"Oh Tom, really, I am just an ordinary housewife Tom, my husband is out all day at work, there is nothing so see here."

"How do you fill your days Helen; do you not get lonely?"

She looked at him, her eyes focussed on the bulge in his shorts, there was no hiding it, and then she looked up into his eyes again.

"Oh, well, I have a fertile imagination Tom, I imagine all sorts happening, there are some attractive propositions living in the street, and I can get lost in my mind when I see them, and then I have to wait for my husband to come hope, and then I have to hope that he is ready for me."

Tom sat quietly looking at Helen, the swell of her breast all too apparent in her top, it's movement under the fabric as she breathed and spoke, his mind mentally undressing her, touching her, his dick straining in his underpants, his breath quickening.

"Luckily you have someone that can assist you when he returns from work. You should feel blessed." Tom had replied to her words without committing or leading her further. She shifted her legs slightly and Tom saw that her knickers outlining her shape within.

"If that were only true," she said, looking away, focussing briefly on a cloud in the blue sky, "it seems that his needs are no longer important. If needs must then I have to take matters into my own hands."

"Oh." Tom replied, looking overtly up her skirt, "sounds like your man is a fool, sorry to say. I certainly wouldn't leave you in need."

"Oh, and how would you do that Tom?" She asked, her eyes boring into his.

"I would take you to your bed and see to your needs."

Her face reddened, and her next words were quieter. "How Tom, how would you see to my needs?"

"I would be passionate Helen."

"And if I have needs now Tom?" Her voice almost a whisper as her hands slowly pulled her skirt further up her legs, her knickers now fully on display.

"I would ravish you."

"Oh God," she gasped.

Tom stood up and walked the few paces to her, holding his hand out. She reached up and Tom pulled her to her feet. "Lay down," he said, gripping her hand as she dropped down and lay on the grass. He knelt next to her and whispered, "close your eyes."

He knelt next to her and placed a hand on her thigh just above her knee. He felt her shiver and saw the goosebumps as they rose. He slid his hand up her leg, reaching her crotch, his finger traced along the crease at the top of her thigh, the crease where the hem of her knickers lay. Helen swallowed and gasped at the contact.

Tom ran his finger along the hem of her knickers, not touching her sex, but tantalisingly close, his touch gossamer light as his fingernail trailed along her skin. His other hand slid up to her other thigh, a finger now at each side of her crotch, softly tracing along her skin, Helen gulping in air, her mouth contorting.

His fingers moved across the fabric of her knickers, and eased themselves into the waistband, gripping the fabric and easing her knickers down, over her hips and onto her thighs, revealing the crease of her sex. Clear of hair, no redness or irritation indicating that she had not shaved in the past few hours, perhaps this was her style.

He leant forward and pursed his lips and blew, tracing her crease from top, down to where it vanished underneath her.

"Oh fuck," she gasped, her back lifting away from the lawn before settling back down. Tom knelt between her legs and pushed her knickers down to her knees. He leant forward and ran the tip of his tongue along the crease between her labia, pressing in slightly. Helens fingers began clutching at the blades of grass in her lawn.

At the top of her crease he found the small centre of pleasure, her nubbin, small and hard, he gripped it between his teeth, she gasped loudly and then was gulping in air. He was an accomplished lover, again through training, and a desire to put the training into practice, observing which actions gave the most response, and focussing on the observations.

As he gently chewed and licked at her clitoris, he brought two fingers under his chin and pressed slightly at the bottom of her crease, easing in past her fourchette and circling the entrance hidden there. He moved his fingers in a circular manner, each circle pressing his fingers in a little deeper.

Helen was not acting, she was responding to him, his tongue was raining her pressures, her pleasures were flowing, her juices were flowing with them, she knew that she was shockingly wet, few men had this effect on her, and she almost screamed when she felt his fingers pass her opening and bury themselves deep inside her.

Her buttocks clenched, her breath held, and she felt her fanny tighten, squeezing his fingers. He persisted, his fingernails scraping along her fanny walls, brushing against her small scar spot, her gasps louder and louder. She felt the buttons on her blouse loosen and then the slight cool as her chest was exposed and then the heat of a mouth surrounding her left nipple.

"Argh," she gasped silently, unable to respond in kind, 'Jesus, did Jo get this every time?' She wondered as she pressed her bottom hard onto the lawn, hardly noticing the blades of grass conspiring to tickle her. His mouth left her nipple and returned to her clitoris, her nipple puckered as the cooler air covered it.

She tasted clean to Tom, no vestiges of soap, just her femininity, a powerful musk that filled his nostrils and her sweetness that covered his tongue as it ran through her valley, her smaller labia coating his tongue with her gel like juices. His fingers began to move in and out of her fanny, he lifted his head and watched his hand as it moved over her, his palm squashing her valley open, her fingers disappearing inside her, his forefinger trailing over her perineum, pressing her crinkle.

His touch at her backside made her gasp, would he? He wouldn't, surely? As his moved in and out of her, more of her lubricating juices slipped down over her perineum to her arse, his finger tip pressing in a little more each time, her senses being assaulted on two fronts leaving her almost unable to breath.

He eased his fingers out and away from her crotch and pushed his shorts down, revealing his dick. He lay over her, his dick pressing at her crease, sliding around her entrance. He balanced on his left hand and reached down with his right, gripping his dick and sliding it along her valley before pressing at her entrance.

She felt his dick on her fanny and her breath held in her throat, she couldn't breathe, the anticipation was almost too much. She still had her eyes closed, she hadn't touched his dick, she'd no idea of its size. She felt the pressure, her petals parting as his dick pressed in to her fanny, stretching her, widening her, his foreskin rolling to reveal his rim, his rim scarping her fanny walls.

Her breathe held, she needed to breath but she couldn't, her mouth was wide open, her eyes opened and she started at his face, his dick pushing, pushing, reaching her depth. She was totally owned, she had lost the control over him that she thought she had, his dick had shut her down.

He pulled back slightly, her fanny relaxing and her breath returned, she was gulping in air. She felt his dick at her entrance, her fanny felt empty and then he slammed in, pushing with force, her fanny farted as air was forced out, her breath left her in a gasp and her hands flew to his back, her finger nails digging in to his shoulders.

"God," she gasped, her thoughts a jumble of what must she look like, skirt around her waist, knickers around her knees, blouse open tits free, and why she hadn't managed to fuck him before, and she realised, it was him fucking her, not her him. Her whole body felt tense as her pressures built higher and higher, her pleasures were free flowing and she was alternatively gasping and gulping, her chest rising and falling, her breasts bouncing around beneath him.

He pulled back and held at her opening, hovering, her petals flapping and tickling his dick, he tensed, and he pushed in hard, her breath shooting through her mouth, her gasp loud, the slap of his stomach against hers bouncing off her garden fences. Back he pulled and then slammed back into her, his fuck hard and furious, his thoughts more on the fuck and what it meant.

It wasn't even close to the shagging he and Jo had, that was gentle, sensual, even when it was fast, this with Helen was simply a fuck, a carnal and primal action, instigated by her, but consummated and finished by him. Faster and faster he pressed into his body, his dick almost a blur and then he pushed and held, a loud grunt escaped his mouth and his dick erupted.

He flooded her fanny, filled her womb, spurt after spurt as his ejaculations took away his breath. He eased back, his dick fell from her fanny and he rolled to the side before moving to his knees. He looked down at Helen. She lay there, his white spunk dribbling from her fanny onto her skirt bunched beneath her, her blouse open and her breasts quivering on her heaving chest, her knickers down below her knees.

'She looks like a cheap tart,' he thought, but then what about him, he was no better, he consoled himself that his actions were for King and Country. He stood and pulled up his underpants and shorts, and looked at her, her mouth was opening and closing, her fingers scrunching and relaxing, pulling at the grass.

As she had felt his ejaculations her pressures had blown and her orgasm exploded, erupting throughout her body, it was all she could manage to not scream her release. She couldn't breathe, she couldn't speak, her fingers were screwing into the grass, her eyes staring as she saw him rise, and dress himself as his eyes scanned her, looking at her as she lay fanny free on her grass.

"I ought to go," he said, putting down a hand to help her up.

She took his hand and stood up, her knickers falling to her ankles, she stepped out of them and partially buttoned her blouse so that she could at least appear decent at the door. She shut her front door behind him and headed up to her bedroom. Her spunk covered skirt and grass stained blouse went into the laundry, she went into the shower.

Back home Tom concluded that the Hendersons were the mostly likely source of the troubles, he wondered if either of them had been the hand that had dealt the fatal blow to Jo, he wondered if he would ever find out. He wrote 'The Hendersons' on a piece of paper and put it into an envelope that was addressed to the drop box serving the secretive office.