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by Lauren Milfinger
Published by Lot’s Cave
Across The Pond, © 2017, by Lauren Milfinger
All Rights Reserved
Cover by Morgaine Wrightman
All Characters In This Book Are Age 18 Or Older
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Lot’s Cave Novel
Across The Pond
After my first year of college, I spent the summer in England, staying with my father’s younger brother and his family. Uncle Ralph was the easiest to talk to at first, because he was the only one who sounded familiar. Aunt Imogen was a Scot, and until you got used to it her accent was nearly impenetrable. Their two kids, Andrew and Eve, fraternal twins who, like me, were then nineteen, spoke with what I later discovered was an “estuary” accent. Not the formal, BBC British accent you used to hear in movies, but more like what a lot of characters use on British television these days. It still sounded a little odd to me, after growing up near Atlanta, but was certainly easier to comprehend than Aunt Imogen’s Hibernian patois.
Uncle Ralph came to England for his final year of college, met Aunt Imogen at Cambridge, and decided to stay. He was always the “smart” one on Dad’s side of the family. By his mid-20s he’d earned a doctorate in physics. He’s invented some things I don’t understand, but other people do, and they evidently cost very little to make and a lot to buy, so he’s the rich guy in the family. Mom and Dad are comfortable, but I only got into Brown because our church gave me a full scholarship after my friend Rhonda managed to get a beautifully incriminating picture of Reverend Killjoy with his cock in my mouth.
Rhonda’s a great photographer. Killjoy’s expression was perfect. A lovely combination of, “Wow, I’m getting a blow job from a hot 18-year-old,” and “Oh, fuck, my wife’s going to cut my dick off if she ever sees this!” I was all for letting her, to be honest, but a full ride at an Ivy League college was worth sucking a preacher’s dick. Particularly, if the preacher was interrupted long before he was finished. I like the taste of jizz, but I prefer to pick my own sources.
I still saw Killjoy in church after that, obviously, but that was the only time I ever saw his cock. He always looked slightly nervous when my family reached him to shake hands at the end of the service. I never understood his need to con high-school seniors with his “special anointing” and “tower of divine blessing” bullshit. The old fuck did have a nine-inch prick. You’d think he’d just cut a swath through the Ladies’ Bible Study Convocation and leave the teenagers alone.
Uncle Ralph and his family lived in a big Victorian house in Purfleet. Being the reader that I am, and seeing the big house sitting on its huge, wooded estate, surrounded by a tall brick wall, with an ancient, and much added to, stone refectory cum mansion next door, my immediate thought was that I would be spending the summer in Doctor Seward’s asylum. My cousin Eve later told me this might even be true, and that the two estates supposedly had been Bram Stoker’s inspiration for Dracula’s “Carfax Abbey” and Seward’s home.
Once I was settled into my room, the twins offered to show me around the estate. The place was huge. The house, built in 1853, mostly of yellow brick, had 28 rooms, including eight bedrooms. That number went up to thirteen if you included the five servant rooms in the attic, two of which were still occupied by Harris, Uncle Ralph’s valet/butler/chauffer, and Mrs. Fitch, the housekeeper. A local company came in as often as necessary to take care of the grounds, but these two were the only permanent staff. Between them, they kept the place in good shape.
Harris was ex-Grenadier Guards, and his bearing and no-nonsense efficiency were hard to miss. Mrs. Fitch was a fat, cheerful old soul who always turned out to be a lot more organized than she seemed on the surface. Before going into semi-retirement as Uncle Ralph’s housekeeper, she’d been surgical matron at a London hospital.
After a lot of walking around the grounds, which were wooded and park-like, comprising some eleven acres, we ended up in the old carriage house. The stalls were cleaned out and empty. There hadn’t been any horses in decades. The old carriages were still there, an old dog cart, a neat little Victoria, and a black Berlin. I suppose they were in good condition, other than a light coat of dust.