Buying a Globe-Wernicke

Buying a Globe-Wernicke Part 1

“No, I'm not golfing this morning; I'm driving into Norfolk to look at, and hopefully buy, that Globe-Wernicke. I shan't be here for lunch; I'll have something in a pub, or in a MacDonald's, on the way home. I should be back well before suppertime.”  

Norman carefully placed a cup of tea on a small drinks-mat on his wife's bedside cabinet. Ditto the Saturday newspaper. Samantha surfaced slowly and yawned. She sipped the tea gratefully.

“Mmmmm... nice tea! Do remind me, Darling, exactly what this Globe-Thing is?”  

Norman sighed. “For the last time, it's called a Globe-Wernicke. It's a type of antique bookcase originally designed for people who travelled a lot, like army officers or diplomats. It's like campaign furniture; it comes apart, which means I can get it into the estate car. There are three or four shelves, each with its own glass door, and they dismantle easily. When I get it back here, I'll reassemble it.”

“And where is it going to go?”

“I told you: in my study. All those directories and other books that are lying around on tables and on the window sill, gathering dust, can go in it. It'll be much tidier.”  

“I'm all in favour of that. Give us a kiss and off you go.” Samantha yawned again. She added mischievously: “Although 'study' is the wrong word for that room. I think that all you ever really study in there is Amateur Gardening, motor magazines and detective novels!” 

“Not true. It's also where I do the crossword and work out our tax return. Now that's studying, if you like! And I'm going for my run first,” said Norman. 

A few moments later he reappeared in a black sleeveless top, yellow shorts and trainers, with matching yellow wrist-bands. The shorts were very short indeed, slit up the sides, and they completely exposed Norman's long, strong, suntanned legs. She heard him hit the front drive gravel with a crunch; seconds later, the garden gate swung to behind him with a clunk and a click. His footsteps pounded away into the distance. 

Samantha smiled. She approved of Norman's running; it kept him fit, slim and desirable. She had been moderately amused to learn from a female neighbour that some other women neighbours liked to watch Norman race by from behind their net curtains. His bare, shapely legs turned them on. Norman was probably unaware of any of this. Better that, thought Samantha, than some of her friends' husbands, who – let's face it - would not merit even one slight twitch of a net. Still in their twenties, they were developing beer-bellies; a few were already losing their hair. And they were boring with it. Whereas her Norman had kept his thick, blond hair – it was a pity that he preferred to wear it quite so short - and his slim figure looked great in a dark suit. In fact, he looked great in almost anything; and even better in nothing at all; golden-brown all over apart from the narrow pale zone which his trunks covered... In a few years' time he'd look not just handsome but distinguished; the picture of a senior executive, which was what he ought to be!

Norman returned; dived into the shower; dived out again; dressed himself in chinos, a polo-shirt and dockside loafers; without socks, as it was a warm day; he knotted a dashing red bandanna handkerchief around his neck, and then drove off. A few minutes later the 'phone rang. It was a neighbour, Olivia:

“Hi, I just saw your dishy husband driving off. Golfing, I suppose?”

“No; something business-related.”

Samantha had decided that she was not going to tell Olivia about the Globe-Wernicke; not least because she did not feel like explaining what it was, how it should be pronounced, nor how it functioned. Moreover, Samantha guessed what was coming next:    

“Oh well then, it's Saturday! If you're alone and free this morning, you'll be going to the shops! Could you give me a lift there and we could have coffee in The Copper Kettle afterwards?”  

“Sorry, Olivia, the answer is 'no'; I did my shopping yesterday. I've got this pile of personal admin to catch up on and Norman not being here makes this morning a perfect time to get through it.”

That was not quite true, but Samantha was getting faintly tired of Olivia, who  sometimes seemed to treat her as a free taxi service. Nor did she entirely like her remark about 'your dishy husband'; she knew that her Norman was dishy. Olivia was obviously one of those women whose curtains twitched when Norman ran past. On reflection, his running might not be an unreservedly good thing after all. Who knew where it might lead? 

He ought to be more careful. Maybe I should encourage Norman to wear long track trousers or, at any rate, longer shorts for running? He won't like that, especially not in summer, but I'll be firm with him. 

**** 

Norman did not know Norfolk well, although it was the next-door county, so he used his SatNav. Like his estate car, the SatNav was quite new; he had not yet worked out how to change the recorded voice that gave the travel instructions. He was now unwillingly listening to a bossy female voice that sounded like Mrs Thatcher's, but he had no way of dispensing with her for the moment, or of changing the voice to something – or someone – less irritating.    

“Bear right! Bear right! And at the next crossroads turn left!” ordered Mrs Thatcher.  

“Yes, Prime Minister... muttered Norman. 

“Go straight ahead! Straight ahead!” yelled Mrs Thatcher.

“Shut up, you stupid cow! You're wrong for once!” Norman snarled.

By making him drive straight ahead, Mrs Thatcher had got him onto a minor  road; a very minor road, to judge from its inferior surface. After bumping along it for quite a distance in obedience to Mrs Thatcher's testy orders, he found himself driving along yet another, potholed and unclassified, road. There were no houses to be seen. This in turn gave way to a glorified cart-track that had once been macadamized, hemmed in by high, shaggy hedges. It could only lead to some farm; probably a derelict one, Norman thought. Apart from loud birdsong, there were few signs of life. To add to Norman's irritation, the weather was warm, humid and muggy. His car was not air-conditioned; there was no breeze; he was starting to feel hot, sweaty and seriously annoyed. 

“No way does any antiques dealer live down here,” Norman crossly told Mrs Thatcher. “They all live in London or in picturesque market towns or villages. This is a dead end; I'll end up having to reverse all the way back!”

“Straight ahead!” she reiterated arrogantly, adding: “You are now arriving at your destination!” and signed off.

Norman could not continue to drive straight ahead. In front of him an enormous stainless steel gate reared itself across the drive. It looked like the entrance to Fort Knox.

Well, fuck me! he thought. Then he noticed two things: a hand-painted sign announcing “Little Kansas” and an intercom at the side of the gate. He must after all be in the right place; in which case Mrs Thatcher had been right all along. Damn and blast her! 

Wondering vaguely about the reason for the name, Little Kansas, he got out and buzzed the intercom.

“Mr Abell? Good afternoon. We spoke on the 'phone. I'm Norman Smith, come about the Globe-Wernicke Bookcase!”

A deep male voice, which for some reason sounded amused, replied crisply from the intercom microphone:

“I remember your 'phone call all right. You're slightly early. Come in anyway!”

The gate, activated by remote control, slid sideways into the tall hedge. Norman drove in. The gate then clanked back into place. He was now inside and could not get out again until the owner let him. Norman experienced a nanosecond of panic.

Oh grow up, Boy. It's a security precaution. There's probably a lot of rural crime around here. But he's got a business to run; he does not kidnap members of the public! Then again, he might go in for high-pressure sales techniques...He might be a male version of Auntie Wainwright in 'The Last of the Summer Wine'... 

That was an amusing, albeit disquieting thought. As Norman bounced along the track, the reason for the name 'Little Kansas' became clear. Mr Abell's antiques business was being run from a former Second World War American air base. Given up in the late 1940s or 1950s, most of the land had returned to agricultural use. The runways had disappeared; in the middle distance the derelict control tower now watched only over fields of wheat and vegetables. The base itself was lost and buried in a young postwar woodland. Many of the buildings, including the hangars, had disappeared completely. Their materials had been sold for scrap; only their concrete bases remained among the bushes and nettles, but a few were still intact and in use. A big bungalow, which boasted a wide railed veranda, looked like the Base Commander's quarters. It had an American – a Tennessee Williams - air. Another large building was almost certainly the Officers' Mess. Yet another, marked 'Office', was the old guardroom. The Stars and Stripes still flew from a flagstaff in front of it.  

A sales gimmick, to please American buyers, or a gesture to the heroic past? Norman wondered.  

“Over here!” shouted the male voice that had spoken earlier.

He looked towards the bungalow. He caught a brief glimpse of a big, powerfully-built and crew-cut man who had been sunbathing in the smallest pair of black trunks that Norman had ever seen. He was now standing up. Norman found this sight interesting, pleasing, and even – Gawd help me - something more than that. It recalled a memory that Norman had kept buried for many years. But he only saw this sight for a few moments. Mr Abell grinned, waved, hurriedly pulled on and zipped up a pair of faded, close-fitting jeans.  In the still air Norman distinctly heard the zip's brief whine. Over his head Abell pulled a dazzlingly clean white T-shirt with no logo. He slid his feet into loafers like Norman's, then cantered over and shook his hand warmly.    

“Hi, I'm Jim Abell. The furniture's over there in what used to be the Officers' Mess. C'mon.”

Norman found himself liking Jim Abell more and more. His voice was English but he looked American. The blue jeans, white T-shirt and dark crew-cut all seemed to belong to the action hero of a 1950s comic strip.

He'd look even better in uniform; maybe as a Green Beret or a US Marine...

Jim's face also looked American; it was hard to say in what way; maybe it was the mix of man and boy, which characterises a certain type of American: the contrast between the strong jaw and the boyish, upturned, almost snub, nose; between the thick, dark masculine eyebrows and the big, cheerful, white-toothed Pepsodent grin. He reminded Norman of the heroes of old black-and-white films seen on TV, in which the impossibly handsome cowboys or soldiers were always well-washed, clean-shaven, short-haired, brylcreemed, and enjoyed perfect, dazzling teeth (even if they were supposed to be living in the nineteenth century Wild West). Jim's eyes, which were dark hazel, were merry and faintly mocking.

Perhaps it's the spirit of this place working on him; he's metamorphosing into a World War II American hero! 

They passed a bare concrete area where a number of rusty training weights were lying around. On a nearby wall was a tarnished full-length mirror. Jim evidently trained alfresco when he could.    

“You keep yourself fit.” said Norman.

“I do,” said Jim. “I guess you do too,” he said, frankly appraising Norman.

“I run a bit, play golf a bit and swim a bit,” Norman admitted.

“The entrance is round here,” said Jim. He steered Norman towards it physically, by patting him gently on the right buttock. Norman was a bit surprised but did not take offence.  

The former ante-room was vast and had no doubt hosted some great dances in the past. It was now cluttered with furniture; some of it good. Norman noticed a case full of stuffed birds; had he still been a bachelor, he might have inquired about it, but Samantha would have hated it - even in his private study - so he dismissed the thought. A stupendously pretentious chandelier still dominated the room. Few British people would have had either the space or the bad taste to acquire it, so it had never been sold. Norman had a vision of hunky, crew-cut officers, all looking rather like Jim, dancing energetically under the clinking crystals with photogenic girls, to Glenn Miller tunes.  

It happened in Sun Valley 

Not so very long ago.

There were sunbeams in the snow

And a twinkle in your eye...

There was definitely a twinkle in Jim's eye.

Yeah; he thinks I'm a yuppie with loads or money to splash out on antiques. He reckons he'll make a few sales this morning, apart from the Globe-Wernicke. Well, we'll see about that!

The Globe-Wernicke bookcase was exactly as Norman had hoped it would be. It was also very heavy, being made of solid oak; even when dismantled into sections, while the overgrown ground made it impossible for Norman to park his estate car close to the Mess. So the sections had to be carried manually for a hundred yards in four separate instalments. Jim was a willing helper; together they staggered across the grassy terrain, bearing the heavy components of the Globe-Wernicke and arranging them in the back of the car. When that had been done to their satisfaction, they were both pouring with sweat. Jim pulled off his T-shirt, exposing his six-pack, and mopped his face. Norman did the same with the bandanna handkerchief that he had knotted at his throat. Within seconds it was soaked but Norman went on sweating. When he wrote Jim's cheque, drops of sweat smudged the ink of his signature. Norman swore. Apologising, he tore it up and wrote out another cheque. 

Jim laughed as he took it. “I'm grateful for this. Look, the least I can do is to offer you a shower. There's quite a choice! I'll run over to the bungalow and get some towels. Come though here.”

'Through here' led to a bathroom. There was indeed 'quite a choice'; it was enormous; at least twenty officers could have washed, showered or relieved themselves simultaneously in that room. Norman looked at himself in a tarnished mirror; a faded sticker asked: “Are YOU a Credit to the USAF?” He thought that he looked youthful, nervous and alert; not like Samantha's husband or the partner in his company, but a much younger and less-assured man. Why, for Pete's sake? Suddenly he recalled the significant other of whom Jim reminded him. 

Jamie! It was even the same name, James, more or less. Jamie, the first love of his life; and the first lust too, if truth be told. Years before, when Norman had been a junior schoolboy, his father, a meteorologist, had been a civilian employee of the RAF in Scotland. They had lived in the country, not far from the air base; that was probably why Norman felt curiously at home now, in Little Kansas. His parents had insisted that Norman be given a 'properly Christian' upbringing, including church-going, although this applied more to Norman than to them. On many Sundays his father found that he had to catch up on work, having spent Saturday on the golf course. Equally often, Norman's pretty, neurotic mother had to stay in bed because “Mummy's upset”; Mummy can't cope”; or “Mummy's tired”. However Norman always had to go to church; he sensed that his mother was glad to get him out of the house. If his parents were not going there, he was walked there and back by Jamie, their neighbour's eighteen-year-old son. Jamie taught a Bible class and was reckoned by everyone to be a very good fellow. He was handsome, fit and kindly. His hair was short, although not as short as Jim's. Importantly for a Scot, Jamie had good knees and on Sundays he always wore Highland dress with a McFarlane tartan kilt. He never talked down to Norman and was endlessly patient. Norman had enjoyed his walks to and from church with Jamie.

On one memorable Sunday, they were walking back through the fields when a violent gust of wind playfully caught Jamie's kilt and whisked it above his waist-level. Embarrassed but laughing, he fought to get it under control, like the famous poster of Marilyn Monroe. For a few minutes he did not succeed. In that time Norman had seen enough and was fascinated. He had never seen a naked adult human being before. The muscular rugby-player's thighs; the hard, symmetrical ass-cheeks; the thick, dark forest of pubic hair at the crotch and the heavy sex were a revelation. At that point Norman became Jamie's stalker. Developing a sudden interest in bird-watching, which involved carrying binoculars at all times and developing precocious detective skills, over the summer he found out where Jamie went running – he too went in for very short shorts - his secret swimming-holes and a remote place where he sometimes sunbathed. Jamie, who was thoroughly conventional, usually wore trunks for swimming or sunbathing but occasionally, unaware that he had an audience, he would go completely naked. That, for Norman, was a red-letter day. Its memory would be cherished and jerked-off to, later. But Norman had not seen Jamie for years. Until now, he had almost forgotten him. Jamie had gone off to university and later went to work in Canada. And in the meantime Norman had discovered girls. 

Back in Little Kansas, Norman found that some at least of the showers were still operational. He selected one, mixed the water to the right temperature, located some shower gel and stepped inside. It was bliss.

Next time, if there is a next time, I'll bring a change of clothes! 

Norman did not hear Jim come back with the towels. The first that he knew of it was when a pair of very strong arms encircled and hugged him from behind. There was a moment of panic, which was succeeded by odd, helpless and irrational laughter. (Norman was a man who easily got the giggles). He struggled ineffectually, while Jim nuzzled his neck tenderly. Finally, he gasped:

“What's going on?”

Jim laughed quietly and did not answer. 

“I never expected this! And, Jim, I am a married man!”

A deep masculine chuckle was his first answer, then: “I'm sure you didn't! And yes, I know you're married, you poor blighter; you may be bollock-naked but you're still wearing your wedding-ring! Now, shuddup and relax. This is supposed to be fun!”

Norman started laughing, slightly hysterically: “Fucking hell!” he gasped.

Jim grinned. “That's an amusing way of putting it. Now shut up and give us a kiss!”

He turned Norman round to face him. Norman, at about five-feet-eleven, was not a small man but Jim was well over six feet tall and very well-built with it. He was grinning from ear to ear. The water falling on his head had flattened his crew-cut. He took Norman's face between his massive hands and kissed him, first gently and then lasciviously, on the mouth. Jim was a good kisser. Their tongues entwined; their mouths seemed soldered together. Jim's hands moved over Norman's body, coming to rest on his ass-cheeks. He began to knead them carefully. From time to time his hand slipped between them. It sought out and touched Norman's fundament.  

“Don't look so scared. Just relax! This is a bit of fun!”

Jim began to bend at the knees. He kissed Norman's throat, then his nipples. Now and again he would give a gentle bite, causing Norman to yelp. Then he was down on his knees, kissing and sucking Norman's cock and balls. It was brilliant and scary; Norman almost fainted. 

“Steady! You mustn't cum yet!” muttered Jim.

He rose slowly and kissed Norman again, so that he could taste his own sex in Jim's mouth. He continued to run his hands over Norman. Then he turned him round to face the wall.  

“Brace yourself. Go on! Brace yourself against the wall for what comes next!”  

Norman did so. What came next was an expert fingering and opening-up of his ass, which, to Norman's shocked surprise, seemed to have developed a life of its own, greedily sucking in Jim's fingers, followed by a skilful rimming by Jim's rough tongue. The warm water continued to flow over both of them.

“Oh wow, wow, wow!”

“How's that feel?” Jim asked.

It felt mind-blowing. Norman had never known anything like it. “Not bad!” he gasped. Seconds later, Jim, with the aid of some gel,was easing his way inside Norman. He thrust a few times. Norman almost fainted. “Oh FUCK!” he gasped. 

“That's what we're doing!” Jim said. Then he added: “I can think of even better places to do it!”

Norman started laughing again: “You mean another G-Spot?”  

“Nah! I mean in my house over there! Come on!”

Jim grabbed Norman's hand and together they raced across the grass to the bungalow, still laughing. When they got there they were almost dry. Jim led Norman straight to the bedroom. He took the telephone off the hook. 

This time, unhurriedly, he gave Norman the full rough-sex works. Rough sex and wrestling are very similar; Jim was good at both. Fit and lithe though Norman was, Jim was much stronger and knew far more about unarmed combat. He found that he could play with Norman, like a cat with a mouse. He could spread him; roll him up in a ball; sling him over his shoulder or lift him above his head. As he was doing all this, Jim took every opportunity that presented itself to finger Norman's ass, flick it with his tongue, tweak his nipples, grab his cock... Norman started laughing uncontrollably again.        

Finally, in total surrender, Norman lay on the bed, on his back. Jim took hold of his beautiful legs – the admiration of the suburban housewives – spread them and entered him. He gave Norman a deep, hard fuck that made him scream and almost faint, when Jim breached the second sphincter; the final barrier.

For Jim that was the greatest pleasure of all: watching the other guy's face as he was totally and completely fucked.  

After that, they needed another shower. Later, over coffee, Jim asked:

“Forgive the cliché, but how was it for you?”

Norman stared at him: “I'm not sure. I drove here this morning to buy a piece of furniture. I ended by being rogered; I'm still in shock and my ass is still-fucking-sore. Am I supposed to be grateful?

“Yeah; I noticed you sitting down carefully! Ha ha ha! Forget grateful; did you enjoy it?”  

“Yes; in a dreadful way, I really did. Do you often do that to customers?”  

“Nope. But, while I don't want to make you swell-headed, but you are rather exceptional. Look in the mirror sometime; if you don't mind my saying so, you're like Rupert-fucking-Brooke, but better! It was a challenge; I was determined to have you.” 

Norman thought for a moment. I never expected to have this conversation in my life. Quietly he said: “I see. Can we have a return match sometime and can I do it to you?”

Jim grinned his easy grin. “Sure! Whenever you next feel bored. Contact me first. Or I'll contact you. One way or another. I'm versatile; very versatile!”  

Norman was not sure when he would summon up the courage to make that call, but in the event he did not have to. A few weeks later a brown envelope fell through his letterbox. The return address on the back flap was Little Kansas.

Dear Mr Smith,

As a valued customer, you might appreciate this prior warning of the sale of a lot of authentic Victorian campaign furniture, made in India. Please see the enclosed illustrated catalogue. If you would like to arrange a private preview, do not hesitate to write to me at this address or telephone me on the above number.” 

Yours Sincerely,

James Abell

Proprietor, Little Kansas Antiques

“Not more antique furniture?” moaned Samantha.  

“There's no harm in looking; I won't necessarily buy anything!” Norman smiled affectionately.

“Oh go on then!” Samantha laughed. “I'm out all next Saturday with some of the girls. That'd be a good time. Just don't splurge money; we still have to live within a budget!”

“That's rich, coming from you!” Norman riposted. She threw a cushion at him.

To her relief and satisfaction Norman did not splurge money on that occasion, or on any subsequent occasion. The few purchases that he made were all very reasonably-priced. Norman indicated that he had bargained for them; a skill that Samantha had never supposed that he possessed.