A Party at Crangle Chase

Looking back, I probably should have realised that all was not well even before we reached the front door. The lights along either side of the long gravel driveway were all working. But they were those low-voltage solar-charged garden lights. Ahead of us, the country house hotel itself was in almost total darkness.

‘We have not the electricity,’ the smiling fellow in the candle-lit reception area tells us when we go to check in.

‘Oh?’

‘Not the heating as well,’ he says.

‘Why not the heating?’ I ask, finding myself slipping into his strange syntax.

‘Not knowing,’ he tells me.

‘And…?’

‘We are not being open for the guests.’

‘Not open! But we have driven for six hours,’ I tell him.

He smiles and nods. But there is nothing to smile about.

‘It’s my wife’s birthday,’ I tell him. ‘An important one. Or at least it will be. In a few hours’ time. This is supposed to be a special weekend. I made the booking weeks ago.’

‘We are not being open,’ he repeats, shaking his head to emphasise the point.

‘So what are we supposed to do?’

For a moment or two, he frowns. And then he takes one of the candles and walks over to a rack filled with brochures. After waving his candle about a bit, he selects a brochure and hands it to me with a broad smile. ‘Crangle the Chase,’ he says, and he points to his left. And then he changes his mind, shakes his head, and points to his right.

‘Crangle the Chase? What is Crangle the Chase? Is that another hotel?’ I ask.

He doesn’t seem sure. And, in the dimly-lit reception area, it is difficult to read the brochure that he has given me.

‘And you are definitely not open?’ I say, hoping against hope for a different answer.

‘Not being open,’ he says. ‘Yes.’

My wife, Mary, who has remained silent throughout all of this, attempts one final try on our behalf. ‘Will you be open soon?’ she asks, carefully enunciating each word.

‘Not being open soon. No,’ our man confirms, with a broad candle-lit smile and an emphatic shake of his head.

Mary and I retreat to our car where there is at least light by which we can study the brochure.

The Crangle Chase brochure (it’s Crangle Chase, not Crangle the Chase) is, to put it mildly, a tad confusing. It seems that Crangle Chase itself is some sort of adventure park in which it is possible to partake of various outdoor activities. Archery. Trail running. Fell walking. Canoeing. And then there is The Lodge. The Lodge may (or may not) have guest accommodation. And it may (or may not) have a restaurant. As I say, the brochure is not especially informative.

‘Well, in the absence of any better ideas, I think we should go and investigate The Lodge,’ I tell Mary. ‘Other than that, we probably need to head back to Windermere or somewhere like that and just hope that somewhere has a vacancy.’

‘Let’s give it a try,’ Mary says. ‘If this map is anywhere near correct, Crangle Chase should only be about half a mile away.’

We set off in what we hope is the right direction and, within less than a mile, we see large sign saying: Crangle Chase. In much smaller lettering, there is also a sign for The Lodge. ‘Well, so far, so good,’ I say.

From the outside, The Lodge has a rustic appearance. But at least the lights are on. We push open the iron-studded front door and find ourselves in an almost baronial entry hall. Not large. But definitely baronial. In addition to various stuffed and mounted animal heads, there is a desk (probably estate-built, circa 1820, I’m thinking) with a bell on it. I ring the bell and we wait.

I am just about to ring the bell a second time when a thin man wearing a deerstalker hat appears. ‘Ah, yes, good evening,’ he says, as he finishes tucking in his shirt. ‘And isn’t it nice to see the end of the rain?’

‘The rain?’

‘Torrential,’ the man says. ‘Torrential, torrential. Biblical almost.’

‘We are looking for a bed,’ I say.

‘Ha ha. No beds here,’ he says. And then, after a brief pause, he says: ‘The beds are all in the bedrooms.’ And he laughs.

‘A room then,’ I say, beginning to wonder if I am dealing with the village idiot.

‘Do you have a booking?’

‘No,’ I tell him.

He shakes his head. ‘No. I didn’t think so.’ And he produces a large book from under the desk, opens it, and holds it up for me to see. ‘See? Not a single entry. Not one. Not for tonight, anyway. Tomorrow… tomorrow is a different story. Do you have luggage?’

‘In the car.’

‘Good. Yes. Good. Well, you get that. And I’ll find a key,’ he says. And he nods.

The room to which he shows us is, like the entry hall, rather baronial. And I half expect the large canopied bed to have a plaque somewhere saying that King Someone-or-Other (or Queen Someone-or-Other) slept here. ‘Nice,’ I say.

‘Do you need anything else?’

‘Is there a bar?’ I ask.

‘A bar?’

‘Somewhere that we can get a drink.’

‘Ah. A drink. I suppose you’ll be wanting gin,’ our host says, frowning slightly.

‘Or a glass of wine perhaps.’

‘Oh. Wine. Yes. Wine we can do.’ And his frown turns to a smile. ‘Red or white. Well… red and white. We have both. I shall bring you some.’

‘White perhaps,’ I say, hoping that he will produce a list or at least that he will recite a selection of possibilities.

‘I shall return,’ he says. And, before we can enter into further discussion, he is gone.

‘Oh, well,’ I say to Mary, ‘it’s only for the night.’

‘Well, it’s certainly a bit different,’ Mary says, looking around the room. ‘But it’s quite fun.’

Before we have finished unpacking, our host returns with a chilled bottle of Sancerre and a couple of glasses. He pours a small splash of the wine into one of the glasses and hands it to me. The wine is very good. Very good indeed. And I tell him so.

He nods. ‘Anything else?’

‘Food?’ I suggest.

He frowns. ‘Food. Hmm… hot or cold?’

‘That rather depends,’ I say. ‘Hot or cold what?’

‘Sandwiches. Hot or cold?’ And then he answers his own question. ‘On a night like this, I think hot. Well, warm anyway. Don’t you? It’s not raining now, but you never can tell at this time of the year.’ And he nods in agreement with himself and is once again gone.

‘Well, this could be interesting,’ I tell Mary.

‘Relax,’ she says. ‘At least we have a bed for the night. And we have wine. Rather nice wine.’ And she raises her glass. ‘Cin cin.’

When our host returns the second time, he is trundling a trolley with a platter of sandwiches, a large bowl of game chips, and a pot of blackberry something-or-other. ‘Roasted loin of local venison on freshly-baked sourdough, with lightly-pickled blackberries. Oh, and game chips. OK?’

‘It looks very nice,’ Mary says. And I have to agree with her. It does look very nice.

‘The cook returns tomorrow,’ our host says. ‘Breakfast in the dining room from seven-thirty. And you should probably book for supper. I think tomorrow could be busy. Although the weather may play a part.’

‘Oh. Right. Perhaps a table at seven?’ I say.

He nods. ‘Seven? Seven would be heaven. And now I shall leave you to your supper.’

The sandwiches are excellent. They may even be contenders for the best sandwiches that either of us have ever eaten. And, for afters, on the lower tier of the trolley, there are the makings for plunger coffee and there is a half-bottle of brandy. I am getting to like The Lodge more and more.

Later, we retire to the giant four-poster bed for a last round of nookie before Mary turns fifty. But then, thanks to the wine, the brandy, or the fact that we have driven for just over six hours, we both fall asleep before we can get very far down the path to our sinful intentions.

In the morning, we are woken, just after seven, by the sound of a rumbling engine and many voices just outside our window. ‘What the…?’ I desperately need a pee anyway, and so I get up and take a peep around the edge of the curtain. Outside there is large coach and about thirty people dressed as if they are about to make an attempt on Everest. ‘The hills are alive,’ I tell Mary. ‘But not with the sound of music. Oh, and happy birthday.’

‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘Fifty, eh. Who would have thought it?’

‘Fifty is the new twenty,’ I tell her.

‘I hope not. I broke my ankle when I was twenty. And I spent most of the summer in a plaster cast.’

‘Well, perhaps the new twenty-one,’ I suggest.

At breakfast, I am reminded of the old adage: breakfast like a king; lunch like a prince; and dine like a pauper. The Lodge’s ‘full English’ is rather fuller than any full English that either Mary or I have previously experienced. But it’s also delicious.

‘I think we are going to need to walk this off,’ I tell Mary.

Mary smiles and nods. ‘But only slowly,’ she tells me. ‘I fear that, after eating all that food, anything more than a gentle amble might be totally beyond me.’

We drive to one of the nearby lakes and then stroll around its edge for the best part of an hour before driving on to Windermere and visiting a few shops. Mary likes visiting shops. And it is, after all, her birthday.

We arrive back at The Lodge shortly after two-thirty. The coach which was earlier outside our window is back and the mountain climbers — now looking a bit tired and, in many cases, muddied — are climbing aboard.

‘I think that I might need an afternoon nap,’ Mary says when we get back to our baronial room.

‘Oh? Is that an invitation?’ I ask. (Sometimes when Mary says ‘afternoon nap’, it is really code for a matinee special.)

Mary laughs. ‘No. I think I really do need a nap,’ she says. ‘Otherwise, I will be falling asleep halfway through my birthday supper.’

‘Fair enough,’ I say. ‘You have a nap. And I might wander over and see what’s happening on the archery range. I have always fancied myself as one of Henry’s band of brothers. Except, of course, it was all a bit before my time.’

As it happens, there is nothing happening on the archery range. Absolutely nothing. And so I return to The Lodge and have a cup of coffee in the little lounge bar. I am just sitting there, sipping my coffee and leafing through an ancient magazine, when I hear my name.

‘Well, well, Mike Turnbull. Fancy seeing you here.’ It is a woman’s voice, quite deep and slightly husky. And even before I look up, I know who it is going to be.

Lynn is an old girlfriend. She and I were once a serious item. But then she got an offer she couldn’t refuse from a company based in Glasgow, and she moved up to Scotland.

‘I thought that you lived on the other side of Hadrian’s Wall,’ I say.

She says that she still does, but she also travels a good deal, running team-building courses of some kind. ‘I was up at four-thirty this morning, getting down here to run a corporate treasure hunt.’

‘Was that your lot I saw piling out of a coach when I woke up this morning?’

‘Very likely,’ she says.

I ask her if she’ll join me for coffee. But she says that she needs a nap. ‘I’d love to catch up later though,’ she says. ‘You know… if, umm….’

When I get back to our room, Mary is just waking up. ‘What have you been up to?’ she asks. I tell her about my fruitless investigation of the archery range. I also mention running into Lynn. Mary and Lynn have never met — although, obviously, each knows who the other is. I tell Mary that Lynn suggested getting together later, and I watch her face for some sort of reaction. ‘Oh, OK,’ she says. Whether that’s OK good or OK bad, I cannot tell.

Shortly before seven (‘Seven would be heaven’), Mary and I go down to the dining room where we are seated at a table overlooking a cunningly-lit walled garden. ‘This is great,’ Mary says. And it gets even better. Our deer-stalker-wearing host arrives bearing two glasses of Veuve Clicquot.

‘Happy birthday,’ our host says to Mary.

‘Thank you. How did you know?’

‘It is my business to know such things,’ our host says, and he taps the side of his nose.

While we are still working out what to order, I notice Lynn coming into the dining room and being seated at a table, by herself, at the other end of the room. She is sitting with her back to us. I am pretty sure that she doesn’t even notice us.

The food is very good. It is perhaps more rustic dining than fine dining, but it’s absolutely packed with flavour and imagination. Mary and I choose the chunky medallions of perfectly-cooked pork tenderloin on an apricot puree with a dash of smoked paprika, accompanied by cubes of potato cooked in bacon fat, and barbecued wedges of hispi cabbage. And, to ‘wash it down’, we have a couple of glasses of The Lodge’s ‘house red’, which turns out to be an award-winning Martinborough Pinot Noir. The Lodge is full of surprises.

We are just finishing the last of our wine when I notice Lynn leaving her table and walking towards the lounge area. This time, she does see us. She even gives us a little wave.

‘That’s Lynn,’ I tell Mary. ‘The woman in the black dress.’

Mary looks at the disappearing Lynn and says: ‘Oh. We should have invited her to come and have a drink with us.’

‘Well, we still could,’ I say. Although, at that stage, I am not sure whether Mary really means it.

‘Or we could all go and have a drink in the lounge,’ Mary suggests. I get the feeling that Mary is keen to have a peep into my past, to see who was there before her. But it is her birthday. And, anyway, what harm can it do? And so we follow Lynn into the lounge.

I introduce the two girls to each other (as much as they need introducing) and then I go off to organise some ‘Jamaican coffees’: strong coffee with dark rum, coffee liqueur, cream, and a grating of dark chocolate, all served in a tall glass. Somewhat to me relief, when I return, Mary and Lynn are chatting like old friends.

Like all of The Lodge’s other comestibles, the coffee is superb. As we near the lower reaches of our tall tumblers, Lynn goes off to ‘powder her nose’, and I take the opportunity to ‘test the waters’. ‘So… what do you think of Lynn?’ I ask Mary.

Mary smiles. ‘I’m surprised that you ever let her get away,’ she says. ‘She’s lovely. And very sexy.’

‘She’s all of that,’ I admit. ‘But, if she hadn’t moved north, I might never have met you.’

Again, Mary smiles. ‘Yes, well you have to say that, don’t you?’ And then, after a brief pause, she says: ‘Do you think that Lynn might like to join us for a nightcap? In our suite?’ (When Mary says ‘in our suite’, she makes little bunny rabbit quotation marks in the air.) ‘We still have most of that brandy from last night.’

‘Well… umm… we could always ask her,’ I say.

When Lynn returns, I am just wondering how best to approach the invitation when Mary beats me to the punch. ‘Mike and I have some brandy in our room,’ she tells Lynn. ‘Our host delivered it last night. Along with our rather amazing venison sandwiches. Perhaps you would like to join us for a nightcap.’

For the briefest of brief moments, Lynn seems, perhaps, surprised. But then she says: ‘Umm… that would be… very nice. Thank you. Yes. Thank you.’

Back in our baronial room, I find a radio station that is playing suitably-smooth Saturday-night jazz, and then I pour three brandies. ‘Cheers,’ I say. ‘And happy birthday.’

Again Lynn seems slightly surprised. ‘Oh… is it your birthday?’ she says, looking at Mary. ‘I didn’t realise. Happy birthday.’ And she leans over and kisses Mary. Full on the lips.

‘Thank you,’ Mary says. ‘And if tonight is anything to go by, I think I quite like having birthdays.’

Perhaps it is the signal that Lynn has been waiting for. And she kisses Mary again. This time it is a long, lingering kiss. I am surprised. Very surprised. But Mary just smiles.

According the label on the bottle, the brandy is just brandy. VSOP. But not cognac. Not XO. It is, however, very good. As I say: The Lodge is full of surprises. And then there is another surprise.

‘Why don’t I help you take off that dress?’ Lynn says to Mary. ‘It’s such a pretty dress. It would be a pity to get it crushed.’

Mary smiles and looks across at me with an expression that I take to ask: ‘What do you think? Should I?’

I smile back at her with an expression that I hope says: ‘It’s up to you, girl. It is, after all, your birthday.’

I cannot vouch for Mary’s actual experience of what is generally referred to as ‘girl-on-girl action’. Perhaps surprisingly, it is not something that we have ever really discussed. But I know that she has a bit of a taste for video versions of such activity — especially video versions in which the participants seem not to be actors.

For a moment there is silence between the three of us. And then Mary gets to her feet and allows Lynn to unzip her dress and help her out of it. The birthday girl is now standing there in her sexy new red lacy bra and matching knickers (a birthday present from yours truly).

‘Perhaps I should take my dress off too,’ Lynn says

‘Yes. I think that would be sensible,’ Mary says. At times, Mary can be very sensible.

With the girls now dressed in their seductive best, I watch Lynn gently steering Mary over onto the great baronial bed, the bed in which Queen Someone-or-Other may have slept, and I feel a serious stirring in my trousers.

‘You’re beautiful,’ Lynn tells Mary. ‘Mike has chosen well.’ And then she begins covering Mary with little kisses, starting at her stocking-covered feet and working, slowly, up towards her inner thighs and her smooth satin-clad mound. While Lynn is doing this, Mary starts playing with her own breasts, rubbing them with the palms of her hands and then circling her nipples with her fingertips. By the time that she has lifted one of her breasts from her bra completely, I have my pants down and I have taken my cock in hand.

When Lyn reaches Mary’s satin-covered mound, she uses the tip of her nose — the tip of her rather elegant nose — to caress Mary’s now pronounced camel toe. And then she teasingly pulls down Mary’s knickers to expose her swollen cunt lips, and she goes to work with her tongue.

‘Oh, yes,’ Mary murmurs.

And then Lynn removes her own knickers and moves around to straddle Mary’s face so that Mary can tongue Lynn, while Lynn tongues Mary, while Mary tongues Lynn.

After a few minutes of watching the soixante-neuf tableau before me, my own powers of self-control are being severely tested. I feel that I am already getting drawn close to the edge. And I am in danger of going over it. But, greedy bastard that I am, I want the feeling to go on and on. And then on some more after that.

Eventually, Lynn comes up for air and glances my way. ‘OK there?’

‘Hanging on by my fingertips,’ I tell her. ‘But loving it.’

‘Then pace yourself,’ Lynn says.

Mary is first to reach a shuddering orgasm, but Lynn is not far behind her. For a while afterwards, they both just lie there. ‘Whee!’ Mary says.

‘Happy birthday,’ Lynn says. And then Lynn climbs off and kneels beside Mary. ‘If you would like a hard cock in that beautiful pussy,’ she tells Mary, ‘I think I know where we can find one.’

I do not need a second invitation. In no time at all, my pants are completely off and I am lining up to enter the birthday girl’s slick, wet fuckhole. Lynn has prepared Mary well, and all it takes is one long, slow thrust and I am in. Balls-deep. Up to the hilt.

‘Oh, yes,’ Mary says.

I begin with slow, plunging thrusts and the intention of lasting all night long. But then, within three or four minutes, I am pounding away as if my life depends on it. Another dozen or so strokes and I am filling Mary with my pearly juice.

For a few moments, Mary and I just lay there. And then I feel Lynn sliding a saliva-coated finger down between my buttocks, down towards my arsehole. I know what is coming and my half-hard cock twitches at the thought. And then, as Lynn finger-fucks my arse, my cock begins to at least consider a new lease on life.

‘I realise that it’s your birthday,’ Lynn says to Mary. ‘But do you think that I might perhaps be permitted to experience the pleasure of your husband’s beautiful cock?’