I released the pins in my chestnut hair, felt it tumble heavily down my shoulders and lay myself down on the crisp cotton sheets. My mind was made up. However disagreeable I found Master Tom, I would accept my fate.
At dawn, after washing myself in the bowl provided, I opened the wardrobe again. The glare of the colours was even greater in the morning light. As I again fingered the turquoise corset there was a gentle knock on my door. I gathered my nightdress about me suspicious it might be Master Tom come to gain his prize early. But it was a young girl who announced herself as Sarah, Mrs Alderly’s daughter, and offered me help as a lady’s maid in dressing. Never had I had the luxury of a lady’s maid. As she assisted me into a fine muslin shift which fell over my breasts and would protect the fine silk of the corset from the oils of my skin I began to warm to my part. I did not have to like Master Tom to teach him, but I did enjoy the feel of the corset as Sarah laced me in. A pleasant sensation of constriction, like a frighteningly tight embrace overcame me as Sarah pulled harder and harder. My breasts overflowed like velvet-skinned apricots over the tight boning and my buttocks appeared lush and full underneath the tight silk. ‘These are the latest corsets from France, ma’am, with little suspenders to hold up your stockings. Here let me help you on with these silk stockings.’
The feel of the material against my ankles, then my knees and finally halfway up my thighs, delicately rolled and pushed up my legs by Sarah, made my legs tingle. I watched the girl kneeling as she clipped the stockings into their holdings after which she laced up my boots and helped me into a white muslin day dress. Never had my waist appeared so pinched and tiny and never had I been so acutely aware of my breasts pushing and straining over the top of my dress. As the corset pressed against the pubis at the bottom of my stomach I felt a sensation of desire for animal satisfaction which had never affected me before.
I went down to breakfast and witnessed Master Tom’s evident admiration at my hourglass figure and delight that I was staying. I almost expected him to salivate at the mouth in anticipation of his coming night’s education. I was given the freedom of the house and, as I moved about, became aware of eyes upon me. Looking around, I caught not Master Tom, but Lord Harestone, staring blatantly at my form. I stood examining a book in his library at the time. Whether some devilment had entered me in my fine new clothes I cannot say. But, aware of his Lordship’s eyes burning into me, I reached as high as my constricting undergarments would allow, and purposefully revealed a well turned ankle in black silk. Lord Harestone stared, smiled and walked away.
The evening came, dinner was done with, and feeling as though I were jumping into a pool of cold water, I announced to Master Tom that he and I should now go upstairs and begin his education. I felt very ill-disposed towards him, as if I wanted to tell the poor naive creature off for his lack of knowledge. At the top of the stairs I ordered him into his bedroom and commanded he kneel by the side of his bed and wait for me. Going into my room, I breathed deeply, feeling nauseous at the thought of his hands upon me, and trying desperately to summon up the courage for my task. My beautiful skirt swished as I walked across the room and just as I was about to enter through the open connecting door, I noticed a door at the other end of Master Tom’s room. Through the narrow slit I could just make out Lord Harestone, seated, his eyes directed at his young ward.
Of a sudden, a warmth spread through me and a pleasurable sensation shot up between my stockinged legs, moistness creaming my maidenhood. I had to squeeze my legs together as I walked, to stop the liquid dripping down my legs, as I imagined Lord Harestone’s eyes following me across the room. Acutely aware of his gaze, I did not give away that I knew his secret but looked down only at the kneeling Master Tom. Tom’s eyes looked up at me like a spaniel’s and I watched a flickering nerve tick at his temple.
I moved around him, holding him with my gaze until I was sure I was in the best position for Lord Harestone to view our antics.
‘Lift up my skirts.’ I commanded in a harsh voice. Tom’s hands fumbled at the layers in his eagerness. My heart quickened, not at Tom’s inept touch, but at the knowledge that as my legs were being uncovered, Lord Harestone leant forward in his secret place, in order to see me better.
‘Stay kneeling. Don’t you dare do anything until I tell you,’ I barked. Tom nodded his head, petrified and bewitched as he stared at my ankles, my knees and finally the ivory whiteness of my thighs bulging out of the stockings. ‘You may kiss my thighs,’ I said. The boy held my leg as if it were a soft feathered bird and pressed his hot lips against it. Like a starving man, he slavered and sucked. I watched the top of his head as he got carried away and saw him breathe deeply, enjoying my scent. I spread my legs a little wider, tempting him in but when he moved his mouth over my labia I slapped him hard on the cheek.
‘How dare you presume to do anything before I tell you.’ Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lord Harestone smile wickedly, enjoying my harshness. I directed my gaze at Tom but kept Lord Harestone in my sights as I leant down and kissed poor Tom, the pink marks of my hand on his cheek. ‘There, there, don’t be upset. Tell me what you’d like to do.’
His voice came so quiet I could barely hear although I knew what he said. ‘Louder,’ I demanded. ‘Speak louder boy, tell me what you want to do.’
‘Lick you,’ came his voice.
‘Go on then.’ I ordered.
Still kneeling, he moved around until his head was under my cunny and pressed his face upwards. As his pink tongue came out and the tip dipped into my juices I let out a moan of satisfaction, loud enough for Lord Harestone to hear and saw, with satisfaction, Lord Harestone’s hand move to rub the front of his britches. I held the back of Tom’s head, forcing him rhythmically up and down, pressing him into me. He slurped and pawed at my thighs, his tongue darting in and out. I used him to work around my sex again and again, riding on his face and savouring the pleasure of watching Lord Harestone’s brooding stare as his Lordship continued to rub himself.
‘Give me your finger.’ I commanded to Tom.
Still sucking at me, the boy put his finger slowly towards me and gasped, as I used it to mop up the trickle down my thigh and then buried his finger deep into my waiting redness as high as it would go. I had to congratulate the boy here. Instinct made him push his finger in and out without instruction and when he felt me get comfortable on it, he pushed a second finger in, stretching me most agreeably. Still laced up tightly, I felt as if my breasts would burst out of their confines: they were becoming so swollen, the nipples painful against the edge of my corset and straining against the thin muslin.
I now felt uncontrollable with desire. I knew I needed a real man inside me. This simpering youth was acceptable for starters but I was so heated I felt I would go mad without proper fulfilment. The time for subtlety was over. I turned blatantly to Lord Harestone. His secret was a secret no more. I watched petrified as, still seated, he kicked the door open with his foot. Tom barely flinched so intent was he on drinking my nectar. Lord Harestone ripped open the panel on the front of his britches and displayed a jutting, magnificently veined erection. Getting up, he strode over to where I stood, and Tom knelt. Standing next to me, he pulled my hair back, and prised open my lips with his tongue, thrusting it viciously into my mouth. I kissed him back, wild with desire. With Tom still pleasuring me with his tongue, Lord Harestone moved his fingers over the muslin at my breasts and tore it away exposing my jutting bosoms topped with hard sensitive nipples. He took one feverishly in his mouth and nipped it in his teeth making me cry out with ecstasy. Once it was moist he took it between thumb and forefinger and rolled it like a cigar. Taking my other nipple, he sucked it mercilessly till it reddened and peaked. Once my breasts were fully sensitised, Lord Harestone moved around behind me, and pressed himself against me. His huge throbbing member forced up against my buttocks. He pushed me over the bed till I was bent double and commanded me to hold on to the bed rail, which I did to steady myself. His knee between my legs p
rised me open, spread-eagling me still wider. Tom stopped for a moment to wipe his mouth and take his fingers out of my aching cunny. Then, taking the initiative, while Lord Harestone positioned himself behind me, Tom gently fingered my fanny and gazed lasciviously at the swollen red sex lips. Poking out his tongue he licked me with the whole length of it, flicking it mercilessly over my point of ecstasy. Driven to distraction, I clung on to the bedpost, my buttocks jutting upwards, the tight corset cutting into my flesh, waiting for Lord Harestone to enter me. Shockingly I felt his almighty prick drive into me as he gripped my shoulders, his fingers digging in. He pummelled me back and forth, panting like a demon possessed. Tom’s licking became more urgent as Lord Harestone drove his cock deeper. Lord Harestone moved his hands to grip my breasts, pinching the nipples between his fingers, giving me the most mind-numbing sensation of being totally and utterly dominated.
With the two men gasping and pushing, sucking and thrusting, I felt my eyes flicker and my swollen sex peak into a shuddering, bursting orgasm. Just after I came, Lord Harestone gripped my hair and yelled as he pumped his load into me, his seed running down my legs.
Thus began the best year of my life. Each night was a journey. Each one longer than the last. Tom proved an apt pupil, and an interested observer when my Lord and I allowed him the privilege of watching us sate our passions on each other. Tom is now a pastor at a small parish many miles from here. And me? I stayed on, for why would I not? The educator became the educated at Lord Harestone’s fine hand. And yes, dear Reader… I married him.
Window Dressing
by Anya Wassenberg
Today, I’m fed up with winter, and stride boldly down the steps of my chic brownstone walk-up in new pink pumps, incongruous as they may seem under leaden grey skies.
The shoes hurry down the block with their determined cheer, and me with them, past the row of brownstones to where the shops begin, the pink patent leather almost glowing against the damp pavement and the overall gloom of the day, as if everything else had somehow been drained of colour. The shops provide slightly more shelter against the cold wind. My pace slows and my eyes dart from store to store, taking in and filing away the latest specials, the tomatoes and egg bread on sale. The buildings have seen better days, their edges grimed from passing traffic, yet it’s a pleasing jumble of irregular shapes and odd store-fronts, not exactly upscale, but not down-market either.
It’s an old trunk sitting on the sidewalk that catches my eye. It sits beside a set of concrete stairs that go down to a basement level store, an old metal trunk, dark blue with brass trim, and a lock that hangs a little askew, with a cardboard sign taped to it, an arrow pointing down. I slow down for a second to look closer. The concrete steps descend a bit farther, then pause at a landing where other items beckon in a group: an old wooden telephone table, a vase, a milk pitcher painted bright orange. The lower-level store has been empty for some time, so of course I glance in the window, which is a half circle that rests about street level, curving up to just under my chin. Half Moon Antiques & Curiosities crawls in spindly lettering around the curve.
And it’s one of those things, just circumstance; I look down just at the right moment as he’s looking up, cell phone in his hand, in mid conversation. But I can see him hesitate as he sees my pink shoes, and while I keep moving, pushing my legs forward, the lean angles of his face, the dark eyes, the platinum-tipped hair that springs in so many different directions from his head, are etched into my mind, where they brew all day at work as I make phone calls and fiddle with papers at my desk.
The next morning I try to assure myself that my interest is purely in antiques, try to stop my pace from quickening as I reach the row of shops and spot the trunk sitting there on the sidewalk again. He’s setting small glass pieces in the windowsill: blue and green, orange and yellow, birds and flowers and butterflies. They catch the sunlight prettily, but I find my gaze wandering away from them. From under unruly brows, his eyes rise up to my leather boots, then higher still to my tailored leather jacket, three-quarter length. Jet black, those eyes meet mine for a split second, but then drop down again just as quickly; down and down to the lower edge of my jacket, looking for the hem of my skirt. Without thinking I move a little closer to the window as my legs open in stride. I see his tongue, licking his lips. I turn my head again, just in time to see it again, just to be sure and feel a shiver just as if that tongue had snaked higher still, up between my thighs.
I’m at work, trying to answer phones and sift through papers with a warm glow between my legs. He’s invaded me that easily, from behind a glass and in a basement store. It’s animal and anti-intellectual, something that pulls at me from the inside and makes me wet just to think of it.
There are forms to print out here; the beige walls of my cubicle stare passively as I make my way to the end of the day, occupying myself with trivialities so most of my brain is free to run over his dark eyes, his pale face, and his tongue, over and over and over. The heat between my legs grows unbearable, and I run to the ladies’ room to stroke myself, oh so quietly, to a gushing orgasm, and still I can’t get his face out of my head.
The next morning, he’s not there. It stops me in my tracks. I look down into the store and there’s a blonde woman and what I imagine to be a teenage son, they unpack boxes and arrange shelves. I hesitate a second and she sees me, smiles and I smile back, pausing as if looking over the glass pieces. Disappointment seeps in, at first in the background and I try to contain it there. I straighten, I look around, suddenly aware this very first time that there are others on the street, people on their way to work, maybe even people who live above the stores; people who glance out their windows in the morning and see me looking in here, hesitating here like a fool. I’m stung and it follows me to work, the thought hovers like smoke curling around the corners of the room.
I hardly even slow down the next day, just barely, only long enough to see the back of her head – blonde – and hurry on. The day goes by in slow motion, excruciating, the minutes creeping by as they laugh at me, left feeling bereft at this, all those minutes yawning empty, sapped of any music.
And what do I want, exactly? What was I hoping for – some silly movie ending, with him, a dark-eyed man –angel, standing shyly one morning, offering a bouquet of flowers? But no. That’s not what I wanted at all.
After a weekend of mundane chores, I set out for work with a curious mixture of apprehension and excitement roiling in my middle. I try to walk casually by, just stroll down the street looking in the shops, but have to stifle the disappointment when he’s still not there, no sign of him at all as the blonde woman greets customers and stocks shelves, not as Monday bleeds into Tuesday and the sweet flurry of hopeful excitement dissipates. Wednesday, it rains, gathering in cold grey puddles on the sidewalk. I’m looking down at my basic black shoes dodging the puddles, honestly not looking for him any more, but there, out of the corner of my eye, it’s unmistakable – his blond spikes, the back of his head. I stop abruptly, breathless in an instant, but he doesn’t see me. I’m jolted but try to reason my way out of it. I force myself to keep going. Just because he’s there… I don’t have to look or react… But all day at work, it buzzes in the background noise inside my head, the sight of those platinum spikes, the memory of his dark eyes and red tongue, no matter how much I reason against it.
Coming home I start to feel my pulse quicken and my steps slow down as I turn the corner – that corner, that block – and I don’t fight it this time. He’s there. Is he looking for me, too? He comes to the window as I pass, slower, slower, he’s watching as my long jacket flies open in the damp wind. His eyes are hungry, my skirt is short. His tongue, just the end of it, wet and red, runs over his lower lip again and again, back and forth, as I walk by, slowing down. I take a long stride for a good look. His lips purse, he stares intently, then kisses his palm and blows it up to me, and it follows me all the way back home, licking its way up between my legs. I have to rush to the bathroom, l
eave my cat yowling for dinner, stroke myself to orgasm as bath water runs, thinking of the rosy red tip of his tongue.
There’s no rain in the morning, though the sidewalk is splotchy, still mostly damp. A stiff wind separates the gloomy clouds and whips the surface of the puddles into urgent patterns. We have a meeting early at work, it’s still half dark as I scurry along and none of the shops are open. During the meeting – boring, but the pastries are good, coffee decent – I’m looking out of the window as the darker clouds thin out, finally pull apart altogether to reveal satiny blue high above. And why shouldn’t there be magic present? A ghost has entered the machine, an email virus that cripples our server just as the meeting ends, leaving the office in confusion. The system down, we can take some of our ‘personal time’ and leave the office early if we like. Not gratis, understand, especially when I have only one personal day left. But I take it as an omen. And there’s magic of an older, earthier kind – fertility goddesses and phallic symbols. I feel that too. The weather cooperates, it’s dry but still cool, so I walk home with my coat on, but open, flipping here and there in the breeze.
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