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Corset House

Page 2

by Kella Z Driel


  I put a hand around her waist and kissing her cheek. “Thirty-one isn’t old, you aren’t fat, and I do admire a husky bosom.”

  “That I’ve got. Fancy a look?” she asked. I nodded, so she turned her back to me so I could unlace her corset. Her fair, freckled skin bunched up and bulged out between the laces, with her adorable pudginess. The corset fell forward into her hands and she laid it on the bed.

  She turned around, hands on her breasts, maidenly at first, then she lifted her arms up and laughed, shaking out her full, fair breasts with that easygoing sensuality I already found so endearing. She had full, red areolas, her breasts sagging a bit but still round and curvaceous.

  “There they are, my bubbies. Though they were a might finer sight when I were your age, before that sailor put three bairns in me. Well love, don’t be shy now. Your Mrs. Hudson does her marketing in smart order. She’ll be back within the hour, I’ll wager.”

  I slid into her arms, greeting her mouth with a kiss and fell atop her warm, soft body into her firm embrace. She was soft and adorably flabby and smelled faintly of rosewater perfume and more strongly of sweat, in need of a bath. The kisses grew naughtier, tongues meeting and jousting, before I began to kiss my way down her neck and across the pillows of her breasts. At first I played the coy lover, licking and planting kisses on her fat, flattened nipples, as large as the tips of my pinkie fingers, but soon I smothered myself between them, rolling back and forth in her embrace.

  She spread her thighs and caught her feet around my hips while adroit fingers unlaced my corset from the back. I turned about to help her and slipped the garment off.

  Her eyes sparkled at the sight of my breasts and she reached up to grab a handful. I’m small so they easily fit in the cups of her meaty hands. “My what lovely bubbies, so firm still.”

  I crawled atop her, pressing my breasts to her face so she could lick and suck my nipples, which she promptly did without asking. Oh I needed a woman so badly, it’d been far too long—not since the scandal. I arced my back and pressed myself into her soft, round body, full of greed.

  Her hands cupped my buttocks through my drawers, sliding through the opening and coming to cup my cheeks, squeezing and kneading. Then she slid her finger around to my quim, finding my thick tangle of dark blonde curls. She grabbed hold and pulled—mmm, I loved that so much.

  “I can’t abide it, let’s get these knickers off,” I said. We slipped them off then sprawled across my bed end-to-end for a proper, mutual gamahuche. I stroked the thick ivory columns of her thighs until she parted, opening up her legs to show her full, fat pussy.

  Down between my legs, she cooed: “You look tight as a virgin’s arse and smell as sweet as a bath, love. Sure you won’t to bleed on me, are you?”

  “No,” I laughed, lifting one leg up and giving her access to my hot and eager cunny. “Plenty of fingers and tongues have visited my country.”

  The red curls grew dark and thick between her legs and I petted her lovely, thick fur before burying my face against her. She smelled dank and lovely, all woman—all pussy. My mouth went to work at once, knowing where it was and what it wanted, feeling right at home. First I kissed all over her lips, smacking across them like kissing my lover, juicing her up with my saliva. It didn’t take her long to start dripping, not after I opened her up and started working my tongue into her big, fat opening—loose and accessible. I dabbled my tongue up along her pee-hole then to her clit, wrapping around the pearl and tongue-whipping it. My fingers joined the game, all four sliding inside her cleft and reaching around inside her opening.

  “You’re no shrinking violet,” she laughed, before commencing to work on me. Her experienced fingers opened me up swiftly and she bathed my cunt with her mouth, slobbering across me to moisten me up before working some fingers into my channel. Her entire mouth engulfed my mound, slurping across my clitoris and slapping that pearl with my tongue. Then she shocked me, pressing a greedy, moistened middle finger up against the rosebud of my anus.

  “Oh yes, I love that,” I said, feeling so warm already.

  She groaned and shoved it up the flower of my ass without preamble and sunk it to the hilt. It hurt beautifully.

  I shoved my face into the broad, pink wetness of her cunny with even more hunger while slipping my free hand around to curve the magnificent prominences of her great big bottom. I slapped and poked and prodded those big white cheeks with both hands now while tongue cleaned out her feminine passage and my face sloshed against her moist mound.

  The bed frame creaked and groaned beneath us as we rolled and fucked each other, employing mouths and fingers most vigorously. My middle finger found her fat pucker and pushed in, relentlessly intruding into her dirty back channel.

  She counter-attacked with renewed gusto, soon sucking my clitoris so vigorously while sliding her fingers in, out and all around inside my tight vagina so skillfully that it wasn’t long before the first warm waves of my orgasm began to build inside me and soon reached a thundering crescendo as I came.

  I buried my scream in her cunt, wary of other lodgers. Afterwards she sat on my face and nearly smothered me with her dripping folds until she too came.

  We managed to dress and depart before Mrs. Hudson returned.

  Chapter 2: Corset House

  My disguise as a trinket-peddler along Hanover Square proved a success. My assortment of chocolates, cigarettes, patent medicines, and other sundries drew considerable interest, especially from males and particularly after the novelty of my American accent and my inability to make correct change became widely known.

  Eventually, I eluded the throng and established myself on the much quieter Princess Street in front of the café and across from Corset House. If anyone in the neighborhood noticed my return or pierced my disguised, they did not react.

  Holmes had not lied when he said the waiting and watching required patience. The next five hours passed in sheer tedium, punctuated by occasional customers and even rarer sightings of women entering and leaving the building in question.

  These mystery women proved nearly always to be young, fashionable and attractive, aged anywhere from eighteen to their early thirties, most with the wasp-waisted, hourglass figure then in vogue, but accompanied by some huskier women as well. They came singly, or in twos and threes, occasionally masked or dressed in chambermaid outfits, but for the most part attired in a normal manner. I never saw a single private carriage. They always made use of the hansom stand at the corner. After a while, I took my trade right to the stand.

  Crucially, I observed several more broad, silver bands on the women's fingers and once I became cognizant of this article of jewelry, I kept a keen eye out for them. Then I started noticing the woman furtively placing the rings on their fingers before knocking at the door, or removing them upon exiting. One girl even told her friend not to forget her ring. Surely, such a band would prove to be the key!

  Not shortly after this strategic repositioning, a young woman emerged from Corset House, wearing a slim-fronted skirt but with a massive, wood-framed bustle in back, the style of the time. As she crossed the street to the hansom stand, carefully lifting her outer skirting to avoid the debris in the road.

  I greeted her with a smile and offered her my wares. “Hullo, Miss. Fancy a dainty?”

  She shook her head and did her best to ignore me, perhaps finding my forward American mannerisms off-putting.

  When the hansom carted her off, I felt despair edging in again. How could I possibly accomplish Mr. Holmes’ task under such conditions? Wild ideas such as hurling an incendiary device through the window to smoke them out crossed my mind, but I dismissed them as impractical. Could I knock on the door, feign a fainting fit, then—once brought inside—demand to speak to Ms. Regina Waxe?

  Lost in such thoughts, I noticed a small purple coin purse in the gutter, apparently dropped by the woman in the violet bustle skirt. I quickly snapped it up before anyone else spotted it and emptied its contents into my trinkets tray
. Along with a handful of the incomprehensible British currency, so unlike our own decimalized coins, and a slip of paper with the rather unappealing name of Florence Cuntry scrawled across it, I found one of those broad, silver bands. The monogram indeed read A.A.L., but an engraving on the interior read:

  Amor

  Auctorita

  Ligatio

  Ah-hah! Employing my schoolgirl Latin, I translated it as Love, Power and Discipline. That fit the facts of Corset House, suggesting certain bawdy and raunchy games played in this sweet and secret den of Lesbian iniquity. And now I had my ticket in! Granted, I’d arrived at it through dumb luck rather than the genius of my cousin, but who could blame me for seizing the opportunity chance had tossed my way?

  My disguise no longer needed, I darted home to Baker Street. Suppertime approached and Jenny had long since departed her kiosk and returned to her own neighborhood, but Holmes’ landlady Mrs. Hudson had returned from her shopping and was eager to feed me and learn all about me. I endured a strained but pleasant meal with her, before retiring to my tiny chamber under the stairs to change.

  I took my finest gown out of the steamer trunk and while it was not as splendid or as fashionable as those I’d seen today, and utterly lacked a bustle, the fact that some of the visitors appeared in masks or chambermaid costumes suggested a relaxed dress code. What I glimpsed in the window and deduced from the monogram in the ring suggested they might have a much more erotic dress code inside. My outward garments would not matter.

  Donning hat and shawl, I returned to Princess Street by the now familiar route along Baker Street to Oxford Street then right into Hanover Square. I knew that much of London could be unsafe for a young woman walking about on her own, but this neighborhood enjoyed a good reputation and I sensed no menace. Besides, the sun had not yet set and I resolved to take a hansom on my return trip.

  I reached Corset House in good time, finding nobody else on the street. At first I feared I’d missed the event completely. But lights shone in the windows on all four floors and laughter and music rang from within, indeed more activity than I’d seen all day, so I knew I’d made the right choice. Indeed, two more hansoms pulled up even as I knocked on the door.

  The door opened six inches and a stern, middle-aged brunette, dressed not unlike an American saloon girl, peered out at me. “Yes?” she asked.

  I flashed my silver ring. “Oh, hello. My friend suggested this club to me, thought I might rather enjoy it.”

  “Indeed,” she smiled, her entire demeanor changing. “Come right in, please. That’s it.”

  I stepped into a rather quaint, common hallway with only a few articles of furniture: a marble-topped end table with a basket and wooden box, a low bench and a comfy chair on which some knitting had been abandoned, and a rather full hat rack, buried beneath shawls, hats and parasols. Stairs led up to the next storey, several doors opened into parlors, and a hallway led towards rooms in the back. The voices and laughter of women floated out of the other rooms, along with the occasional cry of pain and what might have been a smacking sound, as if from a paddle upon an upturned bottom.

  “Oh, aren’t you pretty? Are you from America?”

  “Yes, that’s right. My name is—”

  “No, no, no!” she said.

  “No?”

  “We don’t use our names or titles here, only our aliases.” She patted a piece of paper pinned to her blouse, with the absurd name ‘Frances Pinchpuss’ scrawled across it. “We’ve only a few other rules. You must be a young woman of quality, at least eighteen years of age. If you recognize someone, it’s polite not to acknowledge it. You needn’t do anything you don’t want to, but don’t fuss at others for what they’re all in for. If you get hungry there’s a kitchen and the fourth storey has beds for sleeping off a debauch. Have you got all that?”

  “Certainly,” I said.

  “Cecilia!” she shouted up the stairs. “Madam Cecilia! We’ve got a new guest.”

  After a moment, the shouted-for Cecilia came out, a raven-tressed woman of about thirty, wearing a piece of paper pinned to the side of her demi-corset and little else—the corset laced up to just under her breasts but didn’t extend over her ample, veiny bosoms, while she went starkers from the waist down: a wreath of magnificent black curls hung over her naked cunny, while pale, pudgy legs quite bare down to a pair of comfortable house-slippers. In one hand she held a glass of champagne.

  “Good evening, dear!” she toasted, offering a sip of champagne. “I’ll get you kitted out in your maid clothes then, then give you the walking tour.”

  “She’s American,” the first woman smiled.

  “Oh, how exciting! First thing, you need to make a donation and get your name. Go on dear, put what you like in the coin basket, then draw a slip from the basket.”

  She opened up a basket, full of slips of paper folded neatly in half. I put some of the larger silver coins from my purse into the wooden box, then reached my hand into the basket and chose a slip of paper at random.

  “Blanche Tuppings,” I read, to chuckles all around. I rather preferred Minerva Quick, to be fair.

  Cecilia handed me her champagne glass and led me down the hall. “Blanche suits you, you’re quite the bleached mort. Let’s get you all naughty and have a bite.”

  We stepped into a small parlor, one already full of discarded dresses and other clothes scattered about willy-nilly. She helped me out of my outer garments with alacrity, remaining gracious and charming yet quite flirtatious and putting me at ease. It’s fortunate my proclivities ran as they did as I otherwise might’ve found the situation far too uncomfortable and nerve-wracking. Instead I found it exhilarating—and understood why young Miss Regina Waxe might have decided never to leave.

  “Did your friend tell you much?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “Only that it was all rather secret, wickedly bawdy, and perfect bliss.”

  “An apt description,” she said, kneeling behind me and helping me step out of my knickers. “One thing she omitted is that it’s absolutely necessary too. So many of us are so corseted and stifled, shunted about or trapped in such dull and lifeless marriages with such tedious families, that the release provided by Corset House is an absolute must.”

  Her lips landed across my naked bottom and gave it a loud horse-smacker of a kiss, then she gave each cheek a warm little snap, not quite enough to sting but certainly suggestive of treats to come. “Such a pert little arse, I would quite enjoy opening you up and giving you a good cleaning down there, though I rather fancy you’ll want to noodle with some of the other young misses.”

  I smiled at her as she took my hand and led me to the mirror. “Oh no, Madam Cecilia, I rather fancy a thick, curvy gal. But ‘Maids’ and ‘Madams,’ how shall I know who’s who if we’re all using play-names?”

  “That’s just a game for here. We stricter women are called Madams and wear corsets, and the pretty morsels being passed about are called Maids and wear aprons and maid’s caps. Nobody ever mentions marriage or wears any sort of wedding or engagement ring, only your Corset House band. Of course, one’s allowed to choose to be either a Maid or a Madam, whatever suits you best, but for your first time, you must always be a saucy and obedient Maid. It’s always the more popular role anyhow, for who doesn’t enjoy a good bottom warming?”

  We stood in front of the mirror, she partially behind me and putting her arms around me, nuzzling on my shoulder. I smiled and placed my hands over hers, where they kneaded my breasts gently, my nipples quickly tingling and my face growing flushed. “Of course, I shall be a Maid,” I said. “I shall like these games quite a lot.”

  “Indeed, you shall,” she said, running her hands down my small breasts, over my slender hips and bringing them to rest in my nest of dark blonde curls. “And we shall enjoy having you. Now let’s size you up for a costume before someone else arrives. Then I’ll show you all of our treats and then you can decide when and where you’d like to join in. Or you may watch if you
prefer. This pink ruff collar around your neck signifies to the others that you’re new.”

  She tied me into a translucent maid’s apron that did nothing to cover either my breasts or my cunny, let alone my bare backside, being simply a sash tied up in back. She pinned my ‘name’ to the apron then fixed a tiny maid’s cap in my blonde chignon. Finally, she helped me into a pair of saucy stockings and a garter belt.

  We finished just as two other women entered, young and fashionable with ostrich-feathered caps and fully clothed in bustle dresses. They even wore embroidered dominoes over the upper features of their faces.

  Cecilia greeted them with a kiss on the cheek, not the least self conscious about her husky body so nearly naked, but I felt a flush as the newcomers looked me over with a thoroughly immodest appraisal.

  “I say,” said the taller one, a brunette, her accent as posh as poured silk. “She’s a lovely little tart, I should like to eat her up. Would you like that, Tuppings?” she asked, reading my name tag.

  I nodded, so she stepped forward, cupping my mound with her hand and giving it a squeeze. The arousal I felt, with her commanding hand and fully-clothed body, bustle and mask and all, compared to my vulnerable nudity, aroused me and I felt my body heating up. She began to squeeze my pussy lips together, aggressively, pinching them.

  “Clara, the pink ruff means she’s new,” her friend said, a short, plump blonde, her words equally upper crusted. “You have to be gentle.”

  “Right-o,” Clara said, letting go my puss and moving to a bench to begin undressing.

  “Names, names girls,” Madam Cecilia chided, drawing me by the arm and out into the hall. The newcomers closed the door after us and we headed towards the stairs.

  “The ground floor is for changing into the proper attire,” she explained, “finding a bit to eat or another glass of wine, or if you just need to get away from the press or want to make water without someone watching. The first and second storey is where the games are played, and each parlor has a different game, growing more bawdy by the step. I’ll show you, one by one.”

 

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