I followed her up the lush, carpeted stairs to the first storey, her ample and perfectly naked posterior preceding me. It looked so delectable, I could have reached out and seized her by cheeks and buried my face between—but that didn’t strike me as proper for a new ‘Maid’ being shown about by a ‘Madam.’
“Why do they wear masks?” I asked.
“Because they fear recognition, even here where it is safe. Our society’s membership includes some of the highest-ranking women of society in the city, as well as some of the most notable and acclaimed. But you mustn’t let on that you recognize anyone.”
“Oh, I shan’t. I’m so new I don’t know anyone.” Indeed, the only person here that concerned me was Miss Regina. She did not match the description of the two forward lovelies downstairs, however.
We came to the landing on the first storey, where Cecilia took my hand led me into the first parlor. Papered in lilac and adorned with Romantic paintings, it offered a tranquil scene. Benches, couches, floor pillows, and ottomans lay everywhere, as well as mirrors, hairbrushes, a liquor cabinet and other amenities. Against one wall, a row of low bookshelves held all manner of pillow books, bawdy journals and volumes of poetry.
Half a dozen young women lounged about, attired in their lascivious maid attire, save one done up as a corseted madam. She had another woman in her arms and was kissing her languorously, with a concentrated, slow boil of passion. It looked for all the world like a decadent Orientalist painting from the Paris Salon, with half-clad women everywhere. I gave each a glance but none of them quite had the auburn hair of Regina Waxe.
“This is the Salon of Romance,” Cecilia explained. “One may meet friends here, read, talk, or engage in a little light play.”
I felt at home, and in fact wished nothing more than to abandon my task and mingle amongst those beauties with such perfect freedom and abandon. I nodded to those I passed, for all graced with me with friendly smiles, some with even hopeful, hungry looks. One slender brunette, utterly nude, put down her book as I passed and stopped me with a hand on my bare thigh. I looked down at her, questioning.
She smiled, then knelt before me. “May I smell your pussy, please? I like to get the scent of everyone. Like flowers in a garden, so many unique odors.”
I nodded, so she leaned in close, pressing her nose against my quim with her eyes shut, inhaling as deep as one would a bouquet. She stayed there a minute, her nose moving up and down my folds, each breath a deep and caressing inhalation. During this inspection, Cecilia stood at my side, an arm hooked around my waist or playing with my bottom. Each time I looked up at her she smiled and kissed or otherwise put me at ease. Her touches helped break those lingering restraints of shyness and prudence.
The girl sniffing me looked so pretty, kneeling on her hands and knees like that, her pert, nude bottom jutting outwards, I grew heated. Finally, she looked up at me and smiled. “You have a lovely scent, a bit lemon-salmon and rosewater and wine. Turn around for me, please?”
I liked her description—I always thought my own pussy a bit reeky, but I was no connoisseur—so I did as she asked.
“Thank you,” she said, opening my cheeks with her hand so gently at first I didn’t quite realize what she was doing, then she put her nose to my anus and tasted my bouquet there too, getting every scent of me.
“Give her a fart if you can,” Cecily encouraged. “Monica loves that, don’t you?”
Between my cheeks, an answering—“Mmm-hmm!”
I blushed at the impudent suggestion. “Sorry, I can’t manage that on demand quite yet.”
The girl gave my bumhole a kiss and slipped back onto her couch. “That’s okay, thank you for being a good sport. Come back and sniff me when you’re done with your tour, if you’d like,” she said. “I’ve got a dozen fragrances all over my body. You win a guinea if you find them all.”
I winked at her, and her erotic offer. My guide led me through a portal into the next room.
Here the light was significantly dimmer, almost moody. More couches and divans lay scattered about, as did wisps of silk and pillows of satin. In the center of the room lay a large, low divan, circular in shape and ten feet across. The shelves lay adorned with all manner of dildos, horses, and other implements of feminine pleasure, the use of some of which escaped me.
“This is the Parlor of Venus,” Cecilia said. “Where one may gamahuche and dab to one’s heart’s content. With fingers and tongues, we enjoy all the fruits of Aphrodite’s garden.”
Indeed a foursome of women lay busy at just such an endeavor, not even glancing up as we entered. One busty maiden lay in the center of the attention, while another squatted over her face, offering her sweetest gates to the prone woman’s unseen tongue. A third girl lay between the first one’s legs while the fourth lay beside them, lolling sweetly on a breast while idly frigging herself. This one looked up at me and smiled, suckling a finger so recently moistened with her own dew.
I stepped up to the edge of the bed, still holding Madam Cecilia’s hand, my free hand going of its own volition to tease and cup my mound as I watched the moaning, writhing bodies. I stared with naked and undisguised lust at the women involved in their mutual gamahuche, using sweet mouths to pleasure even sweeter pussies. For all of my seductions, I had never bedded more than one woman at a time, until that fateful night at Vassar when I managed to lure not just one but two mature female instructors into my bed—only to be found out by a headmistress and expelled amidst a thundercloud of shame and scandal. Yet now, I’d been in London less than twenty-four hours and had already discovered a den of Sapphic secrets so decadent, so sophisticated, so delicious, I never would’ve dreamed it. My luck had turned, at last.
I searched the faces, looking for an auburn-haired Regina with a slight mole beside her nose, but too many faces were hidden and I knew I’d have to work through the entire house at my own pace, speaking to everyone, if indeed Regina still remained on the premises. But I could take my time at that.
“Over here,” said the woman lying on her side beside the others. “She’s about to cum and loves it when people watch. The more the better.”
Cecilia and I knelt to either side of the girl who was working away with her mouth and fingers on the busty girl sprawled out on her bed. Her body bucked wildly now, like a bronco, but her needy screams were somewhat muffled by the cunt shoved in her face. Still her cries of “Yes, yes, fuck!” came louder and louder, and she began to raise her pelvis and shove her pussy even harder in her lover’s face.
“Oh that’s Molly, she’s a squirter and a screamer,” Cecilia said, moving a hand to toy with the ass of the naked woman kneeling between us.
Indeed the busty woman—Molly—began screaming into the pussy above her, arching her back utterly off the bed while she sloshed into the face of the girl eating out her pussy. That woman rocked back on her heels, her face covered with the translucent discharge from Molly’s spurting cunny.
“Grab a taste,” Cecilia encouraged, and so I ducked my head between those writhing thighs.
The sweaty, writhing cunny tasted hot as I crammed my face against, feeling the wet throes of her still bed-rattling orgasm soaking my face. She was a squirter all right—her cum kept on coming, clear and lucid at first but getting darker and danker as she released. She was a filthy, screaming squirter and I loved it. I licked up every drop of her shooting pussy, licking her hot and bothered quim from mound to anus, not missing drop.
“Who’s the new girl?” one of the others laughed. “She’s a wildcat for pussy.”
Finally Molly subsided and I rocked back on my heels, wiping my lips.
Cecilia leaned in and kissed me, tasting the juice dribbling from my lips. “Mmm, good girl,” she said. “Now let’s finish the tour—remember, you can always come back here and jump in anytime.”
I nodded, standing dutifully and being led by the hand by the big-bottomed Madam. My inhibitions, not that strong to begin with, were peeling away, one by one.
“This is the Parlor of Delights,” she explained. “It’s for dress-up, the playing of kinky games like naughty maids, Mistress Foot, and especially for the spanking naughty tarts who’ve misbehaved. Sometimes we play games for everyone in the house at once, such as nuns and charges, charades, or blind man’s bluff.” As she spoke, her free hand strayed over the smooth, leather surface of a pommel, which looked like a good place to bend a girl over her and give her bottom a whacking. “We also enjoy face-sitting here,” she said. “Some call it queening.”
“Face-sitting? What’s that?” I asked, both startled and intrigued by the variety of sexual expression and freedom on display
“It’d be easier to show you, sweet pea,” she smiled. It sounded mild enough so I nodded, and so she led me over to a low divan and bid me lay on my back completely prone, making sure I was comfortable.
What happened next surprised me. She crawled upon the divan atop me, her large thighs pillowed out to the side of my arms, lowering her large black muff towards me.
“You want a lick, then?” I asked.
“No, dear,” she said. “Quite the opposite—keep your mouth closed and your arms at your side. Don’t attempt to pleasure me. Just enjoy the taste, the smell, the feel of me all across your face. If you want out, if it gets too stinky or you can’t breathe, just give my rump a slap, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I smiled. How novel! I loved nothing more than a fat, wet pussy on a thick, mature woman—especially one as commanding and agreeable as Cecilia.
She lowered herself gently onto me, her vulva and big, round thighs large enough to cover and smother most of my face while my eyes stared up at her butt cheeks.
Mmm, it was heavenly and it took all my willpower not to start lapping on her as eagerly as I had on Jenny's muff and bury my fingernails into the plump ass cheeks. Two fine, stocky, thirty-something ladies in one day—almost a new record.
As if reading my mind, she reached down and put her hands on my wrists, keeping my arms still. Her muff settled down more firmly atop me, my nose pressed against her anus, my mouth against her warm, wet folds. The thick, black curls of her bush tickled my chin. Her entire sex smelled raw and sweaty but clean, much cleaner than Jenny and with a taste of Bulgarian rose perfume.
She didn’t want me to lick her or eat her out, but I could smell her and I certainly did, inhaling the deep and heady fragrance of her perfumed quim and sweaty, meaty thighs. My nose, pressed up against the florid bud of her anus, found itself treated to earthier smells. In fact, her scent and the smothering press of her flesh soon came overwhelming and I felt my breath shortening, coming harder.
“Oh, I feel a little queef coming on,” she grinned, letting her vaginal fart come, a quick and lewd squelch directly in my face.
Now I couldn’t smell anything but her dirty pussy fart, the scent permeating my nostrils and reaching tendrils of scent into my brain as I struggled for breath, smothered under her fat globes. That first queef seemed to trigger a reflex, and her anus farted too, a loud, wet sounding squisher that frankly assaulted my nostrils with its earthy, rank cheese scent. But before I needed to tap her bottom she lifted off of me, giving me a deep respite and letting my catch my breath.
“Had enough?” she grinned, rising off of me.
I sat up, wiping my lips of her lovely juices. “In truth, I could sit there all night, slowly working you into a deep and powerful orgasm with my mouth—but we’d never finish the tour that way.”
She laughed and kissed me. “You’re right, and there’s a lot more to offer, too.”
“I can’t imagine what’s next.”
She took my hand, leading me up to the second storey. “Now these next two rooms are a little more—shocking. If you’ve a mild temperament, we can turn back.”
I leaned forward and gave her rump a nip. “I’m made of stern stuff.”
“That’s the spirit,” she winked, leading me upwards.
Only two parlors lay on the next floor, perhaps master bedrooms in a former life. The door to the left stood open and splashing and laughter came from within. The door to the right stood shut fast, made of heavy black oak with a stern, worn silver handle in the shape of a gargoyle’s head. We went into the room to the left first.
“This is the Parlor of the Undines,” my guide told me. Indeed the entire room was wood-paneled, its floor decorated in hand-painted porcelain tiles showing a nautical theme of dolphins, mermaids and other sea creatures. A fresco of Venus rising from the sea covered one wall and towels of all colors and sizes were available in standing cabinets.
Being on the second storey of the mansion, no actual pool or basins were set into the floor in the Roman manner, but a number of improbably large cast iron tubs, perfect for a twosome to make love in with a bottle of wine near to hand. In one of the larger tubs, three lovelies were already engaged in a lewd frolic.
“Here, the lovelies may wash or play in the water with each other, or indeed if one wishes to make water and have another watch or even help, such play is also warmly encouraged and condoned,” Madam Cecilia explained. “Some women become most excited at the taste and touch of another woman’s urine. Such women are called Undines, and it’s quite the sport for those who’ve acquired the taste. I quite fancy it myself.”
In shocking testament to her words, a number of wash basins and chamber pots were lined up against the far wall, and indeed even as we entered, a slender young brunette in a domino mask squatted over a low-rimmed copper basin, her knees jutting out at a wide angle. At her side, her plump blonde friend, equally masked, sipped from a glass of white wine or champagne. Both women were quite naked, their hair and bodies still wet from the tubs. I recognized them as the two women I’d met on the first floor. They must’ve come straight here while Cecilia showed me the other parlors and sat on my face.
The brunette’s fingers crept down through her bush and opened up her gates. In a second, a golden arc of her pee shot out, tinkling into the basis noisily. Her friend idly put the wineglass under the flow, adding that sour tincture to her champagne, then sloshed it around greedily.
I stood astounded. I’d never seen anything like it: so raunchy and filthy, so intimate and taboo, yet the bold debauchery of it excited me beyond measure.
The brunette looked up—Clara, her friend had called her—and smiled, gesturing me over with a finger. “Hurry,” she called out in her posh accents. “Before it’s too late.”
Behind me, Madam Cecilia patted my bottom, propelling me forward.
I crept forward and knelt on the opposite side of the basin as the plump blonde with the white—now golden—wine took a deep and utterly decadent sip of alcohol mixed with her friend’s pee.
“Hello,” I said, flushed from my neck to my breasts.
“Hello again, Tuppings,” she smiled. “Come, have a touch.”
I tilted my head, puzzled and not understanding. She reached out and took my hand, then guided it into the brassy flow streaming from her urethra. Her stream felt hot and wet across my hand, so dirty and wrong. Clara took my hand and guided it to her lips even as the hot, golden water trickled down my wrist; she licked her own dirty pee right off my fingers, moaning all the while.
At my side, Madam Cecilia bent her head between Clara’s thighs and put her lips to the diminishing trickle. She lapped it up like it was from a fountain.
“Go on, give her a taste Bets,” Clara said, pushing my hand back down.
The plump blonde handed me her wineglass. “The trick is to mix the right liquors, and not too much piss,” she said. “To almost but not entirely mask the taste.”
&nbs
p; The taste didn’t seem to bother the other two. I accepted the wineglass and tentatively raised it to my lips. It bubbled like champagne and I couldn’t tell if the pee-scent came from the glass or what had been collected in the basin. I took a sip: a sharp, tangy, bitter white wine with an undercurrent of the dank, salty—pee, most likely.
“Interesting,” I said, handing the glass back to the blonde. “Must be an acquired taste.”
Clara, still squatting over her basin laughed. “Some like to give, some to receive, some like both. If you ever want to give me a saucy bath, come find me. I’m usually here.”
“I’ll do that,” I said, smiling. I should like to pee on that saucy wench.
Madam Cecilia rose, Clara’s trickle having ceased. We washed our faces and hands in a clean washbasin, then moved towards the exit.
“One room remains,” said Madam Cecilia. “Beyond the Black Door.”
“Oh, don’t take her in there,” Clara complained. “She’ll end up like that auburn-haired tart, what’s her name—Audrey Pussycakes—she’ll never want to leave!”
Ah hah!
Chapter 3: Beyond the Black Door
The oak door creaked opened to Madam Cecilia’s touch, and we stepped into a chamber made out to look like a medieval tower, with stone-facing halfway up the walls, the floor tiles a dark slate, cool and smooth beneath my stocking-clad feet. The only light came from wrought-iron candelabra dangling from the ceiling, and heavy black and red rapes covered the windows and ran about the room, counterpoint to the implements and metal equipment on display.
Racks, pillories, padded coffins, whipping posts, benches, spreaders, stocks, cages and all manner of wings, suspension bars and other things I couldn’t put a name too—cruel, wicked things—stacked on tables, fireplaces or hung from pegs on walls and in racks. Oddly, this room was also barren of women, not even the promised Audrey Pussycakes—who was more than likely Regina Waxe, the target of my investigation.
Corset House Page 3