When it was done, Tim took a step back. He looked down at the backs of Lucy’s legs. Often enough he’d seen them in stockings, sleek and sheer, with dark bands marking the few inches of flesh between stocking tops and arse, or crotch. But never before in seamed stockings. Never with those long, sinuous black seams running down to her heels. Lucy stepped in front of the tall mirror, and stood with her hands on her hips, looking over her shoulder to check her rear view from all angles. In one of its three wings, she caught sight of Tim’s reflection, staring. It wasn’t hard to track the invisible line of his eye.
Then she stepped into the summer frock. ‘Zip me up, Tim. Now... why didn’t I pick shoes when I took down the dress?’
She padded over to the shoes, all ranked up against the wall, in her flesh-tinted stockinged feet. Tim watched her heels as they went. Each rested inside a box of seaming, perched inside the shape of a Cuban heel. Lucy chose a simple pair of patent courts. Her feet slid into the shoes. She stood erect, with perhaps two inches added to her height, but with it the whole posture of her body was altered. It seemed to Tim that with the final detail of the shoes, the old-fashioned outfit took its effect on a woman’s body. The shoes made her stand up straight; the nylons made her legs sleek and smooth; the corset, knickers and bra pulled her figure into shape and held it firm. And as Lucy came back towards him, the loose-fitting skirt of her summer frock twirled and wafted round her knees and thighs, drawing the eye in the direction of hidden parts. But for her modern-day hairdo, she also looked very like Aunt Lynda’s picture.
‘So? What do you think?’ She came closer, and the skirt twirled. Her thighs met, and rubbed together with a soft sigh of nylon.
Tim didn’t answer. He was unable to speak.
‘Wearing this gear is like being in bondage,’ Lucy said. She knew what she meant, for she’d been handcuffed and tied down to the bed more than once. ‘It makes me feel as if I ought to be a good girl. That makes me want to be rude. Very rude.’
She began to walk up and down, promenading the attic. Her step became more and more calculatingly sexy. She swung her hips and shimmied her legs like a shameless girl from the streets. Back and forth, towards Tim and away from him. Each time she turned away he was given a fresh look at her black-seamed calves. Her skirt fluttered upwards, and he got more, a flash of knee and thigh. With a lascivious smile, she watched him from over her shoulder.
‘Do you like my legs in these, mister? You do, don’t you? Do you want to see some more? I bet you do. Here.’
Suddenly she halted and bent down, and as she did, she caught the back of her skirt and hitched it up, lifting it away from her stocking tops and suspenders. A little higher, and her big silky white knickers came into sight.
Tim had been spellbound with excitement, his breathing shallow and his heart beating painfully hard. Now he awoke to action. He sprang forward and caught Lucy in his arms. She tried to straighten up but he pinned her down, bending. With one arm he encircled her waist, squeezing against the corset.
‘Yeah, you’re rude,’ he said breathlessly. ‘You’re very rude. You know what would have happened to a girl who behaved like that back in old Auntie’s day? She’d have been spanked! Smacked on her backside, good and hard, to make her behave! Like this!’
‘Ow!’ Lucy squealed in delight. ‘I’ll be good! Please don’t spank me, mister! OW!’
The flat of Tim’s hand met her knickers with a ringing smack, and then another and another. Lucy struggled and squirmed in his grip. But above her stocking tops, in between the straps of her suspenders, the flesh of her thighs grew moist. Tim spanked her again, and again, with sharp brisk smacks.
‘This is what you need, isn’t it? A good spanking! A fucking good spanking!’
‘Yes, mister! It feels fucking gorgeous! Ow!’ she squealed, as Tim landed the hardest spank yet.
‘That’s for swearing!’
‘I can’t help it, mister! I want you to fuck me! Fuck me! Come on, fuck me!’
The moment had come for them both. With his free hand Tim jerked open his flies and pulled aside his shorts. Lucy’s skirt had already ridden up completely off her arse, exposing her knickers; he caught the waistband at the small of her back and dragged it down, past her stocking tops, down to her knees. She stayed bent over, supported by his arms around her waist. He located her cunt from the rear and plunged his cock forward. The fuck went on for many minutes, there in Aunt Lynda’s attic.
When it was over, neither knew quite what to say. Lucy changed out of Aunt Lynda’s crumpled, sweat-stained summer frock, back into her own clothes, and they went downstairs, to continue looking over the rest of the house. But they knew they’d go back up to the attic soon. There were so many more outfits there, waiting to be tried on.
Madame’s Neck
Seated before the mirror, Madame Pamela touched the right side of her throat. With the half-consciousness of habit, her fingertips tested the folds and stretches of her skin. The joints of her fingers were encircled above and below with deep wrinkles, but that seemed to her a minor defect, compared to the condition of her neck. Once it had been smooth and flawless; now it was a perpetual reminder that she’d ceased to be young.
She remained an attractive woman, and one who in some respects defied time. Her figure was perfect, and she moved with an innate grace and poise; she sat at her dressing-table on a square stool with no back, effortlessly erect. Her evening dress was black velvet, and clung to her slim waist and slender arms in a way that was entirely flattering.
But her ash-blonde hair would have been grey, if not for chemicals. Her eyes, dark in colour and sparkling in their expression, were beautiful in themselves, but crinkly little ruts had crept around their perimeters and sprouted from their corners. Something similar had happened to her mouth: large, wide and full-lipped, it could part and lift into a delicious smile, but her laugh lines had come to stay. And a stranger’s casual glance at her bare throat could sting Madame Pamela deeply, confirming her own belief in its unsightliness. Madame’s neck was her weakness: it was ‘a dead giveaway’, as people say.
‘Here. Let me.’
As the words were said, a man’s white evening shirt appeared in the mirror, behind her. A hand reached past her shoulder and picked up from the dressing-table a long scarf, a broad band of black semi-transparent chiffon.
He wrapped the scarf loosely around her, making three or four circuits of her head, winding it outwards from her throat down to her collarbone. When he was done, her neck was completely hidden, and her small, firm chin rested in a soft cloud of black.
Bending over her from behind, he placed his hands upon her shoulders. They were large and smooth: their weight, and the sense of strength contained within them, made Madame shudder with pleasure. She turned and looked up into her companion’s face. Powerfully built, tall and handsome, he was only just twenty years old.
Parted, with the edges of white teeth just visible, his lips were descending to meet her. Madame smiled, but tilted her head away.
‘Philip, we haven’t the time.’
‘I’m in the mood,’ Philip said.
‘I know,’ Madame said, ‘but - ‘
She broke off. His mouth had pursued her. She’d turned her head as far away as she could, her chin sliding smoothly over the chiffon, but he held her pinned and her capture was inevitable. Pressing close, his teeth slid up on to the lobe of her left ear. They closed upon the sliver of flesh, pierced but ringless, deliciously sensitive to touch. Madame melted in his grasp.
‘Philip!’ she said faintly. ‘We’ll be late.’
‘I don’t feel like waiting. Spending two or three hours looking at you, not able to lay a finger on you. Not able to take my eyes off your neck. I want you now.’
‘You’ll enjoy it so much more if we wait, Philip. Be patient. Be good.’
‘Be quiet.�
�
The more she appealed to him to stop, the limper and more pliant she became, and the more ruthlessly he handled her. He let go one shoulder, but only to take hold of her breasts, clutching each breast in turn and squeezing it into the shape of a cone. And he continued to subject her earlobes to sensual gnawing, changing from right ear to left and back again at irregular intervals.
‘Philip... oh, Philip, please!’
‘Be quiet.’
‘Be kind to me!’
‘Shut up,’ Philip said.
Letting go a breast, he reached again to the dressing-table. Its top drawer was a few inches open. He reached in, and without searching brought out another scarf. It was a headsquare of black satin, embroidered with fine threads of gold. Spread out flat, it would have measured about thirty inches by thirty; but it was kept folded into a thick strip, four or five inches at its widest.
Disengaging from Madame’s ear, he brought the strip of satin hard against her mouth and swiftly tied it around her face, knotting it at the back of her head. From the nose downwards, her features disappeared. Wide and full of helplessness, her eyes looked out of the mirror.
Deprived of speech, she tried to protest, even to struggle, to reach up and pull the gag away. Silent in his turn, he caught her hands by the wrists. Drawing them down behind her, he forced them together, then opened one hand to clasp both. She was restrained with complete efficiency, while he was free to reach for the drawer.
Dropping a knee to the floor, he let fall two white scarves, long bands of some thin lacy material. He kept hold of a third scarf, of the same kind, and drew Madame’s hands to one side of the stool while making a loop around the nearer of her wrists. He pulled the loop tight, leaving two long ends. Then he drew that wrist close up against the rear leg of the stool, and made a loop around the leg, another round Madame’s wrist, another encircling both, back and forth, till the length of white cloth was used up, leaving only enough material to make a firm knot. Despite working with a single hand, he bound her deftly and without a slip; and before the binding was complete, Madame’s other wrist could be let go briefly, and would hang limp, waiting its turn to be tied to the leg opposite.
The last white scarf was passed under her arms and drawn tight behind her back, pulling her arms close to her sides, forcing her bosom to jut forward. Kneeling behind the stool, Philip hugged her, cupping her breasts in his palms and fingering flesh through velvet.
Madame sank back upon him. Her head dropped on to his shoulder and their faces nuzzled together. The sound of their breathing became intermingled: his, heavy and low; hers, soft and constrained, unable to find exit by way of her mouth. With her ears half hidden under the satin gag, her lobes were inaccessible; instead he buried his chin in her neck, burrowing his jaw into its black wrappings.
The evening’s engagement was forgotten. Gagged and tied, her eyes cast to the ceiling, Madame Pamela submitted to her young lover’s will, with silent thanks for chiffon, satin and lace.
Secrets
‘Gordona’s a bit late, isn’t she?’ John remarked.
He spoke as casually as he could and didn’t look up from his laptop screen as he worked out the month’s accounts. It would have been better to stay quiet. But he was eager to see Felicity leave.
She was impatient to go. She couldn’t sit down: instead she walked about the lounge, tracing and retracing her steps in a path that kept bringing her back to the big bay window. From there you could look up and down a long quiet country road that stretched past wide open fields for a quarter of a mile or more. There was no car in sight. Felicity was dressed for horse riding, in a short jacket of dark grey tweed, tight white jodhpurs that clung to her shapely bum and slim thighs, and tall riding boots. In her hand she carried a short black whip and as she stood at the window, its tongue tapped irritably against the top of her right boot. John half expected her to answer his remark with a snap, something about having a university degree in stating the fucking obvious.
But she seemed only to have half heard. ‘What? Oh, yeah. It’s no big deal,’ she said. ‘Nothing to worry about. She told me she might be kept a while in town. Here she is!’
With those suddenly-added words a leap came into Felicity’s voice. She hurried out of the lounge and made for the front door. John left the accounts and followed her. He reached the porch just in time to see Gordona Winfield’s Land Rover roll to a halt at their gate, where Felicity stood waiting.
When John and Felicity had moved to that part of the world getting to know Gordona had been a stroke of luck. She was a pillar of the local community: frightfully rich, and well thought of by all the county people who mattered. A good word from her was an ‘open sesame’ at all kinds of doors. She and Felicity had become great friends, and both were keen horsewomen. It was a regular event for them to go riding; two or three times a week, at least, John would be left to his own devices while they set off for the stables. Gordona would always drive over and pick Felicity up, and usually she arrived in tweeds and jods, all ready to mount. But today she climbed down from the Land Rover outfitted for the town, not the country. She greeted Felicity in a knee-length tight-skirted dress of dark blue velvet, sheer black stockings and patent courts with high but modest heels.
‘Hi, darling. I was so long at Slater’s! I thought I’d never get away.’ Mr Slater was Gordona’s solicitor. ‘I came straight here. You don’t mind me getting out of my clothes in your house, do you?’
Felicity laughed. ‘Use our bedroom. It’s straight ahead on the landing.’
‘You’re so kind, Felicity. Hello, John.’ Her velvet-sleeved arms filled with a bundle of clothing, Gordona stepped past him, across the porch and through the door. She and John were the same height, five foot ten, and not dissimilar in build. He was just above average male height and proportionate in weight, she was a tall and fully-figured woman. The polished wooden stairs gave sharp raps under the brisk upward step of her heels. A few minutes later they resounded to the descending solid tread of jodhpur boots, ankle high and elastic-sided; Gordona’s preferred footwear for riding when she had also to drive.
John saw the girls off at the gate. ‘Have a good ride. I’ll come with you, one of these weeks.’
‘We’d love you to,’ they answered together.
‘You’ve got your keys, haven’t you?’ he said to Felicity. ‘I won’t be much longer with the accounts. If you did happen to get locked out, you could always come and join me at the Fiddlers.’ The Fiddlers was the local village pub, and only ten minutes’ walk away. ‘See you later.’
Felicity turned in her seat and waved back to him as the Land Rover disappeared up the road. John stood watching till it was gone. Then he drew a long tremulous breath. All of a sudden he was very excited. He went back into the house, closed the front door behind him, and climbed the stairs to his and Felicity’s bedroom.
Gordona had left her business clothes there in a rather untidy state. The blue velvet dress lay sidelong across the double bed, its back zip down. Her court shoes stood not quite together on the floor, and her discarded stockings had been dropped beside them, to trail across the bedroom carpet in long black wisps of crumpled silk. For a long minute John stood and stared at the abandoned garments, empty yet charged with the presence of their wearer. He was perfectly still, but felt as if he was shaking from the beating of his heart. At last he moved. Stepping around the bed, as if almost afraid of coming too close to Gordona’s clothes, he made his way to a chest of drawers beneath the window. This was Felicity’s territory, her side of the bedroom. He was there, not for the first time or the fiftieth, to taste the soft thrilling pleasures of her undies.
One drawer after another slid silently open: John was careful, oh so careful, even though there was nobody to hear. Straps and frills, padded cups, smooth fancy silk and cool functional cotton were brought to view. He ran his fingers over the surfaces, then
plunged a hand down among them, grasping a fistful of fabric. But touching wasn’t enough. He unbuttoned his shirt. One minute later he was standing nude. His choice of Felicity’s underwear was already made. He stepped into a pair of high-waisted knickers in black silk, and drew them up. Soft yet tight, they enclosed his loins, compressing his bum and crotch in their gentle but firm hold. He slid his arms into the straps of a matching bra. To make the clasps meet behind him took a little struggle, but it could be done. His chest was bound in black silk.
A full-length mirror stood close by. When she was deciding what to wear Felicity would stand in front of it for minutes on end, turning this way and that, taking off one item and trying another. In male clothes, John would give himself no more than a quick once-over to check that he looked ‘all right’. Now he put his hands on his hips and drew in his stomach, which was naturally flat and well-toned; he projected his chest forward in an effort to create the appearance of cleavage. He relished the sight of himself in panties and bra.
It was like looking into another world, one full of fantasies that might be made real. But as always, John asked himself a question.
‘Am I really a transvestite?’
What would anyone else say? He thought of the crowd at the Fiddlers: what would they call a bloke who dressed up in his wife’s undies while she was out? For a moment he turned cold. And Felicity - what would she say, if she knew? It was a dismaying thought. Yet, and this was the strangest thing of all, even as he was chilled with dismay, the idea of being discovered and exposed turned him on. The silken panties tickled his balls and teased his cock. He gripped his genitals through their smooth black covering and began to rub, to squeeze and pump, beating himself with an accelerating rhythm. He pictured Felicity walking through the bedroom door at that moment. Her eyes would open wide and her jaw would drop; and in the same instant he’d grab her and fling her down on to the bed. With both hands he’d rip apart the flies of her jodhpurs and drag them down to her knees. The panties’ waistband would be pushed aside by a surge of his cock, become purple and throbbing, massively engorged. He’d ram it down into her pussy like a missile.
Strange Desires Page 2