by Iona Blair
She assumed Jay was on his way to a rendezvous at either a hotel or motel, so she was more than moderately surprised when they ended up at a riding stable. What the hell is going on, she wondered? Was it possible she'd misjudged him, and he was actually here to look after some sort of legitimate business after all? This riding academy must be one of his clients.
Gladys parked her car a safe distance away and squelched her way over a muddy pathway until she reached the back paddock. With the teeming rain beating a tattoo all around her, she cautiously inched her way towards the stable window and peered in.
There were several horses housed in neat, individual stalls, and a pile of clean hay in a corner. Jay was in a small room off the main stable, where harnesses and saddles were kept. At first Gladys thought he was alone. But then, as she crept stealthily along the building to get a better look, she noticed there was a woman there with him.
"I'm going to give you the best gamahuching of your life,” Jay whispered to Emma as she hiked up her long skirt, tugged off her bloomers and lay down on the straw with her legs spread wide apart.
When Lydia had heard about the re-enactment of the tack room encounter between Emma and Dick Farquar, she'd immediately suggested to Jay that the experience would be greatly enhanced if it took place in a real stable. The authentic sights, sounds and smells were essential to properly evoke the senses, she had advised.
"And I happen to know just the place,” she'd added helpfully. “It's run by an old associate of mine."
So here they were, and Lydia had indeed been right, the restless movement of the animals in their stalls, the strong, gamy odour of ordure mingled with horse sweat, and the sight of Emma lying back seductively on the hay, combined to intoxicate the senses and increase his excitement to fevered pitch.
"Gamahuche me, Dick,” Emma pleaded, placing her feet on his shoulders, and rearing up her wet pussy towards his hungry mouth.
Jay nibbled greedily on her clit, as if he were attempting to gobble it up completely. Emma writhed and moaned, weaving her bottom around like a kite in a windstorm. But Jay stuck with her, licking and lapping and tasting her until her vulva began to convulse furiously. Emma's squeals of delight echoed around the dimly lit stable as Jay penetrated her with his febrile lance of a cock.
"I came to see what all the noise was about,” a sternly disapproving voice announced from the doorway. The romping couple turned as one, to stare in amazement at the black clad figure of Mrs. Biggs, the housekeeper.
Jay was so much into the part, that he had become Dick, reliving with relish the torrid event that had resulted in Emma being dismissed. Now he knew how the head groom must have felt, trying to stuff his still hard cock into his trousers, while Emma covered up her exposed privates.
The appearance of Mrs. Biggs came as a genuine surprise to both Emma and Jay. It was just one of the nice little added touches that Lydia was famous for and had made Never on Monday the most popular escort agency in town.
Now Emma's story took a decidedly different turn, as Mrs. Biggs crouched down on the hay beside the flushed, excited couple and began to masturbate their swollen genitals.
"Oh God...” Jay cried out as Mrs. Biggs gripped his cock firmly and expertly. She moved her clenched hand from tip to shaft then back again in a rapid, well-measured tempo. The fingers of her other hand were inserted well up Emma's dripping pussy, fucking her deeply and rhythmically. Her thumb created a maddening friction on the girl's clit.
The grunts and cries of naked lust reverberated around the quiet stables and made the horses whinny and snort. Mrs. Biggs was herself, panting and quite beside herself with excitement as she brought both Jay and Emma to a blistering double climax that left them gasping and bereft of coherent speech.
"Now it's my turn,” Mrs. Biggs panted, and she hitched up her long black dress and masturbated herself to a violent and prolonged climax.
* * * *
Gladys had been working in the garden since early morning. She was disturbed by the events she'd witnessed the night before and vented much of her pain and frustration on the weeds sprouting around the flowerbeds. It was a humid overcast day, but by noon, the sun had finally managed to struggle its way through the clouds.
"Dirty, rotten, cheating bastard,” she muttered angrily, pulling out a clump of mare's tails from around the irises.
She still hadn't managed to make sense of what she'd witnessed. Why the stable, for instance? And why were the two women wearing old-fashioned dresses? Her only conclusion was that they'd been playing out a fantasy, but whose?
She had no doubt something strange and out of the ordinary was going on. She recalled how Jay had hastily concealed a book of some sort when she had surprised him in his office. He had locked it in a desk drawer.
Gladys knew he kept his keys in his trouser pocket. She resolved to retrieve them and unlock the drawer with its mysterious contents at the first opportunity.
* * * *
Jay had furnished the attic room with the same type of furniture Emma had described in her journal. He spent more and more time there, stretched out on the narrow bed or pacing the worn wooden floor. Lately, he had taken to sleeping there as well. It gave him a feeling of closeness to the nineteenth century enchantress that eluded him in the rest of the house.
When he wasn't in the attic thinking about Emma, he was in the city stirring himself up to a frenzy of desire with her substitute, the alluring little hooker from Never on Monday. His work suffered as a result of this erotic obsession, and he sunk deeper into debt.
The last few days in May were hot and sultry with a humid stillness that seemed to make the earth hold its breath. A thrush hopped around the holly bush searching for worms, then winged its way to a branch high up in the sycamore tree. It was almost dusk and the air was stifling in the small attic bedroom.
Jay mopped at his sweaty forehead with a corner of the candlewick bed cover before lighting the oil lamp. This was the moment he had been looking forward to all week. It was time to read the next instalment of Emma's journal.
Before he began, he held the old book lovingly for several minutes, running his hands tenderly over the worn pigskin cover, like a lover caressing his beloved. Then he raised it to his lips and kissed it, breathing in the dry, musty odour that wafted from its yellowed pages.
After she had been dismissed from her post as governess to the Brewer's children, Emma had fallen on unpleasantly hard times. In disgrace, and without a reference, it was impossible for her to find suitable employment anywhere. Then one day, as she sat dejectedly on a park bench, with the last of her meagre savings all but gone, her fortunes took an unexpected turn.
A bold looking woman with a vividly painted face and a mass of frizzy black hair approached her. Her name was Agnes, and she suggested that they take refreshment in a nearby tearoom. The hungry Emma gratefully agreed.
"You were famished dearie,” Agnes remarked, as she watched me devour several hot currant buns with lashings of sweet butter...
I nodded, with mouth still full, draining my cup and reaching for the teapot at the same time.
"You're a comely lass,” Agnes continued, raking her sharp eyes over me appraisingly. “With your looks you never have to go hungry. In fact, you could have everything you ever wanted. A fine house, carriage, and clothes fit for a queen."
And so it was that Agnes introduced me to Mrs. Beecham, her employer, who ran one of the most popular whorehouses in the city. At first, I was to share Agnes’ room, a small but cosily furnished chamber in the upper environs of the roomy house.
"Agnes will show you the ropes, lovey,” the pock-faced Madam said, while looking me over like some dubious piece of merchandise with her small flinty eyes.
My first client was a plump, white haired man with a ruddy complexion and lecherous blue eyes. “Oh my, but aren't you the lovely one,” he whispered lasciviously, kneading my breasts with a pudgy hand that fairly shook with desire. His breath smelt of onions and stale beer. “But
, such a naughty girl too, peddling your sweet little cunny to any gent who has the price."
We were in a spacious, richly furnished chamber on the second floor with a window that overlooked the park, and a brightly burning fire in the grate.
"I'm going to give you a spanking for being such a bad girl,” the man told me in a lust-filled voice. “It will heat up your little cunny for fucking."
I bent across his lap and obediently raised my bottom for the punishment. He lifted my skirt and petticoats and tugged down my bloomers. “Oh and it's a saucy little behind and no mistake about it,” he crooned, fondling my small posterior.
The first blow fell squarely across both cheeks and was followed quite smartly by another, and another, and another. “My and we're making the saucy little backside fairly bounce,” my lusty client commented, aiming several more sharp spanks across my hindquarters.
I was enjoying the beating. The feel of the strong hand as it whacked my bottom firmly and evenly, and caressed it lovingly between blows. The sound of the man's laboured breathing as his excitement mounted with every smack he delivered. And the thrilling sensations that ripped through my moist genitals as they rubbed against the coarse tweed of his trousers.
Footsteps muffled by the rich Turkish carpet stopped outside our chamber. I thrilled anew, knowing that the sound of the spanking was of interest to an eavesdropper, who listened on the other side of the door.
"How are you holding up my sweetness?” the man who was spanking me asked. His voice shook with passion.
"I'm truly well, Sir,” I replied readily, not wishing for the cunny-twitching pounding to be over until I had reached the zenith of the passions it had stirred in me.
"Good girl,” he responded approvingly and petted my sore bum.
My erect little rosebud created a wickedly thrilling friction against his rough trousers.
As the blows fell, they pushed my excited sex bud deeper into the course material. So close was I now to my crisis that all it took was one more hefty smack to fall, and I was exploding in a spasm of white-hot bliss.
"Bad little girl, you enjoyed getting your bottom spanked,” my client murmured as he witnessed the rapturous throes of my passion. Then he undressed me completely before unbuttoning his trousers in a frenzied haste. He forced his excited member into my mouth.
As I knelt on the hearthrug with a hard prick fucking the back of my tonsils, I chanced to notice a movement from the keyhole. The eavesdropper had now become a voyeur as well, I noted, with a resulting surge of excitement.
When my client finally reached the vertex of his mighty and thunderous desire, he withdrew his throbbing member from my mouth and squirted his cum all over my face, breasts and belly.
After he had quite recovered from the spasms, he ordered me to bend over the bed and position my privates for fucking. I imagined with quickening breath how it must appear to the voyeur at the keyhole. From his vantage point he would get a birds-eye view of my posterior, which was red as a poppy from the spanking, raised and ready to take a boisterous rogering by an eager and exceeding hard prick.
"Now I'm going to fuck your naughty little cunny,” my client murmured. He drove into me with a masterfully handled member, still damp from its previous eruption.
"Ow,” I gasped in a curious mixture of pain and pleasure as his thrusting prick banged against my cervix in its ruthless penetration of my most secret and excited of places.
"Ow, ow, ow,” I repeated mindlessly in the throes of breathless abandon, keeping my sorely spanked bottom poked high up in the air to receive one of the hardest rollickings of my life.
"My you're a lusty little wench,” the man who was fucking me so powerfully remarked in a voice that broke with passion. The fervour of his thrustings knocked the breath out of my body, and in order to quicken the process of his release, I reached my hand around and fondled his quivering love sacks.
"Ah ... ah ... godstooth ... ah,” he roared like a bull in stud, and with three mighty strokes of his magnificent prick exploded in a frenzy of ribald curses. By this time, my own crisis was perilously close, and I was brought to the full rapture of it by keeping my cunny perfectly still and letting my lusty client do all the work.
Although his throbbing member was now only halfway erect, he poked it in and out my excited cunny in a series of short rather desperate fucks, this valiantly pathetic performance being but a poor shadow of his former powerful lungings. Yet, for all its weak and shuddering inadequacies, it strangely satisfied my hunger in a gentle and curiously erotic way.
"I'm going off,” I cried out, tossing my head from side to side in a frenzy, my womb gripped by powerful convulsions that ripped through me from head to toe.
Later that night, as I lay beside Agnes in the cosy comfort of our bed, she stroked my head soothingly and asked me if I'd like to go off again. The throaty quality of her voice made my spirited little rosebud rise to the offer, and my good friend immediately set to work gamahuching me most delightfully.
Her tongue lapped at my wet pulsating privates, and I gasped and arched my back as she poked it inside my passage. I clasped my hands around her head and moved my hips excitedly. But despite my considerable gyrations, Agnes’ tongue never missed a stroke. It zinged me up to the heavens in a long and shuddering crisis that came crashing in on me like a high wave on a stormy ocean.
"Now it's your turn, darling,” I whispered, positioning my head between her thighs. But much to my amazement Agnes declined my offer.
"Are you not as hot as I?” I queried her closely and kissed her softly on her cunny lips.
But Agnes moved away from me in disinterest. “I've lost all desire at the moment,” she explained in a voice much tinged with sadness. “However, this has happened before, and I've always managed to get hot again."
This most vexing loss of desire had put Agnes in ill stead with her clients, who had complained of her lack of enthusiasm to Mrs. Beecham.
"Oh no,” the unhappy girl muttered when she learned of this. It seemed that the good Mrs. Beecham had her own way of dealing with ‘frigidity,’ as she termed it.
Prior to seeing a client, Agnes was required to present herself in the Madam's sitting room. There, while an inviting fire crackled in the grate, and the clip clop of horses’ hooves rang on the cobblestones, she would hitch up her dress and bend herself over Mrs. Beecham's generous lap.
"You're too tense. That's your problem,” the Madam scolded. She patted Agnes’ stiff bottom through the fine muslin bloomers.
"Loosen up those muscles.” And she punctuated her words with a light volley of rhythmic spanks. Then she removed the girl's voluminous panties and massaged her rectum with goat's grease.
Agnes’ sphincter muscle would at first resist the probing finger, denying it entry to this sanctum sanctorum. But Mrs. Beecham simply ignored its meagre protestations and bypassed it gently but firmly.
"Relax,” she ordered. And Agnes who was draped across her lap with her skirt up around her waist and her bloomers down around her ankles flushed with shame. The Madam's well-greased fingers probed deep inside the chilly bottom that was bared and tenderly defenceless. Agnes closed her eyes tightly and willed the uncomfortable humiliation to be over.
Mrs. Beecham massaged the girl's tense rectum until she sensed a loosening, a letting go sensation in its tight walls. “There, that's better,” she murmured approvingly and continued to stroke the more pliant little asshole in an easy fucking motion, in and out, and in and out.
Agnes became aware of the tick of the carriage clock that sat on the mantelshelf, and she turned her head slightly to look at it. Mrs. Beecham continued her rigorous and thorough massage of her rectum. The Madam firmly believed that an anal massage before her girls engaged in fucking would make them, as she put it, “hot in the box."
Asked by one curious client why she finger fucked the girl's assholes and not their cunnies, Mrs. Beecham had replied with a withering look that had relegated the hapless questioner to the r
ealm of idiots. “Because, my dear man, that particular orifice has been rented by the client, who is entitled to find it innocent of grease and tight as a miser's purse."
Some girls became aroused during the anal massages, but Agnes was not one of them.
"Don't you feel even the slightest stirring?” Mrs. Beecham questioned, removing her invading fingers and patting the girl's bottom.
When Agnes shook her head, the Madam said she was going to give her a spanking. She knew from long experience that a spanked bottom was a horny one. Agnes remained perfectly still while Mrs. Beecham swatted away at her butt. It was a light spanking, just love pats really, delivered across her sensitive sit spot. And this was more embarrassing for Agnes than if it had been painful.
"Off you go then, and remember to give him his money's worth.” Mrs. Beecham finally allowed the humiliated girl to get up. She watched with a bemused expression as Agnes hastily pulled up her bloomers to conceal her slightly pink behind and straightened her crumpled dress...
Jay had been suffused with desire as he read Emma's blistering account of life at Mrs. Beecham's house of pleasure. This stout Madam of the Victorian age had immediately reminded him of Lydia Blount, not only in looks but temperament as well.
He tugged at his throbbing cock and brought himself to several blistering orgasms. Then he collapsed on the narrow attic bed, in a deep sleep of utter exhaustion.
When he awoke, the dawn was creeping stealthily through the small elliptical window. It touched the rafters and corners of the small bleak room with its stark, unforgiving light.
He immediately had a strong, overpowering sense of Emma all around him. Never before had he felt her presence so forcefully. “Emma,” he whispered softly. “Emma, my love, I know you're here."
A burst of birdsong erupted from the nearby wood and Jay suddenly felt an overwhelming compulsion to look out the window at the garden below. As he did so, his sleep filled eyes widened in disbelief. There was a woman, standing beside the birdbath, framed between the mass of honeysuckle and the azaleas. She was looking up towards the attic window with her head slightly cocked to one side.