by Nicole Dere
Michael, feeling bemused and unable to resist, allowed himself to be dragged back to the epicentre of the party where John, looking so like Felicity, and so desirable in her clothing that Michael felt again that strange dreamlike sensation, was surrounded by a crowd of admiring figures. There were more raucous cheers at the sight of Stella and Michael. She was still clinging tightly to his arm, and he felt a sense of masochistic pleasure in yielding to this collective scorn, as though he’d passed beyond the point of caring - of masculine pride. He simply stood there, the butt of the laughter. His eyes met John’s, staring at him from behind their make-up, and he exchanged a look of complicity, of wounded understanding.
Now that he studied the slim figure in the short dress he could see there was something, an angularity, a ranginess that was not Felicity. And of course the chest was flatter, despite the wicked shading he’d cleverly drawn to give the faintest suggestion of a cleavage. Even so, the shapeliness of the legs in sheer stockings, the curvaceous hips, and the immaculately made-up beauty of the face, was far from the drag queen look he would have expected.
The long glossy hair dipped towards him, and the white teeth showed between painted lips. ‘Gave you a bit of a fright, did IT John said. ‘Don’t tell Feely. She’ll kill me if she finds out I’ve been using her stuff.’
On his other side, Stella kneaded his arm. ‘Admit it, Mike! He makes a fetching little cow, doesn’t he? I bet you wish you were gay, don’t you? And I’m beginning to wish I wasn’t!’ There was another chorus of laughter. She cupped her palm and stroked John’s smooth cheek, with just the gesture of affection she used to show to his cousin. ‘You really are a sadistic little bitch, you know, giving us both the hots like that. And you won’t be able to satisfy either one of us, will you?’
The laughter continued to burst like fireworks over Michael. Stella revelled in the attention all around her, while he stood stupidly, the fall guy for all her barbed comments and her increasingly savage mockery. John had quietly extricated himself, and was soon at the centre of a smaller, more select group. Michael continued to drink, the smile fixed on his face like a death’s head, scourged by the flails of Stella’s humour and contempt, yet showing no sign of flinching or hurt.
Much later, when the party at last showed signs of breaking up, except for a hardcore who looked as though they might well be there for Christmas morning, Michael followed Stella into the toilets at the end of the large room. There was a row of communal stalls, and a staggering female on the way out leered and raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. When the compartment door had closed on Stella, Michael found a bolt on the outer door and quickly secured it from within, ensuring their privacy.
She came out of the lavatory still smoothing down the skirt of her silk gown, affording him a generous view of her stockinged legs. Her eyes widened when she saw him, but that contemptuous smile appeared immediately. ‘I think you’ve got the wrong room, Mikey. This is the little girls’ loo. You’re not even in drag. Not like our chum. You’ve got no excuse.’
‘You’re a perverted bitch!’ he spat, the thick hatred welling up overpoweringly. A thrill passed through him at the first sign of fear that flickered in her eyes, though she swiftly hid it.
‘Jealous, are we?’ she mocked, moving to the washbasin and rinsing her hands. She watched him in the mirror. ‘Because I could give young Felicity a thrill she’d never even dreamed of! Because she didn’t go for your big manly dick any more? That it? You’re so fucking pathetic, macho man! Well, I’ve finished with her, sonny - you can have her back.’ She sneered. ‘You’d better watch her, though. Where’s she got to tonight, I wonder? She’s got a taste for things you can never give her, big boy. I hear there’s a dyke down at Burnopside who’s built like a brick shithouse and who our little Felicity can’t drop her pants quick enough for!’
She made to pass him, treating him to her coldest, most withering stare. ‘Excuse me. I’ve got rid of mine. I guess you’re still full of it.’
Michael gave a low snarl as she went to edge past him. He seized her golden hair and ran her across to the cubicle she had just vacated. His fingers dug maliciously into her scalp as he forced her down onto her knees. She screamed, but in the distant hubbub, no one heard. He thrust her head down into the toilet bowl, yanked at the handle, and doused her in the gushing water. ‘Felicity told me you once put her head down the bog,’ he said, his chest heaving with the exertion. ‘Seems to be quite effective for hysterical females!’
He let her up a little and Stella coughed and spluttered, her lovely hair darkened and flattened to her skull, and plastered in seaweed-like strands across her face. He thrust her down again, bending over her, one hand at the back of her head and the other pressing on her shoulder. ‘Keep still, and keep quiet!’ he hissed.
Gasping and crying she ceased struggling, her head pinned down in that white bowl. He let go of her, paused to see if there was any sign of resistance, and then scrabbled at the hem of her crumpled silk dress. He dragged it up over her lovely raised behind. His rough fingers clawed at her little white knickers, hauled them off her buttocks, and down her stockinged thighs.
She whimpered as she felt his rigid prick jab into the crease of her bottom and thrust against the tightness of her anus. Then his hand was round at her front, fondling her belly, her pubic bush, then lower, guiding the tip of his penis into her vaginal opening. He was surprised to feel the gripping welcome as he drove deeply home into her clinging sheath. He plunged hard, savouring the thrill of her buttocks squashing against his groin.
And though Michael fucked her aggressively, concerned only with his own hectic satisfaction, Stella savoured the throb of her invaded vagina, the novel sensation of her helplessness, and the thrill of being so deeply penetrated. And when she felt the copious eruption of his sperm, her own excitement swiftly drove her to the wild crescendo of total release.
Chapter Sixteen
Michael had little idea of how he came to be standing on the rug in front of the newly flickering fire in Felicity’s living room. Yet he was amazed at how sober and sharply alive he felt as he stared down at the fascinating form crouched at his feet. John had bent to light the fire. The short black cocktail dress had ridden up to the top of his thighs, and Michael gazed at the shapely limbs, so comprehensively revealed that he could see the dark patterned tops of the sheer stockings, and the flash of pale thigh beyond. That startlingly realistic hair framing the delicate angularity of the face, and the flawless fragility of the bare shoulder, really made it seem as though it was Felicity herself kneeling there before him.
John glanced up with a mischievous grin, interrupting Michael’s tipsy reverie. ‘You’re a hell of a lad when you’ve taken drink,’ he said with admiration. ‘Fancy pushing old Stella’s head down the bog!’ He laughed heartily.
Michael felt a surge of exultation and pride. True, he thought, with cruel pleasure. He was a lad! And how! And now Stella Pervy Priest knew just how much of a lad he was. He had expected an uproar, screams of rape and God knows what else, when he’d zipped up his trousers and left her lying there, crumpled on the toilet floor. But she’d come out minutes later, looking damp, true, but with make-up repaired and dignity intact. She said not a word to anyone about what had happened. In fact, she’d been quieter than she’d been all evening. Not that he’d hung around for very long after his amorous assault.
John must have been watching Michael closely. Next thing he knew the androgynous beauty was guiding him out and into a taxi, and here they were, back in the privacy of Felicity’s flat, his mind and body a prey to all kinds of wild fancies as he stared down at the figure coiled at his feet.
‘Sit down... come on.’ The bare arms reached up, hands outstretched, and Michael found himself responding, folding beside him in the comforting glow and warmth. His judgement seemed curiously suspended. The dress, the perfume, the make-up, the too perfectly feminine beauty, made John seem like
a different creature altogether, a recreation of the lovely girl Michael was hopelessly in love with. Then John reached up, and with a dramatic tug, pulled off the wig, and then kicked the dainty high heels from his stockinged feet with a groan of luxury.
‘That fucking thing was so hot,’ he said. ‘And how on earth girls go around all day in these things!’ He flung the shoes from him with a chuckle, and massaged his toes through the gauzy tips of the stockings. Bemused, Michael could see the distinct outline of the darkly painted toenails. ‘Undo me, please.’ He knelt up, his back to Michael, his slender neck bent as he bowed his head, and the sense of unreality washed once more over the taller figure. Michael reached with unsteady fingers to oblige - just as he did for Felicity. And that white neck and those exquisite shoulders excited him just as much.
The pale back came into view as the black material parted. There was a built in bodice to the dress which made a bra unnecessary, so that John’s back was entirely bare down to his hips, where the dress’s division ended. John stood, wriggled the garment down over his hips, and stepped out of it. Michael gazed up at the black French knickers, with the wide band of lace at the legs, and the dark self-supporting stockings. He felt his penis swelling mightily against his clothing. Hating himself but unable to prevent himself, he reached up and ran his palm over the smooth satin of John’s crotch. Within the shimmering black underwear the shape of John’s penis rose up, the outline of the helm quite clear, and the tight curve of his balls hugged by the soft material. Michael traced its length to the bulbous tip, then back, down that growing shaft to the root, where he could feel John’s springy pubic hair beneath the sexy material. He could feel the warm dampness, and smell the powerful odour of arousal.
John was still standing over him, smiling down, whispering hypnotic words of encouragement that Michael could barely hear. His legs were only a little apart. His thumbs flipped the elastic waist of the knickers down a little, and his prick emerged, hanging in a curve over the dipping edge of the black garment. It was not erect, but thick and pulsing, and the shining helm was exposed. A drop of fluid glistened at its tip. ‘Suck me off,’ John breathed, edging his hips forward a little in invitation.
Michael shuddered, but knelt up, and rubbed his forehead against John’s glans, feeling the slimy smear of the fluid on his brow. He buried his nose in the damp swell of the balls, still hidden in the tight nest of black silk, and breathed deeply. ‘I’m not queer,’ he groaned, feeling John’s quivering thighs against his cheeks.
‘There’s nothing queer about this, Mikey,’ John whispered. His fingers played affectionately with Michael’s ears, and he stroked the crisp blond hair. Michael felt the long false fingernails rasp against him. ‘Come on, lover,’ the voice crooned, in a seductive whisper. ‘Suck cock. You’ll love it.’
Michael felt he would come himself at any second. With a sense of drowning he drew back his head and let the dome of that warm column pulse against his eyelids. He rubbed his face against it before, with a delicious quiver of fear, he poked out his tongue and licked timidly, tasting for the first time the salty nectar of another man’s emission. Knowing there was no going back, he opened his lips wide and took the helm inside, working at it clumsily, feeling it swell to fill him.
He almost gagged as John pushed slowly forward, holding Michael’s head firmly, but careful not to scare the novice away by unleashing the unbelievable passion he really felt building in the pit of his stomach. Sensing Michael’s turmoil, John withdrew a little to allow him a moment to grapple with the emotions and sensations he knew would be spinning through his head and body. ‘Are you all right?’ he whispered, gazing down at his rigid cock - more rigid than he’d ever known it before - bridging the gap between his aching groin and those tightly pursed lips. His question was rewarded with a tentative nod, the innocence of which almost made him come there and then. ‘Okay,’ he breathed, and then carefully pressed his hips forward and watched that rigid cock disappear completely.
With his mouth full Michael was fighting to breathe, his face enveloped by humid flesh, soft silk and springy pubes. He reached up with both hands and pressed against John’s lightly muscled stomach, but was secretly swamped with disappointment as John withdrew completely. As the prize was snatched away from him Michael lapped at it desperately, rubbing his sweating face against its potent length, sucking and licking.
Then the fingers clutching at his blond hair tightened convulsively, lifting his face and holding it still. ‘Jesus!’ John cried, and Michael thrilled with revulsion and excitement. He kept his eyes tightly closed, the prospect of witnessing his own debasement still too much to accept, and discharged into his own underwear as John’s thick seed spilled over his cheeks and open mouth, and all over his upturned, worshipping face.
‘Oh, please - no,’ Felicity whimpered helplessly. ‘Please don’t...’ She was stretched out on the low table in the library, with many pairs of hands pressing her down lightly, yet enough to make any resistance useless. Not that she had the strength or the will to put up a fight, however token. Then why was she weeping as she felt the last scraps of clothing drawn from her body, the cups of her bra plucked away, the wispy briefs slid and rolled down off her hips and over her limbs, to leave her naked, spread-eagled on the hard surface?
Were the tears because she was, at last, being made to acknowledge the ultimate surrender of all her pretences, the rules of so-called decency and decorum she had professed to in her young life? She had known all along that one day the enchanted company and lifestyle she had embraced so eagerly at Burnopside would lead to this orgiastic moment of truth. And now she realised that the very shame of it, the thought of those eyes fixed on her helpless nakedness - not only his lordship, who after all was already a familiar lover, but the lecherous Sir Hugh, and Admiral Fitzgibbon, and that beaky old senior judge with his scrawny turtle neck and salacious eyes - thrilled her to the core, and added to the sexuality flowing through her at the touches of the lovely girls who had made her their prisoner.
Mouths, hands, and fingers assailed her everywhere; her arms and legs, her throat, her breasts and belly, her thighs, and her feet. The fact that Magda was not one of her assailants but merely looking on with fond approval added to her incredible excitement.
She was near her crisis when, with cruel abruptness, all those caressing hands and tongues were withdrawn. The restraining holds vanished and she sat up, the tears streaming, unable to keep her shivering limbs still in her desperate need. ‘Please,’ she whispered brokenly, staring about at all those merciless eyes. Her gaze sought that of the commanding figure in the wonderful long gown of deep green.
‘I’ll take her up, your lordship,’ Magda said, and Lord B nodded. Sobbing pitifully now, the naked figure slipped off the low table. ‘We’ll use the Green Room,’ Magda announced, then crooked her finger at Felicity. ‘Come on, sugar.’
Felicity glanced around, all the old inhibitions of modesty sweeping back at the awareness of her nudity before all these people. ‘You won’t need any clothes,’ Magda added, with her deep, sensual chuckle. Head down, Felicity walked quickly over to her, terribly conscious of every staring eye.
Outside the library the tears increased. Magda held her by the hand and led her up the wide sweep of the staircase and along a discreetly lit, thickly carpeted landing. ‘What’s going to happen?’ Felicity asked.
In the impressive Green Room Magda nodded towards the four-poster bed, with its heavy drapes gathered in bunches about the pillars. ‘On you get, sweetheart.’ Felicity’s head was spinning. Was it simply going to end with her and Magda making love in these august surroundings? Was her public ordeal over already? She had not expected to be let off so lightly, and Magda’s next move suggested she was right in her caution.
‘Spread yourself on your back, honey,’ she ordered. ‘Arms and legs out wide. That’s it.’
A blush invaded Felicity’s face at the exposed vulnerabil
ity of her position. Tasselled velvet cords hung from each post, and Magda used them to secure Felicity’s wrists and ankles, pinning her spread-eagled.
‘What’s going to happen?’ she pleaded, afraid again now.
Magda sat beside her on the edge of the high bed and, reaching down, wiped her wet cheeks carefully, then let her large hand cup in a loving caress that lovely face. ‘You agreed that you’d be mine, baby, didn’t you?’ Magda reasoned gently. ‘That you belong to me. You said so. You swore you’d do anything for me - didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Felicity murmured, pouting like a reluctant child. ‘Didn’t you mean it?’
‘Yes.’ Again came that small whisper of confession.
‘Because if you didn’t, tell me now and I’ll let you go. I mean it. You can have a ride back to London and there’ll be no hard feelings - no recriminations... okay?’
‘Nuh - no!’ Felicity blurted desperately. A sob shook her breasts, which were lifted and flattened against her ribcage by her position. The peaked nipples quivered. ‘It’s just - I’m scared, Magda. You - you won’t hurt me, will you?’ She thought of the whippings this fascinating woman had delivered; the agony of them, so different from the squirming spankings of their love play. They had not been many, these more serious chastisements, but they still frightened Felicity. Not least because of her own ambivalent feelings towards them; that shameful masochistic frisson of pleasure they gave her, the thought of surrender, and the burning proof of her love for this wonderful creature. And she thought too of that strange episode in the wood, and those three quite vicious cuts Lord B had given her with the riding-crop; so vicious that even though they’d been delivered through the thickness of her breeches and underwear, the angry red lines had marked her bottom for days afterwards.
