Katie looked at her watch. Mister Webster would have gone home by now, but Mrs Webster, housekeeper and cook at Phoebe’s home, would still be in the kitchen washing up the last of the dinner things.
Her feet ached, so she quietly slipped off her shoes before making her way along past the dining room. She started. Out of the corner of her eye, something had moved. She peered into the room and breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing but the night breeze disturbed the curtains of the open French doors.
‘Silly fool,’ she muttered, and walked on and down the stairs that led to the kitchen and the scullery beyond.
Just as she had expected, there was a light on in the kitchen.
Sink, draining board and table were clear of crockery and had already been scrubbed down.
Mrs Webster was not there.
So as not to alarm unnecessarily, Katie called her.
There was no reply.
She went on into the scullery.
This too was clean and tidy.
A noise somewhere off to her right caught her attention.
Softly, she padded out from the lino-covered floor of the scullery and onto the cold stone floor of the passage that led to the older part of the house.
To her left and down a flight of stairs was what used to be the dairy. It was now a cool pantry where Mrs Webster kept jars of homemade jam and fresh honey.
Just before the stairs was a landing and a small arched window that had no glass.
It was through this that she saw Mrs Webster and the gamekeeper, Mister Benson.
‘Delicious jam, Gertie.’
It was Benson’s voice.
‘Glad you like it. Are you going to eat it all?’ There followed an obvious murmur of appreciation and the sound of someone sucking.
‘Every little bit of it and when I’ve finished the jam, I’m going to smear your titties with honey and finish that off too.’
Katie stopped in her tracks. Her eyes opened wide as she took in the unexpected scene.
Mrs Webster, who had enormous breasts that she could almost tuck into her copious knickers, was leaning back over the gnarled top of the butcher’s chopping table.
Her dress was undone and the bib of her apron was pulled down so that her breasts were exposed to view. Around her nipples, dark red jam had been spread, and it was this that Mister Benson was slowly and lovingly licking and sucking off.
Mrs Webster was obviously enjoying providing the gamekeeper with such an unusual platter.
Her eyes were half-closed, her head was back and her breath was coming in short gasps.
Unable and unwilling to stop herself, Katie unbuttoned her own dress and brought out her smaller and sweeter breasts.
As Benson’s tongue and lips prised the jam from Mrs Webster’s teats, Katie formed her thumbs and index fingers into pseudo mouths that could squeeze and nip at her own more rigid nipples.
There was a slurping sound as Benson sucked off the last of the jam.
She saw him lick his lips then wipe his mouth on his sleeve.
‘Now,’ he said with relish, ‘I fancy some honey.’
Mrs Webster squealed with delight.
‘So do I,’ she said with glee. ‘So do I, me dear darling.’
Incredulous and unable to tear herself away from what she had discovered, Katie watched enthralled as Benson dipped a broad knife into a fat jar. When he retrieved it, he wound it around so that the honey stuck to it in a fat, golden wedge. Then, with great deliberation and obvious joy, he spread the golden load over Mrs Webster’s breasts.
He started at her teats, pressing the knife flat against each one in turn so that she moaned and arched her back. Then with a circular motion, he feathered the gooey fluid outwards and over her breasts.
With astute precision, he plunged the knife back into the jar.
‘There,’ he said, viewing his handiwork with a mixture of pride and appreciation, ‘all my own work!’
He laughed and Mrs Webster laughed with him before he bent his head to her ample breasts and licked off the honey where before he had licked off the jam.
Her nipples hard between her fingers, Katie stood and stared. She could not go, she told herself, not yet; not until she had asked Mrs Webster about the procedure for employing the boys for the beating.
At least, that was what she told herself. But it wasn’t just that. She wanted to watch. She couldn’t help but watch. The scene was too fascinating to leave.
Soon, all of the honey had gone from the opulent breasts. They lay flat and still, the nipples upright and slightly purple.
‘Now what about my bit of supper?’ said Mrs Webster with a glint in her eye and a laugh in her voice.
Benson stood, arms akimbo.
He let her undo his buttons and take out his tool. It was enormous, and his balls were big enough to come out too.
Katie continued to fondle one of her breasts whilst the other hand dived between her legs. Watching this was making her wet. She wanted what Mrs Webster was about to have. But she couldn’t because she also wanted to watch.
To her surprise, Mrs Webster put the jar of red jam on the floor then, even more to her surprise, she saw Benson go on all fours. He crawled to the jar and positioned himself over it so she could dip his member into the sticky mixture.
‘Right in,’ she heard Mrs Webster say as she placed her hand on his behind and pushed him.
‘It is,’ returned Benson.
Instead of getting to his feet, he lay on his back. Red jam sat on his glans and slow trickles of real fruit ran down his stem.
Without further ado, Mrs Webster got down beside him on all fours and began to lick off the jam she had spent all last summer making.
Her mouth covered his end and, in one go, she had removed what had sat on his glans.
The scene was bizarre and in consequence, but almost without being aware of it, Katie worked her own fingers through the lushness of her sex. Like the jam, it was wet and slightly sticky.
As only to be expected, pleasant sensations arose from around the area where her fingers cruised and played. But on this occasion they were amplified by the sight of Mrs Webster licking at the fruit that trickled down Mister Benson’s stem and the sticky lumps that had settled in his pubic hair. Once all that was cleaned up, Mrs Webster opened her mouth wide and sucked in his balls as though they were nothing more than plump peaches whose juice she wished to savour. There were slurping and licking noises before she released them again and took his stem in her hand.
‘I think I ate it all,’ she said with confidence.
‘I think you did,’ returned Benson.
‘Now,’ she said, getting to her feet and wiping her generous hands in her even more generous apron. ‘I fancy some cream.’
She fetched a bowl between them. It was blue and white striped and was piled with the sort of cream that makes a person think of Devon and hollyhocks and country lanes.
Katie, absorbed by the effect of her own fingers and the scene before her, made a great effort not to moan. It was also hard not to rush forward and ask if she could partake in what they were doing.
Mrs Webster now hoisted up her skirts and lay down on the floor. Then, with the aid of a big wooden spoon, both she and Mister Benson spread the cream on their sexes.
Katie, her breath fast, her hands faster, sucked in the scene; ate it, became smothered in it as though she were part of its bizarre make-up.
‘There,’ said Mrs Webster, as she opened her wide haunches. ‘Now I’m ready.’
Mister Benson got up over her so that his cream-covered stem hung over the housekeeper’s face.
‘Open wide,’ he said and, obligingly, Mrs Webster did so. Half his cream-covered stem disappeared into her mouth. His head became buried between Mrs Webster
’s thighs which closed around him and held him tight to her most secluded spot.
Despite his head, and therefore his mouth being so well buried, the sound of great gulps, great licks of satisfaction came to Katie’s ears. Mrs Webster and Mister Benson were dining together and they were obviously enjoying it.
There are many ways, Katie thought to herself, in which a man can enjoy a woman, and a woman a man. It can only be a good thing when both share the same habits, the same pleasures, and such things do not stop at enjoying the same music, the same plays, the same books. If their pleasure goes beyond the mere mental to the purely physical, then all the better for it.
From the pantry floor the sounds of their rising passion only confirmed what she already thought about their actions. Their pleasure was her pleasure and, in the dark confines of the stone-walled and stone-floored passageway, she shared their passion and their climax.
Chapter 4
Once Mrs Webster realised that Katie had seen her sharing her most unusual supper with Mister Benson, she very quickly told her everything she needed to know about getting a job as a beater on the Thompson estate.
After that, Katie had a yearning to celebrate so, without giving her friends any reason for her sudden urge to party, she and Phoebe, Edgar and Johnnie had filled up on Mrs Webster’s cooking and Phoebe’s father’s port. Dancing followed and, although the gramophone was in the house, all four had danced out through the French doors and onto the lawn. The music travelled with them, long and thin until it slowed and became a low groan as the clockwork ran down. Eventually, the needle sent only a searing and repetitive crackle out into the night.
The garden smelt of growing things; of earth, of freshly-cut grass. Dark leaves and grass shone like silver in the light of the moon. As with all young and growing things, the foursome could not help but be affected by the sensuality of the scene, though the dancing went on even after their clothes lay in scattered heaps on the lawn.
Phoebe giggled as Johnnie clasped her generous breasts and pulled her into the dark shadows where a monkey-puzzle tree stood guard over a group of rhododendrons. Glossy leaves rustled and mixed with exclamations of delight and laughter. Gradually, Phoebe’s giggles turned to groans.
Edgar too grabbed hold of Katie’s hand and looked to the shadows.
‘No,’ she said firmly.
His slick hair glistened in the moonlight as he looked at her. His mouth turned down at the corners and his erection lessened slightly. ‘No? Are you feeling ill?’
‘No, I’m not ill.’ She shivered, shook her head and thought strange thoughts. How delicate his hand feels on mine. Like a woman’s, a woman who has never lifted a finger to work for her living. Like her really.
He let go of her hand, then stood immobile as she closed her eyes, raised her arms high above her head, and stretched her body as much as she could so that her breasts pouted and bunched together and her stomach became concave.
His eyes glowing with the reflected light of the moon, Edgar stared. ‘My, my, but you look beautiful, Katie,’ he said softly.
And your penis is growing to a proud length, she said in her head. She knew this without bothering to open her eyes. Soon, you will want me. I will make you want me. Just as I did when we first met, when I surmised that women did not really interest you. But I interested you, Edgar my darling. I interested you.
She opened her eyes’ and lowered her arms so they were still stretched out but were level with her shoulders.
‘I don’t want to hide from the moon,’ she said wistfully. ‘I feel like a moon goddess. Made of silver. Made of its shine. I want to bathe in its light. I want to lie on the lawn and be a sacrifice to its silvery beauty. I want its moonbeams to stroke my body.’
Edgar stood motionless as he watched her lay herself out on the damp grass. His penis jumped and jerked. ‘My, my, Katie,’ he gulped. ‘My, my.’
‘Stop repeating yourself, Edgar. Stop repeating yourself and plunge your dagger into my body. Make me a sacrifice to the moon.’ She stretched her arms above her and opened her legs. The grass was cool against her back and the night air tantalised her flesh and teased her nipples to bone-button hardness. It did nothing to lessen the moist heat that erupted between her thighs.
Edgar did not move. His eyes still roved over her body.
As if she were him, she imagined what he was feeling; what he was seeing. With his eyes she pictured the sheer sensuality of the sight she presented - her body gleaming like silver, her plush nipples dark pink beneath the moon, her breasts bunched like ripe fruit as she pushed them together with her hands. Between her open legs, like an altar awaiting worship, her sex lay exquisitely vulnerable, her flesh pink, its moistness glistening in the moonlight. The night breeze caressed the heat of her sex, yet it was still hot, and getting hotter.
Gazing as if spellbound, she saw that Edgar had dropped to his knees between her outstretched legs.
Engorged with desire, his penis pulsated, its tip glistening with a single pearl drop of body fluid. Uttering a small cry deep in his throat, he fell forward onto his hands and made as if to enter her.
‘No!’ she said suddenly.
Edgar stopped, his whole body trembling as he fought to control his desperate urges. His eyes bulged, his mouth hung open. He could take her by force if he wished. He could rape her. But she knew he wouldn’t. Edgar was not a brute. Edgar was sensitive.
‘No,’ she said again, yet more softly. ‘I want you to worship me, to show your adoration before you plunge your weapon into me.’ She sighed and closed her eyes. ‘Imagine I am indeed fashioned from silver. Imagine that I was once flesh but that some wicked wizard ravished my body with his silver wand and, in touching me with it, I was turned to silver. Believe there is a path you must follow, a sexual spell that will release me. Follow that path. Explore my body with your lips. Start at my feet.’
‘Another of your stories?’
She did not answer him.
Gritting his teeth, Edgar controlled the natural force that bubbled up within him. Almost sobbing, he edged himself backwards, the grass soft against his naked knees.
‘You’re under my spell,’ she said in low husky voice. ‘You have to worship me if you are to have me.’
She watched him.
When his head was level with her feet, he looked up at her as if expecting guidance. Smiling, she closed her eyes again and prepared to enjoy his delicate attention.
She purred as he took each foot into his hands, then murmured with delight as his fingers worked through her toes, divided one from the other, and sucked each of her largest in turn. He kissed the smaller ones and, like a true supplicant, licked the soles of her feet, even the round hardness of her heels.
Shudders of delight coursed upwards and over her body. Her hips undulated, her buttocks rubbed against the ground and her skin tingled as she enjoyed the warmth of his hands on the coolness of her flesh.
Not once did she tell him how good he was, or ask him what he might like done to him. What she was enjoying was for her pleasure. Why should she give him the satisfaction of knowing how good his technique was? Better to keep him in suspense, to lie and savour the delicious sensations that spread like warm honey over her skin and erupted between her legs. It was also intriguing to imagine how hard his rod must be, how much it strained to escape this scenario and push on with its own more selfish programme.
Only when his tongue was dampening the soft forest of hair that covered her mons did she begin to show her appreciation for his services.
‘Oh, Edgar. That is so good - so very good. Now divide my lips with your tongue. Kiss me and lick me in that specially good way of yours.’
Edgar responded to her urging. When his tongue at last manoeuvred its way through her folds of slippery flesh, she began to moan. As the very tip of his tongue tapped lightly on her clitoris, he
r hips began to undulate more fiercely against the dampness of the grass.
‘More, Edgar,’ she cried out. ‘Give me more than your tongue. Push your weapon into me!’
This time, it was him who kept her waiting. Edgar had known her long enough to appreciate her body, but to despair of her wilfulness. But he also knew when to strike.
With a dexterity that Katie had always admired, he let his hands travel up her body until his fingers reached her nipples. His head and tongue remained where they were. Like a drowning man, he gripped her nipples savagely. She cried out and, at that same moment, he pushed his probing tongue into the honey moistness of her vagina.
She rolled and writhed beneath his fingers. Tingles of delight erupted from both pleasure points and darted throughout her body.
Her hips heaved away from the grass and she covered his hands with her own and pushed his palms more firmly upon her breasts.
Light laughter and a rustling of bushes interrupted his stroke.
‘What was that?’ he asked.
Katie knew what or who it was, but could not let him know. The time for sacrifice was ripe.
‘Plunge your dagger in now!’ she cried. ‘Now!’
In rapid time, her hips jerked away from the ground. But he held her there, held himself back from her and enjoyed the cool grass tickling against his rigid sex.
‘Now!’ shouted Katie again, desperate to have something more fulfilling in her willing portal.
Tenderly, Edgar licked her inner thighs then, supporting himself on his hands, he came up to hover over her body, his face above hers, the end of his penis now pointing directly at her hair-crowned divide.
Her eyes like dark pools, she held his gaze. Her breasts rose and fell like the waves of the sea and her breath escaped through parted lips. She knew she was holding his action too, knew just by the awe in his face that, again, he was hers to command.
His eyes dropped to her breasts as he spoke. ‘Katie,’ he said, ‘you’re so beautiful, so incredibly beautiful. I worship you. You know that don’t you. I worship you.’
Obsession Page 5
