Blooming: Veronica

by Louisa Trent

  After performing the necessary introductions, names swapped, a bow and a curtsy made, Alfred said grandly, “As it so happens, I have the very costume in mind for your lady to wear to the soiree next week. A one-of-a-kind design I put together on a whim and which should complement this beauty’s dewy complexion. Right this way, if you please.”

  The tailor led their little parade to the rear of the shop, where a workroom, fitting room, and a changing area were located. Playing the master of ceremony, he looked to Talbot, now seated in a purple upholstered Chippendale chair against the wall, well away from the floor to ceiling mirrors, and said, “Would the lady please adjourn to the dressing room and then kindly rejoin us in here?”

  Talbot undid the buttons on his dark wool coat in avoidance of wrinkling the fabric. “Everything off, or will underthings do you, Alfred?”

  “A more precise measuring demands nudity. However, down to drawers and chemise will be sufficient.”

  “Nonsense, my good man. Mrs. Bowdoin has not a silly bone in her curvaceous body. She will make no objections to a full disclosure.” He and the tailor exchanged a long look of male understanding.

  “Very well. A wrap is available on the dressing room hook, and I shall return shortly.”

  After Alfred left, Talbot nodded to the dressing room door. “Well, go on. Inside with you and disrobe. Alfred is a busy man, rude to keep him waiting, and I have business I must attend to in Boston before the party.”

  “What sort of business?”

  Finally, she asked something personal about him. Though the return of her curiosity was a good sign, it was far too soon to reveal his occupation. Veronica’s full restoration to well-being hinged on a retreat from the world of publishing. Telling her what he did for a living might exert pressure on her to write, the worst thing for creativity.

  Lies were distasteful, but evasion was always in fashion. “I do a bit of everything. Several letters came by post this morning, and I must read them over, but I primarily look after my company’s books.”

  She nodded. “Financial records. I quite understand. You business magnates are all the same. Money, money, money. Prides Crossing and Beverly are just full of you captains of industry. From meat packing to steel to textile manufacturing, you men rule the world.”

  “Such contempt for ambition. Yet your father is successful, I understand.”

  “By necessity. The family is old Yankee, what others call Boston Brahmin, but there was very little actual money behind the name after the excesses of past generations. We very nearly lost the Beacon Hill address,” she said with a shudder. “Hence my father’s entry into business. Shipping. But the docks are rife with strife and strikes these days. While Papa agrees men who off-load cargo have a right to a certain standard of living, he rejects unionization. The way I see it, the wealthy have a moral obligation to help the less advantaged. In respect to unionization, I think—”

  Stump speeches on Boston Common were all well and good, and ordinarily he would greatly enjoy listening to a rousing one given by Veronica, but not one on unionization. Talbot nipped her line of conversation in the bud lest the specter of Robert, her past lover, come between them. “I did not inherit my wealth. And I have no great urgency to ‘rule the world.’ Nor am I political. I use my financial wherewithal to support the arts, and I greatly admire those, like yourself, who have talent. Now enough of this delay. Go disrobe while I wait here. The sooner you rid yourself of that wren brown trousseau outfit, the happier I shall be.”

  Without making a comment—where had her temper gone?—she left, returning quicker than he would have credited, a pretty floral wrap with a distinctly Asian flavor clinging to her curves.

  Now that was more like it. Alfred’s taste in women’s public attire was impeccable. He leaned toward chain mail for a woman’s private wardrobe, but that was something else again.

  Talbot leaned back in his seat in a feigned lounging position and raised his hands pensively together before his mouth, the fingertips tapping together, planning his next move with his skittish bride. “Go to the mirrors, Mrs. Bowdoin.”

  She glided over to the glass.

  “Excellent. Now loosen the ties of your wrap.”

  She did, the undone ribbons revealing not nearly enough lush pale bare flesh for his tastes. Though the pitiful exposure did give hint to her excitement. The peaked ends of her nipples stabbed the Oriental satin, leading him to believe she must feel something.

  Not for him, naturally, but for the unfolding situation that she must have sensed with her highly developed writer’s intuition.

  “Do you wish me to erupt again, Mr. Bowdoin, as I did last evening?”

  He sighed. Little sex fiend.

  Recent converts to any new activity did tend to zeal. His wife was still a novice at carnal adventuring, and he could not be more pleased with the level of her untutored enthusiasm. This next advance into hedonism would take her a step further.

  And deeper.

  “You may leave the wrap in place, but uncover your front entirely,” he told her.

  Without argument, she parted the floral wrap.

  He was no longer able to dissemble. Like a king on a plush throne, he sat up straighter in his purple-cushioned seat. “Now, look at your reflection.”

  “I am. How can I help it with the glass right in front of me?”

  He chuckled at her restored argumentativeness. “You are gorgeous. Stunning in the extreme.” He rose from his chair and went to her. “Why would you ever wish to hide all this behind rigid stays and dull colors?” he asked, drawing the smooth ivory handle of his walking stick over her, arching throat to loosening thighs, as she watched in the mirror.

  How utterly divine. She was already wet. Not saturated, but obviously moist.

  He could do better.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Veronica opened to her husband, splaying her legs without his having to place the demand.

  “Do you have need of a covering any longer, Mrs. Bowdoin?” he asked, eying her wrap, which, while pretty, evidently interfered with his game.

  And this was a game. He was playing with her. A pity she could produce no objections.

  A shrug lowered her sole barrier against nudity.

  “Much better,” he said, speaking low, and plied his ivory-handled cane to her cleft, back and forth in slow motion, as she observed herself in the looking glass.

  Decadent!

  Delicious too.

  She groaned. “The tailor?”

  “Will knock before reentering.”

  According to her reflection, her blue eyes went wide. “So…he must know the routine. How many times have you done this before with a partner?”

  “Never. Never wished to. But to answer your unspoken question—Alfred and I both know nudity is not a prerequisite of measurement taking. He understood what I would be up to in here with my lovely bride. We will have ample opportunity to amuse ourselves before his return.”

  Her spike of jealousy faded, and she went fluid between the legs, her eyes now slumberous in the mirror as her husband gave her several more caresses between the thighs with the cane, making sure to slide its length across what he called her clitoris.

  She was very swollen there, and what he was doing with the cane helped alleviate the achiness. Still, she wanted more. Needed more. Had to have more!

  “Fondle your breasts,” he ordered.

  Surely, he could read her mind.

  She raised her hands, cupped her bosom, prepared do whatever he told her to do. But all he told her was. “Let go. Be creative. Take license. Do whatever feels nice. Just do not close your eyes.”

  Biting her lip, her gaze riveted on her tense face, she handled her nipples, first gently, then harder. Harder was better.

  “You like it rough?” her husband inquired.

  “Evidently.”

  “How rough?”

  “I would have no idea.”

  “Time to find out.”

  “Ye
s. Yes. Whatever you say.”

  “Your nipples extend a large degree, past pronounced into prominent.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, for there was no denying it. The dusty rose tips struck out hugely, the distension long and vulgar. Humiliating.

  Terribly exciting.

  More than a tad revealing too.

  Giving her base desires away exposed her mind’s direction. In the mirror, her nude form was without pretension, devoid of any ladylike sensibility. Her bush of pubic hair glistened with eagerness. With her legs spread, she looked ready to mate.

  How did animals mate?

  Was it not from the back?

  Without even thinking, she started to turn, to offer him a rear approach.

  “No,” he cautioned. “You are to stay as you are. You are not to stray from the mirror.”

  “That was not my objective, sir.”

  “What was your objective?”

  “You seemed to like my bottom, Mr. Bowdoin. You expressed an interest in sodomy. I thought only to offer that inlet to you.”

  “I expressed an interest in watching, not in doing.”

  He sounded angry. Oh dear. Would he stop their play? If he did stop, she would be worse off than before. Why had she ever taken the initiative?

  Only because he told her to do what came naturally, and taking the initiative did come naturally to her.

  Her disgrace was all his fault. He told her to take license, and when she had done so, he chastised her. He could not have it both ways!

  And neither could she, not if she wished these naughty games to continue. He had made his position abundantly clear. He did not want her that way or any other.

  Though seething inside, she muttered a disingenuous, “I…I am sorry, Mr. Bowdoin. I have no idea what got into me.” Not you, husband, that I do know. You have not gotten into me. “I should never have presumed.”

  “No need to apologize,” he said magnanimously, and her anger flew out of bounds. “It is only that I wish you to face the glass.”

  “Yes. Indeed. Quite. Whatever you say.”

  She would have agreed to anything to have him continue.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him take something out his pocket, saw him place the two wooden items on the table to her left. “What are those?”

  “Clamps. I have a slight tit obsession. A mild fetish, if you will.”

  Her mouth gaped. “You must be joking. Breasts are for the nursing of young.”

  “They are for so much more. When her nipples are pierced, a woman may be suspended from the ceiling by them.”

  “Really?”

  “I would never lie. Would you like that? Would you like to have your large nipples pierced? And please return the favor and tell me the truth.”

  “It is not a question of what I would like, but a question of what you would like, sir.”

  “Simply put, I would like to have your tits pierced.”

  “Then very well. Do so.”

  “I would also like you pierced elsewhere.”

  “Are there any other appropriate—or I should say—inappropriate places?”

  “Your genitalia.”

  “Oh, my goodness.” She covered the furry vee with a hand. “But where?”

  “The labia majora. The labia minora. Or possibly both. Although recovery time is longer in the case of the majora. Also, more painful when the needle passes through. The fold is thicker, you see.”

  “I am afraid I do not see,” she said, removing her hand and looking down at herself. “Why ever would a woman do something like that to herself?” She pulled up on the pretty pink flesh as he moved the cane across the stretched slit.

  “To please her lover,” he said hoarsely. “Or her owner, if she were a slave. For me, I would want it done for the extra visual stimulation while looking. For your future partners, the tactile stimulation during penetration would be the key.”

  “It is quite up to you, sir,” she panted. “I intend to obey you in every facet of our lives.”

  “No. The only demand I shall place on you is in the sexual aspect of our lives. Everywhere else, you are your own person.”

  “Very well.” In the mirror, she tagged his gaze with hers. “And so?”

  “And so I shall have you pierced. Nipples, but not the labium. The clitoral hood. Fetching. But as for now, snap one of those clamps in place over each of your nipples.”

  “I will. I will do whatever you say, only please keep moving the cane,” she begged.

  “Walking stick.”

  “Walking stick,” she corrected, her hips moving with his languid strokes.

  “Our play will only stop when you scream.”

  Scream? Her?

  Hardly likely, she mused, reaching for the clamps and popping them on to the tips of her breasts. She might experience pleasure, perhaps, but not a sensation powerful enough to call forth a scream from her lips. Plus some mild discomfort bothered her now, nothing any too great, but the tetchy tenderness might interfere with her response.

  “Tighten the clamps. The mechanism is on the side. Twist it as you like.”

  As it turned out, what she liked turned her nipples blue.

  “Too much pressure,” he chastised. “Loosen the screws.”

  “Killjoy,” she muttered and did as she was told.

  “I think you might be ready for the next step.”

  “Yes, yes, sir, I am ready.”

  He dug into his pocket. Bringing forth his palm, he showed her a thing she had never seen before.

  “A dildo,” he supplied.

  “Pardon?” She kept staring at the thing. “Your meaning escapes me.”

  “In my hand is a dildo, an accoutrement of masturbation.”

  His meaning still escaped her…until he attached the thing to his cane and pushed ten inches of smooth wood through the swollen lips of her sex.

  An “oh” exited her mouth on a whoosh.

  So this, what he was doing to her, the ins and outs, the dragging across her swollen nub until she would do anything to have more of the same, was called masturbation?

  She called it love at first gasp.

  Goodness! With the dildo planted inside her, she began to rock to a rhythm his cane imposed, which just so happened to be a beat she enjoyed. Not too fast, not too slow, a speed designed for her individual needs. Just like the new wardrobe he intended for her to wear, also individually designed. If his taste in clothing matched his taste in this, she would absolutely…absolutely…

  Scream.

  “Feel another belch coming on, do you, Mrs. Bowdoin,” he said sanctimoniously.

  Lord, how she loathed her iceberg of a husband.

  Her clamped nipples stretched outward to the point of pain, she gave a heave and began an unladylike bucking that sent her bosom swinging as she shouted her throat sore.

  In the heat of the moment, she had not cared a whit how she might have appeared to him, but afterward, her loss of control, her jerking motions, her entire breach of decorum, even the accompanying wet squishy noises her vagina made caused her untold embarrassment.

  Where had her dignity gone?

  She had no idea, but she greatly feared it was lost forever now.

  No arms wrapped around her as the after tremors of release shook her to her toes. Alone and lonely, she held herself up by one hand as he withdrew the dildo from her body’s clasp, the betraying sound of releasing suction deafening to her ears in the quiet of the room.

  Shame took hold of her. If only he would touch her, console her, rub the remorse from her overheated skin.

  She was just so hot. Burning up! Perspiration drenched the hair of her underarms. A wet trickle rolled from her nape to sink between her buttocks. She fanned herself to cool down. Masturbation turned out to be more exercise than she ever would have countenanced.

  A knock, her husband pocketing the swiftly detached dildo and then calling “Entrez vous” as the door swung open, leaving her absolutely no time whatsoever to r
emove the clamps from her nipples and hide them before the tailor walked in on them.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “No reason to hesitate, Alfred. Come right in. We have just now finished.” Talbot winked, man-to-man at the tailor. “At least for now. You know how it goes with newlyweds.”

  Given the situation, his bride’s upset was to be expected. He held no malice against her when, in a fit of pique presumably, his formerly obedient wife yanked his walking stick right out from under him. Without its anchoring support, he swayed. Though he hated losing his balance, his stumbling clumsiness was worth it to see Veronica’s angry glare. Priceless.

  And reassuring.

  Her emotional health was not nearly as precarious as he had first suspected. Had she broken his beloved stick over her raised knee, he would have been even happier.

  But no. She contained her homicidal rage and kicked Ivory over to him with her bare toe.

  “An accident,” she seethed.

  The only accident was that he still lived.

  He let her excuse go in favor of saving himself. He was still floundering rather badly. Before he pitched on to his face, he retrieved the stick, then straightened.

  Another catastrophe averted. While Veronica no doubt envisioned future creative methods of toppling him, he continued as if her maliciousness had no impact on him whatsoever.

  Talbot coughed. “Now where were we? Oh, yes. You were about to measure my wife, were you not, Alfred?”

  “Yes, I was about to do just that.”

  “Well, carry on. Pretend I am not even here in the room. A word of advice—take great care when measuring around her bosom. Her nipples are sensitive. And as you can clearly see, breathtaking when aroused.” He chuckled with pride of ownership.

  “Breathtaking. They are that.”

  “Magnificent in their size too. Do you not agree, Alfred?”

  “As large as any I have ever encountered.”

  And the tailor had encountered a few in his side career of dungeon master at a private men’s club. During his visits to the North Shore, Talbot would pop in and see what Alfred had to offer for entertainment that evening. The scenarios, particularly the ones involving bondage, were a constantly changing tapestry. He never actively participated in any, but he had provided some of the mechanical equipment, steam-powered flogging horses and whipping machines primarily. Seeing firsthand how his little hobby contributed to the pleasure of others made the long hours of tinkering all worthwhile.