by Various
For the rest of that week, every spare minute was consumed by thoughts of her. Did she ever speak? What did her voice sound like? In the heat of sex, would she make a noise? Was she silent even at the moment of climax? Had her husband enforced a speaking ban, or was it voluntary? I remembered the humidity between her thighs, the sticky, wanting smell of her. Was she a willing participant in this, or was I her unwitting tormentor?
I hoped to find out the answers to all of these questions and more regarding the exact feel and taste of her at our next meeting – though I expected the latter queries to remain unanswered. I constructed her corset – red satin, with black velvet running the length of the bones – with greater care than I usually expend. How perfectly it would frame her, covering her middle to expose more fully the tempting expanses above and below. I laced the eyelets lovingly, seeing the criss-cross pattern traverse her back from tailbone to bustline in my mind’s eye.
The day of our fitting arrived at last; she was again respectably dressed in a boxy Jackie O-inspired skirt suit. When I passed the corset across the desk to her, she fingered it tenderly, catching her breath and shooting me my first eye contact – a cringing gratitude.
‘Do you think it will do?’ I asked her, smiling.
‘I’m sure it will be just right,’ replied her husband, taking it from her and holding it up in front of him. ‘Once we’ve added our little extras.’
‘Extras?’
‘Let’s have her try it on first, then we can discuss the adjustments I have in mind.’
He left it to me to issue the order to undress. My mind raced while I watched her perfectly polished nails wrestle with the large buttons of her jacket. Adjustments. Extras. Memories of the customised corset the lady had requested by email flashed through my mind. Was something along those lines required here? I rather hoped so.
How obediently she divested herself of her clothes, folding them neatly and piling them on the nearby chair, unsnapping her suspender clips, rolling down her stockings, tackling the hooks and eyes of her front-fastening basque and then standing quietly naked, head bowed as always, hands clasped modestly over her pubic triangle. She was not fully naked, though, for there was a plain silver torc around her neck, which fastened with a tiny chain at the back. Almost like a collar, of a very discreet kind.
She complied patiently with my every request while I settled the corset in under her bust and commenced the task of lacing it.
‘How tight do you want it?’ I asked, addressing my question unthinkingly to her husband.
‘Well, now, I think we decided that we don’t want it so tight that her breathing was affected. Tight enough to ensure that she is constantly aware of it, I suppose.’
‘I understand completely.’ I pulled hard at the laces, enjoying her gasps, and the first sound to come from her throat – a tiny mewl. ‘So you have a voice,’ I said briskly, and she fidgeted uncomfortably. One hand moved to cover her right buttock and I noticed for the first time a tiny mark there, dark red, almost a bruise but not quite.
‘Don’t cover it, or I shall tell the lady how you came by it,’ said her husband in a warning tone. ‘You are to behave yourself for Miss Frost, remember.’
Her hand moved away and once more her bare bum was on full display, mark and all. Now that the corset was laced, it swelled and undulated magnificently, crying out for attention.
‘Now, how’s that?’ I asked, clapping my hands together with satisfaction at the beautiful picture she made, nude but for her severely cinched waist and silver collar.
‘Exquisite,’ commented her husband. ‘Almost exactly what we wanted. Give us a twirl, love.’
She pirouetted obediently, then struck a number of suggested poses – hands on hips, one leg on a chair, bent at the waist. ‘Perhaps you would like to photograph her for a private catalogue?’ he suggested and, when I demurred, he said, ‘Do you mind if I do?’ and took a number of pictures on his mobile phone.
‘Almost exactly?’ I quoted him when he had finished, holding my notepad and pen in my hand as if ready to dash off a list of new requirements.
‘Yes.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I have been led to understand that you can provide modifications to order. Is this correct?’
I nodded expressionlessly. ‘Quite correct. I am discreet and prepared to cater for even the most unusual tastes. If you could tell me what you have in mind …’
He produced a piece of crumpled paper from his breast pocket – a blueprint of sorts – and handed it over.
‘Fascinating,’ I commented, looking up at his lovely little submissive, still standing in corset and collar in the centre of the room. ‘I shall have to think how I can make this work … So these …?’
‘Chains, linking the top of the corset to her … necklet. Crossing the breasts, with a nipple clamp in the centre of each cross. I envisage sterling silver, perhaps even white gold, for the clamps. Would you be able to source something like this?’
‘I’m sure I know an outlet or two. And then these straps below …?’
‘Yes, thin straps – about a centimetre in width – of black leather, attached to each side of the front panel, crossing her thighs diagonally and meeting in the centre. As you see, they would pass underneath and between her legs, and up the cleft of her arse.’
The word ‘arse’ was oddly jarring; perverse as our conversation was, it had the feel of polite dinner-party chat.
‘Yes, I see, and there are these small metal loops around the … anus and the … er …’
‘Yes, they don’t have to be metal, though. I will leave that to you. The idea is that a vibrator or dildo can be screwed into each ring and inserted into my wife when she is wearing the corset. The part of the strap that passes between her lips should also have a patch of some reasonably rough or coarse fabric stitched on that will rub against her clit when she walks. Our aim is that she will be in a state of permanent sexual stimulation, though I would prefer that she cannot quite achieve satisfaction. So the fabric will need to be just a little too rough to be comfortable, and the penetrative objects just long enough to enter, but not so long as to provide relief. What do you think? We can go elsewhere …’
‘No need for that,’ I said quietly, though I must admit I had been rendered momentarily speechless by what he had said. Speechless and extremely aroused. I wondered how she felt about it all; she had maintained her statuesque pose throughout.
Head bowed, hands clasped.
‘I will need to take additional measurements.’
‘As you wish.’
I stood directly in front of my subject, unwinding the tape-measure very quickly so she could hear the light swish of it, such an efficient sound.
‘Your nipples first, I think. Are they quite hard enough?’ I turned to her husband.
‘Perhaps they need to be a little harder,’ he agreed.
The pad of my thumb described a light circle over both tips until her chest began to buck and heave a little. I applied my finishing touch – a firm pinch to each – then wound my tape around the pair, pulling it as hard as I could get away with, looking for a grimace or, better, a sound. I got the grimace; the sound did not come.
‘Small but not too small,’ I noted. ‘There will be a standardised size of clamps for them.’
‘Oh, I’m aware of that.’
‘Now, to the matter of the rings. What size of penetrative object were you considering?’
‘Big enough to be noticeable. If you could perhaps measure both holes and then order rings for perhaps half a centimetre larger all round. She will need to be stretched a little.’
‘I understand. Well, shall we start down here? I think, my dear, I will need you to bend over. Could you put your hands on that footstool just there and spread your legs as much as you can. That’s … just the job, dear.’
The whole spread was wide open and willing, from the swollen ruby of her clitoris to the brown bud peeking at me from between her cheeks. I felt like a gourmet at a feast,
unsure of which dish to sample first.
I started at the top, or rather, the bottom.
‘Perhaps if you use your fingers? To get an idea of what she can comfortably take?’
I acceded to her husband’s request, snapping on a pair of thin latex gloves, and took a jar of lubricant he had produced from his trouser pocket. I smeared it liberally around the entrance of her pucker, greasing it up and pressing my thumb against the ring. ‘Don’t clench.’
My gloved index finger snaked slowly and surprisingly easily beyond her sphincter. I twisted it around in there for a minute until she began to squirm, then introduced a second finger. She began to whimper a little, so I went for the third, ramming them up repeatedly as far as I could and pressing down on her little red mark with my other hand. ‘Yes,’ I said, now having to work at controlling my own breathing. ‘If I measure the width of these three fingers, that should be sufficient.’
I took off the glove and wound the tape around my fingers, enjoying the residual warmth from the invasion of her most private space. I thought about putting a fresh pair of gloves on for the next part of my measuring mission, but the prospect of all that hot, wet, yielding flesh against mine was too much to resist.
One finger was sucked into the tight, slick cave of her cunt, two were better, scissoring and prodding at the sides, feeling for the bump of her G-spot, finding it and rubbing it. And then, yes, she definitely moaned; her walls quivered, and I added a third finger. I could feel the suction; she was pulling me in and I was tempted to stay, but I realised that this was not on today’s agenda, so I pulled out with a luscious squelch and added the figures to the list.
‘She’s extremely receptive,’ I remarked to her husband.
‘She’s a slut,’ he said, and the smallest of sighs escaped his wife’s lips.
That night I thought about Ruby for the first time in years.
I thought about how she had loved to be on display, how she would contrive to show off her suspenders even in polite company, how she would goad me into meting out discipline, how she would beg to be shared.
And that had been the sticking point. I had been unable to share her.
Mr Fox, it seemed, had no such scruple. Sharing his wife would be my first taste of that particular brand of honey in almost a decade. But was she like Ruby, or was she just doing it to please her husband? Perhaps I should just take her gushing pussy as a silent consent. Yes, perhaps I would do that.
Production of the Foxs’ custom corset was a complicated job, involving much research and negotiation with some of the BDSM toy suppliers, but I looked upon it as a labour of lust.
When I was eventually able to stroke the leather nether harness, poking a finger or two through its rings, I called my deviant couple to invite them for a final fitting. On the mannequin, the contraption looked devilishly wicked and alluring and I could not seem to stop experimenting with tightening and adjusting its fixtures. The two specially made dildoes – thick, but not quite long enough to go far – stood on my desk like sentinels ready to greet her when she walked through the door.
She saw them straightaway, flinched and then turned to the mannequin.
With her eyes, she asked her husband’s permission to touch and examine her new garment, and she stood before it, running her elegant fingers over the smooth silk and the expensive leather, moving closer in to gape at the shining silver nipple clamps.
‘You’ve done a wonderful job,’ commented Mr Fox. ‘My wife will get a lot of pleasure from this. And so will I.’
Mention of his wife’s pleasure struck me instantly as a subtle green light. I smiled at him and nodded. ‘The pleasure was all mine. I do enjoy these projects.’
‘Good. Should we move on to the fitting?’
Without having to be asked, my model tugged at the ties of her wrap dress until it fell open, exposing her bra. She slipped off the skyscraper heels she was wearing, but her husband shook his head, and she put them back on again. She had only to shrug off the dress, unclip her bra and step out of her knickers today, and it was scant minutes before she stood in front of us in nothing but hold-up stockings, high heels and that silver collar.
Having removed the corset from the mannequin, I prepared to transfer it to Mrs Fox – a complex operation, involving much unlacing and unclipping. First I tied the main body of the corset tightly, but not too tightly, reining her in until the required hourglass was moulded. The straps at the front hung down between her thighs, but I left them there and began work on the thin chains that were to cross her breasts.
I clipped each chain to her collar, so that silver Xs adorned the pert little tits, then I went to work on attaching the nipple clamps. One notch, then two; the nipples crimsoned and stood out like tiny beacons. How lickable they looked, and the discomfort indicated by her gritted teeth was not putting me off in the least.
Nonetheless, it was time to move downwards, to fix the leather straps, passing them down between her thighs to hook them up at the base of her spine.
‘Open your legs; this needs to pass between your pussy lips,’ I told her, keeping my voice dispassionate. I manipulated the strap until it sat inside her labia, pressing directly against her clitoris. I lined up the ring with her vaginal entrance, then pulled the strap upwards between her bottom cheeks, performing the same alignment exercise over her hidden rosette.
‘Is that tight enough, do you think?’ I asked Mr Fox, tensing the strap as much as I could.
‘That seems just about right,’ he opined. ‘Let me check.’ He pinched and felt his way around the new features, nodding approval as he did so. ‘She certainly won’t be able to forget she is wearing it. Even less so when the extras are added.’
‘Shall we try them out?’
‘Oh, yes, I think so.’
I picked up the thicker of the dildoes, relaxed the strap enough to screw it into place in its ring and then ordered Mrs Fox to bend over on the desk with her legs as wide as possible.
‘Is she wet enough to take this straight in?’ I wondered aloud.
‘Why don’t you test her with a finger?’ suggested her husband.
I took him up on it, giving her clit a good workout before pushing two fingers into the soaked void. She was wet enough all right, wiggling her bum frantically and trying to pull me in further. Oh no, she was not getting that yet.
‘She’s saturated,’ I noted, laughing to Mr Fox. ‘I don’t often see a customer as satisfied as this!’
He laughed back at me. ‘Not satisfied yet. Not until permission is granted, at least.’
‘I quite understand. Now, let’s stretch that dripping little quim, shall we?’ I pushed the dildo inside in one swift move; her hips rotated, desperate to suck it in further, but she would get no more than the four inches of smooth black silicone.
Now I was too involved in my work to think about donning gloves; I affixed the anal plug to its ring and lubricated her clenching and unclenching arsehole with some of the copious juices of her pussy. I took my time with this operation, keeping the cheeks spread wide while I worked, talking to her in a low voice as one would to a skittish horse, for she was trying to hump the dildo in her cunt like a woman possessed.
‘Keep it nice and relaxed, dear,’ I whispered. ‘It will stretch you, and you will feel it, but it won’t fill you; no, you mustn’t have that satisfaction without your husband’s permission, must you, my dear? I do wonder where you will be wearing this lovely thing; I’m sure no amount of cover-up would hide the obvious fact that your holes are filled and your nipples as swollen as overripe cherries. I expect you’ll draw quite a lot of attention wherever you go. I like those heels, my dear; they do thrust out your bum quite helpfully – look how ready you are now. Now, keep still, dear girl, and don’t tense those muscles.’
I pushed the dildo against the tight little pucker, easing it in, keeping a tight hold of her spread cheeks in case she panicked, though I suspected she was well used to this method of penetration. She took it without pro
test, grunting quietly and rocking back and forth, until it was fully seated.
All that remained for me to do was to tighten the straps so that neither dildo could possibly be dislodged and leave her to accustom herself to the sensation.
‘Well, that’s … very nice,’ said Mr Fox, and I had to agree with him. The slightly protuberant flange of the anal dildo separated her cheeks pleasingly, and her pussy lips swelled out at either side of the invasive strap. Now I was tempted to take up Mr Fox’s offer of a photography session, but he interrupted my train of thought, ordering his lady to, ‘Walk across the room for us. No tottering on those heels.’
Mrs Fox straightened, straining to keep her posture dignified and refined, but, from the moment she took her first waddling step, it was obvious that dignity and refinement would not characterise her gait in this garment. Unable to close her thighs, and highly conscious of her penetrated bottom hole, she had to bow her legs slightly in order to get anywhere. Keeping her head down, she shuffled across the room, working hard at keeping upright on those vertiginous five-inch heels, coming to a halt at the full-length mirror.
‘Lovely. Now get on your hands and knees and crawl back.’
She dropped to all fours and began to creep towards us. Oh Lord, I had never seen anything so exquisite as this beautiful, silent, submissive woman in her depraved garb, crawling in my direction, embodying all my sublimated fantasies together.
‘Would you excuse me for a moment?’ Mr Fox picked the strangest moment to leave the room, just as his wife had arrived at my feet.
‘Oh …’ I glanced after him, mildly concerned, then turned my attention to the woman on the floor. Without looking up at me, she crouched over and kissed the toe of each of my patent-leather court shoes.
Then she spoke. ‘Mistress,’ she said. Her voice was low, almost a groan.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Please forgive me,’ she murmured, her lips still so close that her breath misted the shiny shoes. ‘I have not been quite … honest with you.’
I reached down and hauled her into a standing position by the elbow. ‘What do you mean?’ I snapped, horrible visions of myself and her in the Sunday scandal rags springing into my head.
