Title Page
FUR
A Little Book of Erotic Stories for Women
by
Vanessa de Sade
Publisher Information
Fur
Published in 2016 by
House of Erotica
www.houseoferoticabooks.com
an imprint of
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © Vanessa de Sade 2015
The right of Vanessa de Sade to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Fur - A Love Song
She likes to lie
Alone
And stroke her own brown fur,
Like she did
When, allowed to stay up late
In her pretty pink pyjamas,
She would press her face to
Her mother’s musquash stole
And breathe its musky aroma
Of night air and
City bars,
Tobacco smoke and strange perfumes,
Just as she now finds the fur
That grows like stealthy moss
In the crease of her underarms
Tantalising to the tongue,
It’s texture
Telling tales of tender touching,
Amidst lingering bouquets of shampoo
And musky sandalwood soap,
Dusty incense aromas
Like beloved kittens
Which she shares with only those
She trusts to explore
Those warm jungles of her
Secret, sacred, fur
Which, normally, she conceals like attic Jews,
Against the creeping depilatory forces
Of lady razors and inexperienced callow boys.
Part One
Walk, Like a Panther, Tonight
The Spite House
We found her naked save for her blood-red bathing suit, washed up on the sand spit where the river estuary joins the restless sea in a loveless kiss, her long pipe-cleaner limbs blue-white and splayed out like a broken doll, her body cold as ice. My companion immediately presumed her dead and wanted to send to the village for the carpenter and his hearse, but I was sure that I detected a faint pulse and so we two staggering old women, our crinolined dresses flapping about us like hump-backed carrion crows, manhandled her lifeless body indoors and chaffed her wrists and ankles, listening for some flicker of a heartbeat in her cold and porcelain chest.
And my ancestral home has stood for centuries like a crooked sentinel on the jagged rocks of this estuary - “a Gothic house of steps,” an architectural magazine once dubbed it - with its myriad of narrow turreted windows and unceasing flights of winding stairs leading to floor after abandoned floor of constricted, dusty rooms. They say that a village woman fell with child to my ancestor and demanded a palace, so out of spite he built her this shard of stone upon the outermost promontory, a windswept Bluebeard’s tower that defies the icy northern gales which rattle its shutters and drain it of every crumb of warmth, even back in the days when fires still burned in all the grates and a fleet of rustling maids slid from hidden panels behind the now damp-spoiled Chinese silk hangings and tiptoed from room to room.
Today, though, only the glass orchid house still exudes a steamy heat, and while my companion and I shiver at our toilet each morning a bent old man in a green baize apron meticulously keeps the boiler stoked for the preservation of the waxy specimens which luxuriate like voluptuous wantons in the damp embrace of its faux humidity; and so it is to that place that we take the girl now and lay her upon the duck-boards of the mossy floor, her dead skin gleaming like moonstone upon the raw ochre of those worn wooden slats.
And, gradually, gradually, like a night sky reluctantly giving way to a grudging grey dawn, some colour finally returns to her pallid features and her eyelids flicker like static on a television screen. She is freezing, my companion exclaims, and the fabric of her costume is waterlogged and like ice, we should undress her before pneumonia sets in. And so, as she scurries off to some attic bedroom in search of blankets, I cradle this broken marionette in my arms and slowly denude her, inching the wet fabric down her long spindly legs and feeling it stick and resist, until I finally have it at her feet in a brooding pool of blood.
And, though I know that I should hold her for warmth, I am uncomfortable with even this justified intimacy, and so I leave her lying as she is on the damp wood, like some undraped flapper-fringed heroine, a toppled white-marble Venus amongst the heady orchid jungle, though even now I cannot tear my eyes away from her nakedness, her pale body like a snowdrift, straight as a fledgling boy’s save for her two tiny beesting breasts with nipples the colour of raw garnet. But it is not to these icy plovers’ eggs that my sinful eyes rivet, but instead I stare like a schoolboy at the hinge of her thighs, and the thick pelt of fur that grows there, wolverine, like a wild beast watching me, its mouth hungry beyond those soft pink lips...
But now my companion bustles back into the room, her arms overflowing with musty blankets, her own widow’s weeds rustling in a chorus of petticoats as she lowers her bulk and covers the girl. Though I fancy I catch a glint of the same forbidden feelings that are currently coursing like a virus through my own veins in her normally impassive sea opal eyes...
***
The girl gives her name as Mary, and, though I am sure that this is a lie, the nomen suits her and we do not question it, my companion and I, clucking around our new charge like two worn-out old mother hens. Nothing is thrown away in this house and even the bones of my ancestors moulder in their sealed crypts hewn into the rock below; and generation upon generation’s clothing lies preserved in the distant attics, layer upon layer of forgotten sartorial gems in old seafarers’ trunks sandwiched between gossamer-thin sheets of glassine paper, reeking of camphor and fragile to the touch. And so we climb the shaky ladders with precarious candles and find her clothing that matches the era of her hair. Monochrome Fair-Isle-knit sweaters and short Prince of Wales tweed skirts; silken flapper dresses in scarab-beetle hues; soft cashmere-wool jodhpurs and waistcoats in muted heathers and moss greens.
And she insists on trying each ensemble and modelling it for us like a department store mannequin parading the emporium’s most expensive furs before an adulterous husband, and we watch transfixed as she wriggles out of one set of clothing and into another, her body long and white as she slithers out of the constricting garments and stretches, felinely nude, before taking up another one, and, like some pollen-gathering insect, it is as though she takes food from our barely-suppressed longings and blooms before our very eyes.
For it is many years since I have known a lover’s touch, becalmed as I am in this turret fortress jutting out into a restless sea, a niche already carved for me in the crypt of my ancestors; my companion, likewise, a woman of mature countenance come to me in widow’s weeds which she has never shed. And yet I desire this girl like the wolf hungers for the untouched virginal flesh of Red Riding Hood, and my dreams are tormented by lurid images of such perversity that I cannot bring myself to recount them here, suffice to say that they are of no chaste nature regarding our unexpected ward.
And, as I watch my companion grow thin and wan while the Mary child fattens, sleep deserts me complet
ely and I nightly pace the empty floors in the small hours like a caged beast in the zoological garden, listening to the moan of the wind on the creaking widow walk, the distant keening of the sea below as it laps seductively at the craggy rock of our foundations, a siren song of debauchery and desire calling to me incessantly and making my very body hunger for her heady poison. And it is many decades since I gazed at my own undraped form in the fly-spattered silvering of the pier glass in my chamber and I fear that the years will not have been kind to me as I undress tonight by the guttering candlelight, but I persist and stare at the old woman who now stands before me, her breasts low slung but still cherry-topped with the ruby-red nipples of my youth, belly sagging but thighs white and supple, and I walk slowly but determinedly past the seaweed strands of decaying Nottingham lace billowing in the draft from the cracked window panes and wind my way down to the lower floor where my companion has her rooms.
And it is no surprise to me to hear sounds of pleasure emanating from within her closet, the guttural whore’s moans of a woman giving free reign to her inner appetites, and I throw open the door to behold her unfettered nakedness as she lies on the bed in rapture while the creature who has given her name as Mary feeds from the hot and honeysuckle nectar which flows freely from her slit, the very orifice wanton and voluptuous like a ripe peach. And, though she growls at me like a rabid animal, she does not hamper me as I bodily lift up the changeling sprite who has inveigled its way into our hearts and drag it to the turret room, whereupon I cast it firmly into the hungry sea from whence it came.
Art Class
This will not be the kind of art class story that you are expecting. I will not be chronicling the erotic insecurities of a fat-bottomed girl baring her all to a group of students and finding self-confidence and true love; nor will it be the lustful ramblings of a middle-aged matron ogling the tackle of young bucks. No, this story is one of quiet infatuation, not with some naked Adonis podium-paraded before my hungry eyes, but of my unhealthy absorption with an enigmatic forty-something artist in a moss-green corduroy jacket.
But, let us begin at the beginning. I live for my art. Which, I know, is a very noble sentiment and all very fine and dandy to boot, but in the real world my art does precious little in return by way of paying bills or putting food on the table. Thus, unable to afford my own models, I have become a perpetual haunter of local authority life drawing classes in drafty community halls, where, for a few pounds, I can compile endless reference sketches of artists’ mannequins who would otherwise be beyond my limited budget.
There is nothing sexual in this preoccupation, and I sketch handsome young athletes and saggy-bellied grandmothers with equal care and attention, meticulously filing their frozen-in-time bodies for future reference in the mortuary-like storage drawers of my studio, a whole cabinet of cryogenic depictions just waiting their turn to burst upon the page in some yet-to-be conceived blaze of glory.
And on this particular Tuesday the class is no different from the many I have attended so many times before. The model is a diminutive mother-of-two with a dimpled behind and shy smile, while the cluster of erstwhile sketchers propping their easels around her undraped form are the usual assortment of divorced ladies taking up an ‘interest’ in the hopes of meeting Mr Right, Mark Two; and furtive, slightly malodorous, old men who come clutching discount-store sketch pads and slyly ogling when they think that no-one is looking.
And amongst this crowd of miscreants the inscrutable Zander sticks out like a sore thumb. A quietly stylish man in his own well-worn way; he looks more like a slightly down-at-heel architect than a painter or sculptor, but he draws with a fine untutored style, using a crowquill pen to capture each pose in clear and economical lines. And, while he is outwardly affable I note that he keeps himself mainly to himself, avoiding the clumsy overtures of the divorced matrons at the innumerable tea breaks with polite efficiency, and I watch amusedly from my corner as they eat up his departing back with their pleading puppy-dog eyes.
And though I usually remain coldly Switzerland-like in the midst of all this frustrated flirting, there is something about this one that fascinates me, and, against my better judgement, even I eventually capitulate and make my own overture to him at the end week three’s session, just as the golden September nights have given way to a chill October gloom and unrelenting winds that rattle the old casement windows, causing Molly, the model, to demand a fan heater be pointed, henceforth, at her chubby bum.
“I like your use of line,” I say without preamble, that awful Tuesday, leaning over his shoulder as he carefully blots the sheet on his easel before transferring it to his art case. “It’s very clear and has a nice flow to it...”
He smiles his thanks, appreciating the compliment, but says nothing. And, oh, but his eyes are the colour of Lake Windermere on a rainy dawn. “Have you tried Bristol board?” I blunder on, feeling my face threaten to flame at any second, and he nods again.
“Too smooth,” he says in a soft voice like a horse-whisperer savouring a fine malt. “I like the tooth of cartridge and the natural catch on the nib...”
And I know, even then, that this is a mistake; that his sad grey eyes conceal the trap that lures every woman into a life of servitude trying to heal a broken man, and yet, like my mother and grandmother before me, I seem determined to plunge right in and lose myself in the bottomless abyss of his need.
***
Our courtship, if you can call it that, is slow, and I’ll spare you the details of endless remarks on pen versus brush and the acid qualities of paper versus canvas, and transport you, instead, to a bald February dawn when I wake naked in his bed and know that I have strayed disastrously from the path.
We have had coffee together on more than one occasion after class has dissolved, and tonight, after Molly has wedged her plump little bottom back into her pre-baby jeans, he asks me back to his house and I sense that he is about to make his move. And, though I still know nothing about this man, in my mind I have already furnished either a bitter shrew of an ex-wife who has cheated on him and absconded with all his worldly wealth, or, on more lurid nights when my imaginings take a turn towards the morbid, a poor wraith of a creature who has died tragically in his arms from some incurable illness and left him the sole guardian of a whole troop of Bambi-eyed infants. Either way I am keen to sniff around his lair, and so I accept his invitation with rather too much haste, still convinced that the sadness in those limpid grey pools conceals carefully concealed baby photographs and acres of unwashed dishes stretching back to infinity like the heirs of Banquo, so I am surprised at the neat and orderly living room with its casually comfortable sofas and Ikea shelving storing hundreds upon hundreds of vinyl records above lushly verdant pot palms and succulents.
And I have had no plans on fucking this deliciously adorable creature tonight, but I also figure that a few kisses won’t hurt, and thus allow myself to be scooped up into his arms as I turn from pretending to be impressed by his collection of Bix Beiderbecke seventy-eights, but I can feel his cock, already very firm, pushing hard into my thigh, and decide on the spur of the moment to revert to plan B and simply proceed to rip the clothes right off him.
He is wearing a pair of old blue denims, worn soft from years of careful washing, and a plain but expensive silk shirt, and, rather than undoing buttons and exploring his chest in the expected girly manner, I tug savagely at his belt and go straight for the trousers, yanking them and his freshly-laundered white underpants down in one, gasping as his big malleable cock springs up to greet me like a rampant ship’s figurine, a towering totem pole in the forest of thick curly brown hair that covers his crotch and belly.
He tries to kiss me again but I out-manoeuvre him and rip open the shirt, buttons flying everywhere, denuding him like my old grandmother would skin a rabbit in one deft motion, and I hold him at arms length to take in the view, his naked body, taut but not worked out, the remnants of that all-over summer tan still evident and his skin deliciously hairy eve
rywhere from his chest down to his toes. Muscular athletic legs and a cock to die for. Balls low-slung and a long thick shaft with a huge head, already super-stiff and very suckable.
And he seems quite happy to be stark-bollock naked in front of me while I’m still fully dressed and, as yet, isn’t trying to pin me down and force-fuck me, so I decide to push my luck and ask him to turn for me. Which he does without protest. And his ass is pure delight, firm and tight like a man at least ten years his junior, and with a deep and inviting crack, dark and secret and thick with fur. Ah, the male ass. The testing point of macho. I once had a dear sweet boyfriend who turned into an instant Louisiana Baptist and called me a depraved whore when I stuck my finger up his bunghole and I wonder if this adorable specimen will similarly transform as I explore the inner nooks and crannies of his rear crevice.
And I want to map him like an ancient oceanographer, trace all his contours and valleys, annotate those small brown nipples, inscribe the sworls of hair on his chest and belly, etch the dip of his navel, calliper the circumference of his towering cock and plumb the depths of that tight dark asshole the way his fat and bestial prick would like to penetrate the hot and humid tunnel of my - by now - very impatient cunt.
“Touch me any way you want,” he whispers, reading my mind, and so I lick my finger and slide it in just a fraction, feeling rather than seeing his cock leap with pleasure at my invasion so early in the dance. Oh yes, this boy has potential.
I turn him round now, delighting in the feel of that big doggy dick, now with the foreskin peeling down to reveal the fiery - already sticky - head, as it brushes against me, and I permit him one long lingering kiss before I push him back again.
“I’m a delicate flower,” I lie. “If you want to fuck me you have to do whatever I ask. Can you do that?”
Of course, he nods back, those puppy-dog eyes so pleading. But I ignore him. I am wearing an old black cashmere sweater and a long vintage skirt, and I’ve just had my normally chestnut hair dyed ebony black and cut in a razor-sharp fringe, my makeup skeletal and decidedly Goth.
Fur Page 1
