With my love always and forever, your Puss x
Eleanor’s Task: A Rest
My darling... A difficult task for you. The hardest task. You must take a rest from pleasure; you must not play with yourself. Instead, write your fantasies for the week. I know it will be beautiful, restorative and help to rebuild your appetite. Share them in your journal for my pleasure...With my love always and forever, your, M.
Eleanor’s Journal: Oil and Water
Oil, water, oil, water, oil, water. They don’t mix. I look at the small islands floating, jetsam and flotsam, my breasts, twin breakwaters. I turn the taps on full; pour a little more scented oil under the gush. At last, a foaming white mass, bubbly, satisfying, feeling a little cooler atop the lashings of hot water, my breasts now hidden from view by sparkling peaks. I recline, fragrant air moistens my senses, steam rising, a swirling mist, just like the morning mist that hangs over the lake. I turn off the taps and close my eyes, drift as if I were in a little boat, oars abandoned, just bobbing there, like the fisherman in my blue dream. My vivid multicolour, audio visual dreams that visit anytime, summoned at will from nowhere and transport me away. Hither. What is hither? I will buy a dictionary of medieval words. I need it, the voices in my head are speaking in unfamiliar tongues and yet, I understand them perfectly well as they live their lives and little deaths in parallel with mine, at Falconworth.
I inspect my nails, moving to the bath seat I check my pedicure. It needs redoing. I’ll book tomorrow. My darling, I am keeping a record of everything as promised, but I worry that there’s too much information. I am taking my restorative as instructed, and as you predicted, it’s difficult, tricky not to play. I adore playing in the bath, the warm water lapping my pussy, my kittenish purrs, vibrating from deep within me as I pleasure myself. But, no, I will obey you, my darling, to the letter.
oOo
Rising from the tub, Eleanor inspects her body from all angles. Rivulets channel their way to the tiled floor, pooling at her feet, errant bubbles, stick here and there, and small mounds of white foam dot her skin, slowly, slowly melting, until vanishing beneath the bath-sheet.
Sometimes, Eleanor experiences a feeling of unreality. As if she is watching herself live, so amazed is she at her good fortune in meeting Matty and coming with him to Falconworth.
Pressing a button on the landline, the call connects immediately. “Hello, it’s Eleanor Grant. I’d like to book Kerry for around five tomorrow evening, please. Falconworth Manor, yes, the works, my usual plus a full body massage and head massage. Please ask Kerry to set aside at least three hours, I’d like to try the aromatherapy. Thank you, goodbye.”
Dispensing with the remotes, Eleanor opens the doors leading into her wardrobes, automatically flooding the interior with light, mirrors along the length of one wall, the rest having been given over to made-to-measure shelves, racks, rails and other bespoke storage which she never tires of inspecting.
The reality of her previous life seems as if it has been lived by someone else, in another world, another time. It was as if she had entered a chrysalis the night before she and Matthew met, and he had unravelled her, silken strand, upon strand, the complicated weave of her bondage keeping her encased, just so, until he judged it time to uncurl the final thread of silk and set her free. She emerged, complete, in bright multi-coloured livery, a Painted Lady, large and bright, fluttering into her new home. Unlike her namesake she would never leave, her place was with Matthew bathing in the burning heat of his passion, circling, orbiting his radiance until he netted her. Destined to inhabit his net, relishing her imprisonment, embracing her bondage, she never wanted to be set free.
Running her fingers along the rows of hanging garments, pausing from time to time. “No, too tarty, no, too staid, no, what was I thinking? No, what was he thinking? Hmm, maybe.” Eleanor pulls out a navy, wool sheath, holds her heavy hair atop her head in one hand and the dress up against her with the other. The hem finishes about two inches above her knees. A gentle, scooped neckline, always flattering, sleeveless, the tunic has a matching cardigan, she loves the outfit. “Perfect,” she addresses her reflection, drops her hair, tumbling to her shoulders. She’ll team the dress with her soft, buttery, brown leather riding style boots and the pearls, her lovely pearls, at her throat and in her ears. By the time Kerry has finished with her, Eleanor will look peachy. She lays the outfit to one side. Projecting to the evening ahead, “Matty won’t be back until late, I’ll prepare us a lovely supper, no need to worry the chef. I’ll get ready now and go into town and get everything I need.”
The market town hosts a thriving farmer’s market twice a week. Eleanor adores weaving her way through the stalls, hand-picking produce, earmarking items to discuss with the chef for future use when Falconworth is up and running as a hotel. She had always loved cooking and burned with pleasure whenever she reminisced about the first meal she cooked for Matthew. She had been dessert. Laid out, spread and tied on the table while Matty devoured her from head to toe. Having blindfolded her, he had more or less forced her to suck his cock, indulging himself on her before untying her, attaching a collar and continuing his lessons in her bedroom. When she awoke the next day, he’d vanished, but he’d left the tickets for Venice, and she stepped out onto the threshold of her new life, with barely a backward glance.
Eleanor’s Journal: Cybersex
Matthew is away, and I miss him, his scent, his voice, his vitality. Whenever he is close, the air vibrates. I breathe him, deep gulps as if I am about to dive underwater. Lately, I’ve been anxious about the age gap, not for the usual reasons but because I’m not sure how I’d go on living if anything happened to him.
I open the connection; our once a day while he is gone. I don’t bother with a greeting.
“I need to be filled by you. I want you in my rectum.”
The cursor flashes and I wait. I know he’s there. I know how to feed his obsession. His words appear.
“What are you wearing?”
“Black lace bra and panties.” I type and smile.
One of Matthew’s rules: no camera, just the ticker of words across the screen. An unusual request from someone so obsessed with watching my image over and over again in the films that I make for him. With cybersex, Matthew prefers the written word, and I agree. Sometimes it’s perfection speaking to him casually, easily as if he were in the room.
“I’m naked.” His words tease.
“Mmm,” I reply.
My head fills with his image. He is fit; I rarely use the clarification, “for his age”. He is fit, muscular, tanned. His sixty six years sit well on him. A lifetime of military service has seen to his physique. His youthful appearance, insatiable sexual appetite, and verve leave me breathless. Sometimes, when faced with his capacity for life, I feel ancient.
“I am iron-hard for you Eleanor. Are you wet for me?”
He loves to drive the conversation, especially during mutual masturbation. He uses dictation software. Hands free. I am a fast typist and use two hands until I need to release one for relief. Although that part is not always precise. Occasionally, I lead him on. Let him take me where he wants to go, allow him to believe that I have had a brace of orgasms. It is the only time I have absolute control over my sensual self, my sexual self, my wanton self, with Matthew. I enjoy seeing how long it takes until he is overcome with the need to ejaculate. When we’re together he lasts for ages. Cybersex is always a quick fix before he goes off to his meetings or whatever else he has planned.
“I bind you.”
My heart flip-flops as I write my reply.
“I want you to beat me. Give me a little death. Tie me tight. Oh, so tight.”
Another long pause. I know that his cock is already hard.
“You can’t escape.”
I smile and reply. “I want no escape.”
“Your wrists are tied together.”
“Yes, oh, yes, yes.”
“You’re on your
knees.”
“I’m on my knees. Worshipping your hard cock.”
I reposition the laptop and get to my knees. His words are waiting when I check the screen.
“I slip my cock into your mouth, into your hot, velvet throat.”
“I lick and suck you.” I type quickly, my melting self needs release. “I drink you deep. I am achingly wet.”
“I fuck your mouth and open your dress.”
I get a vibe to insert. “I have a vibe, Matty, for while we talk.”
“Good girl. Now do as I say. Bend over, insert the vibe.”
“Very well, Matty. It’s the bunny, it’s rotating.”
The screen stays blank, and so I keep writing.
“I’m crouching over the vibe, hands free for typing. I have the clit stimulation switched on. I don’t have to touch at all.”
“The ears of the bunny are...on...my clit...”
“Lovely, Puss, keep talking. I’m masturbating.”
“The rest, all of it, is rotating inside.”
“As big as my cock?”
“Not as big as your cock.” We both know I’m lying, but it doesn’t matter.
“I’m so wet…”
There’s no comeback for a long moment, but I feel him. I pulse, the vibe continues to whir. I wait for his message.
“Is the vibe still working?”
“Yes. I may have to stop it in a moment. It’s powerful. I prefer your cock. I am aching for you, my love.”
“I want my cock to fill you. I’m aching for you too, darling Puss.”
“Fill every orifice with your pulsing skin. Your hard, hard glorious cock. How I love your cock. Your hard, pulsing cock.”
“Make me come, Puss.”
I remove the vibe and concentrate on his pleasure, typing fast, urgently, without pause, a long stream of messages… “I lick a long, long stroke from the base of your hard, erect, oozing cock...Stroke it my darling. I’m like a little bird in the nest. My mouth is open for you, for your seed, to feed me, fill me, fill my mouth, spill into me.”
“God it’s hard.” His words are slow to appear.
“Hard. Hard. Oozing. Hard. Dripping for me.” I supply fodder. “I taste you, your glorious, manly, hard, hot taste.”
“I’m coming, my sweet Puss. My cum is all over my chest. I wish it was truly gushing into your mouth, instead of spraying me. A droplet on one nipple makes me want you to lick me clean.”
“I’m craving for you.” I write, swallowing it down in our minds, so attuned.
“How utterly lovely you are, Puss. That was wonderful. I loved you coming, me coming. You know I love you, Puss.”
“I know, Matty and I love you too, darling.”
“I was so excited.”
“Me too.”
I smile. I can feel you smile.
“I shall anticipate seeing you soon, darling Puss.”
“Meow.”
I log off, fetch something to eat and turn to the parchment pouch containing his latest task. It’s resting on my dressing table, where I am reflected in a troika of images. Memories of an earlier envelope containing a message with tickets to Venice swim into view as I break the familiar scarlet seal.
Eleanor’s Task: Shopping
My Darling… Shopping: I want you to buy some lingerie. Use my credit card. Purchase a basque with suspenders, matching panties, you may choose the colour on this occasion, and of course, stockings. Paint your lips with the vivid, Chanel red before you leave Falconworth. I want the workers to see and know that the lips of your pussy match the shade glossing your mouth. Try all the items on in the shop. Ask the salesperson to help you lace-up. I want you to touch yourself in the changing room, take as long as you need, let the store staff speculate as you masturbate, thinking of me, your Master. Write everything in your journal when you return. How you felt driving out of the manor gates, entering the store, selecting the lingerie, your masturbatory self, reflected in the changing room mirrors. The staff as you paid. Leave nothing out. I want to read every detail. I need your words to make me iron-hard when I read you. Your ever loving, M.
Wraparound Silk
The task is far more of a challenge than the last, tense and mulling over his instructions I glance out of the windows. The day is gloomy, but a chink of brightness promises to burn off the early mist, the autumnal weather reminds me that it is not long until winter comes. Falconworth won’t be completed until Christmas week. I can never decide which part of the year is my favourite, there is so much to enjoy in every season. I love my birthday month, the promise of spring, and the lengthening days. And yet, autumn with her dark, rich, decadent colours, the smell of cordite, and bonfires, cosy fireside evenings, hearty food and Christmas, just around the corner, is always welcome. At the military hospital, we always celebrated Christmas well, ensuring that patients and staff didn’t lose out because they were not at home. It occurs to me that I haven’t a clue whether Matthew bothers with celebration.
Doing as he asks, I dress carefully in a simple navy shift, boyfriend cardigan, leather pumps, a mist of Chanel No 5 and a coat of the lipstick he adores. My shoes make no noise as I move across the reception hallway of Falconworth and towards the doors leading out to the stone staircase which in turn lead to the driveway where we leave my car. I drop my coat and bag onto the back seat. I’m still getting used to all the gadgets and the higher seating position of the Jeep. I drive slowly out of the gates and turn out onto the main road, pushing my foot down a little harder nudging the speed up to about fifty miles per hour. I don’t want to drive any faster in the unfamiliar vehicle.
I wind through the cluster of villages that nestle between Falconworth and our local town, bypassing the town centre I head to the city. Not bothering with music, preferring the company of my thoughts, I consider the shopping task, and wonder if I’ll be able to go through with it. Figging in the privacy of the priest hole at Falconworth is one thing, masturbating in public, albeit in the relative seclusion of a store changing room, another. Hating the idea of letting him down, I decide to do my best to make his dream come true.
“Thank goodness for the parking angel.” I say aloud so she can hear me. I believe in angels, Mother once told me that I’ve always seen them. It’s weird, but whenever I need to park in the teeming, overpopulated city, I summon my parking angel.
“You’re such a goose, Eleanor.” Julie laughs when we’re shopping together. I laugh too, but often, a space will materialise.
The welcome spot today is in the middle of a row of cars. I reverse in. I am contrary about reversing. No matter how snug the space, I choose to enter it backwards, in one manoeuvre. It works, most of the time. That’s military training for you. I can handle all types of vehicle, tanks, military ambulances; the lot. A little something that Matty doesn’t know about me. Yet. I’ve been yearning to have a go with the little digger they’re using for the grounds at Falconworth.
Smiling like an idiot, I point the fob at the jeep, stick the parking receipt into my pocket and make my way to After Eden. As well as having a fantastic name, the store is always packed from wall-to-wall with beautiful lingerie.
I recall the night I met Matty and the siren-like underwear I wore beneath my forties style clothing, his pleasure when I succumbed to his wishes, pushed down onto the grass at the base. He set the rules that night, with two witnesses, and I accepted his challenge, on my knees servicing strangers’ cocks while he plumbed my depths with easy strokes.
For our picnic date, the following day, I chose pure white, the contrast less dramatic next to my ivory skin. I will never forget the feather and his creativity at my core.
Following his shopping orders I decide to try a creamy colour, which looks a little darker than my flesh but sweet, pure, untried. I attract the girl’s attention. She catches my eye effortlessly and glides towards me as if she walks on air, and I notice her properly for the first time. About the same age as me, there the simi
larity ends because the girl is extremely dark, with glossy blue-black hair and tiny features. She looks stunning. The contrast between my fair features and her dark will be a pretty detail to share in my journal.
“How can I help you madam?” A stunning smile reaches her eyes, disarming me.
“I’d like a cream basque, matching panties and natural coloured stockings with a deep cream lace top,” I reel off. “Rather than hooks, I’d like a basque which ties with laces along the back. Will you help me, please? I’d like to try everything on.”
“Certainly, madam. Our cream collection is displayed on the far wall,” she says, leading the way. Together, we pick out a number of items. Some heavily corseted, some with simple bones, some without structure.
“I’ll show you to the changing room and bring the selection along to you. I’ll help when you’re ready. Through here.” She opens a damask curtain, and I walk through, my head already occupying Matthew’s world, my body ready to do his bidding, branded in my mind from the moment I read the task. A rush of heat warms my skin, followed instantly by a flurry of goosebumps, raising the surface, causing a slight shiver.
“Are you cold, madam? The temperature can be adjusted if you wish.”
“No. No, thank you,” I say. “Someone just walked over my grave.” And her shiver matches mine.
“Excuse me, I’ll go and fetch the garments we picked out,” she says, smoothing her expression, along with her skirt.
“Thank you.” I stow my things on a pretty chair, which matches the curtains.
A row of hooks holds a range of kimonos, supplied for customers’ modesty and I look along the rainbow of colours, finally pausing at mandarin. It reminds me of a picture I inherited from my parents. Although sometimes the image is painful, it’s comforting too. It has just been rehung after being in storage and it brings them closer to me again. I feel their presence at Falconworth, especially daddy. I know he’d disapprove of me and Matthew, just as Julie and Bob do. Still, I reassure myself with the thought that Julie doesn’t know everything about Matthew. Who knows everything about anyone? I push the unwelcome thoughts aside and wrap the rich silk around me. The burst of orange reflected so bright it almost hurts my eyes, radiating warmth and depth, rich, vibrant and decadent. Just like autumn.
Past Present Page 8
