‘Yes, oh, yes –’
‘And then, whipped and sobbing gently, your cock will feel the severity of my leather gauntlet. The silver-studded leather gauntlet. The leather gauntlet you bought secretly and hid as a surprise for me. But I found it, didn’t I?’
Silence.
‘Didn’t I?’
‘Yes,’ he whispered softly.
‘Because you cannot hide anything from me. I am the perfect mistress, and the perfect mistress knows every little secret thought of her miserable little slave. Doesn’t she, hmm?’
‘Yes. You own me. Control me, absolutely.’
‘That’s right.’
A groan.
‘I will use the gauntlet on your cock, and slowly, very slowly, milk the liquid obedience out of you –’
He cried out, almost choking on his delight.
Annette tossed her phone down. Aroused into a pulsing frenzy by her own stern words, she slid down to her knees, fingering her wet slit furiously.
Shivering on their bed next door, Tom pleaded into the mobile. ‘Mistress, mistress, where are you? Please, I beg you, please come.’
10
Low Fidelity
Lady Carstairs settled into the comfortable arm chair before a blazing fire. Her pearls sparkled in the dancing light cast by the flickering flames.
‘Coffee, your ladyship,’ Adèle, the maid, murmured, entering the drawing room of Carstairs Towers.
‘Thank you, Adèle.’
Everything was so different now. Coffee served after dinner by a maid, not a butler. Scrimping on the pruning of the ancient yew alley. Non-vintage port at table. Damp in the east wing. With Carstairs gone and capital funds depleted alarmingly, pinching economies simply had to be made. And Lady Carstairs had a daughter on her hands.
‘Patience or the wireless, your ladyship?’
Lady Carstairs had a vile French novelette stuffed behind her cushion which she was burning to take up. Sighing, she resigned herself to more sober entertainment.
‘The wireless, Adèle. Music, I think. Please spare me the Third Network with their interminable Norwegian dramatists.’
Adèle tuned in the Light programme. Bobby Kensington, the popular crooner, filled the large drawing room with his seductive charm.
Lady Carstairs brightened, her eyes as sparkling as her pearl choker. Bobby Kensington. Not in Debretts, admittedly, but very handsome and reputedly extremely wealthy. Lady Carstairs had made judicious inquiries before inviting the celebrity songster up to Carstairs Towers a fortnight since. He had arrived in a pale lemon Bentley and had tipped the servants generously. Julia, her daughter, had succumbed instantly. Lady Carstairs had found the vital evidence – soiled cami-knickers, a teeth-torn bustier – in the laundry basket in her daughter’s dressing room.
Lady Carstairs closed her eyes. Her plans had come to fruition. Her hopes were buoyant. Adèle had faithfully reported everything back to her mistress. Bobby Kensington had deflowered Julia twice in the rose garden, once in the library and again, just before departing, behind the stables.
Lady Carstairs sipped her coffee. There had been seventeen letters, two telegrams and umpteen trunk calls since. Most satisfactory. Lady Carstairs anticipated an announcement in The Times imminently.
Upstairs in her bedroom, Julia Carstairs sighed as her fingers trembled on the bakelite tuning dial. Moments later, she was whirling around her bedroom, naked, clutching a pillow fiercely to her bosom, as she danced to the crooner’s smooth song.
Kneeling, thighs astride her plump pillow, her soft buttocks buried firmly into its warmth, she drew her fingertips up to her nipples.
A clarinet pierced the air. Julia pinched her nipples, tweaking them up into savage peaks of pain. A trombone growled. Easing up a fraction on her whitening toes, Julia raked her sticky pussy along the pillow between her thighs. The pussy parted, tingling as the crisp cotton pillow case sliced into her pink moistness. The snare drum rattled. Julia’s fingers dropped down from her bosom, dabbling rhythmically at her wet heat.
From her small wireless, Bobby Kensington’s voice floated back. Julia squealed and squirmed into the pillow. She remembered his lips at her throat, then more urgently at her breasts. Sucking hard. Her thumbs peeled back her slippery labial folds. She remembered Bobby Kensington’s tongue down there, stoking not quenching the fire.
Lady Carstairs frowned. Her maid, Adèle, had supplied graphic intelligence of the alliance. But summer love, like summer lightning, often died as quickly as it erupted. Rising, she strode across to the wireless in its gleaming walnut cabinet. Reaching down, she switched the set off.
Treading the carpeted landing outside her daughter’s bedroom minutes later, Lady Carstairs paused. Bobby Kensington’s mellifluous tones filled the bedroom beyond the stout oak door. Kneeling, the concerned mother peeped through the keyhole into her daughter’s boudoir.
Down on the carpet, her supple thighs splayed wide, Julia cupped and squeezed her naked breasts viciously. Lady Carstairs narrowed her peering eye. It glistened as it watched the nude’s right hand shoot down to the dark pubic nest below. It watched as two straightened fingers were driven ruthlessly into the pouting pussy. It watched as the buttocks spasmed. Julia cried out softly, her squeal of ecstasy drowned out at once by Bobby Kensington’s faultless tenor.
Lady Carstairs opened both her eyes wide. A grim smile of satisfaction stretched her aristocratic lips wider. Already she was reading the impeccable small print beneath the Court Circular announcing forthcoming marriages. It would be an alliance of old rank and new money. Strawberry leaves and sterling. Lady Carstairs nodded vehemently. Yes. After a suitable period, she would approach her wealthy son-in-law to discuss the matter of restoring the office of butler to Carstairs Towers.
Mrs Bebbington-Booth patted her silver-fox stole complacently as she gazed around at the crowded tables in the smoke-filled, dimly lit room. The Dreadnought Club was crowded tonight. She would have preferred to be taking supper at the Ritz. Her wealth was equal to its prices, but she did not have quite the right connections or familiarity with the set who took its grandeur in their social stride. Mrs Bebbington-Booth (her late husband, plain Jimmy Booth, the liver pill magnate, had appended the name of his Pennine birthplace to match his increasing fortune) trembled on the outer edge of society, ever eager to buy her way one more step towards its inner circle.
Tonight, at the Dreadnought Club, Bobby Kensington was smoothly carolling the crowd. Trumpets squealed and two sudden spotlights pierced the smoke-laden darkness. One played directly down on to the white-tuxedoed tenor, the other bathed the naked shoulders and dazzled the green eyes of her only daughter, Sapphire.
Mrs Bebbington-Booth shivered with pleasure. It thrilled her to think that for the last five weeks Bobby Kensington had showered chocolates and orchids upon Sapphire. And there had been late-night spins in the lemon Bentley. Mrs Bebbington-Booth could almost smell the wet semen on the deep leather upholstery where, under a heavy rug, the singer had successfully prised open the nubile honeycomb and had tasted the sweetness from the oozing hive.
Mrs Bebbington-Booth, like her late husband, was a shrewd player, especially when the stakes were high. Staking all on one roll of the dice, she had thrown Sapphire at the celebrity, tactfully withdrawing the customary curfew allowing her daughter to be ruthlessly ridden on the tigerskin rug in Bobby Kensington’s Mayfair lair.
The silken notes of the sultry song came to a husky close. Sapphire rose from the table and weaved sensually through the thunderous applause towards the powder room. Mrs Bebbington-Booth, already rehearsing dictating the announcement of her daughter’s engagement down the telephone to Variety and The Morning Post, tightened her fur stole, rose and followed. What was this? Leaving before the stamps and whistles had elicited an encore? The widow of the late liver pill magnate felt a sharp pang of anxiety. Surely there had been no sudden cooling-off between them?
Tiptoeing into the quiet cool of the blue-tiled powder room and se
creting herself in the cubicle next to the one Sapphire had entered, Mrs Bebbington-Booth held her breath and listened.
Next door, her silk panties dragged halfway down her nylon-stockinged legs, Sapphire’s naked buttocks bulged as she squashed them against the cold wall. Scrabbling frantically in the blonde fringe at her pubis with scarlet fingernails, she sought and found her tiny clitoral bud. Bobby Kensington had found it for her – effortlessly, just as he found B sharp – and showed her how to apply a firm thumbtip to it to make the sweetest music.
Straining to listen in the adjacent cubicle, Mrs Bebbington-Booth frowned once more. Was that a muffled sob? Was that sob the sound of a broken heart? Then, to her immense relief and pleasure, she heard the sound of soft buttocks, of firmly fleshed peach-cheeks, pounding into hard tiles. She heard the low moan as fingers sought and found the prickling torments of a wet slit. The sound of flesh ravishing flesh. The unmistakable sound of female masturbation.
Sapphire jerked her head back and wailed her orgasm as thrillingly as any alto-sax. Flushed and delighted, Mrs Bebbington-Booth breathed out slowly – a deep sigh of relief. It would be a quiet affair. A Register Office do. Knightsbridge, of course. And then a month in St Tropez. She saw her future unfolding before her. Doors hitherto closed now ajar. And with Bobby Kensington warbling on the wireless every other evening, she’d be practically related to Lord Reith.
Monsieur Tuffant’s Pond Street establishment was patronised by Town and Country alike. Monsieur Tuffant made no distinction between the aristocracy and the nouveaux riches as they flocked to the skilful corsetier to have their bosoms bound in silk and their bottoms sheathed in the sleek embrace of satin.
Lady Carstairs examined herself critically in the full-length looking glass in the privacy of her curtained cubicle. The bottle-green basque squeezed her tightly, giving a delicious balconette uplift and bulge to her swollen breasts. Disciplining her waist within its stern strictures, it defined the ripe contours of her hips within its cruel constraints. Lady Carstairs turned. Her bare buttocks joggled as she drew her thighs tightly together. She relaxed a trifle, planting her feet slightly apart. Peering over her right shoulder into the glass, she considered the effect of Monsieur Tuffant’s superb corsetry skills upon her bottom. The cheeks loomed large in the silvered glass, the cleft was deep and dark.
‘Oh, I do beg your pardon.’ Mrs Bebbington-Booth, clutching a bustier to her bare bottom, hesitated at the velvet curtain she had just drawn apart.
‘I am finished,’ Lady Carstairs murmured imperturbably, still gazing down into the looking glass at the buttocks she lingeringly palmed.
Vanity is a splendid leveller of social rank. Within minutes, each was freely offering the other candid advice. Mrs Bebbington-Booth donned her lace-cupped bustier and requested an honest opinion. Lady Carstairs, perusing the effect, absently thumbed the dark nipples straining at the taut lace as she made minor adjustments to the positioning and the fit of the cups. Within half an hour, the two handsome widows had helped each other to choose – and don – silk stockings and suspender belts.
‘I’m lunching at the Ritz,’ Lady Carstairs remarked, settling her account with Monsieur Tuffant’s cashier. ‘Won’t you join me?’
Mrs Bebbington-Booth quivered with delight at the precious invitation – just as she had quivered with delight when Lady Carstairs had inspected the seams of her stockings when the liver pill magnate’s widow had stood, bare-bottomed, before the stern aristocratic gaze.
They ate angels on horseback then grilled sole, followed by a sound cheese, and drank a light Graves. Coffee and liqueurs were served with impeccable deference in the restful silence of the neighbouring lounge.
‘But I think she has settled her heart at last,’ Mrs Bebbington-Booth pronounced, gilding the brutality of the marriage market with a thin romantic veneer.
Lady Carstairs was becoming increasingly bored. Having secured a match for her own daughter, Julia, the hardships of another mother with an unmarried girl on her hands were of little interest.
‘And I am so satisfied,’ Mrs Bebbington-Booth confided in a sudden rush of candour. ‘He has such a lovely voice.’
Lady Carstairs flickered her eye, lizard-like, at a hovering waiter. The waiter decoded the signal and discreetly prepared the bill. Mrs Bebbington-Booth was now in full flight.
‘You possibly may have heard him. He was on the wireless the other night.’
Lady Carstairs waved the approaching waiter away as she would a wasp from a late summer plum. She leaned forwards, her sudden show of keen interest giving her luncheon partner acute pleasure.
‘Playing the Dreadnought Club again tomorrow night. Sapphire –’
‘Sapphire?’ hazarded Lady Carstairs, bemused.
‘My daughter –’
‘But of course. Sapphire.’ Really. You simply cannot trust people in trade to avoid the gross and the ostentatious, Lady Carstairs mused.
‘And a lovely big Bentley,’ the voice opposite droned on, carefully keeping her aitches under control.
Bentley. Lady Carstairs stiffened. No. It could not possibly be. Surely a coincidence.
‘Yes, Bobby Kensington is certainly quite a catch,’ Mrs Bebbington-Booth crowed.
Lady Carstairs paled.
Bobby Kensington was entertaining Julia in his late-Regency period Mayfair rooms. Adèle, instructed to do so by her mistress, having bribed the porter liberally, had secreted herself in the spacious service flat twenty minutes before their noisy arrival.
Julia wanted Bobby to play the piano.
‘Tickle the ivories for me, sweetest,’ she purred.
But Bobby Kensington had other ideas. The only ivory he wanted to tickle was her soft, inner thigh flesh. With his tongue.
He fixed the cocktails – Sidecars – and took them into the bedroom. There, to his delight, Julia was already stripped down to her bra, satin panties and seamed nylon stockings. The swell of her breasts bulged in their cups enticingly. She clapped her hands in glee as she spotted the cocktails. Her breasts wobbled. Bobby spilt his and swore. Wiping his chin, he glimpsed down and saw the dark shadow of her pubic nest behind the stretch of her satin panties. His cock thickened, raking up painfully against his bulging trousers as she giggled, twirled and proffered her buttocks to him, waggling them coquettishly.
Tossing off the dregs of his Sidecar, Bobby Kensington growled and sprang, dragging her down on to the bed. Julia squealed a token protest – but at her back her frantic fingers were busy with her bra. Unclasped, the silken bondage slithered from her bosom, allowing the pert breasts their brief freedom before his cruel hands enclosed them, brutal with their soft warmth.
From her hiding place, Adèle watched, wide-eyed and shivering pleasurably as she witnessed the expert seduction unfold. Watched the crooner slowly dragging down Julia’s satin panties, leaving them in a tight restricting band at the brunette’s knees. Watched the crooner drop his hands down from her breasts to her hips and draw the bared bottom roughly up for his intimate perusal and close inspection. Watched the daughter of her mistress wriggling in a half-hearted bid to escape. Watched as the masterful lover pinned his victim to the bed beneath her, his knee nuzzling the cleft between her splayed cheeks, as he used the abandoned bra to bind her wrists tightly to the brass bedstead.
Adèle’s face grew hot. Her prickling pussy grew hotter. She slid her trembling fingertips inside her partially unbuttoned blouse and gently caressed her left nipple. As she continued spying, her fingers grew stern, tweaking the little flesh-bud up into a fierce peak. She pinched it as her eyes drank in the sight of Julia’s bound hands, fingers splayed, writhing in their bondage. Adèle cupped her left breast at the sight of Bobby Kensington spanking the bare buttocks before him. Her hand squeezed, brutally punishing the soft flesh, as she gazed upon the naked singer straddling Julia’s spanked, reddening bottom, then sliding back until his balls nestled into the satin panties binding her stockinged thighs.
Bobby Kensington low
ered his face down. He kissed the crimson handprints on the left buttock twice, slowly, then brought his mouth to the punished right cheek. Julia murmured her delight into the pillow at her lips. The mouth at her chastised bottom became sharp, nipping teeth. Julia bucked and writhed as Bobby Kensington bit longingly and lingeringly. The teeth became a tongue. Thick and probing. Julia cried out as she felt the face bury itself deeply into her naked buttocks, then felt the wet tongue lapping hungrily and with increasing fervour.
From her vantage point, securely hidden, Adèle slipped off her shiny black patent leather court shoe. Guiding the tip of the kitten-heel up to her pubic mound, she tapped at it gently, drumming her delta as, on the bed, Bobby Kensington knelt behind his bare-bottomed captive, guiding the engorged snout of his huge cock into the parted lips of the smiling pussy awaiting him. Adèle jabbed the heel into her softening warmth more insistently as Bobby Kensington entered Julia, gripping her hips – each thumb dimpling the imprisoned soft cheeks deeply – then commencing to thrust. Inverting the heel of her court shoe upwards, and silently dragging her cami-knickers aside to expose her seething slit, Adèle used the tip of the kitten-heel to tease her outer labia apart.
On the bed, Adèle watched Julia’s nakedness quiver in response to the furious thrusts. Bobby was riding her ruthlessly now. Julia’s squashed breasts shuddered and her spanked cheeks clenched as he squeezed his thighs together and hammered his hips furiously.
The heel slid in between the slippery labia of the peeping maid. Adèle moaned softly as she pumped the shoe deeper into her wet heat. Her eyes narrowed and her vision became slightly blurred. She had to make herself concentrate – concentrate on the couple her mistress had instructed her to spy on.
On the bed, her hands splayed in surrender as she trembled on the brink of ecstasy, Julia bit into the white pillow at her lips. Her teeth tore it wide open. A snowcloud of tiny feathers swirled around her head. Grunting, Bobby Kensington arched his spine then froze. A final thrust of his straddling hips drove his hard sword into the warm sheath of the writhing nude. Julia screamed. The singer cursed aloud. Adèle slumped helplessly. All three collapsed into violent orgasm. The watcher, the rider and the ridden. Three separate beings blissful in the fury of the climax that united them.
Brought to Heel Page 22
