The Young Wife

by The Young Wife [Nexus] (retail) (epub)

  ‘Oh!’ I exclaimed, in mock horror, ‘You can see my bottom when I do that, can’t you?’

  His eyes rolled, and he must have been cursing his infirmity. He wanted to do to me what he had done to Elizabeth, and the understanding of that made me dizzy with power.

  ‘Poor man! Are you missing your comforts?’ I asked him, with a great show of concern. ‘Never mind. Nurse will look after you.’ I paused, as if considering, then told him sternly, ‘I don’t suppose that little miss you married has looked after you that way, has she?’

  He knew exactly what I meant, and tried pathetically to blink an answer to me, but I was not going to ask him the right questions. I crossed swiftly to the door, and locked it, just in case, then I walked back over so that my back was to him. I was turning over the possibilities in my mind, even as I was pulling down my pants, and I paused when they were at my knees, to give him a flash of my peeping sex, and me some more time to think. I bent right over from the hip to gather them up, and the cheeks of my bottom winked briefly open. I saw a group of candles in a sconce on the wall, and I knew exactly what he would want me to do. I twirled the frilly pants around in the air above my head, as I sashayed over to the candle-holder and plucked a thick white column of wax with my free hand. It felt satisfyingly long and heavy, and my stomach fluttered with anticipation as I turned back to face him. I hid it behind my back, and gave him a foxy grin.

  ‘I’m going to do something very naughty, Mr Johanns,’ I said, ‘Something very naughty indeed.’

  I produced the candle, and trailed a finger along the waxy stem.

  ‘I’m going to pretend that this is a cock,’ I said, with a high note of emphasis on the ‘cock’, then explained further. ‘I’m going to pretend that it’s your cock, Mr Johanns. Would you like that? Hm?’

  His blinking was automatic, and emphatically positive. Wicked man. I kneeled before him, with the candle in one hand, and reached for the bottle of his dessert with the other. I tilted my head back, and squeezed a little dollop out on to my protruding tongue. Stewed apple, sweet and slippery, thrilled my mouth with its tartness. I squirted another stream along the length of the candle, then licked along the white tube, scooping it up with my curling, pink tongue. I popped the end into the warmth of my mouth, mimicking the first actions of fellatio. His eyes goggled, and I slipped the candle further in, though the taste was none too pleasant, and hollowed my cheeks to suck it, as if it were his cock. I whipped it out and shuffled round so that my back was to him, then flipped my skirt away from the plumping of my spread cheeks. I felt my anus, hard and tight, pouting back from the open cleft, and I tilted forwards more to let him see. Reaching awkwardly back, I squirted a thick blob of the cold apple on to the dry pucker of my arse. It sent a shiver down my spine, and the hairs on my neck stood up.

  I craned my neck round, and whispered, wide-eyed, up to him, ‘Just imagine this is your cock, Mr Johanns.’

  Then I slowly swept my arm around, and presented the hard, flat cap of the candle to my bottom’s opening. I rolled it shamelessly around the crinkled rim, smearing the greasy apple-sauce over the taut funnel. When it felt right, I pushed the cold rim of wax until it started to go in. It was uncomfortable, but nice, to feel my arsehole opening to the unyielding tip, so I pushed it ruthlessly up the warm passage until it was a couple of inches in. It felt strange, and foreign, in the little hole. My anus protested at the invasion, though the candle’s end can’t have been more then an inch thick. The apple-juice stung my insides, though it made the movement of the candle easy, and my bottom burned against the cool stem. I felt the end floating within me, and the feeling was so delicious that I immediately withdrew the candle to the rim of my arse, and then plunged it smoothly back in. I settled myself more comfortably, making sure that Leo had a clear view, and started to work the candle back and forth in my bottom.

  ‘Do you see, Mr Johanns, how tight my arse is?’ I groaned into the carpet, which hung an inch below my open lips. I turned my face to one side and laid it against the rough spikes of wool. The straps of my suspenders were stretched taut across the firm swell of my open thighs, and my cunt gaped wetly back behind me. I took my hand away from the candle, and pulled my cheeks apart. The candle slipped out a little from the pressure of the tight tube it was in. My arsehole twitched around the slippery rod of wax, which had warmed with my bottom’s heat. It felt like I had been plugged, or spiked on a stick. I slid a hand around under my belly, and spread the silky petals of my cunt. The slick flesh glowed to my finger, and I rubbed it, up to the slippery pellet of my clitoris. My arsehole clenched with each firm stroke upon my clit, and I let it work the candle slowly out in little twitching pulses.

  ‘I wish that was your cock, Mr Johanns. Your big, thick cock. Fucking me. Fucking me up the arse like a whore,’ I hissed, and part of me meant it. I imagined him, behind me, working his ugly column of reddened flesh into the tight bud between my cheeks. I rubbed harder, as the end of the candle popped out of me, and fell with a soft thump to the floor. My anus gaped, and sucked in air, then mouthed a little tighter with each touch of my fingers on my little pleasure-pea. I wondered if he liked to see my arse closing like that, as my orgasm rolled up the seam of my cunt and into my belly. I shivered like a dog, breasts shaking under me, as the waves of pleasure swirled in my head, and slid three fingers into the hot purse of my cunt. They slid easily in, and out, until I was spent, exhaustedly sprawled out over the carpet.

  When I was ready to wheel the poor man out, he was very red in the face and his eyes rolled piteously at me when I patted his cheek and assured him that there would be a lot more of that kind of thing if he behaved himself.

  I sat in the library and read to him from a book of collected verse. I was hoping he would drop off to sleep, and events proved me right. It was only a matter of waiting for the night nurse to arrive and I could hand him over with a clear conscience. Well, almost clear.

  She was a respectable woman of late middle age, and she exuded an air of easy professionalism. We all ended up referring to her as ‘Nurse’, and I can’t remember now what her real name was, though I am sure she told me. I think she knew that there was something dodgy going on, as my outfit was utterly unsuitable for real nursing. I think she probably dismissed me as Leo’s bit of fluff, which was only half wrong, as that was the role I had assigned to myself for the moment.

  I left him in her care, and made my way, humming with contentment, upstairs to my room. Jessica was not long behind me, and she scolded me, through fits of the giggles, about my naughty behaviour.

  ‘I saw it all,’ she said breathlessly, ‘and it was totally unacceptable, Miss Simpson. Totally.’

  ‘What?’ I asked, in an imitation of insolence. ‘Didn’t I push the candle far enough in? You should try it yourself, if you think you’re so clever.’

  And so, of course, she told me about her own little episode with Leo. It was so funny, to think that the poor man had been tormented by both of us, one immediately after the other. From there, we fell to discussing the effect our little performances must have had on him.

  ‘If we carry on like that, he’ll end up having another stroke,’ said Jessie innocently.

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘he might, but I don’t think so. Leo is used to stronger stuff than that. I think he needs something a little more cruel to really get him going.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked my beautiful friend, with a wide-eyed look of cluelessness, as if the question was purely for curiosity’s sake, and not as if she really had any intention of acting on it.

  ‘I think he likes to see girls being punished,’ I explained, ‘or helpless. He needs to dominate, or see women being dominated. I just don’t think he finds anything else as exciting as the ravishing of the unwilling.’

  ‘Not raped, surely?’ she protested, and I shook my head in amusement.

  ‘No, not raped,’ I told her. ‘More like overpowered, until they give in. It’s a common enough fantasy. It’s the most frequent fa
ntasy of lesbians, for example. Did you know that?’

  ‘And you like it too?’ she asked, with a sly glance up at me. ‘Being “overpowered” by someone, I mean?’

  I decided to ignore that, though the question wouldn’t go away, for the truth was that I did fantasise about being fucked when I am helpless. I still do.

  ‘I think you should walk in on us tomorrow,’ I said, with an arch smile. ‘Catch me at it.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked, and smiled in turn.

  ‘So that you can punish me, silly. Show Leo what happens to naughty girls,’ I replied.

  She laughed, and came over to me. I was surprised at how bold she had become, so quickly. She stood beside me, then pulled up the fussy hem of my dress to bare my cheeks. Looking into my eyes, she gave me a playful open-handed tap on one tense globe. It quivered a little, and she laughed.

  ‘At supper-time, then, I will catch you. With the candle in your bum. Agreed?’ she enquired.

  ‘Agreed.’

  We couldn’t sleep together that night, for we had to be careful not to excite any suspicion that our relationship was anything other than professional. We consoled each other with a quick snog, and a hasty, fumbling feel of each other’s slippery cunts. Then, reluctantly, we parted and I went to my assigned room to have a leisurely shower in the luxurious bathroom which was a common feature of all the guest rooms. I stripped to my skin, and settled under the sizzling pinpricks of high-pressure water. The warm jets hammered against my skull and spine, making me shiver. I reached blindly for the shower gel, and lathered my body with my hands. My fingers slipped over the slick cage of my ribs, around and under the little apples of my breasts. I soaped my cheeks and pussy, then tilted my hips into the stream to wash the soap away. The suds ran down my calves and gathered in frothy lumps between my toes, before swirling and gurgling away down the drain. Water ran over the curve of my ears and down the ripples of my back. I cocked my buttocks up to the stream, to feel the water run into my bottom’s open cleft. A steady pulse of moisture from the brush of hair above my plump slit dropped away from me and splashed around my ankles. I turned the water off, and leaned against the slippery tiles of the shower wall. The lips of my cunt squeezed together when I crossed my legs, and I ran a light hand over the swelling around my bellybutton. The air against the water chilled my skin.

  I stepped out on to the warm rug with the little streams of run-off tickling my thighs. I felt at peace. All the luxuries a woman could want were provided, from bottles of expensive scent, to enormous fluffy white towels that had been warmed on a polished chrome rail put there specifically for that purpose. I gathered one up, and rubbed my stiffening nipples to a peak. I love the feel of my body, especially when it is fresh and clean, and so I lingered over the drying of my skin, and the fluff of curly hair above my puffy slit. My lips began to swell as I patted the little beads of moisture away from their plump folds. Moisture had gathered in the little well of my anus, and I rubbed the rippled skin until it was waxy-dry. I walked back to the bedroom, with the water cooling my ankles as it dried. The bed was laid in crisp linen sheets beneath a stitched eiderdown, and it looked like the neat, cosy nest of a schoolgirl. Brass beds are always best for sweet dreams.

  The room was warm, so I lay down on my stomach and thought about dear Jessie, until I reached that area on the border of sleep. I thought about the club, and wondered if she remembered me licking her under the table. I don’t think she did, as she was pretty far gone. Stoned out of her mind.

  I remembered Leo, and myself, in the drawing room, with the candle sticking out of my arse, and the shallow breathing of Leo behind me. I shifted on the bed, with my thighs floating slowly apart, and tilted my bottom up to the air. I thought of Leo again, and sweet, sexy Elizabeth. The memories drifted back, clear and powerful. Her face as she sucked his big red tool. The rounders bat rolling around the wet fruit of her cunt. His cock, sliding into the little hole of her bottom.

  I raised my hips off the bed by the pressure of my knees, and slid a hand along the smooth bulge of my tummy. My fingers knew the places that I liked to be touched on, and in, from long nights of practice. I spread my cunt-lips with my index and third fingers, while my middle finger sought and found the little nugget of sweetness between them. I rubbed the stiff bud until it glowed. The last balls of moisture mingled with the secretions of my cunt, so my fingers rolled easily over the warm flesh. Like porcelain. As slippery as oily glass. I pulled my knees up under my chin, to open myself a little more, and relaxed my arsehole. It pushed its little mouth out for a kiss. I stroked it with the middle finger of my other hand while my fingers pushed into the curling edges of my tight slit. I rubbed the little ring of muscle as I forced the beak of fingers into the warm cave of my cunt. I rocked my hips to it. It was a rounders bat, a cock, a hand, a candle’s end. I whimpered to conclusion as, at the last, four slim fingers stretched my little slit. And then I slept.

  The next day passed slowly, and uneventfully, until David arrived at four in the afternoon. I had dressed for the occasion in the shortest, whitest housecoat I had. White plastic mules, white headband, cream mesh stockings. I was playing naughty night nurse, to the extent that I even had a little watch pinned to the crisp swell of material over my left breast. I thought the short red strap emphasised the clean white of my costume to perfection. The coat flapped dangerously open when I walked and, for modesty’s sake, I had to take short, girly steps to prevent the lowest button from popping off. I could only bend over by hitching the crisp linen up my hips, so I avoided doing it in front of the coven. Antonia was hanging around all afternoon, trying to be friendly, so I had to ignore her and pretend a polite, professional disinterest. It wasn’t easy, as she seemed to have taken a leaf out of my book, and was almost as provocatively dressed as myself. I don’t know if it was in response to my challenging attire, or whether she was always dressed like that. Her dress was more like a vest, and it came as far down her chest at the front as it did at the back. When she stood up straight, I could see the undersides of her plump breasts bulging out of the vee at her breast-bone, and knew by the way her nipples’ hard contours stood out from the lilac material that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her legs were bare, and the fine muscles of her calves rolled sleekly under the golden skin of the elegant limbs. I got the feeling that she was a typical Latin prick-teaser. A lot of them are like that.

  I could see the outline of a thong, more by the swell of her flesh at its edges than from any difference in colour between it and her dress. I could have flipped the back of her little skirt up at any time, and a part of me longed to do it, just to see her reaction. She had a really sulky face, though she was making every attempt at light-hearted pleasantry. She had just the right combination of bitchiness and charm.

  I longed to slap her silly face.

  I was saved from any further dissembling by the arrival of David and, even though I knew what to expect, I felt the instinctive clench in my tummy when I opened the door to him. He is divine. Tall and golden, with the lank frame of a tennis pro and the easy grace of a dancer. He is the type of guy who is equally at home with a gun as he is with a baby. He handles both with the confidence of a man who has never been bested in any activity he chose to pursue. Like a Redford, but not as pretty. As his cousin, I have grown used to his overwhelming physicality, but to a tarty little tease like Antonia, he must have been the male equivalent of every thing she wished she was.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for Jessica Johanns. I’m David Hardcastle, the physiotherapist. She said she would be here around four.’

  He paused, and I winked at him. Clever man, to speak so assuredly in such circumstances.

  ‘The mistress is upstairs, Mr Hardcastle,’ I said, with the barest quiver of amusement in my voice. ‘If you would like to come in, I will tell her you are here.’

  As he stepped over the threshold, I waved airily towards Antonia. ‘This is Miss Johanns, the patient’s niece.’

  He nodded po
litely and extended his hand towards her. She took it like it was a rotten fish, and I felt like laughing aloud. Whatever response David usually got from women, I was sure that wasn’t it.

  ‘If you would like to wait in the drawing room,’ I said, to cover the awkward moment, ‘while I inform the mistress of your presence?’

  I was sure that all this talk of the ‘mistress’ was infuriating Antonia, and I felt the glow of satisfaction as I minced upstairs to tell Jessie. I was dying to get David alone so that I could get his reaction. The scheme was that he would pretend to be gay, to deflect any suspicion, and I guessed that he would be down there right at that moment, camping it up for all he was worth. I would have loved to see it.

  But it was worth missing the scene to see the wistful expression on Jessica’s face when she first set eyes on David, and also to see the sly pleasure in Antonia’s as she studied Jessica. She thought she knew something Jessica didn’t, and I knew exactly what she was thinking. She watched for disappointment as Jessica realised that David was not heterosexually oriented, but it was she who had to swallow her happy expectation, as Jessica stepped forwards and said, pleasantly, ‘How do you do, Mr Hardcastle. I have been looking forward to seeing you. You come highly recommended.’

  They shook hands, as he answered, ‘I’m glad to hear it, Mrs Johanns.’

  ‘Oh, call me Jessica,’ she breathed. ‘Mrs Johanns makes me feel so old. I’m sure I haven’t quite got used to the idea of being married, what with the accident and all.’

  I was watching Antonia’s minxy little face as Jessica said this, and was delighted by the mix of emotions that passed across the beautiful shrewish features. She could take no more, and interjected with a lame excuse to remove herself from the house. We continued the charade until we heard the door slam, then I rushed over to David and gave him a big, sloppy kiss.