 |
By *est-couple OP Man
over a year ago
Southwick (near Trowbridge) |
My Master sent me into the adjoining bathroom whilst he called up the maids to change those bedsheets so richly stained with my virginal blood and his potent sperm. While the maids busied themselves I hastily inspected my ruined maidenhead and sponged the crimson of my lost innocence away from my pale flesh. ‘What had I become?’ I wondered. I was certainly no wife, for he had not married me, and I was, the strict sense of the term, a whore, because I had sold my maidenhead for money. But, I reassured myself, I had not slept with another man, and so my character was perhaps not as compromised as that of Edith who, I knew, had had several men in my sight, and sometimes more than one at the same time! What was I then? His mistress, at least for this weekend, and I could hope that he might retain my ‘services’ should I continue to please him with my girlish charms. Such thoughts were in my head when he called me back into the bedroom on the departure of the maids.
He prided himself, that was clear, on having ‘broken me in’, as he called it. He said the maids stared at the bloodstain, and he heard them giggle as he closed the door on their departure. You could be sure that the whole servants’ hall would know that the Duchess was no longer a virgin – even though none of them might suspect that the Duchess was actually a humble country girl of their own class!
There I stood, for the first time in my life not embarrassed by my nakedness, for of my former clothes I retained only my stockings and garters. He took me into his arms again and kissed me deeply, and his fingers rapidly found that exquisite place of pleasure and pain that his rampant member had so recently opened for the first time. ‘There are so many things I want to do to you, Charlotte’, he murmured… ‘and so many things I will do to you today and tomorrow’. He laid me down upon the bed, and caressed my delicate quim with his tongue until I spent again upon his very lips. He smiled, his fingers teasing my downy hair – and then he left the room, returning with his cut-throat razor and shaving bowl. I knew what was going to happen, as I had seen the state in which Edith’s womanhood had first been presented to me. Telling me to relax, my Master lathered my downy triange and then, with the skill of a practised barber, he drew the naked edge carefully across my flesh, creating a neat and smooth line of pinkness where his hand passed. Three or four strokes reduced the downy triangle at the front of my body to a soft absence, a sensitive mass of girl-flesh which, when he touched it, caused my very being to become liquid and ready for his advances. Neatly tidying up the stray hairs between my shapely legs, he towelled me clean of soap and moisture and invited me to view my denuded womanhood through his shaving mirror. I was astonished at how pink and fresh I looked below, and even more delighted at how much more sensitive my body had become. He bade me hold my very self open to his lustful gaze, something I had never done even in my most private moments. I felt so wanton, posed there on a rich man’s bed, naked but for my white silk stockings and blue bridal garters, not even a bush of hair to conceal my ruin. I was as fascinated as him, I suspect, and I played with my orifice, exciting myself all the more, thrilling he who now owned me to the extent that his hardening manhood suddenly protruded from his silken bathrobe.
As I reached for his manhood he withdrew, More oysters and champagne were procured from a corner of the room, and we feasted again. What happened next rather shocked me, for having consumed the wine, my Master dribbled the last few drops across my breasts and then sucked them off, causing me to squirm with unabashed delight. A few more droplets were deposited on my denuded triangle, and he allowed them to drop to my quim. They stung slightly on the newly naked flesh but all discomfort was forgotten when he tasted the wine and my very essence at the fountain of my womanhood. As I fell into rapture, I heard the sound of the foil closure of the bottle being removed and then, to my horror, felt the cold and unyielding mouth of the Veuve Cliquot being pushed against my tiny opening. I struggled, but his hand on my belly held me firmly in place. I was truly in his power and had to submit to that vessel, wider and more distended than his member and considerably harder, was forced a good four or five inches into my girlish body. I winced with pain, he looked at me with irritation and, having embedded the bottle within me, placed a firm hand over my mouth as, with the other, he manipulated the bottle back and forth. Against my will I began to become wetter and wetter, and the feeling of discomfort succeeded to one of pleasure – a pleasure which he recognised, for he took his hand from my mouth to allow me to express my wanton lubriciousness. In the adjacent mirror I saw what a whore I had become for the first time. A virgin only a few hours earlier I was now pleasuring myself with a bottle, with all the visible signs of enjoying my own degradation – and, indeed, of being thrilled by watching my own fall into venal sin. As If he realised this he came and knelt behind me, so that we were both framed in the mirror. ‘A lady in the drawing room’, he said, tenderly… and then, more lasciviously, ‘A whore in the bedroom!’, and with that he forced his engorged manhood into my mouth. His actions upon my tender mouth were little less rough that what he had done to my other opening, and he forced himself far further than five inches into that orifice. I watched myself degraded and utterly owned, my body used and bought. While he maintained a steady rhythm with his member into my mouth, pushing seemingly as deeply as my very tonsils, I myself continued the thrusting and withdrawing motion of the bottle in my recently opened furrow. He had the pleasured of seeing me succumb to my own degraded delight while I witnessed him lose all self-control when, as I sucked more voraciously on him at my own time of bliss, he released his precious seed into my mouth, its first urgent spurts hitting the back of my throat, the remainder falling short onto my tongue.
As he withdrew he inspected his salty tribute. ‘You truly are a whore’, he said. ‘I wish my bride to be were as depraved as I see you are’. I felt degraded, humbled and yet oddly exalted all at the same time. Clearly I had pleased him, and I had correctly estimated that though he might well tire of my virgin freshness, my sheer lustfulness could well keep me in his bed as his mistress. My mouth still filled with his hot, freshly expelled essence, I looked up adoringly at he that had ruined me for any decent husband and said ‘Master, you own me’. I kissed his drooping member with my seeded mouth, then kissed his feet also. I was owned, and ready to be used for his pleasure – and for my own comfort and well-being.
|
