From: <71022.251@compuserve.com>
Subject: SP story: BLUE VELVET M/f, bd
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
BLUE VELVET by Hilary Manning [An Extract] Copyright (c) 1995 Spectrum Press
from the SP website at http://users.aol.com/specpress
(see info at end of extract)
Chapter Three
"How divine you are," Mr. Hawley says.
He has just come in. I sit in the small drawing room. Alone in
this chair. Alone in this large house in Sussex Gardens. I think of
Nigel. I think of my husband. Do I tremble? I do not want to
tremble under Mr. Hawley's eyes.
He has a stalwart appearance. A tall figure. A look of
determination. The look that pulls a man to success. And success to
a man. He stands at the fireplace in his stalwart pose. His chin
high. His mouth. His turned moustache. His eyes upon me.
"Exquisite, aren't you? I knew you would be something, but this is
more than I expected."
What am I to do? Am I an adolescent girl to be cajoled by this
flattery? He smiles. His lips turn. The eyes are grey and not soft.
There is not softness at all. I look away. At a map of Africa upon
the wall. An old yellowed map behind glass. "Then I am pleased to
have exceeded your expectations."
He chuckles."Did you find the carriage comfortable?"
"Yes."
"You must not be difficult, Mrs. Denbigh. We will not have you
difficult."
Then he talks about the weather. He talks about Nigel. He says
I must accept things. The room is small. Not quite a drawing room.
Cluttered with mementos. Brown photographs on the walls. Lines of
schoolboys with white collars in a series of brown photographs. A
large sofa before the fireplace. The curtains are drawn. Dark
curtains. A table with siphons and glasses. Another table with
cigar and cigarette boxes.
I imagine him in his barrister's wig. His fingers waving like
tentacles as he makes his declarations. His contentions. The way he
studies me. I am the prisoner. I am this new prisoner.
"Do you find the room too warm, Mrs. Denbigh?"
"What?"
"I asked if you find the room too warm."
"I don't know."
"I would like you to undress. I want to look at you."
I sit frozen. Did the curtain move? There is no sound but the
ticking of the large clock. The face of the old clock. "Must I?"
A soft laugh. "Yes, you must. I'm sure your husband told you
that. The expectations. I have my expectations and you have yours.
We all have them, don't we?"
His eyes are demanding. His face is reposed. He is a man
accustomed to receive obedience. One hand in his pocket now. His
expectations.
And so I rise. There is no choice. Nothing but this rising. My
fingers. The buttons. The small hooks that hold my privacies in
seclusion. My clothes fall away. My gown. My chemise. My drawers.
Not a graceful disrobing. I am used to a maid. Now I have nothing
but my own fingers. I avoid his eyes. I am reduced to stockings and
boots. The garters around my thighs. My skin warmed by the heat of
the fire.
I look at the yellowed map of Africa. I stand naked before
this man. One of Nigel's barristers.
The fire crackles. I quiver at the crackling. Is the barrister
pleased?
He mutters as he walks around me. To study my arrangements.
"How lovely you are. Truly lovely. What a splendid vision."
I feel the heat in my face. The trembling of my breasts. Nigel
says my nipples are aggressive. He likes to suck them. He likes a
nipple thick and swollen beneath his teeth.
Mr. Hawley faces me again. One elbow upon the mantel. His eyes
upon my motte. I am thickly haired. My nest. "Kneel on the rub," he
says. "I would see you kneel."
Do I tremble as I sink to my knees? Upon the rug. My boots and
knees. He tells me what he wants. My elbows. Knees and elbows like
a dog.
Then he walks behind me. I close my eyes. My bottom revealed.
My sex. My bulging core. How vulnerable a woman is when revealed
like this. The hanging of my breasts. My nipples thick.
After a time he wants me upon the sofa. Upon my back. One knee
raised. The boot pressing the cushion. The other boot resting upon
the raised knee. I must show the essentials. He looks at my secret
place. My furrow. There is no touching. He never touches me. Only
his eyes. The curve of his lips.
Now I must stand again. The trembling of my rounds. My heaving
breasts. It is much too warm now. The fire is strong and it is much
too warm.
"You have lovely skin. Were you a virgin when you married
Nigel?"
"Must I talk of that?"
"You shall talk of everything here. You shall be compliant in
all things. Were you a virgin?"
"Yes, of course."
"Not of course, Mrs. Denbigh. There is no assumption. Nothing
is ever to be assumed. Has Nigel used your bottom?"
"I feel myself blushing. My face. The trembling of my hands.
"Yes."
He smiles. "The way you blush. You have superb bottom. You
shall have it whipped on occasion. You will come to like it."
"I shall never like it."
"I want you to stand now."
I feel an unfolding. A shivering. I shall not survive it. I
rise. He makes me turn. He moves behind me. He moves close to me.
The cloth of his trousers against my legs. Against my bottom. Then
his hands. The first touching. The globes of my bottom. Each hand.
His fingers pressing my flesh. He pulls. He pries the globes apart.
A squeezing again. Then release. The sliding of his hands. Along my
waist. To hold my breasts.
He cups the hanging, the weight. The soft undersides of my
breasts. The cloth of his sleeves against my skin. A smell of
tobacco. His grasping hands. His breath against my ear. "Arch your
back. Push your bottom into me."
He holds me thus. My bottom pushed. His lap against my bottom.
His morning trousers. Does he wear silk at the bar? Yes, he does.
Black silk at assizes. I will not wriggle. I hold myself frozen. I
must not wriggle. His fingers at my nipples. Pulling at my nipples.
My flesh. Each nipple stretched. Each nipple rolled between his
fingers. The pushing at my bottom. At my bulging. I feel him there
between. His jutting. Nigel likes it thus. He will lift my gown
behind and press into me. The weave of cloth against my thighs.
Then Mr. Hawley moves. He turns me a bit. His front pressing
against my flank. His hand upon my bottom. His fingers. The
gripping of my flesh. The hot gripping of my bottom. One hand. The
other upon my belly.Below my belly. Into the copse. My nest. My
secret place. His fingers pushing between. My fullness. The full
lips of my sex. My trembling.
He holds me thus. The hand in front splayed. A thick finger
between my nether lips. His fingers in the cleft. The hand in back.
A finger between. To touch my back entrance. I groan. This
violation. His hands move as he rubs my parts. He breathes: "Is it
nice?"
My trembling again. "Do what you will."
"You do have a superb bottom. and this, too. Full-fleshed. Is
it a large clitoris? Do you like it licked? Does Nigel lick it?"
"Sometimes he does." His tongue along the shaft. I like the
knob teased. I quiver in the teasing.
"You hold me captive."
"I suppose you might call it that. I daresay others might not
agree. They would notice the lady's parts are no longer in
drought."
"The mind is still captive."
"Ah yes. Turn, will you? Lean forward and show me your
bottom."
I must turn. To lean forward. His hands upon my globes. One
hand. The fingers between. Then his thumb. It must be his thumb.
Pushing at my rear portal. My ring. I am vanquished by his thumb.
The stretching of my fundament. The pushing in the deep. A sliding
pressure. I cannot survive it. My knees are weak. A great
shuddering overtakes me. My bottom corked. The rolling of my rump.
His finger relentless. He chuckles. His face now pressed against my
hair. His breath against my temple. He chuckles at my quivering. He
chuckles at my destruction.
Then a reprieve. His finger withdrawn. My bottom burning. "I
gather you haven't had much exercise. That's quite ridiculous. Sit
down, please. I shall have some tea brought in."
The butler has a bony face. And bony hands. I have covered
myself with my gown. But of course he knows. My arms are bare. Can
he see my legs? He is leaning forward. Stiff at the waist. His
elbow stiff as he pours the tea. His bony fingers. He does not
look. Or perhaps he has already looked. Perhaps he has already
looked and everything is revealed. Perhaps I am nothing but an
ordinary diversion in this house.
When the butler leaves, Mr. Hawley smiles. "Does Jepson make
you uneasy?"
"I am naked."
"But covered now. All the charms sufficiently hidden. Have
your tea. Put the gown away and have your tea."
He looks at my breasts. My nipples. I sip my tea. A blue china
cup. Like the blue china in that window in Brompton Road. The man
who accosted me. The fire is dying. Mr. Hawley rises, then crouches
at the grate. He pokes at a log. The fire hisses and spurts again.
When Mr. Hawley returns, his trousers are unbuttoned. His root
exposed. A large pink knob. The shaft still half-concealed. "Suck
it, please. Warm your mouth with some tea and then suck it."
Nigel likes the same. Is it something they learn at school? I
warm my mouth. He pushes at my lips. His ruddy knob. The plum. I
suck at his plum. My lips are pliant.
Uncle Gerard liked me to hold his balls while I sucked him. He
said the ballocks are to be pulled. The scrotum gripped tightly and
twisted a bit. Does Mr. Hawley have large balls? Are they hairy?
Are his balls in that photograph? I fill my mouth. He pushes
forward. A sliding forward. His staunch part. The stretching of my
lips. His shaft is large, thick, straining with its force. My mouth
is a vessel for it. He fondles my hair as he uses my mouth.His
throbbing. I lose myself in his throbbing.
"You have a lovely mouth, Mrs. Denbigh. Quite perfect. More
experienced than your bottom, I daresay."
He's right, of course. I like the sucking. The feel of a warm
pintle between my lips. The sliding stem. The urgency. If only I
had his balls now. I would hold his balls to feel their trembling.
At last he spends. A warning groan. A hot jet against my
tongue. Then another and another. His liquor foaming upon my
tongue.
I drink him. He fondles my head as I drink him.
Jepson has brought a parcel. Does he notice the softness of my
lips. That looseness that comes to me after I have drained a penis?
When Jepson leaves, Mr. Hawley opens the parcel, extracts a blue
waist-nipper. "I shall help you with it," he says.
Before long I am cinched. My waist pressed, narrowed. Naked
breasts above and naked bottom below. He handles my breasts, my
bulging bottom. He draws a finger between my nether lips. "You look
splendid," he says. "It's Margaret's idea and she's absolutely
right about it."
"Margaret? Who is Margaret?"
He chuckles. He pats my bottom. "Margaret is my wife."
BLUE VELVET by Hilary Manning [An Extract] Copyright (c) 1995 Spectrum Press Spectrum Press disk edition ISBN 1-57138-284-4
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