---Victor’s perspective---
I stride through the falling snow, across the crunchy white ground and up the slope towards the very nice manor house that’s about nine centuries out of time, a scowl on my face.
The skybox overhead is dark and overcast.
The nighttime landscape represented on the walls is just a stone’s throw from the city I grew up in, though dotted with similarly Victorian buildings (not there anymore), their windows all lit by the orange glow of fires kept inside.
The realism of this morphic chamber (even with the few rough edges) really puts full dive to shame(!)
It’s so cold, my breath is fogging before being carried away on the bitingly snowy wind generated by the meteorengine.
I reach to my bright red scarf to pull it over my fake moustache and goatee, up to the bottom of my monocle beneath the brim of my tophat.
I walk with a cane but no limp.
My long coat billows in the cold breeze.
I come to a waist high wall and follow it until I get to a gate that sits between two brick piers.
On one of them is a brass plaque that reads
???????????????????? ??????????
the other one reading
?????????????????? ???? ?????? ?????????????? ????????????????????, ????.
Still scowling beneath my scarf, I push the gate open and walk up the stone path to the door.
I step inside the nice and warm entryway and find no one there to greet me.
Leaving a moment for that to change, I finally give up and start grumbling as I unwind my scarf and take off my coat, hanging them both up on the coathooks by the door.
I stomp through the house, scanning around for the one who failed to meet me as I came in, my cane’s brass ferrule clacking against the stone tiled floor.
I pass through a dining room with nothing laid on the table; no food, no place settings as if food is expected to arrive soon.
I step into an opulent living room with a brightly glowing hot log in the fireplace and armchairs arranged facing it at angles.
The walls are lined with bookshelves, the top of one of which is being dusted by a woman dressed entirely in crisp black and white clothes.
This isn’t a repeat of the nun fantasy, though.
Her long white hair is done up in a French twist and crowned by a ruffled lace headpiece.
Her white sleeves come halfway down her four upperarms.
Her shapely torso and ruffled white shirt are contained in a beautiful black bodice.
She has a lacey white string belt at the waist of a miniskirt so short that anyone in this timeperiod would, in reality, have looked at it and called it ‘shamelessly indecent’!
Her legs are socked in bright white stockings that come to juuust below the bottom of the skirt, giving me a tiny glimpse of thigh.
Her feet are shoed in shiny black leather flats.
Her upper right hand holds a featherduster and her lower left a broom she’s not currently using.
“Miss Celice…!” I bark at her, angrily, in the upperclass Southeast English accent that’s about the only one I can do other than my own, pulling a golden pocketwatch from my pocket and holding its face in her direction.
The woman turns around with a startled expression, revealing a buxom front covered by a white apron.
“Monsieur Blackstone, you’re-” starts the busty maid in an extremely sexy French accent.
“…pray tell me, what is the hour?” I snarl in interruption.
---Tuun’s perspective---
I look at the man confronting me with an angry scowl on his monocled and goateed face.
He has a mid tone top hat over his ponytailed hair.
A mid tone suit with a pale shirt and ruffled jabot tie cover his body from the neck down.
He wears shiny dark shoes with metal buckles and his right hand rests on the handle of what looks like a swordcane.
I look at the pocketwatch dangling over his left knuckles and then at the grandfather clock, pretending to need to check the time.
“Nearly 9 o’clock, Monsieur.” I answer, abashed.
“Indeed. It is nearly 9 o’clock, Miss Celice!… And, would you remind me what time I told you the train I would be returning by was expected to arrive in Godalming, when I left for the Metropolis this morning?” he demands.
“Thirty one minutes past seven, Monsieur.”
“Well remembered(!)” he mocks “And how long would you judge the journey from Godalming station to this house to take, Miss Celice?”
“Around une hour and an half accounting for the snow, Monsieur.” I say, looking at the floor.
“It is indeed around an hour and a half! So what time should you have expected me home?”
“Around 9 o’clock, Monsieur Blackstone.”
“9 o’clock indeed! And yet, here I stand, not having been greeted at the door, not having had my coat and scarf taken, not having seen any evidence that my evening meal has even begun preparation, standing in an unswept, undusted room and watching my maid performing the duties she should have had completed before midafternoon!… Do you think this is acceptable, Miss Celice!?”
“Non, Monsieur.” I murmur, feeling an ecstatic wash of shame!
“Correct!… Fortunately for me, I anticipated your incompetence and fed myself at the dining car on the down train!… Had I not, I would now need to go to bed hungry or feast on nothing more than bread and cheese like a pauper!… I am a baronet and I expect and I require better of my servant, Miss Celice!”
“Vraiment désolée, Monsieur Blackstone.” I apologise, not meeting my employer’s eyes.
He sighs, takes off his hat and walks to an armchair by the fire.
---Victor’s perspective---
I *flump* myself down, working hard to sell the ‘tired out from having been on trains to and from business in London all day’ idea, snap my fingers and imperiously point to the ground in front of my chair.
Eager to please, my maid puts down her cleaning implements and swoops down to kneel in front of me, lifting my legs with her upper hands and plucking off my patent leather shoes.
As her four hands massage my feet and calfs, I put my tophat down on the sidetable (which the period term for is apparently (and slightly hilariously) ‘a whatnot’(!)) prop my cane up against the arm and, softening my tone, exhaustedly ask “How long have you been in my employ, Miss Celice?”
“3 months, Monsieur.” she answers immediately.
“And how did you come into my employ?”
“You publicated une annonce in The Times, Monsieur.” she says, not looking up from my massage.
“I did… but was I looking for a maid, Miss Celice?”
“Non, Monsieur… a butler.”
“Indeed… Pembroke had just retired and I was seeking his replacement… I wasn’t seeking a maid because I didn’t think a woman would have the competence to manage my household’s duties by herself… and I didn’t wish to hire multiple maids because I have enough to worry about without becoming a maidwrangler!” I say, playing up the era’s sexism, as requested “When I give instructions, I wish to give them once and have them followed exactly!… I don’t wish to repeat myself, I don’t wish for them to need to be passed on to those not currently present, I don’t wish productivity to suffer for the time you would spend idle talking and I don’t wish to share my affairs with an entire gaggle of women!… A butler was what I wanted… competent, industrious, discreet… and then you appeared on my doorstep with a cheerful ‘Bonjour! Je m’appelle Trinette Celice!’ upon your lips, a copy of The Times in one hand and an utterly glowing letter of recommendation from Madeleine-Antoinette de Villeneuve (of the Deauville Villeneuves!) explaining that you had served impeccably at her chateau in Normandy for several years and departed her service amicably… Had we… corresponded at all, Miss Celice?”
“Non, Monsieur Blackstone.”
“No, we had not! My advertisement had barely been published for 4 hours when you arrived here to interview for the position!… At the time, I took that for eagerness! I thought you had a zeal for service!… I have since come to suspect it may have been something somewhat closer to desperation!… I begin to suspect that, if I had not taken you into my service, your choices would have been a return to France, a workhouse… or a house of ill fame(!)”
I let the words hang in the air for a moment while my maid looks uncomfortably down at my feet.
“I expressed my misgivings and was assured that you were fully capable of managing a household alone, that you would not ask me to hire on additional help and that you would comport yourself in such a manner as to avoid the appearance of impropriety, being a young woman in the employ of an older bachelor! And yet… in just 3 months, you have failed to make my bed twice, you have managed to break five pieces of my china, you have failed to have my meals ready in a timely fashion on dozens of occasions, you have allowed my house to become visibly dirty more instances than I’ve been able to keep count of and you have caused enough misunderstandings in the village that half of Godalming now thinks me to be keeping improper company with my maid!… The only promise you have kept is that you have not asked me to engage additional help… despite clearly needing it!… Had I wanted a woman to live in my house and perform no service that doesn’t cost me more than it gains me, Miss Celice, I would have married(!)… I’m starting to believe your departure from your previous situation was perhaps so amicable because Madame de Villeneuve was glad to see you gone and glad to see a hundred miles of English Channel standing between you and your return(!)” I accuse, getting angrier and angrier as I speak.
She doesn’t answer, just doing her best to look ashamed.
I sigh and bring my hand to rub my forehead (having to beware not to accidentally knock out my monocle and undermine my ‘tired older aristocrat’ persona by doing so!)
“Do you wish to remain in my service, Miss Celice?… Because, if not, I shall gladly see to your passage back to France.” I pose.
She stops rubbing my legs.
I look at her through my monocle and see her face utterly horrorstruck.
“Monsieur! Pitié! Non!” she begs “Don’t send me away! En supplie! I will améliorate! I will do anything you say!"
I reach for my cane and begin twirling it against the floor, still looking at her, lamenting “Your obedience has never been at issue, Miss Celice… It is solely your competence that gives me pause.”
Without missing a beat, she answers “Alors! Entra?nez-moi!… Train me!… I am obedient, oui? You teach me how to better serve you, I listen and obey!”
I cock an eyebrow and ask “Do you understand what you’re asking, Miss Celice?”
“Oui, Monsieur!” she answers emphatically.
“You… understand that, if I cancel all my appointments for the foreseeable future in order to train you with the skills you ought to have had as prerequisite, I shall expect you to remain in my service… indefinitely?… I shan’t willingly release you afterward?”
“Parfaitement!” she answers in what I can infer is an enthusiastic positive.
“You… understand that means never returning to France… at least, not unless I travel there (for whatever godforsaken reason a godfearing Englishman would choose to do that(!)) and bring you with me?”
“I would not wish to go any other way, Monsieur!” she beams.
“You understand that my discipline will need to be rather harsh?”
“Oui, oui! You shall, how to say, whip me into shape, non(?) *clic**clac*” she giggles, miming a whipping motion.
“It’s funny you should say that…(!)” I grin evilly, hinging my cane handle to horizontal instead of perpendicular to its length and unlocking it from its scabbard as I growl “…Because I believe the first step in correcting you into the fine maid you pretended to be… is attending to the arrears of discipline incurred during your three months of incompetent service.”
---Tuun’s perspective---
“Stand up, remove your apron and your skirt and put them here.” commands my Master, tapping the ‘whatnot’ where his tophat is.
Frowning in confusion, I query “Monsieur Blackstone?”
“Don’t forfeit your one and only redeeming quality here, Miss Celice!… I’ve given you an order!… If you are my maid and if you wish to remain so, obey it!” snarls the man.
I stand, pull off my apron over my head and whip out the lacey belt holding up my skirt.
It falls to the ground, leaving me not that much less modest than I already was (I’ve gone from having 5cm of thigh exposed above my stockings to 25) but feeling delightfully naked as I stand before him in my Victorian knickers (a word this man hates so much, he willingly uses the Stateser dialect word ‘panties’ instead(!))
I lay the shed garments on the table.
The man unsheathes his cane, revealing not a swordblade but a long, thin, flat paddle of dark, vulcanised rubber instead.
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
My Master examines the material (only a few decades since discovery in the setting’s time period) for a moment, running his hand up and down it and giving it a bend.
“Walk to the dining room, Miss Celice.” he commands.
I immediately turn to obey without objection, only answering “Oui, Monsieur.”
I hear him stand and follow me as I make my way to the place I failed to have his dinner ready for him when he came in.
The curtain on the window, pointing down the hill, is undrawn… meaning any peeping toms in this particular part of Victorian Surrey will have free rein to look in from the darkness and see all this man is about to do to punish me(!)
“Place your legs against the edge of the table, stand on tiptoe and bend over to bring your hands to the surface.” he instructs.
“Oui, Monsieur.”
I bring the fronts of my thighs to the side of the table and slide up onto tiptoe, scraping them against the rough surface and pushing my stockings down a few centimetres.
I bend over to lay all four palms against the wood.
I feel a warm hand against my buttocks as my knickers are pulled down to expose them.
I squeak and involuntarily bob upwards as I feel the impact of rubber *smack* against my cheeks.
“Now… Miss Celice… Trinette… how many more strikes do you think you deserve for all the trouble you’ve caused me, hmmm?”
Knowing that whatever number I say will not be enough, I quiver “I could not say, Monsieur.”
“Couldn’t you(?)… If I were to say I intended to give you a thousand, you wouldn’t think that to be too much(?)” he asks with sadistic glee.
“If that many is what you think I deserve, Monsieur Blackstone, I will receive them… with gratitude.”
“Hmmm… Good girl… If you’d tried to argue with me, I truly would have given you a thousand… Since you did not, what saaaaay… one hundred?”
“Merci beaucoup, Monsieur.” I exhale with a smile.
“Ah… but I have a proviso, Trinette!”
“Qu'est-ce que c'est, Monsieur?” I ask.
“You must count them… and the ones you don’t count don’t count!… If you lose count, we shall start again.” he says, voice dripping with cruelty.
“Oui, Monsieur Blackstone… En Anglais ou…?” I ask, stomach sinking.
“You may do so in French, Trinette(!)” the evil bastard says, as if he’s doing me a favour.
I don’t actually speak French!
All the dialogue bits are just phrases I learned for French flavour!
I know I’ve counted to a hundred in French before… but probably not since I was 12 or so!
Doing so under duress is going to be infinitely more difficult than doing it in English while maintaining a French accent(!)
Of course, he doesn’t speak French either but my guess is that he prepared!
“Oui… Commencez s'il vous plait, Monsieur Blackstone.”
“I shall, Trinette.” he says before, without further ado, striking me once again with the rubber paddle, causing a *whack* sound.
It wasn’t boneshatteringly hard but it is a little unnerving given that I need to take 98 more in the best case!
“Deux.” I count.
“No, nooooo, my girl! One hundred more was your punishment… That was one… not two!” he leers, having clearly intentionally set that trap “Start again!”
OK, 102 in total then… I can do that, right?
*Whack*
“Un.”
*Whack*
“Deux.”
*Whack*
“HmHmMm!.. Trois.”
*Whack*
“Quatre.”
*Whack*
“Ciiiiinq!”
---Victor’s perspective---
*Whack*
“Quatre-vingt-dix-HUIIIIIT!” she sobs.
*Whack*
“Quatre-vingt-dix-NEEEEEUF!!!” she cries.
*Whack*
“CEEEEENT!!!!!” she screams.
I leave her there against the table for a moment, panting for breath and still presenting her raw, purple arse behind her.
I ended up only giving her a dozen or so more than the hundred I said, all for failure to count.
She did massively mess up at the point that ‘sixty nine’ turns into ‘sixty ten’ and then again at ‘four twenties ten’, both of which I just counted as ‘you didn’t count so it doesn’t count’.
Strictly, I should have started her again from the beginning but I just figured 170+ arsepaddlings would stop being fun for either of us; she’d exceed her masochism threshold and my arm would get tired(!)
I look at her, dressed in half a maid outfit, bent over the table, her abused arse hanging out, gasping for breath and torn between the pain and pleasure of what I just subjected her to… and I’m filled with awe for how beautiful the woman I married is!
Every part of her is just… perfect!
Her playfulness, her imagination, her cute nervousness, her razor sharp intelligence… the fact that she’s a sub and a masochistic painslut(!)
All of her!
Her face and body are obviously stunning too, which definitely doesn’t hurt(!)
If I was a superstitious man, I’d say she was made for me by some higher being…
I think the truth is I’m made for her… not by any gods or cosmic forces but by me!
I made myself into the man that she’s the perfect woman for and I did it (without ever consciously setting out to) because I love her!
I did it by just finding everything she does, says or is perfect, because I love her…
I begin thinking about deeper questions like ‘why did I love her enough to end up finding everything about her perfect if she wasn’t perfect to start?’ and ‘am I less me for having transformed to find her perfect? Is she less her for (I hope(!)) having done the same?’ but I quickly realise now’s not the time for that kind of philosophising(!)
“You may stand up and pull up your… cover your posterior…” I instruct, dancing around the word my character would definitely use for her panties.
“Thank you, Mas-I mean… Merci, Monsieur…” she pants, briefly having had the French beaten out of her(!)
She drops from tiptoe and her lower left hand reaches behind her to cover her beautiful bruised arse while the other three push her up from the table.
She reaches fully upright but keeps going, almost tipping over backwards from her punchdrunkenness.
I swoop behind her to catch her in my arms.
She wraps hers over and under my shoulders and brings her mouth close enough to my face to let me feel her breath as her bleary, glowing eyes come to rest on mine.
“So… Trinette… would you say you have received sufficient punishment for your incompetence to date?” I mutter, softly, already knowing what her answer will be.
“Non, Monsieur…” she purrs with a soft smile that shoots lightning through my blood “…je suis une trèèèèès vilaine coquine… I need much more punishment to correct…”
“So be it.” I shrug, dropping the canepaddle and effortlessly scooping her legs up to bring this princess playing a servant to my chest in a princess carry.
I walk back to the ground floor entryhall I came in from the snow to, pass the coat and scarf it took my character ten seconds to hang up himself (serving as the justification for me to tirade against hers), turn around and begin climbing the stairs up to the first floor.
The halls are wide enough I can carry my maid along them without any need to awkwardly manoeuvre not to hit her head or feet on the walls or ornaments.
I bring us up to an imposing looking black door.
I pause a moment to make sure she has her arms wrapped around me before taking my hand off her back to reach for the handle.
There’s a deep creaking sound effect as the dark space beyond is revealed and then illuminated by gas lamps that all ignite at once.
A flash of stylistic sorcery in this otherwise nonmagical universe(!)
Vincent Blackstone’s bedroom stands in stark contrast to the rest of the house!
Where everywhere else has the drab, austere design of a Dickens novel setting, this windowless room is plushly carpeted and furnished in deep, vibrantly saturated dark reds and blacks that look more worthy of a sexdungeon… which is appropriate(!)
A fourposter bed stands against the middle of the back wall, its duvet, pillows and curtains in the same crimson red as the carpet.
Chains ending in cuffs lie on its bottom corners, snap hooks at the top… implying Sir Blackstone not to be the uptight prude he pretends(!)
On its right stands a wardrobe of black timber.
I set my incorrigible maid down on her feet and instruct “Remove your bodice and chemise, Trinette.” as I stride over to the treasure trove.
“Oui, Monsieur Blackstone.” she answers, obediently.
I hear a knot being pulled out behind me.
Opening the dark wooden doors, I reach down to pick up a split rigid frame, entirely covered in soft, padded, stark white cloth.
Next, I grab a metal object of bars, cuffs and collar.
I turn around just in time to see my maid drop the clothes I told her to take off, leaving her standing in just stark white bra and panties, stark white stockings, a frilly, stark white headpiece and shiny black shoes.
Dropping the larger, mostly bare, metal frame by her feet, I hinge open the hinge on the split device in both hands and reach up to bring it to the face it was printed for.
“Monsieur-?” she starts, pretending to be confused.
“Shhhshshhh! I’ve had quite enough of your Gallicisms for the moment, Trinette.” I lie, closing it.
---Tuun’s perspective---
*Clunk* is the sound of the mouthcorset latching shut around my neck.
On most gags, I prefer a mouthpiece of some description to fit between my teeth.
You only have to lay your hand over your mouth and try speaking behind it to understand that panelgags and detectivegags with no in-mouth component are usually laughably ineffective(!)
Not at all the instant speech mufflers that films usually make them out to be!
For that reason, I was a little disappointed the first time I did a mouthcorset with this man and he point blank refused to let me include a moulded mouthpiece on the inside!
‘You start choking on that, Tuun, how long’s it gonna take me to get this thing off you?!’
I sulked a bit at first but, when I actually had it on, I realised, a rigid mouthcorset really doesn’t need a mouthguard so long as it’s properly fitted!
The padding is packed close against my lips by the frame which also cradles the underside of my jaws, keeping me from opening them to let me speak.
All told, with the way my entire lower face is swaddled and constricted, I would say that this is one of the more effective gag types I’ve tried, even without anything inside my mouth!
My Master bends down to pick up the armspreader yoke.
He swings out the back half of the collar and brings the front to my neck before hinging it closed and locking it around the neckcorset.
He grabs my upper right arm by the wrist and bends it at the elbow to fit into the closer padded cuff on the metal beam, extending from the right side of the collar, which he locks it into.
The process is repeated for my upper left arm.
My lower arms are stretched out and locked into the further cuffs, nearer the ends of the beams.
Just like that, any ability I might’ve had to effectively resist anything my Master might choose to do to me is gone…
I’m absolutely ecstatic, the same way I feel every time this man has me at his mercy like this!
Baronet Blackstone stands back to admire his underwearclad, crucified and gagged maid… the woman who (by forging a letter of recommendation from her former employer) managed to gain entry into service she was not qualified for and has spent every day of the last three months daydreaming about him putting her in a situation just like this one!
He removes his monocle and drops it into his breastpocket before taking off his jacket and throwing it over a black wooden chair.
Returning with his bulky arms and torso now only covered by a pale linen shirt and jabot tie, my Master looks down at my helplessly exposed body like I’m a piece of meat he’s weighing up whether to purchase or not(!)
“Well… Trinette… I believe we’ve quite thoroughly settled the matter of your punishment… I believe, tomorrow, I shall put a featherduster in each of your hands and make you dust, just as you are right now… flogging you for every item of mine you break, obviously… I don’t imagine you’ll perform any worse than usual(!)… I believe you shall shortly be well and truly paid back for all the grief you have inflicted on me over your employment to date… However, there is another matter that must be attended to…” he says, reaching out with his right hand to bring his fingertips to my stomach, tickling me with them.
“We’re seeing to your punishment…” he says, circling me to my right and running his fingers lightly over my stomach.
I follow him with my eyes for as long as I can as he ducks under my arms and the frame to come behind me but, the rigid corsetgag making it impossible to turn my head, I can’t look at him where he’s gone.
“…but what of my recompense, girl!?” he snarls, digging his fingers into the sides of my ribs.
I squeal in laughter and reflexively try to yank my hands free of the cuffs (making me glad I made them padded) to defend my sides but it’s no use.
He spends a full 24 seconds tickle-torturing me while my body writhes between his fingers.
Finally, he stops and asks “Do you have any idea of the damage you’ve done my reputation, Trinette? Any idea the respect you’ve lost me by making the villagers come to believe I am indecent with my maid?… And a Frenchwoman, as if that weren’t enough!… What could you possibly offer me in compensation, girl?”
Ah!
So that’s how he’s bridging the gap from ‘fusty old aristocrat who thinks he’s too good to fuck the help’ to ‘fusty old aristocrat fucking the help’!
I did wonder.
It’s a clever solution… and a hot one!
I see him as he straightens up from ducking under my arms on my left side.
He stands in front of me and turns to look me up and down.
“Well… I can think of only one thing… If they all believe me to be overfamiliar with my maid due to your loose tongued prattle… then I believe the only fair reimbursement a woman of your station could offer one such as myself… is to make them right to believe so(!)”
Translation: If everyone already thinks I’m a maidfucker, I might as well fuck my maid(!)
“Wouldn’t you agree, Trinette?” he smirks over his goatee, reaching up to stroke my cheek overtop of my corsetgag.
I try to ‘Oui, Monsieur.’ but all that comes out through my clamped jaw and stifled mouth is “Hmm, Hmmmhm.”
I attempt a nod as well but only have about a centimetre of freedom to do so, so I don’t think it comes across all that well.
Fortunately, he wasn’t actually asking(!)
“Good!” he smirks a moment before his right hand shoots up to grab the beam between the left side of my neck and my inner left side cuff.
He walks forward, pushing me backwards with the irresistible momentum that comes from being nearly three times my mass and more than that much stronger than me!
My heel meets something hard a moment before my calfs meet the footboard of the fourposter.
He continues pushing me backward and I fall over, the soft mattress flying up to meet my back.
Bending down, he pulls off my patent leather flats and removes my underwear but doesn’t take off my stockings before standing back up.
He rounds the bottom right bedpost and reaches down to grasp the yoke again.
One handedly, he drags my entire body up the silk duvet of the kingsized bed so my head rests at the pillows.
He attaches the snap hook on that side to the ring on the end of the armspreader bar.
He draws the right bedcurtain as he returns to the foot of the bed, cutting off my view of the right side of the room.
Once back beyond my feet, he bends to fasten my ankles into the padded cuffs on the ends of the chains attached to the bottom bedposts.
I’m almost fully immobilised now as I watch him close the bedcurtains over the footboard.
He appears at my left side and comes to the headboard, attaching the chained snap hook to the left of my yoke and finishing the job of taking away any ability I might’ve had to resist him.
With that curtain still open, he stands back to admire his handiwork.
I can’t turn my head so I have to swivel my eyes as far left as they go to see him reach to his neck and start unknotting his jabot.
---Victor’s perspective---
I pull out the frilly tie and drop it to the floor.
I unbutton my linen shirt and pull the hem out from my waistband to shrug it off.
Tuun’s cinnamony, vanillary, blue berryy smell embraces my nostrils from the bed as I bend down to yank off my socks.
I stand back up and (because I know it gets her going) make a show of unbuckling my belt, pulling it aaaaall the way out of the beltloops and cracking it through the air over her immobilised torso like a whip.
She watches as I drop it to the ground, unfasten my fly, dig my hands under my pants and push both them and my grey suit trousers to the floor.
Stepping up onto the bed, I reach behind me to draw the final curtain, creating a private little box, about 2.5m tall, 3.5m long and 3.5m wide on top of the bed, where it feels like this woman and I might be the only two people in existence.
I kneel down at the bound woman’s left side.
I reach to her crotch to perform the gentleman’s touch.
I immediately confirm her readiness to go but, instead of going for it, I continue massaging her down there with the palm of my hand.
Her eyelids close, making me aware of just how much her glowing pupils were lighting up the inside of the tent we’re in by how dim it immediately gets.
She gives the most delicious moans of pleasure as I tease her!
“I think I’ve finally found something your actually good for, Trinette(!)” I mock in my Victorian aristocrat voice “You may be a useless Gallic maid, you may barely be said to be able to speak the Queen’s, you may have cost me more in breakages and undone work than I would possibly have been able to garnish back from your wage in the time you have been in my employ… but, I must say… you make rather an appealing sight in this state… I venture to say you would have been popular in a house of ill fame(!)…Their loss is my gain, however, and I shall certainly enjoy extracting every last part of the recompense you owe me!”
I reach to the middle of her bra and snatch it upwards, slipping three fingers inside her as I do.
The clasp between her shoulderblades snaps (as she’ll have designed it to) and she visibly cums from my hand as I pull off the last of her underwear (apart from her stockings which I’m leaving her in for the duration!)
I keep fingering her with my left hand while using my right to squeeze and play with her exposed boobs for the next several minutes, enjoying the way she’s almost completely unable to thrash in her rigid restraints.
I finally decide that, to tease her any more, I’d start to be teasing myself(!)
Pulling four fingers from her pussy, I stand and step over her leg.
She can’t turn her head but the light from her eyes illuminates the space again as she opens them to swivel down at where I am.
I bring a hand to the mattress on either side of her ribcage and lower my hips to press the bottom of my burning hot, rock hard cock between her wet, quivering pussylips.
I smirk into the visible part of her face as I slide my length downwards against her, feel my tip swing down to catch into her… then drive myself back upwards inside her.
She lets out a stifled scream of pleasure.
---Tuun’s perspective---
“Because it’s fuckin’ gross!” exclaims my husband as he lies beside me on the Victorian bed in the afterglow of aftercare.
“How’s it gross?” I giggle, rubbing his left arm with my right hands “It’s just a word!”
“Yeah… just a word and, I’m sure, if I spoke Guarani or somethin’ and not English, it’d feel about as gross as ‘glass’ or ‘table’… but it ain’t just a word to me… To me there’s, like, baggage attached to it! I hear myself sayin’ that word and it don’t read as sexy! It sounds like I’m an ugly, 50 year old perve who’s just seen a teenager he’s attracted to and is trynna pull her without realisin’ or carin’ she’d rather be anywhere else!… ‘Cooooor… go on luv! Show us yer knickers!’” he says, doing an exaggeration of his own accent for the unflattering impersonation of his view of unironic users of the word before shuddering “Makes my skin crawl!”
“So, you’d rather sound like a Stateser(?)” I grin, teasing him.
“When it comes to this, yes!… Most bits of Stateser English come off as a bit silly to my ear (yeah, I know they’d say the same ’bout me but we ain’t talkin’ ’bout that!) but the one thing I’ll give ’em credit for is that ‘panties’ is a sexier, cooler, more allurin’ word for women’s underwear than ‘knickers’ is! They ain’t ‘knickerbockers’! They’re just little pants(!) Much sexier!… Course, since ‘pants’ means ‘trousers’ in Stateser English, that does mean it makes less sense when they say it than when I do(!)”
“So now you aren’t just taking their word, you’re claiming you wear it better(?)”
He throws up his hands and says “Hey, if the boot fits(!) ‘Little men’s underwear’ makes more sense for what panties are than ‘little trousers’(!)”
“You’re crazy(!)” I chuckle, rolling over to retrieve the holo I left tucked between the mattress and the headboard.
I open it up and pull up the section of the menu I’ve learned almost by heart to send an order to our kitchen.
“You havin’…(?)”
“Pancakes… Yes… No, I’m not sick of them yet and I’m not even close!” I preempt.
Snow | | | | | | |
too distracting! If you want to know what I would've made it look like if I could've picked any font, you can see it at .
