If you’re under 18, forget it: if you try to read this it will self-destruct. Ditto if you’re in a location where reading these kinds of stories is against the law.
Receiving contributions for distribution will result in retribution.
For some reason, I know not what, I had the most difficult time writing this. E-mails welcome, though I may not have time to respond: email@example.com
My belongings were packed in my leather valises and my hat boxes were stacked alongside. I was not so surprised at how little and light my luggage was, considering I failed to pack undergarments. A middle-class woman’s foundations could take up any number of cubic feet if allowed to do so. I sat in the drawing room by the window overlooking the street. I was too nervous to do anything but fret and tug uselessly at my gloved fingers.
“Mary, darling, I’m sure you’ll be a fine piano mistress,” my mother said, resting a hand on my shoulder.
“It’s the children that worry me, Ma. I remember some terrible words I said to my own instructor, the poor lady.”
“Then think of her patience and pray for some of your own. I have no doubt teaching will come to you as naturally as a duck to water.”
“And then there’s the question of when I’d be able to practice, myself,” I continued, as if I hadn’t heard her. This was a true concern of mine. Would Peter keep me otherwise engaged to the detriment of my art? I had failed to raise the issue over coffee two weeks ago and worried that the time for amending the agreement had passed.
“I’m sure you’d have access to any piano you wished, dear, at any time of day,” she said, sounding far more sure of things than I. “Oh, it looks like your cab has arrived.”
I had seen it myself, unable to tear my eyes away from the street and the arrival of my doom. I was starting to regret my rash acceptance to submit to the magician. My fear only increased as Beatrice lighted from the cab and looked at the house number to verify she was at the right place.
“Is that the headmaster’s wife?” My mother asked.
“Yes, her name is Beatrice. Let me introduce you,” I rose and headed toward the hall, but my father was a few steps ahead of me and was already welcoming the living doll into our house. I didn’t want her to enter. She was a false woman, a front for a vile man’s machinations.
“-to meet you,” I heard the tail end of my father’s greeting. Rounding the corner I saw Beatrice the Wife press my father’s hand warmly, then turn her beautiful face to my mother.
“And you must be Misses Maldives,” she said.
“Why, yes. A pleasure to meet you Misses Hedley. Please, do come in for some tea.” The mention of tea made me imagine the scenario Peter had described and I shivered.
“How kind of you to offer, but our train departs far sooner than I’d like. That’s Mister Hedley’s doing, I’m afraid. An early riser, while I admit to being quite the opposite. Miss Maldives, shall we be off?”
“Yes, Misses Hedley. Please give me a moment to say goodbye.”
She nodded and stepped back out the door. I hugged my parents as though I’d be gone a lifetime rather than five years, then followed her out to the cab. The driver had already added my belongings to the pile of luggage up top and the horse was stamping its disapproval.
“Write us when you get there, darling!” My father shouted out as I climbed into the cab. I smiled and nodded and disappeared into the dark. There Peter sat, smiling like the proverbial cat, and patted the space next to him. I sat beside him and looked into his face.
“A servant shows her master respect, Mary. There are quite a few small ways to do this, and one is to keep your eyes lowered.”
I lowered my eyes without feeling the respect behind the act and sat quietly with my hands folded on my lap.
“The respect will come in time,” He said, as though reading my mind. I nodded briefly and glanced at Beatrice, who was looking at us oddly.
“Beatrice, Doll,” Peter said, and her face became slack and vacant. He turned back to me and said, “Do you still submit to our agreement?”
“I’ve been worrying that I shan’t have time to practice the piano as often as I ought.”
“How many hours is that a day?”
“Six to ten, depending on where I am in learning a piece.”
“Six to ten you shall have, then. Although I’d like to experiment with using hypnosis to improve your rate of learning and so on.”
“If you guarantee those hours then I still submit to our agreement.”
“Then be a dear and unbutton the top of your dress.”
I started to object, worried more about the cold than about exposing myself to him, but began to do as he asked and waited until he told me to stop before voicing my concern. He didn’t bother to answer but merely guided my shoulders around with his hands until my chest was facing him directly. He then pulled aside the fabric to reveal my breasts and began to fondle them.
It was an odd sensation, not unpleasant in itself but tied to unpleasant thoughts. I realized that, should anyone learn of the arrangement between myself and the magician, I would be considered a harlot and nothing more. I would never be asked to play with another orchestra or perform solo in front of any audience. The idea made me feel cheap and dirty and I closed my eyes to keep from crying.
He started pinching my nipples and they hardened and stood at attention. I could feel every small touch and caress. My breasts, my breath, and my nether regions began to respond to his manipulations. My face grew hot. I heard Peter’s breath take on a ragged edge and I knew that he was not fondling me just to prove to himself that I was now his willing servant. Finally the touching stopped and he buttoned my dress back up with his own hands.
I kept my eyes closed and there was silence in the cab during the remainder of the trot to the station.
There is little to say about our descent to New Orleans. We took a sleeper train that made few stops: Washington, DC, Alexandria, Virginia, and a few other small towns and cities, until we arrived in Charleston. From there we took another sleeper to New Orleans. Beatrice was a wife again and I a good acquaintance of hers. With this explanation people were free to visit, we were free to chat, and no one was the wiser. My one complaint was the lack of piano upon which to practice.
The first thing I noticed when debarking at the station was the smell of the city. It was not at all like New York’s smell. The northern city’s was crisper, drier, simpler. This new smell was cloying, dense, and complex. I tried to identify its components and soon gave up.
Peter’s private cab was waiting for us and the driver gave me a quick appraising glance before assisting me. I dared to glare at him, hoping to scare him away from asking my new master to share.
“Beatrice, Doll,” said the magician, and again she became blank and unaware of her surroundings.
“Beatrice, Strip.” She began to undress in front of us, no hesitation and no sign of embarrassment. Soon she was naked as the day she was born, her clothes piled to one side. Fighting my instinct to hide my eyes for her modesty I instead took in the look of her exposed flesh, its paleness, smoothness. I felt the urge to touch her skin, draw my fingertips over her taut belly.
“Beatrice keeps her body as it pleases me. Note the well-groomed hair between her legs and under her arms. Note the soft texture of her skin. You should emulate her, Mary. When we arrive at my estate she will help you bathe and prepare yourself.”
“How can you afford an ‘estate’ on a magician’s income?” I asked.
He arched an eyebrow at me and I held his gaze for a brief moment before remembering that I wasn’t supposed to.
“We are not going to discuss my income while you are under my direction,” he said slowly.
“Yes, sir,” I meekly replied.
“Remove your clothing, Mary,” he ordered, his voice still stern and without any trace of the jolly nature he had so far shown. I kept my eyes on my shoes, unbuckling them and placing them to the side. I then unbuttoned my dress and untied the petticoat. All I was left with were my garter belt and stockings. I unhooked my stocking and rolled them down my legs. Then I removed my garter belt and I was as naked as Beatrice, and just as silent.
“Look again at Beatrice.”
I looked again at the doll across from us and realized that I, too, would look as blank and lifeless as she did. I risked a glance down at my own body, how it shifted as I breathed, how my toes curled in fear, how my fingers played nervously with themselves. I didn’t want to lose these manifestations of liveliness.
“Mary, what did I tell you to do?” he asked sharply.
I looked at Beatrice again and willed myself to see her clearly, without my own thoughts and fears clouding the truth of her body. I noted her clean skin, her trimmed pubic hair, her painted toe- and fingernails. Magellan’s hand closed over mine, which was resting on my thigh.
“Obedience is important to me, Mary. You will submit yourself to hypnosis and be perfectly obedient while under my thrall. But even when you are in control of yourself you should willingly do as I say. I will not let another disobedient act go unpunished.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, keeping my eyes on Beatrice’s body. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the town giving way to fields beyond the white gauze curtains. Sunlight occasionally flashed through the trees to dapple Beatrice’s skin. I found the movement of light over her body to be very calming and I lost some of the fear I had felt earlier and soon, to my surprise, I started thinking of how nice it would feel to be as quiet and emotionless as the doll before me. My eyes started to close in the heat of the day and I had to work hard to stay awake. At some point I lost the fight and the next thing I knew we had arrived at Magellan’s estate.
“Beatrice, Slave,” the magician said. Beatrice lost a little of her waxen posture and vacant look but was unsurprised by my nudity and her own.
“Beatrice, this is Mary. Please show her to your bathroom. You will be sharing it with her now. And make sure her sleeping accommodations have been arranged properly. When Mary is finished with her toilette the two of you should present yourself in my study.”
“Yes, Master,” Beatrice replied. There was neither resignation nor eagerness nor fear nor love in her voice. It was passive, emotionless, and I swung again on my pendulum from acceptance to fear. I couldn’t imagine speaking so tonelessly, as if I had not the wit to form my own opinions.
The driver opened the door and I immediately blushed from head to toe and turned my face away. Beatrice stood and took his proffered hand as she stepped down to the courtyard. The man held his hand out to me and I could not move.
“Mary,” the magician began, and that was all it took to move me to action. I did not want to risk any punishment and, I told myself, the faster I moved to follow Beatrice the faster I would be out of this stranger’s sight. But I was wrong. Beatrice hadn’t gone very far but had turned to kneel, head bowed, facing the carriage. I knew I was supposed to follow suit but had to force my knees to bend. I saw Magellan’s shoes step onto the cobblestones and I began to cry. I don’t understand why the sight of his shoes should move me to tears, but somehow it was too much for me: the nudity, Beatrice’s passivity, the leering looks from the driver. It was all too much. I started to hiccup as I always do when I cry. I watched his blurry shoes step closer and then I felt a hand on my head.
“Things will be harder for you because you are here to learn. You are an apprentice of sorts. You cannot learn if you are naught but a thrall during your stay. So you must bend your will without my assistance most of the time. I’m proud that you knelt, as Beatrice did, without my instruction. You have learned one thing already: Beatrice’s hypnosis makes her the perfect slave and you need never fear punishment if you simply do as she does.” He removed his hand from my head and his shoes moved out of my vision. I was still hiccuping and I wanted to just stay there for a while and feel sorry for myself, but Beatrice rose to follow her Master and I rose to follow her.
The estate was as grand as the word implies: a stone edifice wrapping itself around three sides of the courtyard and a low stone wall with a wrought-iron double gate enclosing the last side. The main body of the building was three stories high, the wings stepped down to two. There were torches lining the courtyard, as yet unlit, and two side doors on each wing plus the large double doors at the main entry. The roof was slate, the walls were dark and gray, but ivy and vines of all sorts ran riot over the somber stones, adding life and, I admitted to myself, a little gaiety.
A butler swung the door open and bowed low to Magellan, startling me out of my hiccups. He was an older man and looked much like any negro butler one might read about. He paid no attention to Beatrice and I - showed no sign that our nudity was unusual. I had crossed an arm over my breasts and flattened my free hand over my delta but forced myself to put my arms at my sides when Magellan happened to notice me as he nodded a hello to the butler. He merely raised an eyebrow at me and I knew what was expected.
“George, this is our new young lady, Mary. Mary, this is George.”
“How do you do, Miss Mary,” he intoned.
“How do you do, George,” I replied. He closed the door behind us and there was the negro maid, curtseying to Magellan in the foyer.
“Eliza, this is Mary. Mary, this is Eliza.”
“How do you do, Miss Mary,” she curtseyed to me.
“How do you do, Eliza,” I replied.
“George and Eliza are my hired help and they do excellent work. If you need anything simply speak with Eliza or our cook, Emily.”
Magellan dismissed Eliza and George and they bowed and curtseyed to him again on their way out.
“Yes, Mary,” he replied as he headed for the stairs.
“Are they in your thrall as well?”
“No. They simply have been hypnotized to believe that young naked women are perfectly acceptable sights. They do not speak of it when they go home at night and they don’t think anything about it at any other time.” He continued up the grand staircase and Beatrice followed. Evidently our bathroom was not on the first floor. I climbed the steps behind them, a little more slowly than they did, so I could look at everything that filled the nooks and crannies of the foyer up to its third-floor ceiling.
Vases, statuettes, gold-leaf frames surrounding portraits of God only knows who. There were too many objects too close together. I started to feel faint and made myself focus on the carpet under my bare feet. It was red with gold and silver flowers and was pinned against the stairs with a brass rod at each step. It felt more worn than it looked. I couldn’t imagine having to clean it and all the curiosities in the foyer and have time enough for the rest of the house.
Magellan had disappeared at the landing to the second floor but Beatrice continued to make her way up and I followed behind with little more than a quick glance down the hallway. Again, more niches with statues, tables with vases full of exotic flowers, and a mirror the size and shape of the wall at the end of the hall. I dimly saw a pale figure in the mirror and hurried on before I was tempted to take a long look at my own naked body and compare it to Beatrice’s.
On the third floor landing Beatrice turned to me and said, “Mary, our bathroom is the second door on the right. I will meet you there in a moment.” I nodded and she left me in the hall, entering the first room on the right and closing the door behind her before I could glimpse inside. Again her lack of emotion chilled me but, as I continued down the hall, I found that it thrilled me, as well.
The bathroom was not quite as ornate as the foyer and stairs, and not filled to bursting with objets d’art, but it was beautiful in its simplicity. The wood floor was well-sanded and sealed, the sink and bathtub were white and clean, the towels were thicker than I’d ever seen, and a flawless mirror ran from floor to ceiling next to the sink. The floor space was large enough for a little chair and table in the far corner and a small dresser in the near. My maid’s bathroom in New York was not nearly this nice.
After running water from the hot tap, plugging the bath, and turning on the cold tap as well, I finally turned to the mirror and let myself look at myself. I was not Beatrice. Neither in height nor in looks nor in bust size, nor in any other way. I was shorter, darker, with black eyes and hair. The hair on my legs was not the downy fur on hers, but made dark, thick individual marks on my skin. My breasts were smaller than hers and my nipples not nearly as perky. I felt terribly embarrassed. Why would Magellan want a body like this for his own use when there were surely more than a hundred in New Orleans alone that would much better please any man’s eye?
I kept my gaze on my face and admitted to myself that at least I had lips meant for kissing. A boy at Juliard had once told me that. They were full and looked fetching when I bit my lower lip. And my eyelashes were full and long. I practiced biting my lower lip and making moues at myself until I noticed that the level of water in the bathtub was too high. When I got into the bathtub and let myself sink back into the hot water I felt tears starting up again. “There is nothing sad about a bath,” I told myself, but I cried silently anyway and hoped I wouldn’t get the hiccups again.
Beatrice entered without knocking and sat on the edge of the porcelain bath. She acknowledged neither my greeting nor my tears but dipped her hand into the water and reached between my legs. I sat up with a little yell of surprise. “What are you doing?” I nearly shouted, wiping at my eyes.
“Master asked me to prepare you for him. You need stimulation,” she said blankly and again reached her hand toward my nether regions.
“I-I – I don’t need any stimulation right now, thank you. I haven’t had time clean myself properly yet.” I inched back a little more but there was nowhere to go unless I stepped out of the bath.
Beatrice stood and dried off her hand with a towel saying, “You must clean yourself, then I will stimulate you.” She moved to the chair and sat watching me with an inscrutable expression. I quickly washed myself under her gaze and stood to dry off with the nearest towel. When I was dry and had wrapped my hair in the towel she stood, walked to stand in front of me, and put her hands on my breasts. I took a step backwards and her body followed mine as naturally as you please. I removed her hands from my breasts and held her wrists. She didn’t struggle but merely said, “Master asked me to prepare you for him.”
“I’m sure this is not what he meant. I’m not stimulated by women.” I struggled to make myself believe that.
“Woman kissing woman, man kissing man – they are merely kisses between human beings,” she replied emotionlessly, repeating a sentence the magician had said in our carriage ride home from dinner.
“You are correct about that, Beatrice, but I most likely will not be stimulated by whatever you do to me.”
“Then what will stimulate you?”
The room was silent a moment as I thought about her question. It was quite likely that I was too worried about my situation to be – stimulated, as Beatrice put it.
“Let’s put aside that question for a moment and think of how else to prepare me. For example, I think my pubic hair is longer and more unruly than your own. Will you please help me look more like you?”
She nodded and moved to the dresser, pulling open the top right drawer to reveal a set of grooming implements. She grasped comb and scissors and returned to kneel in front of me, starting to comb through my delta and blowing on it a little bit to help the hairs dry more quickly. I stood quietly, fingers twitching out a jagged arpeggio, and found myself being stimulated by Beatrice despite my best efforts to resist.
She was between me and the mirror and I could see her back, spine dimpling skin, blond hair shifting as she moved her head. Even her back looked better than my front. I was half shamed by the sight and half excited. Reaching out I touched the top of her head and she gave no sign that she noticed. My hand fell back to my side and I watched us in the mirror until the snipping of the scissors ceased.
Beatrice stood and looked me over. Again, no emotion crossed her face but I got the sense that she was eyeing me critically.
“Is there anything else you think should be addressed before you take me to Magellan?” I asked, sounding more at ease than I felt.
“I should trim your under arm hair, as well. And dry and style your hair,” she reached to pluck a stray lock of hair and free it from the towel. It hung in my eyes and made her skin and hair look that much paler in contrast. Her blue eyes roamed over my body and it had as much effect on me as her breath had earlier.
“Well, then,” I breathed at last, “We should do as you say.”
I raised my left arm and she combed and trimmed the hair there, then we repeated the exercise with my right arm. She motioned me to sit on the chair and she removed the towel from my hair. She ran her fingers from the top of my scalp to the base and I shivered.
“Are you cold?” she asked.
“No, Beatrice. It felt good when you ran your fingers through my hair.”
“Did that stimulate you?”
I thought of saying “no” but instead spoke the truth, “Yes, Beatrice, it did. Your master will be pleased that you prepared me for him.”
“Master is your Master, as well,” she replied. It would have sounded like chiding from anyone else’s mouth but her voice remained toneless.
“Magellan has not asked me to address him as such,” I replied. She was silent and returned to combing my hair. I tried to imagine calling the magician “Master,” and felt a small lurch in the pit of my stomach. Being naked with Beatrice, however humbling, and discussing being stimulated for her master was making me wet and nearly as curious as I was fearful. I sighed and shifted in the chair but it did little to ease the sense of swelling and tenderness between my legs.
“I can see you are stimulated,” Beatrice said and I merely nodded, no longer sure of my own voice. I tried to psychically will her to keep quiet lest I grow brave enough to kiss her into silence. Finally she finished with my hair. In the mirror I saw that she did little other than comb it out and part it in the center. She did not tie it back with a ribbon, as I would have. I found that practicing the piano was easier if my hair was back but evidently losing one’s virginity required a different hair style.
I stood and stretched and followed Beatrice out into the hall. My thighs were slick and rubbed each other as we went downstairs. My heart beat faster and I could feel color rising in my cheeks. Would he want to claim me while I owned my own mind, or would he cast a spell of hypnosis on me first? Would he let remember if he did?
We descended to the ground floor, crossed the foyer to the left, and went no more than halfway down a long hall before Beatrice stopped at a pair of stout wooden doors and knocked.
“Enter,” came Peter’s muffled voice. Beatrice opened one of the doors and walked in, holding the door for me and shutting it behind me once I was inside. I kept my eyes on her, determined to mimic her until Magellan said otherwise. She walked across a thick Persian carpet and knelt next to a desk. I risked a glance to confirm that the magician was indeed the man behind the desk and knelt beside Beatrice. It made my knees itch slightly and I could imagine the mottled pattern I’d come away with once I stood. If he let me stand. If I could gather the strength to stand ever again. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might explode in my chest and I could barely breath. Fear had constricted my chest.
“Beatrice, did you see to Mary’s sleeping quarters?”
“Yes, Master. Everything is in order.”
“You are excused, then.” Beatrice rose and, just as she closed the door behind her, Magellan called out, “Beatrice, Niece.”
I jumped when I felt his hand on my head and he chuckled.
“How are you feeling?” he asked quietly.
“I’ve felt better,” I replied.
“Yes. For example, my feet are falling asleep.”
“Please, rise and sit in that chair to your right. You’ll have to watch Beatrice a little more closely and see how she kneels without restricting the flow of blood to her extremities.”
“Yes, sir.” I limped over to the old leather chair. It felt like butter when I sat. I worried about the wetness between my legs staining it. I watched his knees as he approached me and felt a stirring in my loins similar to that when Beatrice was grooming me. He stood in front of me and I wasn’t sure where to look. My eyes were slightly higher than crotch height but it seemed odd to stare at his belly, so I tilted my head down and looked at my own knees.
Magellan’s hands cupped either side of my face and raised it slightly. His touch was warm and gentle and he seemed neither the taskmaster nor the entertainer I’d seen him play. In my mind’s eye I could see his face as he’d looked when we were at the coffee shop: open, alert, thoughtful and young.
“Part your lips,” he whispered. I obliged and he slipped his right thumb in and then out to smear my saliva across my lips and down my chin. His thumb returned to my mouth and he whispered, “suck.” And so I did, closing my lips around his thumb and sucking as I had my own thumb when I was three or four. He started to move his rigid digit in and out of my mouth for what seemed like an eternity before removing his thumb and again roughly wiping it over my lips and chin. I felt both soiled by my own saliva and hopelessly afire, wishing desperately now for him to take my maidenhood.
Peter released my head from his hands, running them over my shoulders and down my arms. I was both ashamed to be naked in front of him and worried that he’d not touch my breasts. He gently pulled on my arms and I stood, eyes downcast in the only act of modesty I was capable of.
“If you are in my presence, and not kneeling, the proper stance consists of feet shoulder-width apart and hands and arms by your side.” I complied at once, spreading my legs slightly and hoping I had guessed right about the distance between my feet. I watched his own feet, still shod, disappear as he walked behind me. I kept expecting his hands on me, to feel him feel me, but there was naught but the sound of our breathing, heavy with expectation.
Finally I felt a hand on my elbow. He guided my steps until I was standing in front of the desk.
From my new perspective I examined the green blotter that formed a rectangle in the center of his desk but closed my eyes in surprise and gasped when I felt the palms of his hands gently press against my buttocks then move away from each other, parting me. I was exposed. There was an objective persona that wondered if Beatrice’s grooming would meet Peter’s approval, but the rest of me quivered in fear and desire. I felt like a savage.
Again he used his thumb to open me and again he smeared my wetness over my skin. I felt a shocking thrill as his thumb brushed the hub of my feminine sensitivity and I could not keep from crying out. There was a flash of something, I knew not what, and I nearly fainted. The muscles in my legs suddenly felt tired, as if I had been running. My knees buckled and Peter caught me before I could fall.
“Have you not experienced an orgasm?” he asked quietly. I detected a note of amusement, or perhaps it was my state of mind.
“I do not know the meaning of the word,” I replied faintly. I felt the urge to fall asleep in his arms, bent over like a rag doll.
“Have you never once pleasured yourself? Physically, I mean.”
“How fascinating. How nice to be able to waken you to the pleasures of the body before putting you to sleep, so to speak.” Again I heard the amusement in his voice and decided it wasn’t just my imagination. “Are you recovered enough to stand on your own now?” He asked.
“I… I don’t think so, no.”
“Then let’s move you back to the chair.” Rather than sitting me in it as I expected, he merely draped my over one arm of it. I was again bent over, again exposed, again subject to the feel of his hands spreading me apart so that nothing was hidden from his eyes. I could feel a liquid seeping out from me, perhaps the result of that flash of a strong thrill, and he used both thumbs to catch up the liquid and redistribute it among the folds of flesh between my legs.
His hands left me and I was tempted to turn my head to see what he was doing Soon his hands were on me again, one on the small of my back, the other slowly introducing a finger to my nether regions.
“If you’ve never had an orgasm before perhaps you don’t know the names of all the organs and features between your legs,” he said softly. “I now have one finger inside your moist, tight, and very hot cunt. Can you say that word for me?”
“Cunt, sir.” I said. I was fairly sure that wasn’t the correct word, but the sensations of his finger moving in my cunt made me want to be agreeable.
“And the little button of pleasure is called a clit.”
“Clit, sir,” I said.
“Now tell me how you feel about my finger in your cunt.”
“It feels quite nice as you move your finger in and out of my cunt. And when you crook your finger – at least, that’s what I imagine you’re doing – my cunt feels tight and spread open at the same time.”
“I’m getting your cunt ready for my cock. Do you know what a cock is, Mary?”
“I can only assume it is another word for penis, Peter.” I dared to attempt humor and was rewarded with a chuckle as he withdrew one finger and inserted two. When he spread his fingers apart inside me I could feel the same coiling in my loins I had felt before my orgasm. I caught my breath and bit my lip.
“You are so quiet, Mary,” he said as his fingers quickened their pace and moved a little deeper with each thrust. “You should feel free to express yourself.”
“I know not what to say,” I protested weakly.
“Animal groans will suffice,” he replied.
He took his fingers away and I did groan.
“Only for a moment, pet,” he said quietly. I felt something new press against the folds of my nether regions. He rubbed the head of his cock up and down and, on the next movement up, caught it up at the entrance to my cunt. It felt too large to be in me even with his previous ministrations. Slowly the head of his cock began to sink into me and the sensation of being spread so wide around his member unleashed my second orgasm. I wailed loudly and do believe would have lost my senses if he hadn’t chosen that moment to thrust all the way into me, the pain of losing my virginity pulling me out of a cloud of pleasure and darkness. He paused, belly against buttocks, and I choked and sobbed, trying to gather my breath. The hand that had been pressed against the small of my back drifted up my spine and back down, caressing me, calming me. I felt split asunder and I could not stop the tears.
“Finally I’m crying over something of importance,” I thought to myself. But my attempt at humor did little to restore my emotional balance, nor did it distract me from the cock now wedged tightly inside me. Peter started to withdraw and I cried out again, whether from the pain or the pleasure, I could not tell. Either ignoring my noises or encouraged by them, he again plunged into me and again withdrew all the way. He did not speak to me, neither words of encouragement nor in the animal groans he was eliciting from my mouth, but only continued to plunge in entirely and withdraw entirely at a slow and leisurely pace. Each invasion felt again like losing my virginity. Finally the sharp pain of true adulthood receded and I was left with only two sensations: the pleasure and the pain of being so well-filled. I could feel his circumcised head cleave me and his shaft follow behind. So completely did I lose my self that I moaned with distress when I couldn’t feel his cock and I groaned with relief when he again filled me.
He began to gather speed once my noises quieted somewhat, which only served to increase the volume once again. The head of his cock was now never out of my cunt and I began to forget I had ever existed without it in me. He shifted his weight, bending over me a little, with one hand on the arm of the chair and the other on the back. The change in angle pressed his penis – his cock - up a little farther than before and subjected me to a new slew of sensations. My hands were balled up into fists, pressing against the opposite armchair, and my eyes either stared unseeing at the grain of the leather or were closed tight.
“Do you know the word for what I am doing to you?”
I shook my head weakly.
“I am fucking you, Mary.”
“Thank you for fucking me, Peter,” I whispered back. And I meant it. When he heard me he increased his pace and energy yet again, fucking me so hard that the chair started to shudder with every stroke. I unballed my hands and braced them against the opposite chair arm in earnest, stiffening my arms and legs so my cunt would meet his force with a force of its own. It felt so good to be full of his cock, to feel every ripple in its skin as it slid in and out of me.
Without warning he slammed into me one last time and I felt his cock twitch several times as he grunted. I could only guess that he was having the masculine version of my orgasm. He planted his hands on my hips, supporting himself, as his breathing started to slow to a more normal rate. I imagined I had felt a second sort of heat when his member had convulsed but I put that thought to the side and simply focused on feeling him in me, unmoving. I resisted the urge to wriggle under him.
Finally, when I thought he meant to fall asleep on top of me, Peter withdrew and I felt a terrible emptiness that caused me to whine like a dog. He moved to stand at the front of the chair and, bending over, swept my hair aside to kiss the back of my neck. I turned my head to him and, worried that I’d meet his eyes, kept my own shut tight. His lips brushed mine and I shivered.
“There’s a good girl, Mary. You may now thank me.”
“Thank you, Peter,” I managed to say.
“You’re welcome. You may now call me Master.”
“Yes, Master,” I replied.