My Master steps over the threshold, carrying me in his arms. My huge white meringue of a dress catches on the handle, and he struggles through the door with me and it together. I giggle, as he makes complex manoeuvres trying to get himself, me and the dress all through the door together.
“Welcome home, Mrs Haswell,” he says.
Smiling, running his hand over the bodice of my wedding-gown, his deep blue eyes are almost glowing. “You look beautiful in this dress, Elizabeth. But on the whole, I think I want to get you out of it.”
Sucking my lips in anticipation, “Yes, um, I think you’re going to have to help me.” The dress is boned, buttoned, laced and cinched in tight.
He looks the dress over from all sides. “Er, yes, I see what you mean. Not so much a dress as a construction. How did you get into it?”
“Francis helped. She did up all the buttons at the back. And the laces.”
He starts at the back, pulling at laces, trying to loosen the bodice. After several unsuccessful minutes, during which I become more and more giggly, he begins to lose patience.
“Think I’m going to need oxy-acetylene kit to get through these.” he mutters, then “Oh to hell with this! Bend over woman. Let your husband at you.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Find out what you ‘something blue’ is.”
Old Romantic aren’t
voice is thick with lust, and my own desire is rising to match. This is my husband. I love him
inside me, right now, with a feral passion
the back of the couch, as he winches the skirts and hoops of my dress over my head, followed by the train. Enwrapped in layers of silk, satin and lace, blinded in
through layers and depths of skirts and petticoats,
he comments. “Makes a change from green. But the evidence tells me that we don’t
warming to the thought of my Master, my husband, ‘fucking me ‘til I bleat.’ I can feel the ‘evidence’, the growing damp patch on the crotch that invites my
one side and then the other. Firm, warm hands run over my now naked
trousers. As I bite my lip against the tease of pressure against my warming core, longing for more, my Master’s fingers wander inwards, parting the lips
you coloured up. A nice red ass.
Again, it is a tease, a promise of what is to come. As soon as I lean back
will you behave and spread yourself as a good girl
as far as I can from my prone position. Stretching my legs wide, I open myself as far as I am able, jittery with anticipation, longing for the touch of my lover’s tongue, and
he is doing it deliberately. He has only to step back and kneel. Instead, he slides slowly down my body, pressing against me as he does so. The rough fabric of his trousers,
mouth against my sex, warm breath wafting over my tender, trembling nub,
slick skin. He mumbles a sound of pleasure, wholly sensual, a rumble of lust and longing. I echo the sound, sighing my shuddering pleasure at
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