09-05-2006, 05:49 AM
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Registered User
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Join Date: Jul 2001
Posts: 21
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Tracy and Susan only had five minutes before the head butler would find them. Working for Lord Sullivan was an absolute bore, and they were watched for almost every minute, of every day; but for five minutes when they were left to clean Lord Sullivan's bedroom and make the bed, the head butler James would sneak downstairs for a quick cup of tea and bite of breakfast.
As soon as James walked out of the door, Susan dropped to her knees and hid her head under Tracy's skirt. Tracy obligingly lifted her stocking clad leg and rested it on the edge of the bed, giving Susan a better view of her honey pot. Susan quickly got to work and buried her tongue deep between her partner's lips. Tracy let escape a small gasp and instantly panicked. A quick look around the room told her no-one had noticed, so she relaxed back into Susan's face.
A few seconds later, and Tracy pushed hard down into Susan. Susan gagged, partially suffocated by Tracy, but Tracy pushed down harder still onto Susan, as she could feel the first wave of an orgasm swelling up inside her. Her body clamped down and she came violently, giving Susan a good taste of her special juice.
Tracy's body fell away beneath Susan. She lay on the ground breathing heavily and Susan watched as Tracy's hand sought her own heat out and was violently rubbing herself away. Susan lay herself down on top of Tracy, and removed her hand. She replaced it with her own and started to lick the juice from Tracy's neck and proceeded to nibble on her ear.
Susan started to whisper:
"Do you remember when we were in the kitchen?"
"Hummmm"
"Do you remember what I did to you with the rolling pin and the spatula?"
Tracy loved this kind of dirty talk and came over Susan's hand. Susan hadn't finished yet though and bunched her fist and pushed it into Tracy's quivering hole.
When she arrived at Lord Sullivan's household, Tracy had never made love, had never even kissed, boy or girl. But when she had been introduced to her room mate, Susan, she had noticed something stirring in her groin. That night, she felt something warm in her face, and something electric between her legs. It lasted for a few minutes, and ended with flashes of light before her eyes. When it ended, Susan slunk back to her bed and fell into a deep sleep. Tracy knew she was getting a good thing. Susan continued to make regular visits to her bed like this until they were given another room-mate, a straight laced Christian by the name of Laura. Tracy was convinced that whatever was between her legs had died long ago. So now they were forced to perform their dirty acts elsewhere in the house, when they were left well alone. So far, they had performed in the kitchen, the master's bedroom, the washroom (but the caustic soda left them itching for weeks), and the master's study.
Susan's fist in Tracy's hole was too much for Tracy, and she started to moan quite loudly. Susan gave her her arm to bite down on, and bite hard she did. Susan could feel Tracy getting raw, but since she already came four (or was it five) times, she decided to give her a rest. She rolled off Tracy and lay next to her, staring at the ceiling.
It was then that Susan noticed the end of the bed. Lord Sullivan had an ornate oak two-poster bed in the room, and with a canopy suspended from the top posts. But the bottom bed-knobs were two small, thick stubs. Shaped like aubergines Susan wondered if she could get Tracy to swallow one of those. She grabbed her, hushed her and directed her to stand on the end of the bed. Tracy was oblivious to what was going on, she was still somewhat spaced from her previous orgasms. Susan took a finger, and starting at her mouth, ran it down Tracy's heaving, confined chest, and down towards that little pot of gold. Susan ran her fingers over her lower lips, and almost by reaction, Tracy started to lower herself onto the bed-knob. Squatting over the bed-knob, Susan paused for a moment, and considered the ergonomics of what she was trying to do.
Would this rip her in half? Oh Gods, I could do some serious damage with this thing, it's huge. But not to be deterred, Susan grabbed Tracy's shoulder with one hand and with the other hand parting her labia, pushed her down onto the large phallice. Tracy straightened bolt upright to take it inside her, and she could feel the long thick slightly curved shape of the oaken aubergine as it slid inside her. So tight, Tracy screwed up her face and gave a yelp. She had never, never been stretched so much before, but she was determined to take the thing in it's entirety for her own little mistress and pushed herself hard down onto it. It finally slid all the way in, and she paused for a minute, dripping in sweat and this huge thing inside her.
Susan realised that they didn't have much time and quickly set to work on Tracy's rosebud. Tracy looked like she had smoked too much opium (she never actually touched the stuff), a zombie she simply squatted there, leaving her body to be used. Hastily, Susan ran her tongue over the erect nib, running it around her swolen lips given a chance. It wasn't long before Tracy was screaming in a combination of ecstasy and agony. There was nothing Susan could do to silence her, so she simply worked as fast as she could. A final bite on the bud brought Tracy over the edge and her body started to convulse harder than it had ever done before. Susan stepped back, watching this fit before her, a look of shock and panic on her face. What had she done?
Forward, back, forward, lashed Tracy's body, lost in the throes of orgasm. Finally, she sat bolt upright, arched her chest out and gazed at the ceiling.
There was a thunderous crack, and then Tracy fell forward, limp. "Oh Lord! Was she dead?", thought Susan. No, she could still see her chest moving. Then what on earth had given that almighty crack? Had God sent down lightening to smite them both for their heathen actions?
Susan pulled Tracy from the over-sized bed-knob and lay her on the ground. She quickly felt inside her, and found no damage. With limited knowledge, she looked over her ribs, her back, nothing there either. Relieved, Susan rolled over onto her back once more, and noticed the fractured bed-knob.
"Good lords", she thought to herself, "she couldn't have". But she had indeed, Tracy had fractured the solid oak, oversize bed-knob. Realising their time was almost up, Susan straddled Tracy and started to do her clothing back up. Tracy herself was in no fit condition to tidy herself up. When she was done, she did the same to herself, and determining that both of them were looking presentable, started to tidy the room. God know's how they were going to explain the bed-knob.
Just as they had finished making the master bed (it's not like they had actually used it), they heard a creak at the door, and James peered his head around. Susan sidled her way up to the bed-knob and stood in front of it, obscuring it's view from James. She was going to have to come up with a story later, but feeling how she did now, she did not think she was in any position to do so right this minute without reeling off her fantasy play. Tracy could just about stand upright, and was still looking rather flushed, and rather damp, from the antics that had been going on only a minute or two ago.
"Good lord, what happened to you?", exclaimed James looking at Tracy.
"Well, if you've quite finished, there's more work to be done in the guest rooms."
"You however", he said, indicating to Tracy, "need to get yourself back to your quarters and clean yourself up. You're a state".
James then put his head back around the corner and wandered off down the hallway. Susan leaned over to Tracy, still stood bolt upright and gave her a little kiss on the cheek. She then ran out of the room, and down towards the guest rooms. Carefully, slowly, Tracy made her way back to the servant's quarters.
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09-05-2006, 06:18 AM
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old as dirt
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Join Date: May 2006
Location: Where my pita is
Posts: 58
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Oh shucks, someone else entered. Now I won't win. Sheesh.
Nice job, OD. 
JW
__________________
If you're not confused, you're misinformed.
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09-05-2006, 03:17 PM
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Just me.
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Join Date: May 2002
Location: West central Illinois
Posts: 590,002
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Great story, OD! Ya' did good.
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09-05-2006, 03:39 PM
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Registered User
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Join Date: Jul 2001
Posts: 21
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Thanks dicksbro and JassWolf.
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09-09-2006, 05:19 PM
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♦*♥Moderatrix♥*♦
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Join Date: Nov 2001
Location: on top of it all
Posts: 50,568
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Excellent!
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09-23-2006, 10:04 PM
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pixie of the wood
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Join Date: Apr 2004
Posts: 10,575
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We join tonight’s couple near the end, boys and girls, long, long after they began the ass-grabbing kisses and over-the-bra paws and dry-humping embraces we all know better as foreplay. You, yourself may have had the distinct pleasure that the people you are about to meet are having right now—that is to say, a lengthy session of full-on monkey sex. Perhaps it was the culmination of an intimate dinner with an intimate friend and many bottles of wine shared, or perhaps it was the aftermath of a mid-day sojourn to the pub on Dime-a-Draft Mondays. Whatever it was, if you’ve been lucky, it’s happened more than once.
Sadly, I must tell you that we will leave this tale before it—well, comes to fruition seems an appropriate turn of phrase, but even so, if you continue on, I dare say you may enjoy yourself anyway and perhaps even learn something.
And now on to a bit of voyeurism at no.19 Maple Lane.
…the wall above the headboard, so he can rest his head against it. He looks down at his body, past her shifting hand, past his knees on the pillows, and thinks how used-up he feels. He’s grateful she has taken over, and he can rest a moment. She presses close behind him, insinuating herself between his legs and slipping deeper as well. She bites the back of his neck and shoulders, and strokes him, and talks dirty. Not in the shyly mumbled phrases of the neophyte—she can be obscenely graphic when the mood strikes, as it has now. She wraps a forearm around his waist and thrusts her hips and he catches on quick, more than happy to let her conduct. His body mimics her every undulation, directing his shaft into her waiting hand, sliding it free again. The full head pushes through the tight O her curled fingers make. The blood surging in him tinges the oil and spit on their skin and paints it the glistening aubergine of a fat, ripe plum. It is hot, and distended, and pregnant with portent. That he is on the brink is very clear. He also hopes he has energy enough to revel there for a while.
The slim strap-on she’s wearing surges and retreats from his own tight slick O, while her hand plays with him like a sculptor would contemplate a hunk of marble; studiously examining her medium, sliding up and down the length in calculated strokes, then lingering for exploration, slick fingers poring over every dimple and ridge and vein. She centers on the tip for a spell, rolling it through her fingers the same way Chinese chimes are rolled and made to sing, then settles back into elongated strokes, lavishing attention on him with unmistakable appreciation for her task. Long minutes pass like this; in perfect harmony with his state of mind.
On the brink when it slowly dawns that no longer does she gently rock him on his knees or guide the penetration of her hand. Her body collides casually with his now, but she is steadily upping the tempo, colliding persistently rougher, and harder, and faster with every minute that approaches. He steadies himself—one hand white-knuckling the headboard, the other cupping the crest of an oak bedknob. Her hand on his shaft is a blur of motion. He’s increasingly tossed about by the impetus of her thrashing. Everything is fast fast fast now, and all he wants to do is to cede to whatever force is driving her. He’s a lazy puppet swinging at the ends of her string and there is no need to plan or think—so he isn’t—only react and feel, which he is. His vacuous thoughts and piqued senses are drugging him. He feels queerly indifferent toward his body, and how it moves—or doesn’t—and so he feels detached from it. Asea and disconnected but not—no, definitely not disinterested. All this is happening to him yet to someone else, too. He is tripping on sex.
On the brink when her fist closes impossibly tighter around him. He reflexively arches away from her hand to stop the tide. The tilt is subtle, yet it’s enough to finesse the ergonomics in his favor. She enters considerably deeper faster than he anticipated, evincing a keen masochistic pleasure that redoubles when their momentum presses his head a little too hard against the wall.
On the brink and trying to stay there because any second longer he can last is one more second he can spend sex-crazed. Sex, he thinks, is better than the end of sex. He reaches back and grabs hold of her thighs, arching into…
We need to go now, but I want to tell you something first because I worry that some of you might be feeling a bit anticlimactic about the whole experience.
People can screw with total abandon—like these two people were when we left them—and when they do, the bedsprings squeal and the headboard goes BAM! against the wall and flesh smacks against flesh. They will say anything, do anything, ask anything. Their grunts, and gasps, and curses form a language that conveys more about lust than any words can. Lurid, loud, seething: they come close. But listening to it, now that’s a whole n’other animal. Its affects on him were heady to say the least and, so, what finally fractured his restraint were the sounds of their mating as much as the mating itself. He was on the brink and then on the brink no longer. He was able to hold the brink brilliantly for a while after we left, but there finally came a time when he burst through that O in her hand a split second before a white streak of cum flew. In fact, I can tell you that in the end it hit the headboard with enough force to splash back onto his thigh and the rest of it dripped slowly down toward the pillows.
And just think, a couple hours ago he’d been cleaning up after their late dinner when she called to him from the bedroom—“Honey?”— He put down the spatula he’d been drying and walked to the stairs where she stood wearing a shiny pair of come fuck me heels and a boa that covered all the wrong places.
The moral of this story is obvious—
Washing the dishes only gets you screwed. |
09-23-2006, 10:26 PM
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♦*♥Moderatrix♥*♦
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Join Date: Nov 2001
Location: on top of it all
Posts: 50,568
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Superb wyndhy! I love the style.
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