The confusion of the sexes
By Maximilian Cummings
The lovely sheer grey dress had a thoroughly unexpected outline. Just below where the slight bulge of her tummy should come, right above her sex and where the clinging dress might have shown the slight mounding of her mons with its spring of curly hair was the undoubted shape, revealed in almost graphic detail as it pushed against the thin grey silk, of an erect penis—the firm trunk of the cock with its sinuous veins, the acorn like doming of the glans penis and the egg shaped roundness of the testes. Silene could feel it sliding against the silk in a disconcertingly pleasant way—what had happened to her, why had she sprouted a cock?
Marianne’s hand gripped hers, “We are going to have such fun, Silene. Come on George. Time for us all to be in bed.”
Harriet looked up. What on earth was she reading? Who had put this by her bedside? It had looked a thoroughly normal paperback—just something to read a few pages before she settled down to sleep. Well, she was not going to read any more of that pornographic tripe; certainly not find out what Silene was going to do with her cock—presumably penetrate Marianne as George fucked her from behind. Despite her disgust she idly turned a few pages. Yes, that was exactly what happened.
“With every thrust George’s testes bounced against her own; she could feel the mashing of the wrinkled skin, the tickling of hairy balls. His penis was sliding easily within her sex; she felt wetter than ever before, even with Monsieur Rassiline, and her orgasm was building: but so different from before. Instead of the insistent throbbing of a clitoris there was the thrusting of her own penis within Marianne; what would it feel when the semen came—as surely it would?”
Harriet threw the paperback down—why had she even looked? Why had she ever come to this place? What nonsense. A girl suddenly turned into a complete hermaphrodite. Was this the sort of thing men read but, if so, what was it doing in such an obviously feminine room? What was the awful thing called? It was there on the spine, ‘The Confusion of the Sexes.’ Even if the front cover had given nothing away about its contents; well at least that was apt. She could guess what would happen next and so improbably—they would all come at exactly the same time. Well, how often did that happen in real life and that was just with two persons!
“She was coming, coming in a way she had never come before, she could feel her own testes pulling up close to her, a pressure building and then an ecstatic release as her semen poured out of her cock into Marianne. And, at the very same moment, she could feel George’s semen splashing into her. It was as if George was really fucking Marianne through her. Silene’s semen leaving her body only to be replenished by George’s own. It was a gorgeous feeling and as her cock pumped she heard Marianne cry out in total pleasure.”
Ha! Thought Harriet. Pornography is so predictable. She got out of bed and went in search of another and better book. Her bare feet pattering across the polished floorboards from one rug to another. The rugs so very soft on her bare feet.
She had not really come to the castle on her own volition, a client had been most insistent, indeed one of her firm’s best clients had been most insistent though she could not understand why. He had only met her the once at a large meeting but presumably something about her had impressed him. She could remember him, a big man, fair hair turning to grey.
Her boss had been quite flattering in telling her what an opportunity it was. The visit had not been convenient, the castle had not been sensibly located and she had been quietly furious to find the client was not even there when she arrived but he would see her the next day.
“May I take your coat, miss?” The butler had been so formal and polite. So absolutely perfect in the role.
Harriet had not even been permitted to return to her hotel, the client would not have dreamt of allowing it, she must stay as a guest... and the taxi had been sent away. She had protested but the butler had been insistent. All her things were at the hotel. But objection after objection had been set aside. She must stay, toothpaste was available and a new brush. Harriet did not like to mention that a fresh change of underclothing would be nice as well.
Harriet could not fault dinner. When before had she been served by a real butler and maid? But it would have been nice to have had company. Someone to talk to as she sipped the cool Chablis. The butler had been taciturn; the little maid hardly said a word, her eyes under her dark curls downcast and respectful as if conversation with a guest was above her. A pretty little thing in a severe black uniform with white blouse and cap—perhaps eighteen.
The fresh asparagus spears dripping with butter had been delicious but, looking back, she recalled how phallic they had looked on the plate. Thick green and white shoots, almost bulbous at the end, piled on top of each other with the butter dripping onto the plate leaving a pool below each of the nine rounded ends. She had picked up each daintily in her fingers and slipped the spears between her lips all slippery with the melted butter. She had never tasted better.
She had been, initially, delighted with her room and had not minded trooping across and down the corridor to an ancient bathroom. A bathroom lit by candlelight. Harriet had certainly enjoyed placing scented candles around a bath before but never had she been obliged to have candles to see by as she bathed. Never had she seen candles actually used to light a room, never had she seen them flickering from sconces on the wall. The lack of a shower had disappointed her but she had been happy to turn the great big taps and see ‘lashings’ of hot water simply fall from the taps causing steam to rise and condense on the many mirrors. There seemed an excessive number and Harriet had found it odd seeing herself undressing from so many angles. The steam seemed to miss condensing on one mirror, a full length one and as she sat on the lavatory letting a stream of pee splash from her, reminding her of the wonderful asparagus she had eaten, she had a sudden awful thought. What if it was a two way mirror and at that moment the aged butler was standing, penis exposed, watching her and savouring what he saw. Some men liked to watch girls urinating. Harriet stood, everything revealed to the mirror. She was being stupid. What sort of man would her client be if he allowed that sort of thing to go on?
Harriet turned and bent low over the bath water stirring it knowing her imaginary voyeur would be seeing her from behind, bent over the bath, her legs slightly apart and her bottom cheeks a little splayed and revealing. An erotic sight for a man. Men liked approaching women from behind and, asparagus like, spearing them from the rear. She glanced back at the mirror but there was nothing to suggest it was other than an ordinary mirror. It reflected her as she was, tall, well proportioned, pretty actually—and naked.
Harriet shivered and stepped into her bath. The water steaming, scented with coconut oil, deep and inviting. Carefully she settled down into the water and lay back. Bliss! She could not even really be seen by that mirror now she was in the bath.
She had closed her eyes and luxuriated.
Not having expected to stay, Harriet had not brought a nightie or her pyjamas and so she had padded bare foot back to her room dressed in the old woollen dressing gown (with twisted cord around her waist) she had found in the bedroom. It had seemed at odds with the room’s feminine furniture. It was a very male dressing gown. She had then sat on the bed and picked up the first book to hand. A mistake as she found out.
Unsatisfied by the other books she had thought of sleep but when going to sleep she always had a glass of water by her bed. She had the glass certainly, it was to hand, but water was another matter. Harriet was unsure of the water from the bathroom. It would not be fresh mains water. She needed to go in search of the kitchen. Once again, pulling on the old woollen dressing gown, tying the cord around her waist she stepped out into the corridor bringing the candle with her.
It was stupid really, but she turned for the bathroom forgetting the butler had brought her the other way and so Harriet found herself at a different staircase from that she had ascended to bed. A staircase of dark caved oak, a staircase hung with pictures
The first was a strange picture, done in oils and with a fine gilded frame. Harriet paused to admire it in the candlelight. It was difficult to place in style and age. The strong realism gave it a Pre-Raphaelite quality but it was difficult to imagine Rossetti, Burne-Jones or Millais executing quite this subject matter. The girls were, after all, not auburn. There they sat, the pair of them, one dark and one light; quite demurely with their hands in their laps, demure even with their nakedness if it was not for one small detail. The strangeness came not from their nakedness, as such, but from the artist having given them both tails, a very realistic and believable extension of the backbone—as tails are. What upset the apparent innocence of this picture was that the termination of the tails and their length was somewhat hidden by the very clear indication, though not the clear sight, that each of the tail ends was snugly inserted in the other girl’s vagina. A companionable picture perhaps.
Harriet frowned. This was worse than the book. It was not the subject matter per se that made her cross. After all people being what people were, if evolution had left people with tails, then it was inevitable they would be involved in sex as was every other part of the human anatomy—even feet in some cases. Had she not read that some men had a fetish for feet and she could easily imagine what would happen with them. Presumably some women had a thing for male, or indeed female, feet. She was not totally sure she fancied a big toe in her vagina but if the feet were on a nice young man who looked after his feet and kept his nails well trimmed then... well toes could certainly wriggle!
What made her cross was the fact of hanging such a painting at all where a guest could see it. Had it been a Surrealist effort it might have been acceptable—just—but this seemed more to be purely pornography—albeit of a highly artistic form.
Despite her displeasure the thought of what would a tail be like, if she had one, did come to her mind. Of course, she reasoned, she was not into girls and playing with another girl’s tail would not be her thing but in the painting’s world presumably the men also possessed tails. It was easy to know what they would do with them! Harriet’s thoughts wandered on to what a woman would do with her own tail with a man. She was not pleased to see the answer in the next picture.
It was, of course, by the same artist though the subjects and settings were different. The same style, the same colour palette, the same attention to detail. Again it was erotic and very well executed. Harriet could see that and could not deny it.
The two subjects were this time a man and a woman, both naked and either engaged or certainly very ready for coitus. The relevant part of the man’s genitalia was engorged and frankly large. Harriet could not but note her reaction. She could imagine she would be very happy to spend a night with him and try his simply magnificent cock if, perhaps, it was not for the tail. A tail which was curled around his body, around a plump female thigh and plunged right into her very, very exposed and detailed sex. Even the dark hairs painted separately with their dampness evident. Everything was there, accurate—apart from the tail which was, surprisingly, completely believable.
In turn the woman’s tail ran between his opened thighs, curved upwards and went between his bottom cheeks penetrating his anus. The look on his face, the thrusting forward of his hips, the very full and swollen look to the shiny glans of the tumescent penis gave the impression that the prostate stimulation might have been a little too much and rather than enjoying penetration by his superb cock the woman of the picture would now have to content herself with his tail. Poor thing! The painting gave every indication of having caught the man at the moment before ejaculation, at the point it had become involuntary, the man no longer having any control and the semen already travelling up the shaft.
Harriet wet her lips. The painting was very naughty. Very erotic, and should not really have been having such an effect on her. But the more you looked at it the more erotic it became.
Her bare feet padded on. The house silent and seemingly asleep.
As if in sequence the next painting, once again clearly by the same artist, paid less attention to tails, indeed none were present, but to that accompaniment to orgasm in the male: the ejaculation of semen. The painter had clearly decided to demonstrate his prowess in the presentation of liquid. It was almost a study in how to paint the spattering of liquid; even a master class at both the fountaining and the fall of viscous liquid and the resultant spattered droplets. The effect of the meniscus exquisitely done. Harriet paused and enjoyed the painting. It was not the sort of thing she would normally have paid any attention to but now, on her own, there was no need to give attention to form; to what other people might think.
Harriet had expected the ejaculation to be the last of the series but no, the artist had taken up brush again and there once again was the man with his rather large genitalia no longer tumescent but relaxed and soft, yet unmistakeably it was painted just post orgasmic. The seeping of semen could just perhaps have been pre-ejaculate but the whole effect was one of exhaustion; a penis no longer able to perform; sensitive and vulnerable. The other figures were women, painted with their eyes looking wistfully at the penis and clearly in a state of great arousal—the pointing nipples, the flushed cheeks and damp thighs beautifully and so accurately done. It was not the same scene as the previous picture, even if of the same man, and there was no obvious explanation of why or where the man had come or why he had not satisfied the women. Harriet felt like them: excited but unsatisfied. Why was she having to walk around this strange house in the dark of night?
It was very dark beyond the range of her candle’s light. She should have brought a second but there on a table was another almost identical candle stick. Carefully she lit it from the first and carried them both one in each hand before her. The lack of electricity seemed to have resulted in a sufficient supply of candles in the castle even if few were lit. A fleeting thought came whether, perhaps, before she went to sleep and after she had filled her glass with water, she might not take advantage and use one as a bit of a penile substitute. If the paintings had got her a little worked up then why not?
Certainly she felt very strange wandering about a castle at night, dressed merely in a flowing woollen dressing gown and carrying two lit candlesticks before her. She felt like the heroine in some gothic melodrama – play, film or book.
Turning to the right at the bottom of the stairs she came upon the gleaming white of a marble statue, a copy of Rodin’s ‘The Kiss.’ It was quite amazing to have a house, well a castle, big enough to house such objects. It was a favourite of hers; she had seen the original in the Musée Rodin in Paris. Harriet had felt its eroticism the first time she had seen it but was surprised on closer inspection with her candles that the modern sculptor had not been exactly faithful to the original – in one respect—the man’s penis was clear and upstanding in undoubted response to the woman.
Harriet frowned; the castle was very odd indeed; the book in her room, the paintings on the stair and now this. Pornography as art certainly but why had her client these strange things in his home? It slightly worried her. Why had he been so insistent she stayed the night? But there had been nothing untoward—apart from the book by her bed. Nobody had showed her the pictures or, now, this statue. Had the client ill intent then he would have been present that evening and, in any case, the whole thing was so unlikely—he had met her only the once. Best to get the glass of water quickly and get back to her room—and turn the key.
‘The Kiss’ or a version of it, though, was not the only statue. Turning the corner, more beautiful work perhaps, or even probably, by the same sculptor. A man standing, right knee forward, torso slightly bent forward, right hand moving to clasp giving the impression of movement as if the marble man was about to walk forward and seize you. It had made Harriet jump as the statue suddenly appeared in the candlelight, as if it was about to grab Harriet. Life sized and nude with a full erection jutting forward. The composition so carefully done to bring more than just the penis within the block of marble, making best use of the stone so the knee, arm, part of the torso and head all came within the same vertical plane as the penis. Beautiful carving and a beautiful penis. It was difficult to believe few could walk past the statute without sliding a hand up its smooth shape to its acorn head and the raised ridge of the corona. Slowing her heartbeat Harriet considered whether it might actually be possible to mount the erection. Probably with a bit of athleticism or being a particularly tall girl it would be possible. The statute looked strong enough and the base substantial. Had anyone? She was certainly not going to try.
Harriet felt a desire to hold the erection and she placed a candlestick down. Well, she could honestly say, or at least think, that she had never held a firmer one: or colder for that matter! Her hand slid upwards running over the raised corona, a finger tip on the perfectly carved slit at the top. She felt embarrassed at her action and at the thrill it gave between her legs.
In balance a naked woman, again beautifully done. If the male was almost matter of fact about the erection this was not the case with the woman. Lying back with legs apart there was no missing the invitation. Possibly she had been depicted in the midst of intercourse, her partner momentarily missing. Despite the crudity of the pose, the composition and execution were anything but crude. Intensely erotic in the woman’s vulnerability and abandoned sexuality. The vulva, carefully sculpted, was open as was the vagina. Harriet did not doubt that at least one male had tried to penetrate the statue in real life. Men were like that. Had her host? Indeed had her boss ever visited and come downstairs in the dark and performed such a strange act? It was unsettling and the image of her naked boss engaged in coitus with a statue not pleasing at all. Had his naked body been inside the very dressing gown she was wearing, his erection poking at the material or even parting the gown and brushing against the cold thighs of this very statue? It made her almost minded to take the gown off but she had nothing on underneath.
It was slightly amusing, though, to think of one of the dark little maid’s morning tasks being to check the state of the statue and to carefully wash it should she find any evidence of nocturnal emissions!
Other statues, but mostly more modest and not life sized works. Some of copulation in various and surprising positions. Harriet wondered how many couples really tried the various Kama Sutra suggestions beyond missionary, cowgirl and doggy style; really it seemed more pornography than romance.
Some plaques on the wall might have been original, perhaps bought or stolen from India, certainly of lascivious scenes in keeping with the corridor’s theme. They were having an effect on her but Harriet hurried on anxious to fetch her water and get back to her bedroom and its unsatisfactory reading material. Dallying and looking at erotic carvings was not really the thing to be doing in a stranger’s house. She felt a little vulnerable just in a dressing gown with nothing beneath, conscious of the slight arousal between her legs.
It had seemed a good idea at the time to pick up a second candlestick but the practical reality of carrying two candlesticks and a glass of water came to her as she stood at the old fashioned Belfast sink, having placed one candlestick carefully on each side. Harriet blew out one candle and turned to the door.
She had been pleased to find the kitchen after a few false starts even finding herself back in the dining room—a dining room already set for breakfast but with three places. Who would be breakfasting? Presumably her host and Harriet but who was the third? She had been told breakfast was at 8.30 am precisely.
Outside the kitchen the corridor was dark and silent, illuminated by the one candle she was now holding, a candle giving a pool of light around her but not sending its light very far. It was what people in the past had to deal with—in fact it was a better light than most. It was a petroleum wax candle giving a good white light, not the yellow hue of a tallow candle or the flickering spit of a rush light.
A slight noise, almost below audibility, a slight scraping sound and a sudden draught blew Harriet’s candle out. It was almost classic, almost like a gothic horror film, very like a cliché but, for all that, in an old castle it was still not at all nice. It was a pity Harriet had snuffed the other candle out and, instead, left it burning in the kitchen. She could have gone back for that but now she was plunged into darkness and was really not quite sure of the way back to her room even feeling her way. And feeling her way might be very strange as she went past the statues!
Harriet was not a woman given to the vapours, given to screaming or panic: she remained calm and collected but she could not stay still, she knew her orientation even if her sight had gone but ahead, ever so faint was a thin strip of light under a door. She walked towards it, it was not far, she could find her way back.
A hand on the door handle, a turn and there was an open doorway still with just a hint of light—and steps leading downwards. What was the more prudent: to attempt to retrace her footsteps in the dark and possibly get lost or go into the wrong bedroom—not that she thought anyone else seemed to be in residence: or to see if the light meant the butler, her host or even a candle to light her own? Put like that the latter seemed the wiser course, albeit it was a basement and basements could be strange.
She wanted to get back to her room, be safe and snug between the linen sheets and, if she was honest, wanted to spread her legs a little, slip her hand down and think about—well probably Adam at the Rugby Club. She had enjoyed watching him play, his tree trunk thighs pounding up the pitch with the ball, muddy and masculine. He was not for her, Penny had him tight in her clutches but it would be pleasant to fantasise a weekend fling or something. Taking him home fresh from the field, all hot and masculine from the exercise and peeling off those muddy things and the jock strap...
Her steps, tentative at first, made sure the wooden steps were sound. She could not smell damp but she was worldly wise enough to know that steps to basements were things to be taken with care. The steps were solid, there was no give, no creaking; Harriet reached the bottom and stood on a brick floor. The faint light came from the end of a short corridor shining out brightly from below another door. The light coming as a strip below the door and through the keyhole yellow and strong.
A choice or choices: pull the door open with one firm movement and walk in, knock timidly and wait for an answer or peer through the keyhole and see what was beyond? It seemed ridiculous. Here was Harriet, a successful lawyer, wandering around in pitch black darkness in a dressing gown and nothing else—not even slippers—and peering through keyholes. But that is exactly what she did, placing the glass and candlestick on the floor; feeling her breasts slide against the woollen dressing gown as she leant forward, a rubbing on her already erect nipples; felt her breasts hanging there against the material, and what she saw should have sent her scurrying back up the passage, up the wooden stairs to seek her way back to her bedroom, however long that took, and lock herself in.
She should have done: but did not.
Harriet blinked as the bright light hurt her eye but there, framed in the keyhole, was a man, a big man, a naked man, a man moreover completely aroused in a sexual way and big in every way. Harriet had never seen a man with such an enormous penis; none of her boyfriends had come anywhere near that. Perhaps it was the keyhole; perhaps the small aperture of her vision distorted the image. She hoped so, for the sake of whatever woman was about to be the recipient of the monstrous appendage.
The man moved and the erection swayed. It could not really be that big, no erection could be a foot long on a man, rather than on a horse or a bull, and the head was not right either, it was wider than the shaft, quite a bit wider making the whole thing look like a club—a stick with a knob on! It jutted out from the man, not pointing straight up but not horizontal – it was half way between the two—a perfect forty-five degrees—give or take a degree.
Harriet made to get up and leave but found she could not: she found her body was not obeying and through the keyhole the erection was getting bigger or, more accurately, closer and closer. The man was coming towards the door! Panic on her part: why could she not straighten and run back down the brick floored corridor and up the wooden stairs to the safe darkness?
The erection was gradually filling her vision until that was all she could see through the keyhole—a man’s quite enormous erection seemingly pointing right at her—almost poking her in the eye so to speak, the head shining and fat, truly the coal scuttle shape of the First War German soldier’s helmet and looking her in the eye was the man’s third eye—the eye of his penis—it was weeping a little, he was already well aroused.
There was a slight pause, Harriet could only stare at the erection—there was nothing else to see. Why could she not rise and flee?
The door opened, flooding Harriet with the light, its brightness making her blink and screw up her eyes.
“Good evening Miss Harriet, do please come in. Do come in.”
It was as if a switch had been thrown, Harriet found she could straighten and as she did so she came face to face with her client. Who else was it likely to be in the castle, who else might be in the basement of his castle but why was he here rather than in a bedroom? And most importantly of all why was he naked and with such a monster erection?
A stone faced room. Harriet’s head and eyes darted from side to side. To her right the butler, fully dressed in his dinner suit and tails with a silver tray and three glasses of white wine, and to her left... a table...
Strapped to the table, still wearing her maid’s uniform was the little maid. But the uniform was dishevelled. Her arms were securely tied by a leather strap around her wrists well above her head, held tautly away from her body; across her chest, just below her breasts another leather strap with big brass buckle held her down and a further strap was stretched tight across her stomach. Her bottom was just on the table though her legs dangled free at its end. Her mouth was securely gagged with a handkerchief—a bright red spotted handkerchief. But it was not just the restraint that had Harriet open eyed and open mouthed it was the dishevelment; her blouse was undone—all the buttons undone—and her little breasts exposed, rising and falling as her breath came quickly, her black skirt rucked to the waist and her white panties lying beside her—very clearly removed by whosoever had strapped her down. What was more her thighs were open revealing not just the dark vee of her mons but her splayed vulva all fringed in black curls. It was obvious, blatantly obvious that this was a vulva that had recently been ravished, that it had been penetrated and vigorously used. It was not a sight Harriet was used to seeing.
“I must go.” But she could not; she could not turn around and run.
“May I take your coat, miss?” The butler had put down the tray and was standing waiting for her.
“No, of course not. I’ve nothing...”
But Harriet found her hand already on the cord, undoing it and letting the dressing gown swing open letting the butler see her breasts. His face impassive, as he waited.
“So good of you to come.” It was her client again. He was standing beside her with his monster erection. Had he been enjoying the girl? Surely it would not fit—his penis, surely erect it would not fit in the little thing?
“We have been waiting, just warming ourselves so to speak.”
“We?” Who did he mean, surely not the butler as well? But the third glass, the third setting at breakfast, the...”
Warming themselves? The room was very warm, the big fireplace and burning logs saw to that. The room was bright from the many, many candles.
Harriet slipped the gown from her shoulder and handed it to the butler. Her whole body exposed to the two men and the wide eyed little maid. Why had she done that? They could see her everything, her breasts, her bottom, her neatly trimmed bush—tidied only the other day at the salon. It was impossible. She was naked in a basement with a fully dressed old butler and her naked and aroused client whilst strapped to a table was a girl being abused—it was absurd.
“Good evening, Harriet.” The voice familiar.
The evening suddenly got much, much worse. It was not just her client who was up to no good. The voice behind her was so familiar, she would know that West Country brogue anywhere, someone she trusted implicitly—the senior partner of her firm, yes, her boss.
Harriet turned and a shock. She had never so much as seen her boss outside a suit, never seen him in casual clothes, or joined him in a sauna or at the swimming pool of a hotel but now she saw him completely naked, like her client, and, that was worse, just like her client he sported an erection. Not the enormous item that her client possessed but a normal sized penis but as much fully erect as her client’s. Beneath the black cloth did the butler possess a similarly tumescent organ?
“Sir?” Harriet was speechless. It was not that she could not speak but she was struck dumb.
“Lovely to see you, Harriet, simply lovely—like that. I have always wondered but now, how pretty, how simply desirable.”
He was not looking at her face but her sex.
“A lighter shade of red than your beautiful hair but yet so fiery. Is your sex like that? Fiery, hot and burning, needing to be extinguished, needing a man to extinguish the flames. How I have wondered? Or is the analogy wrong. Hot and steaming? A flowing liquidity like bubbling volcanic heated springs?”
Harriet’s boss had never, ever talked like that before.
And casually he turned to the bound girl, walked between her thighs and, without his hands touching her, inserted his erection and pushed. Harriet watched wide eyed in amazement and disbelief. Before her very eyes her boss had just as casually as anything turned from speaking to her to fuck a girl. A few strokes and he withdrew, his penis gleaming wetly in the candlelight.
“I think perhaps Daisy can go now; she has warmed us well.”
Surely the client could not really have penetrated the girl?
His hand was on the straps, pulling away the gag. But rather than scream and try to run, the girl simply got off the table, smoothed down her skirt and curtseyed.
“Will that be all, sirs?”
“Yes Daisy, you are done for the night. You may go to bed; your own bed tonight.”
“Thank you, sir.”
It was surreal... but if the girl was gone what would happen next? Harriet was sure she knew; completely sure she knew.
“A glass of wine before we begin?”
The butler and the silver tray, the offered glasses.
“No... thank you. I need to leave.” But she could not. Her legs did not seem to work.
“I recall you like coconut.”
Again unreality, surreality. What had this to do with what was happening?
“The restaurant last month, your ice cream. It was coconut.”
Harriet would not have thought he would have noticed, he had been at the other end of the table; how closely had he been watching her and for how long?
“Yes.”
“Good. You will like this then.”
Like what?
The butler again. A bottle, a green stoppered bottle.
Her client poured. It was oil. A sweet coconut smell began to fill the air. Oil pooling in his open palm—for what purpose?
The oil on Harriet’s back, running downwards, she could feel the trickle finding its way down beside her back bone, feel its journey right down to the dimples above her bottom.
“What!”
The client’s hand began to smooth the oil.
“Don’t touch me!” Her voice loud.
“Just whisper, Harriet, there’s a good girl. Don’t worry. You need to be prepared.”
“Prepared for what,” her voice box was gone, would not work as if she had a really bad cold. All she could do was whisper.
“Intercourse. What else? Terrence and I have played with young Daisy but she has gone to bed now and we really need full release. Surely you can see that – particularly with our host.” A laugh. “It’ll be best, you’ll see.”
“I don’t want to,” she whispered.
“Speak up, girl!” It was her boss.
“I can’t.” She whispered.
“Oh you can, of course you can. I know what you have been doing with the boys.”
What did he know? He could know nothing surely and it was not men. Just a man. One relationship at a time.
The hands were all over her back. The scent of coconut strong. More oil was poured. Harriet closed her eyes. It would be the breasts. Her client’s oily hands were about to mould and caress them. Quite unbelievable. He was going to touch her breasts.
The oil was slippery, slippery on her breasts, the massage firm and done with both hands. The oil well rubbed. The nipples, inevitably, had special attention. More oil and a firm rubbing between fingers, slippery, shiny nipples—there was no way for purchase to be achieved on the nipples without a tight squeeze before they were pulled.
Harriet found she could do nothing but submit, her arms did not seem to want to rise and brush the hands away. The man so close the tip of his giant penis was touching her hip. She stared at it. It would never go in and if it did would it come out again erect? Would the splay of the corona get lodged within her, unable to be extracted until, until it had done its thing and released semen within her, then to collapse into malleable flaccidity and come out?
What was worse than having this violation was finding her body, far from reacting in revulsion, was continuing the arousal she had felt earlier as if it was accepting there were men with her who needed to do things—to her.
There was no need for it—no need for any of this—but her client, if she could still call him that, was bouncing her oily breasts alternately in his hands, seemingly enjoying the sight of them going up and down, one after the other. First he had weighed them in his hands, felt how full they were. Harriet was neither small like young Daisy nor gross like Marcy, her boss’ secretary. An awful thought came to her—was that why Marcy had been employed? Marcy had always seemed more, how should she put it, decorative than useful. Perhaps her uses were not those Harriet had a need for in the office. A further thought, a horrid one, did her boss see her utility in a similar way?
Up, down, up, down her breasts were bounced, together and separately, all slippery with the coconut oil and she could do nothing about it. Indignity. Being treated as just a plaything – very much in the hands of men.
Harriet looked at her boss; like her client his erection had not subsided one iota; from the look on his face she could see how much he was enjoying her bouncing boobs. Was it about to be his turn? Would she be forced to her knees and his penis placed in her mouth as his hands played with her boobs? Would she literally be sucking up to her boss?
The hands moved, a great deal more oil poured and she was turned to face her boss as her client’s hands went to her bottom. Her boss wore a grin like she had not seen him possess before. His eyes flickered over Harriet’s body. His penis at attention, all six inches almost vertical. Was he circumcised? It was difficult to tell with him like that. Why was she even thinking of that? It hardly mattered, a penis was a penis if you were about to be the forced recipient; though, in the case of the client, it was simply not true that a penis was a penis: her client’s was improbably large. It might not be all of twelve inches—a foot—but it was not far off—and it was not just long, not with that head. If she could only knee the two of them in the balls and run, well three of them as there was the butler as well. If only she could escape.
The hands on her bottom were personal, very personal and kneading, taking their pleasure in her soft womanly buttocks, and then they got very, very personal indeed or a finger or two did. Not content with the smoothness of the buttocks, fingers found the crack between them and began making that slippery too. A finger or two running up and down the divide and then a finger on her anus, a very oily finger, a very oily coconut finger, a finger that found it as easy as anything to slip through the sphincter and into her.
“NO!” she whispered.
“Pardon?”
“Don’t put your finger in my bottom.” It came out more as she might have whispered in a boyfriend’s ear and probably not really meaning it.
The client inserted a second and then a third. Harriet’s face betrayed her shock. The smile on her boss’ face just got wider.
No, surely not, he would not want to do that thing.
“Come, lie on the table. It will be easier.”
Easier for what?
Harriet’s recently violated bottom touched the table. She did not want to lie down but her body had other ideas. She lay where Daisy had lain. Would she be restrained by the straps?
Around her the two men, their bodies shining in the candlelight, their faces looking down on her a little in shadow but their white teeth betraying their pleasure. They had planned this together, it was clear, and were now reaping the harvest of their plans.
The jar of oil was passed to her boss. Carefully he poured a measure into his palm. His grin unabated.
“You have no idea how long I have waited for this. May I?”
He was not asking her, not seeking Harriet’s permission, but her client’s. He was looking at him not her. The big man nodded. Slowly her boss parted her legs, not hurting her but easing and gently pulling her knees apart and revealing her sex to the men. His penis quivering as held her knees open before applying the oil. Had she no say?
“Harriet, Harriet, what a little treasure you hide between your legs.”
She knew her sex was compact, not a big fleshy vulva like Anne’s—a comparison made at school one summer when growing up, all girls together talking about boys and sex and how it all worked. A whole group of friends comparing; they had even masturbated together at that pyjama party, six of them all on that bed with pyjama bottoms off and pyjama tops open. The room had been full of girl scent and she thought all of them had come off—certainly she had not faked it! A strange feminine sharing.
No, small and compact, everything there in the proper place but workmanlike, no frills or oyster shells! Neat really, like most of what she did.
“Little, but so perfectly formed.”
He held his hand over her sex, the oil cupped in his palm, and then poured, letting the oil spill out and fall in a thin stream right down onto her sex. His fingers soon touching, running oily through her pubic hair. It glistened and then his fingers were on the soft skin of her inner thighs spreading oil along them. Something she would have so enjoyed with a boyfriend but with her senior partner of all people? No, certainly not! But her body was still betraying her; the sensual feeling arousing. The fingers oiling her legs. It would not be long now, she knew, before those self same fingers were touching her sex, running around it, feeling, stroking—no, not merely on but in.
Behind her, out of sight stood the client watching. Harriet could sense him, knew he was standing there probably inches from her head, probably with his outsize penis almost touching her hair. And, just as if the thought caused it to happen, she felt it touch her hair and hands appear once more to play with her breasts. Below her the other hands were sliding on the sheen of coconut oil, sliding upwards, getting closer and closer to her sex. She was sure they would not stop their movement until they touched. She was right.
The oil was spread, making her vulva even more slippery than she knew it to be from her own secretions. Fingers touching, exploring, probing. Fingers of both hands within her, sliding easily on the oil, opening her, feeling within her passage. Harriet wanted to close her thighs and prevent the invasion but she could not; her limbs were not obeying her.
Harriet was completely conscious of her predicament. The men in the room were free to roam and enjoy her at will. There was nothing she could do to stop them; such decisions were not for her. There was no need to strap her down—but had there been any need for Daisy? Had Daisy resisted—at first—put up some sort of fight that Harriet was not capable of?
“May I?”
“Please, you are the guest. You first.”
Harriet knew, knew what that ‘first’ meant—what was coming. It was not simply fingers that were going to invade. The time of the erections had come.
A touch, just the lightest of touches but Harriet knew, knew her sex had been touched by the end of her senior partner’s erection. The slightest movement on his part—or hers—and it would be intercourse, yes, penetration.
“Push, Harriet.” A whispered command from behind her head and she did, an involuntary movement of her hips and she knew the penis head had entered. There was no resistance, the oil too slippery. Awfully it had not been her boss who had done the deed but her.
A groan from the man and slowly he pushed his full length into her, his hands seeking to find purchase on her oily hips. Harriet’s bottom on the edge of the table, her legs hanging; the man free to push in to the hilt. Invading her with his penis which had so recently – she had seen it happen—been inside another girl.
The motion of intercourse. Her boss pushing himself in and out of her, lifting her legs in his hands so her feet were waggling in the air behind him, really giving himself full access, taking his pleasure from the sensation—the slippery, oily sensation. And it was not just him who felt it. It was all reported to Harriet, sensations she so normally enjoyed, not least the firm movement that pulled skin and moved her clitoris.
How was this happening? A little while ago she had been creeping around the castle just looking for a glass of water and to go to bed. Now she was in the power of these two men, moreover under their control. Was it hypnosis, a drug or what? How had they taken the ability to choose her own movement from her? How were they able to enjoy her at their leisure?
The movement speeding, her boss smiling down at her, almost in triumph as she lay there, helpless whilst he fucked her and her client played with her breasts.
Her boss’ eyes closed and again he groaned and Harriet could feel it, could feel the man’s fluid, his semen, leaving his body and entering hers—the procreative act done with a man she would never have allowed, never have thought...
The man’s faced betrayed his pleasure, mirrored the feeling of the spurting within her. She could not only feel but see the beginning and end of his orgasm.
Behind Harriet, her client lifted her a little. She was permitted to sit up and see what had become of her. What her boss had done.
Harriet looked aghast; she could see it all now, not just feel it; there buried in her sex, to the hilt, was her boss’ erection, their pubic hair mingling—red and yellow, their fluids flowing together, his body inside her body, her body absorbing his—it was difficult to see where one body ended and the other began; the sexual act completed with the confusion of the sexes.
“Oh Harriet. That was good. Ever since you joined the company I have wanted to undress you, penetrate you and fill you. A pleasure I have wanted yet known would come about—given time.”
“But now you need to earn your salary. The role of the professional person, the duty of the professional person to his—or her—client. Yes, client service and your client needs a service. You can see more than see he does!”
The big man was moving, walking around the table from her head to her feet—or more accurately her sex. His penis massive and waving as he walked. Harriet’s eyes were on the head, so big and shiny—had it really been inside Daisy—the balls low slung in their slack scrotum, swinging.
“No, I couldn’t, he can’t, he mustn’t” She was staring at the big man’s erection. It was not something that could be ignored. It menaced her. There really was no other word.
It was like pornography, but she had to say the words, “It’s, it’s too big.” It was not actually the foot long pole she had thought she had seen through the key hole but it would certainly measure ten inches. She still could not believe the size of it.
“A little more oil. Come you can manage it. Other girls have. What objects must you have tried to see would fit, would stretch; come, girl, what is the biggest thing? You must tell me sometime, describe and perhaps demonstrate. Surely the baseball bat would be more?” It was her boss speaking.
“I’ve never...” But it wasn’t true—not with a baseball bat but other things. It was what girls did, her friends had told her all.
Harriet lay back on the table and felt that strange sensation—the removal of the penis—as her boss pulled himself from her. She could see his penis, wet from her, the oil and the semen, losing its strength, dropping downwards to swing freely until next needed. But her eyes quickly moved to the other penis as it advanced towards her. A penis in a very different state! The big man standing between her legs so the outsize erection reared up above her view of her pubic mound.
“Please no,” she whispered.
The man reached down, positioning himself, moving the penis from view and then Harriet felt it. The great head against her little sex, squashing it, pushing against its softness; never had anything so large attempted to penetrate; it could not be done surely?
Her mouth fell open, he was really pushing against her but she was not yielding—she knew it was not possible. The man drew back a little before thrusting with his hips, the great head again pushing at her. Once, twice, thrice the man drew back and thrust at her—yes, like a mediaeval battering ram at the door of her castle. She would withstand.
But it was not to be. “Aaah,” she whimpered. The impossible had happened. She could feel it. The head was lodged inside her. The biggest penis she could imagine was inside her. And he was pushing, pushing up her, the head travelling forwards, the shaft following behind. There was plentiful lubrication, Already the penetration deeper than she had ever before experienced.
“Yesss!” The man was biting his bottom lip in pleasure. “Come, sit up Harriet.”
She struggled up to stare and stare. There between her thighs was the man’s erection, clearly buried deep within her. Not all in—how could it be—but certainly more than just in!
“I can see.” She whispered.
“Now, put your arms around my neck.” He leant forward and as she complied she found herself being lifted. There was no support from his hands, Harriet was held merely by the arms around the man’s neck and the penis inside her, speared on his pole, and her weight was pushing it further into her! There was no real friction between them to reduce the downwards pressure on the penis—the oil saw to that. With all the strength in her arms she pulled herself up, her vagina sliding on the great penis—yes, again the motion of intercourse—but she was not able to pull herself high enough to let it slip out and she found her strength failing and once more she was slipping back downwards, down the cock letting the big head force its way up into her.
“No!”
The man began to walk around the room, the movement transmitted to his penis, making it move within her. He went close to the fire and Harriet could feel the heat on her buttocks before he turned and slowly made a circuit of the room. The other men were watching. Her boss with limp penis smiling even applauding, the butler in his black clothes impassive but his eyes watching.
Harriet’s arms were tired; the more tired they were the less she could hold herself up and the more she could feel the penis pushing at and in her.
Finally they returned to the table and it was such a relief to feel her bottom on the hard table again, taking the weight. She looked and there was a further mingling, this time of the red and black, a further confusion of the sexes. Unbelievably their pubic hair was together. Almost all of the great penis was within her! How could it push so far inside her?
The proper motion began; unbelievably long strokes—an almost foot of movement out and then in—the piston rod working. And the sound of the big balls slapping against her on the in thrust. The only sound apart from breathing in the room.
“You may come, Harriet. It will be best for you now.”
It was not possible. It really was not, but her body was betraying her. She could feel it coming, unbidden, undesired, unwanted but coming it was. Under the ministrations of these two terrible men Harriet was going to come, really come. She could feel it, knew what was approaching but it could not be. It was such a betrayal.
“No, no, no.” She whispered but the man just smiled and put his thumb on her clit. It was like a finger on her trigger. Bang! That set her off. Indescribable feelings of pleasure coupled with shock.
In the midst of it all she heard the man groan and felt once more the pulsing as the second man inseminated her, his penis moving at speed. She could imagine in her mind’s eye the great head spurting. Such an erotic image to her—normally. Awfully, it came to her. they were coming together just like Silene, George and Marianne.
A pause and then withdrawal. Harriet was permitted to rise. Her glance went nervously to the butler. He was still standing impassive. Perhaps despite her misgivings it seemed there was not to be a third invasion of her sex.
“A woman is so economical. One alone can serve many men with ease and efficiency. Thank you Harriet, we have both enjoyed you so much this night. You may take her up to bed, Jarvis.”
There was an almost imperceptible raising of an eyebrow.
“Oh, yes, well, of course you may take her to the butler’s pantry for a night cap before bed. Breakfast at 8.30 sharp. But of course you will be there. You know you must now do as you are told, don’t you Harriet. You cannot imagine what we do to girls who are late, Harriet—or perhaps you can!”
The butler spoke, “Thank you, sir, I shall sip a little warm coconut milk before bed.”
The men seemed to find that very funny indeed.
Her boss, too, bade her goodnight.
“To know, Harriet, next Monday morning you will arrive in that delightful pin-striped suit of yours, your knees just peeking out from under the skirt, knees I have so admired, but knowing—and no one but you or I will know it—that you have no panties on. Yes, that there is nothing under your skirt but you and what I see now. That you’re so pretty sex is completely unprotected. Knowing all through the morning’s meeting as you talk and your pretty lips move that at 3 pm precisely you will walk into my office, shut the door, apply a fresh sheen of your delightful pale coral lipstick, kneel and those pretty lips will suck me until I cum. And will you swallow? Of course you will! And then there is the client visit on Thursday. We won’t need separate rooms at the hotel will we? What a saving in expenses!”
Harriet turned to the door – it was time to go. There was a respectful cough from the butler and a whispered, “Don’t forget to thank the gentlemen.”
Thank? How? For what?
A gentle pressure on her shoulder gave the indication. Harriet sank to her knees. Before her two limp penises, damp and semen coated. Even at rest her client’s penis was long and the big knob made it swing as he moved. Was she to just kiss them or suck them? The men stood waiting.
A whisper, “You suck them, miss.”
Her mouth opened. She knew it would be best to do as she was told.
It had all changed so much for Harriet in one short night. A change from free woman to toy but as she followed the butler up the stairs, without even the covering of the dressing gown, she realised that for her the night was not yet over. Between her thighs she felt a trickle, a tentative trickle of semen, semen from two men, mixed with her and the oil – and it suddenly struck her with disquiet that, perhaps, the trickling was the butler’s coconut milk and if he had a penchant for male things how might he use her?