Eleanor Of Penkhull

Eleanor Brigham looked out of the window of the detached mansion that was now hers in entirety, with a smug smile that echoed her contentment. Her eyes took in the clear air of the elevated township of Penkhull, and the grimy smoke of the potteries which swirled below it; the filth of an industry which had led to her late husband's wealth... and which was now hers. Tall for a woman of that era - nearly five feet nine inches in her bare feet - the blonde and shapely woman whose body had never given up to the rigours of childbirth, looked wistfully out through her black lace veil, her heart less than troubled at the loss of a husband some 20 years her senior.

She'd not had much use for him following their marriage in 1870, but had had plenty of time for his wealth, which, so the snobbery of many of the local women of society saw it - and with some justification - was the only reason for the interest of his former Housekeeper in him. There was more than an element of truth to this, but the convenience of the late Rupert Brigham's penchant for women of a certain firm nature, had made things easy for the otherwise fiercely independent woman to commit to marriage. Now, some 16 years on, the sense of absolute liberation thrilled her.

Though Rupert Brigham had been as authoritative and commanding with his masculine workforce as any other male, his necessarily private domestic situation had been marked by his obedience to Eleanor. For those few confidants of the couple, namely business associates and their wives, privy to a closer view of their domestic situation, but not the intimate one, it was assumed that no son and heir or feminine offspring had blessed the couple due to their marriage occuring later in life; she'd been 40 and he 60. The truth was known only by the couple, and a few members of a covert circle within which Eleanor moved freely, and thoroughly enjoyed.

There were no offspring as Brigham was not allowed the penetration of his member into the hallowed feminine temple of pleasure, claimed so chauvinistically as if by right, by other males in a position of marriage. Eleanor had delighted in taking complete control of him from the onset, and Brigham found himself enjoying everything that was sexually taboo in Victorian society; Eleanor enjoying the worship of his tongue in oral sex, and his relief allowed on strictly limited occasions, by means of her allowing him to masturbate, always post her receiving satisfaction.

Penetration of her cunt was enjoyed by both, on Eleanor being presented with a device by a French acquaintance through that covert circle of intimates, the worldly woman giving over a polished wooden phallus, fashioned in a permanently erect state of sexual excitement, adorned with a leather facial brace, and the rear of the phallus acting as a gag. Brigham's masturbation on being allowed use of this device, ensuring his plentiful expulsion and wasting of his seed; Eleanor only allowing its satisfying comforts when in a kneeling position upon her bed, with Brigham facing her shapely rear, allowing him to sniff hard at the perfumes of her anus on each thrust of penetration, each readily accepted insertion reminding him of his station in life.

She having achieved that zenith of ecstasy, then allowing him to spurt his seed whilst with phallus fully inserted and his nose hard to the pucker he'd be made to lick clean, his emissions and his loving attention to cleaning duty, especially ardent when his position of servitude was witnessed with suitable pleasure and contempt by members of Eleanor's intimate circle, one of whom was the stern and redheaded Agatha Brown, who'd been no stranger to the enjoyment of his humiliations.

Agatha now rested her broad thighs, encased in the black lace of mourning, upon a chair whilst watching Eleanor's gaze, she as relieved as the new widow, that the formalities of the funeral were over, and the tedious guests with their simpering and superficial sympathies had now departed.

"You realise the suitors will come thick and fast, Eleanor my dear, regardless of the fact that Rupert is barely cold yet... and I know you'll be just as keen to find a suitably submissive one, of acceptable financial status, to have on hand to sate your needs." Eleanor's face broke into a broad but wry smile, as she turned and tossed her veiled hat to the leather couch which had seen many a sexual debacle involving her departed husband.

"I almost miss him already, in that respect, and it's not quite the same having servants fetch the tea or deal with my laundry... though seeing him go was such a pleasure." Her red lips tightened to a sneer as she savoured the event... and the absolute freedom her inheritance of his wealth awarded her, Agatha's curiosity about the intimate details of his death, prompted by it; she was aware the cause of death was heart failure, and that Eleanor was present, but she'd remained cautiously discreet about it... till her unwanted goods had been packed away forever. Agatha's cunt tingled at her look of obvious delight in his departure

"So, how did things come to such a satisfactory conclusion... we've not had the chance to discuss it in detail... did he know it was the end for him?" Eleanor perked her firm breasts in the tight black bodice as she began to unbutton it, the first steps in easing into her new life with her husband's wealth, but without the hindrance of having to keep him. Her cunt moistened pleasingly as the recollection of her moment of ultimate freedom brought on a sweet arousal.

"Oh he knew his time was up alright, and I made sure he knew I was thoroughly enjoying the fact..." With the buttons on her bodice now undone to the waistband, she slipped her hand down through it, and rubbed at her mound.

"He'd not been feeling well, and had a strange resignation about him when he begged me to be allowed to pleasure me... something he rarely had the courage to do. I'd not long finished reading one of those dark novels that Madame Roussel gifted me... ironically, a tale of how a woman engineered the disposal of her husband during the Reign of Terror, so I was thoroughly stimulated, and ordered him beside the bed." She ran her free hand up through the back of her soft blonde hair, and sighed as her more attentive hand saw to the need of her clitoris, Agatha now picturing the submissive male she'd been privy to the humiliation of so often, and ruing the fact she'd not witnessed his final gesture of service to womanhood, her gusset already wet with arousal.

"As I knelt on the bed and lifted my skirts high, I noted his colour was pallid as I spread my cheeks and directed him to my anus, commanding him to sniff, but his eagerness to do so was as ripe as ever, and his tongue was at my cunt with a definite urgency... it were as though he were at a last supper, the vigour of his tongue was so stimulating..." She broke into a sneering laugh then pressed her fingers hard to the moistness of her slot.

"The pathetic fool had me close to coming in no time, and was stropping wildly, on his knees with his tongue deep in my anus, and I about to demand he fetch the phallus, when he suddenly baulked and slipped to the floor, his eyes in a fixed gaze..." Agatha grinned, and stated the obvious with cruel pleasure.

"His heart had given out?... defeated totally, and beaten by his own lust to submit to womanhood!" Eleanor sighed as her fingers slipped across the nub of her clitoris.

"Oh yes... and he stared at me in those first few moments, knowing I could have called for help or assisted him in some way, but my sneer at him had him know I had no inclination whatsoever in doing so... and as he lay gasping, and still erect, I calmly squatted over his face and took his cock in hand..." Both women now sighed with smug contentment as they nursed their cunts, Agatha's imagination left in no doubt, having seen her blonde friend pose in control of her husband that way, and other males whilst he'd been made to watch, on several occasions before, Eleanor enriched by her recollection.

"...He certainly cherished that last view he had of my cunt and arsehole, managing to spurt his seed before he passed... he came readily as the life drained from him, that vision, my scent, and the sneer I gave him, ensuring he went out in submissive ecstasy. He knew I was delighted to see him go ." Agatha sighed as she neared orgasm, the thrill of Eleanor's cruelty over a male she'd taunted and belittled with impunity herself, so spitefully pleasing.

"He'd have known you'd only be prolonging the agony by helping him... Ooooh!... but that won't have detracted from his masochism in seeing your pleasure in having him sniff at what controlled him in life... Oh yes, yes!... as he spunked out what he knew was his final tribute... Oooohhhh!!" Eleanor slipped gracefully into a chair and spread her legs as far as the restrictive skirts would allow her, stroking herself vigorously to the memory of his last fitful snorts and the warmth of his breath on her cunt and anus, as his cock surrendered its cream to her hand... a slave to her dominance, right to the end, the thought of his helpless demise, bringing her off wonderfully.

The two intimate friends, soon discussed further intimacies on recovering from their relapse into the sordidly erotic lifestyle, masked from the majority of society, but marked within the hedonistic colony in which they mingled. With Eleanor enthusing about taking in a male servant to tend her womanly needs forthwith, while a suitably submissive and necessarily wealthy suitor was sourced, she ascended the stairs to refresh and change. Agatha amused herself by reading the cards and letters offering condolences over Eleanor's 'loss', sneering at some of the more sympathetic ones... and smiling broadly at the cryptic messages; one from Madame Roussel advising how she could 'contact her at any time, and share the burden of her sorrow with her'... and it was just there that they'd venture, after Agatha had refreshed at her home along the way.

In complete avoidance of the accepted period of mourning, in which black or darkly toned attire would be worn, the blonde Eleanor descended the stairs in a pale yellow dress, adorned with brighter yellow bows, her blonde hair radiant in its raised configuration with small hat tilted jauntily to one side. Agatha grinned as she watched her descend the last few stairs, the steps illustrating the spiked black boots she wore below the long dress, elevating her not already unsubstantial height, in a most risqué fashion.

"Come Agatha, I'm sure you'll want to be out of those drab clothes too... and then we'll promenade to Madame Roussel's like the liberated ladies we are." Agatha grinned at her friends haughty expression, as she prepared to venture out and broadcast her departure from the norm, the liberation from the restraint of a husband - though miniscule in reality, as she'd enjoyed firm control over him in every respect - was to be shown to the world with immediate effect.

Though the hailing of a cab would have been perceived more ladylike, even though Agatha's equally substantial residence was but a few hundred yards off, Eleanor chose to take in the air, and display her liberation to all those who cared to notice, the route taking them past the grandiose residences of businessmen and their dour wives, many of whom were vaguely familiar with Rupert Brigham and his 'eccentric' wife. Though outwardly they viewed her with scorn, many were inwardly jealous of her rumoured lifestyle, though they'd never have admitted it publicly. Two such pairs of sexually frustrated feminine eyes looked out at her, from the laced windows of a pot-pourri scented parlour, across a nearly trimmed lawn through the railings which kept the outside world at bay.

"Oh my god, Violet... just look at her... and her husband barely cold!" Violet Preston's eyes showed Edna Blandish's remark the necessary element of shock, but concealed the sneaking admiration she held for a woman about whom the rumours were rife... and somewhat thrilling. As she took in the smile of the radiant blonde in her bright yellow as she strutted by with her red-headed companion, her cunt tingled at the bold woman's prim audacity. Edna had it tingle further.

"They say she used to lead her husband about the house on a leash... like a dog, a mere pet to her." Violet's cunt moistened sweetly at the thought, and she had difficulty in training her expression to show her friend outrage at the idea, though she found the prospect of dominating a male to that extent, a darkly erotic thrill.

"Why Edna, that could only be no more than pure fantasy, surely... but she certainly doesn't show any grief for her loss." Edna gripped the curtain hard, her own cunt beginning to rise to darker thoughts she'd normally reserve for masturbation, her sneer showing Violet the rumours about the woman gave her a certain pleasure too.

"It wouldn't surprise me if she arranged the departure of her husband somehow... such a woman is capable of anything." Violet's breasts rose high in her tight dress, her nipples hard as her imagination elaborated on that scenario, and the methods of execution that might have been employed... then exerted her control over her mind once more.

"That's so very unlikely Edna, if it were, she'd conform to the regularity of wearing black for some time, to detract any attention from it, wouldn't she... surely?" Edna's glazed look as she watched the pair disappear from eyesight, revealed she preferred her perverse fantasy to be the reality, before pursing her lips as she too regained her rational thought, and determined to put such base ideas from her mind... and her cunt. She coughed a little, and stammered slightly as the erotic vision of herself choking a certain male with a leash, flushed tantalisingly through her mind.

"More tea, Violet?" Madam Preston's response was in the affirmative, but as Edna poured another out from the elegant bone china spout, Violet could only think of the leash Edna had mentioned, and the pleasures such a situation would award her.

***

It didn't take Agatha long to freshen up and discard her black attire, adopting a dark crimson dress which hugged the ample contours of her femininity, and complemented her red hair delightfully. She was a confirmed spinster in the eyes of her neighbours within the community, her comfortable existence due to the wealth left her by her late father, and though their assessment of her status was correct in that she had no visible male partner, her private life was far from spinsterly in her use of masculinity.

Agatha had been wooed by many males, but having no need for support and enjoying absolute liberty, she had snubbed all comers... one Rupert Brigham amongst them. In his brief encounter with her, he'd let his veil of masculine authority drop during the passion of his efforts, and indicated his submissive nature... fatally. Agatha had then had Eleanor installed as his housekeeper, having befriended the strict blonde through a male acquaintance to their circle, whose household she ruled with austere authority. The male was easily bought off with the appointment of several stern maids - not that he'd had any say in the matter, his insignificance confirmed soundly by the appointed younger women's authority's - and Eleanor was introduced to Rupert, he being told by Agatha that he required a housekeeper.

Rupert was quickly besotted, and duly dominated by her, his begging her hand in matrimony, sealing his fate as a submissive slave, and taught to enjoy the humiliation of being seen as such by her intimate acquaintances... not least Agatha, whose triumph over his defeat had him as rigidly erect as any promise of cane or tawse from Eleanor. He'd felt that triumph in her smile as the official formalities of the bonding were carried out at church before all who knew him... some not able to fully hide their disdain at his marrying a housekeeper, and again at a select function later. This, attended by the intimates of the circle, where the kneeling Rupert had the true consequences of the bond bestowed upon him, Agatha's smile so radiant as she presented Eleanor with the collar and leash he'd wear, before she and all the maids of honour had their cunts licked to satisfaction by the defeated groom.

The feel of the crimson skirts was lustrous, as the redhead stepped out into the air with her blonde companion, Agatha excited by the notion that any pet Eleanor chose would also entertain her, as the two cut a pose of pure feminine arrogance in their stride toward Madame Roussel's residence, where an unsuspecting male would be chosen to know the fresh and liberated vigour of Eleanor's dominance. Many pompous female eyes scanned their progress from their more than comfortable residences, their husbands obliged to concur with their opinions, though many feeling the stir of their loins on viewing two magnificent examples of womanhood, and several of those women as per Violet Preston, aroused by the more than apparent pleasure of Eleanor's liberty from a husband.

Madam Roussel's residence was typical of the larger many-bedroomed homes that new money had bought those pottery entrepreneurs for whom they were initially designed. Looking down from the cleaner air at the smog and smut which swirled eternally in the industry below, it's grandiose and gothic ornamentation seemed to mock the outlook below it; the setting perfect for its present owner, who had a suitable interest in the grimy neighbourhoods it looked down upon. Totally uninhibited sexually, in part due to her Parisian background, she had found a move to Victorian England most profitable in exploiting the untapped wealth of sexual deviance, rife and seething in potency beneath the staid exterior exhibited publicly. Initial contacts in London led to her acquiring considerably cheaper provincial residences, Penkhull amongst others, where colonies devoted to the pleasures of absolute feminine dominance were to be enjoyed.

It had surprised even Marie, the extent of popularity for the enjoyment of sex, and the level of depravities practiced below the surface of the straight-laced society shown in public. Most pleasingly, masculine submission to the undoubted superiority of femininity was endemic within that darker society, making her progress within it as a queen of that principle, so easy. Though firmly entrenched within that enjoyable underworld within the district, she remained distant within the public and somewhat reserved society of the area, some having their suspicions, but most assuming that this was simply due to her foreign origins having her mingle with contacts unknown to them, Eleanor, Agatha, and a select few, knew otherwise.

Eleanor sighed with a lust for what was to come, as she strutted down the path through the ornate front garden with Agatha, and rang the bell, the tone of its resonant chime as welcoming as ever. A sultry maid attended the door, and beckoned them in without necessitating any verbal introduction, so familiar to her were they. The interior of the house was somewhat formal within the connecting passages, giving it an austere, institution like appearance which bestowed an immediate feel of authority upon males venturing there and knowing the flavour of the house's Mistress. It held no such sense of foreboding for womanhood however, knowing the diversity of what lay within the rooms along those corridors, and the pleasures which were to be enjoyed within.

The maid swept them into a large and sweetly perfumed lounge, where they were greeted immediately with typically continental affection by Madam Roussel, her embracing of the two leaving them almost breathless. Eleanor grinned as she admired the overwhelming potency of the shapely brunette, now some 60 years old, but defying that vintage, her keen appetite for the pleasures of sex, seemingly acting like a fountain of youth, the French woman genuinely excited, even aroused, at seeing her defiance of the norm in the way she'd dressed on the day of the funeral of a husband she was gladly rid of.