It's Still All About You

It's Still All About You

You go two weeks without the urgency, the need. At the same time, your pussy still feels the licking and the pounding, and one morning you awaken with your nightgown on the floor, your middle finger inside your pussy up to the second knuckle, drifting in and out of you, slippery with more juices than you thought you would have this soon.

In the shower, you set the shower to a stinging spray on your nipples, as you drive your blue friend in and out of your cunt, taking only a few thrusts to reach orgasm. It's not exactly what or who you want, but good enough, and you keep your moans quiet in the dim morning light, before toweling off and getting dressed for work.

You check the pile of papers by your house phone, and after a frantic minute, find the piece of paper with my number on it. No name, just eight simple words. "It's All About You. No Names, No Commitments." After that, just an area code and seven digits, nothing more. With only two minutes to go before you have to leave, you call the number instead of texting, taking care to save it, just in case.

The phone then the message comes on, and you hear my voice, a sensual tenor, if you had to guess at that. "If you're calling, you know why. Leave a time and a number, and I'll let you know." The message tone sounds, and your breath catches in your throat.

This is crazy!

, you think, but manage to speak your number without stammering, you think, and then say, "Tonight, Wednesday, at 5:30 p.m."

Not for the first time, you wonder whether I have multiple playmates, more than one woman who comes to me for my particular sort of play, or if I'm just having fun with the message, and whatever woman calls it. You're not sure which you hope is true.

Minutes later, you get my text. "6:00, not 5:30. Be ready to play."

Tonight

, you think to yourself,

Round Two

.

* * * * * * * *

The house is the same as before, of course. A tan, recently painted, fence, a solid barrier with no visible holes or slats to peer through, surrounds my house. The gate is also solid, with a wheel and channel to keep it on track. You pull the chain, undo the latch, and push the gate just wide enough for you to slip through before you pull it shut behind you, wondering if anyone saw you enter, or if upon seeing cared at all.

The small alcove and porch are different this time, because there is a dress hanging on a small hook, carefully set away from the dust on the siding. You are about to knock, just before noticing the note safety-pinned to the lace on the dress' collar. "Wear me."

You realize you are panting quietly, and your panties are moistening in anticipation. A quick glance around confirms there are no cameras, and no-one apparently peering around a corner or through a window, and the fence is close enough to the alcove to hide anything on that porch from view.

The wind rises, and goosebumps rise on your arms. Deciding you will change inside the house, you take the dress off the hanger, and knock twice. There is no response, no answering call from me. You knock again, wanting to change inside, but you hear nothing, and wonder if I'm even there in the house. A third, fiercer pounding elicits no response.

Gritting your teeth against the cool wind, you strip down to your underwear, and are surprised to see how hard your nipples are, caressed as they are by the breezes inside the alcove. The dress is one piece, like something for Oktoberfest, or some sort of medieval play, and the question of what I have planned rises again, but you have no answer yet.

On the hanger, clothespinned there, are a bra and panties, both of white silk and luxuriously soft to the touch. The costume is obviously meant to include these, too, and you put the hanger back up, then strip naked in the alcove, hanging the ones you've been sweating and lubricating in on the doorknob. Almost tauntingly, the wind comes up again, and your nipples curdle at the briskness of it, and your exposure.

The silk undergarments are pure pleasure. The bra is exactly your size, and the softness of the cups against your erect nipples makes you shudder, moaning slightly at the sensuousness of it. The panties are warmer than you would have guessed, but you also think it may be the heat of your need that makes them so.

Finally, you put the dress on, holding it over your head and letting it slide down, the fabric like the breath of a lover on your body. You ignore the doorbell and almost knock, then on impulse try the door. It's unlocked, and opens at a touch. You hang the clothes and underwear you arrived in inside the hall closet, and close it before walking past the entry into the living room.

A thick rug or blanket is draped over the hallway, and you part it, gasping for a moment at the wave of heat from beyond. What little light there is comes from the fireplace, which has been banked to glowing embers. The room must be over ninety degrees, you realize, and you are already beginning to sweat profusely.

The fabric of the dress is slightly rough on your skin, a delightful counterpoint to the almost sinfully creamy feel of the silk. You are still panting, and you realize it's probably not from the sweltering heat of the room.

For the first time, you look around the great room, and are surprised at the arrangement of the furniture, and the furniture itself. The chaise longue from your first visit is missing, and in their place are three rude wooden tables, with two benches apiece. Two or three tapestries are on the walls; you assume one or more cover windows, or maybe doors, but you don't remember any of them on your last trip, where you were so distracted, so involved in your pleasure.

The fireplace is large, unusually so for most homes, and the fire within gives off a ruddy, almost blood scarlet glow to the entire room. You can make out a pair of barrels in one corner, oddly familiar and normal in my transformed great room.

Finally, you see me, seated alone at one of the benches. I'm also in costume, that of an Elizabethan nobleman, complete with a ruff at my collar, and a jaunty feather in my brocaded cap. You have some difficulty making out much more than that, but you do see that I have a large stein, ornately decorated. You look over to me, and start to speak.

I speak first, imperiously, arrogantly. "Ah, there you are, wench! Autumn is bitter cold outside, and yet I am dying of thirst whilst you rouse yourself from your slumber. Bring me another ale!" The words are harsh, but I turn, and in the dim light you catch my smile, inviting you into the role I've chosen for you. I incline my head, quite out of character, but only for a moment, to the low table set up as a bar, with a small wooden keg and what appear to be meat pies or other foodstuffs on a small number of platters alongside the keg.

Gathering yourself, you turn to me. "M-my lord, I shall serve you at once." The stammer is real, as you try to get into the role, and the mood. You walk over and take the stein from in front of me, and you suppress a grin as I nod my head in appreciation.

The keg is cool to the touch, and you fill it with the frothy amber liquid. Bringing it to my table on a small tray thoughtfully set by the keg, you present it to me, and set it upon my table. "Good." I take a swig, and set the stein down with a thump. "By god, woman! That is wonderful ale!" I glance around, taking in the empty room. "And where, pray, are the others that usually grace this hallowed tavern? And where are the musicians and entertainments you promised me?"

You brain whirls with ideas, and quickly settles on one. "The roads are icy, my lord, and the bridge damaged fearfully by last night's storms."

"So, we are alone tonight?"

Your heart flutters briefly, and the warmth of your pussy in the silken panties edges up a notch or two. "We...are alone, my lord."

"Then we shall make our own entertainment, wench! Sit with me a spell, and draw a tankard for yourself. T'would be rude not to extend companionship to one another, under the circumstances. True?"

"True enough...er...enow, my lord." You take the tankard, and fill it partway from the keg, then taste it. You're not surprised that it's very good. You start to turn, then think to ask about the meat pies.

"Yes. Bring one meat pie for each of us, and sit beside me." You bring two of them over, hand me one, and sit down. Like the beer, the pie is good, but small. You wonder for a moment if I intend this as a date of some sort, but you continue eating, as I do.

You finish with me, and I produce two linen napkins for us to tidy ourselves with, and I leer knowingly at you. "Now, to the entertainment!"

"Entertainment, my lord?"

"Yes, woman. Entertainment." I stand for the first time, and take your hand. "Have you ever wondered how lords and ladies fuck?"

"No...yes...mayhap, my lord. 'Tis not a rightful thing to concern myself with."

"But you

have

considered such things before, wondered at them?"

"Y-yes." The heat and the ale have you almost languid, and you want me to take you right there. A rivulet of sweat makes its way from under your brow, trailing down the side of your face and cruelly between your tits, teasing them innocently as it traces its path to your belly, and down to the new panties, moistening the waistband.

I lift your hand, and you rise from the table. As I guide you away from the fire, you are almost grateful that the heat is slightly more bearable. We reach the barrels on the other side of the room. "Do you know what I want, wench?"

"Tell me." You are fully in the role now, but at the same time you feel the same anticipation as the first time, and your tone is diffident, not respectful.

A wicked smile crosses my face, and not for the first time you wonder if I'm playing, or serious. "So, you do know." Squaring your shoulders, even with mine, I stoop slightly, and gather the folds of the dress, bringing it up to your waist as I rise. Still gripping the hems, I maneuver behind you, so the barrel is in front of you. "Bend, and lay your udders on the barrel." You comply, and feel the gloves, a soft kid leather, slide the now-sodden panties off your ass, past your knees and down to the floor.

"By god, you are a fine-looking woman! I would have you learn how lords and ladies truly fuck."

"My lord, yes, please! Fuck me now!" Instead of my cock, you feel the softness of the gloves playing over your ass, and one finger works its way between your legs, to your clit, and starts to massage it.

"Not yet, wench. We are not cattle or peasants. Lords and ladies begin slowly, and take each other's measure. I will fuck you when I am ready." Two of my gloved fingers, so soft and silky, glide into your pussy, slowly finger-fucking you, and your juices are flowing, your sweat soaks the dress and the brassiere. It feels like you're going to melt and run all over the room, and you grip the barrel tightly, savoring the penetration of my fingers in your pussy.

My voice is low, husky with desire. "Yesss...now you're wet enough. Don't you think so, wench?" Before you can answer, my other hand darts around your ass to your clit, and flicks it before rubbing it side to side. Meanwhile, the two intruding fingers push further in now that I'm behind you, and my fingers are at a better angle to drive deeply into you. My voice is barely louder than the fire, muffled by the warmth in the air and in your cunt as I pick up the tempo, driving faster, flicking your clit faster, more insistently.

"Tell me what you want me to do...." The whisper is nearer to your ear than you had thought, and it's all you can do to form words, let alone continue to play in character.

"Fuck...m...Wouldst care to fuck me now...my lord?"

You're sure I'm smiling when you hear my reply. "Such manners, you could almost

be

a lady." From your position on the barrel top, you can't see anything, but the sounds of my pants coming down, and the slow, languid penetration, flesh and not velvety glove, tells you that I've acquiesced, and am inside you now.

The scent of your musk is heavy in the area, more pungent with the heat roaring in the fireplace. You feel my gloved hands, already politely moved away, granting access to your pussy, are on your hips, and I start to fuck you in earnest. My groin slaps your ass with insistence, and you relax the muscles in your arms, whose tense grip on the barrel you hadn't realized, and savor the sensation of my hard-on sliding smoothly in and out of you.

My hands slide forward, coming to rest at your titties, cupping them, squeezing lightly at each thrust of my cock inward. "Wench, you are overdressed. I would feel your udders without cloth on them." You feel the back of the dress loosen as my hands trail down your spine, and I slide the dress up your body, over your head as you move first one, then the other, arm out of the way. Somehow the silken bra came loose; you don't know how nor care. Dress and bra are soaked through with sweat, almost drenched, and as the dress passes over your face, you experimentally stick your tongue out, tasting the rough fabric and your salt; it is wonderful to your senses.

Your naked body, glistening with beads of sweat running off you like rain, is now against the dark wood of the barrel. My hands, still wearing the incredibly soft, supple leather gloves, move to your tits, your "udders" as I named them. If anyone else called them that, you would slap them, push away any man demeaning you in that fashion, but it's oddly arousing now, and my cock still thrusts into you, withdraws, thrusts again. Your moans are quiet, as if you're unwilling to break the spell with too much noise.

"Your teats are glorious, woman! So soft and rounded, kept better than most ladies would have them." My fingertips knead your nipples gently, sending tingles through your body, timed differently from my thrusts, like street noise intruding on a symphony, but it feels wonderful, a counter-point to the rhythmic fucking you're receiving.

My hands withdraw, to your disappointment, but my throbbing cock continues its steady intrusions, the slapping sound each time I reach the apex of my thrusts beating in time to your own cunt tightening around it, almost trying to hold it fast in your grip, failing but not disappointed when, like a bow against the strings of a violin, it eludes capture, and tightens you all the way to your toes.

My hands are back, bare now, and we are both covered in sweat. Cupping your tits, cradling them, I start to thrust faster, and the slapping sound is slightly louder. Now you hear my groan, barely a sigh over the crackle of the fire, and you grind your hips back into mine as I thrust in, eager to take me all the way inside you. You're rewarded by my eager moan.

"You are...talented, wench." The strain of holding back my own orgasm is evident in the tightness of my throat as I speak. My humping increases again, but you sense I'm not quite ready to shoot my load.

"My...lord?" You realize you are closer than you thought, too, and squeezing the next sentence out is almost agony. "My lord, wouldst...put thy seed inside me?"

"Do you want my seed planted in your fields, girl?" My short gasp tells you there might not be long before the question is settled.

Yes, come inside me now

, you want to say, but search for the right words. "If you wish it, my lord, I will take your seed..."

I start to hump faster, fucking you harder, and you respond by rotating your hips, grinding your ass into me with each thrust. "Then you...shall...have it... When I am ready to plant it, girl... Inside your cunny..." My control is starting to slip, and you wait for what must happen soon.

Suddenly, the slapping of my groin against your ass is louder, more frenzied, and you feel your own orgasm rising. You hold yours back, wanting to make sure I'm not teasing you, making sure I actually come, and don't leave you suspended mid-fuck.

My hands fly down to your hips, pulling you back into me, as my last thrust slams into you, deeper than any of the others, all the way in. Deep inside, you feel my cock pulse, and cum spills forth into your belly. I resume thrusting, and you ride the momentum, letting yourself go over the edge to your own orgasm, even as you feel another spurt of cum wash over the shores inside you, and again, and again....

We both moan with our mutual release, and continue for a time, you grinding and me humping. We subside, more in exhaustion than in acknowledgment that we are finished, and in a few more moments, you feel my softening cock pull slowly out of you, teasing you one last time for now. You can't quite stand, but, bracing yourself against the barrel, you sit heavily on one of the benches, and watch cum dribble out of your still quivering pussy.

I sit next to you, and stroke your hair for some moments. You permit it, and lean a little closer to make it easier for me to reach you, and then settle my arms around you while you recover.

* * * * * * * *

This time you don't shower, letting the sweat dry on your skin, tightening it as the salt binds and stiffens. The odor of our fucking has worked itself into you, and you revel in the salt, and the musk still exuding from your pores, and the scent of my cum on your fingers, when you absently massaged your pussy while we relaxed against each other.

You draw on the pantsuit you were wearing, grinning lustfully when you realize that you'll have to send it to the dry cleaners, maybe twice, before you can wear it again. I hand you the silk panties and bra, still sodden with sweat and pussy juice. "You seemed to like them. Keep them."

You start to protest, then shove them into your jacket pocket. Turning to leave, you pause, then look back at me, now wearing the same robe as before. "How did you know I'd even

like

that?" Still no names, probably never any names, but you have to know.

I smile, genuine humor in my voice. "I just know what you need, or I think I do." My lips touch yours in an almost chaste farewell, and your heart quickens for a couple of beats. "Until next time, then...."

You wonder when that will be.