Thus far. I am a plump forty six year old, until recently, sexually frustrated, woman. Recently I seduced a truly gorgeous new lover who's only in his mid twenties, a genuine toy-boy. I'm in his lounge, kneeling on a chair with my legs spread wide and my bum pushed high in the air, dressed as a schoolgirl. I'm desperately randy and he's about to remove the hairs from around my anus: don't ask, after all this is part two of this story.
*
He rinsed his hands, leaving me kneeling with everything wide open and on display - I still flush when I think about that - when he had left the room he had assembled a few accessories so that we could clean up. "Ow," I squeal. He also brought a pair of tweezers, except that he calls them forceps, and he is using them to pull out about three hairs at a time. Just a sufficient number to really hurt, but few enough so that this is going to take him some time. Cunning devil, it's agony and it doesn't leave a mark; I suppose I ought to be grateful, doubtless these depilatory actions are doing me a favour really. But right now it really hurts, far worse than waxing, I cannot avoid it, soon fat tears are rolling down my cheeks. Finally he's done but then he, as he describes it, 'employs a flannel to clean up my oozing slit,' but really he uses it to return me to the very brink of orgasm.
"Right, you may rise now. And put those bloody knickers back on, but I'll teach you to wear such disgusting underwear. I must write a note for matron to ask her to fit you with a regulation bra as soon as possible, your chest wobbles like a jelly every time you move." He takes an envelop and writing pad from his workbox, writes on one of the sheets, folds it and places it in the envelope. "Post this in my letter box downstairs," he hands me the letter: each of the flats in the block has an individual box located by the front door.
God, I hope I don't meet anyone I know dressed like this; come to think of it, I hope I don't meet anyone at all, a forty six year old 'school girl' is going to attract attention and be remembered.
"What the hell do you think you're doing girl! You know the lifts are reserved for staff, use the staircase, oh and you can pop out and wave to me at the bottom so that I know when to check that you don't use the lift on the way back."
"Yes sir."
"Oh and run," he calls after me.
Running down the stairs is not too bad, nobody uses them, but between each flight I have to scuttle across a landing to get to the next one. I make the entrance hall, post his letter, prop the front door open, I really do not want to get locked out dressed as I am, and wave to his window. Running up four flights of stairs is no joke. The first two are fine, the third winds me and the fourth sets my calves aching, by the time I return I'm puffing like a grampus.
"I forgot to sign that letter, be a good girl and bring it back for me." He hands me a key.
This time I walk down the stairs while I get my breath back. The climb back up is painful, my calves are really beginning to ache, it is only as I toil up the fourth and final flight that I realise that I'm not done yet, he'll sign the letter and I'll have to take it back down again, and then I have to come up again.
"That was rather slow," he intones, tapping his watch "and once I've signed it you'll need to take it down again." No revelling or sense of triumph in my anticipation of his train of actions this time, just huffing, puffing and leaden legs. "Right, and this time if it takes you more than four minutes we'll have that old cane out and you'll get a stripe for every ten seconds, so hurry girl.
"Three minutes forty eight seconds," he has slipped his watch off and now pockets it. My cheat is heaving, I can barely stand, I've an agonising stitch and my legs are awash with liquid fire. "I say, you don't seem at all fit for a girl of your age, you need more exercise. Anyway come into my study and rest. Just squat there on your haunches and get back your breath." I try to squat down, it is absolute agony, my thighs turn to rubber, my calves cramp and I simply topple over. "I'll give your legs a massage." He skilfully restores the circulation to my calves, which is even more painful than the cramp itself and tears stream down my face.
As I gradually recover I realise that he is still massaging my legs and his hands are slowly working higher and higher up my thighs. I relax in the comforting glow that this kneading is building inside me. He's got a finger either side of my labia now, I'm getting all wet again, I feel like I'm melting, oh I do so want to come; no I need to come and I forget myself, "For God's sake just shag me; stop teasing me and fuck my brains out, screw me, spear me, ram me, whatever me, just plunge your dick into my cunt and rut like a rampant stag."
"Excuse me young lady! But I hope you did not learn those expressions within this establishment. And how can you dare to suggest that a member of the staff violates your person in so gross a manner? The correct form of address is, 'please sir, I'm beginning to suffer from womanly hysteria. Would you be so generous as to relive my symptoms by sliding your penis in and out of my vagina, whilst you finger my clitoris and roll and pinch my nipples between your fingers, until I undergo a succession of hysterical paroxysms to completion. If, once these have passed, you find yourself in a state of excessive inflation, or experience heaviness of the testicles, or tightness in the scrotum, or worse a combination of these, do please continue to thrust your pelvis rhythmically until your discomfort has been assuaged.' At your age you really should know that one by heart."
"Please sir, could you write that rule down for me so that I can memorise the correct version: in the version I was taught the nipples are not rolled or pinched but rather the anal sphincter is poked and prodded by a well lubricated finger."
"There are different forms, that is true, if the variant that you have memorised effects your cure more speedily you may continue to utilise it. I will write my version and then you can append yours." I had not considered writing as a part of foreplay before, but as I rewrote my version of James's rule, if you listened carefully, you could actually hear my pussy squelching.
"Not only; wrong bra, wrong skirt, wrong underwear, but a mouth that should only speak to a child's plastic potty. As well as the state of your attire, we need to investigate your decorum young lady.
At least I had graduated from girl to young lady; me fat, forty odd and now somewhat sweaty.
