August 28th.
I am chaperoned round the town by Mrs Bain every time I go out. When we get home I stand there, head bowed, as she delivers her false account of me making eyes at men. I protest my innocence, but I am shouted down by my husband, which Mrs Bain seems to like. Yesterday was one such case. I expected the usual spanking while Mrs Bain stood silently in the corner, and I was not disappointed. She stood there watching, her face red, as my husband's belt landed across my backside. I found it arousing, and even more so with her delighted eyes on me.
Albert then offered his belt to Mrs Bain. I was told by my husband that he was so lucky to have a woman like Mrs Bain, who told him the truth about his wayward wife.
The belt fell on my backside under the hand of Mrs Bain. I could hear her grunts of exertion. She punished me from the side, and with her free hand twisted in my hair. I feared she would not have stopped if my husband had not told her to.
She folded my husband's belt and pushed it between my teeth. Again grabbing my hair she led me all around the house, on my hands and knees. Albert followed behind and watched. Mrs Bain had me stand up, and then she attached clothes peg to each of my nipples! I will never forget the joy on her red cheeked face as I yelped with pain. I was stood at the sink and told to wash up, as she and my husband sat at the kitchen table watching, and drinking brandy.
A wooden spoon landed on my backside a few times, but with a light flicking movement rather than a hard smack. Again it was Mrs Bain who wielded the spoon, until I had dried the dishes. I was then told to lie on the table, and Mrs Bain was encouraged, by my husband, to use the spoon to open my pussy in search of evidence of my discretions. Dear diary, my own wetness was twisted into proof of my excitement at looking at other men. As further punishment for this crime, the pegs on my nipples were twisted by my husband.
If I did not know either of them, I would say Mr Cox and Mrs Bain was a couple. Not only because of their perverse sharing of dishing out my punishment, but they looked well suited as a husband and wife. I would have them fuck in front of me, and Mrs Bain could eye me with a cruel look if she so desired. I can well imagine him between her plump thighs, as I stand next to the bed with my red backside. I do not know what freak of nature I am, because I try and fight these and other peculiar thoughts, but I continually fail.
My husband pulled down his zip, and then had me bent over on the kitchen floor, again with his belt held between my teeth. I am sure Mrs Bain watched through the crack in the door for a time on her way out. It only spurred me on to buck back against my husband. Now it is not just my husband and I who know I have orgasms after such torture, and Mrs Bain also has a hand in punishing me too!
I get incredibly turned on reading my grandmother's accounts of her sex life. But I have to put that on hold for now, but only to visit the brothel. I've had sex with Samuel a few times now. He seems up for it whenever I turn up, and no I'm not complaining. I've invited Doctor Trent to see my grandmother's brothel, although I didn't say the word Brothel. I also want a check up. I feel sore in my pussy, well who wouldn't after his large cock has had its fun.
I've been thinking of Rose a lot since the day I woke up with my hand in her panties. I've thought about what she said on my doorstep, about not being sorry I touched her. She's in her early 50's, and she is slim. I think she eats all the right things, and looks after her body more than most women of that age. I've never thought of her as a lover, but just lately I've been daring myself to try and seduce her. She's a sort of plain Jane type, but pretty in ways those types of women are. There isn't anything that you would call really sexy about her, but maybe that's what interests me. Her hair is brown with grey flecks, and it is styled with an easy to care for perm. I don't think I can recall her wearing any makeup, and her clothes apart from a few summer dresses are plain and simple. She does wear old fashioned stockings, not with seams, but they are in that delicate nylon just like my grandmother wore.
I get off the bus and the driver gives me another little look and a smile. I pass people who look at my tight black skirt that stops on my knees, and is so tight my steps are confined to small ones. I'm wearing black stockings with seams, again from my grandmother's collection, with the Cuban heel. I love my red open toed court shoes with a 5 inch heel; they match my red gypsy top. I'm not wearing a bra, or panties, but a red suspender belt to hold my stockings up.
Doctor Trent greets me at the gates of the brothel. She seems eager to get this over with; it took me a few days to get her here because she is so busy. Even before she says hello, she is telling me she hasn't got time for being shown round a house.
As my tour gets underway she has become a little more interested, but she is still acting like she would rather be somewhere else. I don't bother with the dungeon yet, but she takes an interest in my grandmother's dressing room, but even that is a little rushed.
There is a slight flicker in her eyes at how I'm dressed, but she doesn't comment on it. I sit in the chair and cross my legs, which is quite a challenge in the very tight skirt.
For a few minutes I tell her about Samuel, his size, and how often we've had sex. She sits as she normally does, just listening. Then I tell her I'm sore, and my pussy is red inside. She says she should have a look, which I smile at inside.
"Not yet, I want to give you something for all the help you've given me over the years."
She raises an eyebrow.
She has already moaned about Dora on way round the house, and having to get back to her. I sit her at my grandmother's dressing table. She sits still moaning about having to go. I reach for a nail file.
"I'm going to give you a makeover, perhaps then Dora will appreciate you."
"Sylvia I don't have time for this nonsense," she moans.
I file her nails, and then open a bottle of blood red nail varnish. Her hand recoils like she has put in on a hot oven ring. She tells me she has never worn nail polish in her life. That figures. It takes me 2 minutes to coat her nails, and then I open a pack of tan seamed nylon stockings, as she sits watching me.
"Sylvia that's far enough, I'm not wearing them."
"Oh come on, isn't Dora worth making an effort for?"
"I can put them on," she says finally relenting.
"No, your nails are still wet, and I know you're wearing stockings, but these are sexy, and more expensive."
Doctor Trent.
I've tried to push her away, but deep down this is what I want. I'm wondering whether all the hypnosis I've done on Sylvia in the past has somehow stuck. She isn't under my control today, but she is behaving, although a little childishly, just like how I imagine in my fantasies. I've never been pampered like this, but it feels good. She unbuttons my dress and kneels in front of me. I can feel her breath on my thigh as she unclips my stockings, and then rolls them down.
She smoothes one of the new stockings in place on my leg, and then attaches it to my suspender straps. I want to grab her head and hold it against my pussy, but like I'm in some sort of daze, I let her carry on.
I look down on her as she attaches the second stocking, and I feel her knuckle lightly graze my panties. She doesn't change in her task, and there isn't the slightest flicker on her face that she has touched my panties. Her delicate fingers work the clips, and she stands up. For a moment I'm lost in what to do. If she is flirting with me, although I can't be sure, it is subtle.
As she does up my dress I can feel her breath on my neck, she stands in front of me looking down and doing up each button. Does she know what she is doing to me? Can she feel the way my eyes watch her? I watch her long lashes coated in mascara, and the two shades of brown eye shadow that young women wear these days. I feel her knuckles on my breasts as she twists the buttons in their holes. I realise I've been holding my breath for the last few seconds, as she does up the buttons which are only 3 inches apart. I'm glad I wore this dress, with nearly 30 buttons, and not the one with just 8. She stands back.
I go to do up the top few buttons of my dress, and she bats my hand away.
"No, you have a nice cleavage, show it off a little," she says with a wicked smile.
I go to do up the buttons on the bottom of my dress, but she stops me.
"Dora will like a little glimpse of thigh," she says with a suggestive wink.
I step into 2½ and a half inch heels, the highest I've ever worn. She stands back and looks me up and down, taps her bottom lip with a finger, and then she moves like a light has come on in her head. I sit there still protesting, but wanting the eye makeup. She reaches in her bag and pulls out a lipstick, her own lipstick!
"See the lipstick matches our nails."
I look at her nails and then at mine, we have the same shade of nail varnish, and I've only just noticed! I protest about the lipstick, because this has gone way beyond what I am comfortable with, and what I've experienced in the past.
