Henry Carter was a thin, pale-faced man in his early fifties: about five feet six inches tall, with cropped grey hair and a pencil moustache. From the start, it was easy to see who ruled the roost in the Carter household. That said, in all my time there, however badly Mrs Carter treated her husband (and she did so on a daily basis), her genuine affection for him - and his acceptance of a subservient role - was never in doubt.
I met the poor man on my first evening. I'd returned, as I've already remarked, within three hours of first seeing the room. I won't pretend I wasn't nervous. My brief time with Emily Carter had felt much like putting my head inside a hungry lioness's mouth and waiting for the worst. But I couldn't help myself. I was anxious - but excited, too. I'd never been with a woman before - other than in my imagination - and I definitely wanted to be with her.
All the way back to my B&B (which I'd checked into only that morning, and paid upfront - assuming it would be at least a week before I found lodgings), all I could think about was that, when I returned, Mrs Carter would tie me to the bed and ravish me, possibly over a period of several hours until I could no longer stand. I'm not sure why I wanted her to tie me to the bed. I'd have happily let her do whatever it was she was going to do to me without the need to be restrained, but restraint had long figured in my fantasy sex life. In the absence, up till then, of any female desperate to ravish me senseless, the idea that a woman would be so eager to fuck me that she'd tie me down first had a curious - if unlikely - appeal.
I only had the one case, and it wasn't that heavy. Even so, Mrs Carter insisted that her husband carry it up the stairs and deposit it on the floor at the foot of my bed. I had a few coins in my pocket and somehow resisted the urge to tip him. If I'd done so, I had the distinct impression he'd have taken it.
'Have a shower,' said Mrs Carter, 'so you're nice and fresh, then meet us in the sitting room and I'll explain your duties.' Though not unfriendly, her tone was blunt and matter-of-fact. She might have been explaining how the washing machine worked and what sort of powder was best.
As soon as she and her husband had gone, I showered, dressed, then went downstairs.
When I walked in, the second thought that occurred to me was that their sitting room was as beautifully laid out as the rest of the house. My first thought - a moment previously - was that both Mr and Mrs Carter were naked.
I stopped in my tracks, with my mouth wide open, and my brain already halfway down the Carters' long, serpentine driveway, its bags packed, and never planning to return. Henry Carter was not the most gainly of men fully clothed, let alone in the buff. I tried not to look at his penis, which, with vocal encouragement from his wife, he was vigorously masturbating. Any chance of an erection seemed unlikely. His member remained defiantly limp, despite her cries of 'Get it up, Henry, you know you can do it if you try.'
Emily Carter on the other hand, was most certainly a sight for sore eyes. I had found her curiously attractive fully clothed. Naked, she was divine. Her body was positively Rubenesque, with curves in all the right places. Her plump, milky breasts - tipped with cork-like nipples - gave way to a gently rounded tummy, which, in turn, swept down and outwards into broad, fleshy hips. Her thighs, though soft and sculptured, suggested hidden strength. She could, I was pretty certain, crush any man foolish enough to insert himself between her legs without permission.
On spotting me, she immediately stood up - she'd been curled up on the sofa, urging Henry's cock not to let the side down - and crossed the room to greet me. I tried not to look at the dark vee of pubes that crowned the top of her thighs, visibly bristling as she walked.
A moment later, I found myself enveloped inside her breasts, as her arms swept either side and hugged me close. Her breath was warm against my cheek and, as she pulled away, I caught a hint of roses on her skin. I swallowed hard, giddy with excitement, and felt my penis forcing itself upright inside my pants.
'Welcome to Shangri-la,' she said, catching me by surprise. It took me a second or two to recall that Shangri-la was the name of the house (Henry's choice, apparently!), and not some indication I had entered Paradise. A moment later, however, I was fairly sure that I had. Mrs C pressed her hand against my trouser crotch and squeezed me gently.
'From now on, you will call me Madam, do you understand?' she said. 'Madam!'
I nodded mutely, which was clearly not the appropriate response because she squeezed my balls a fraction tighter. 'Say it, Stephen. Tell me you understand.'
'I understand, Madam!' I replied quickly, my voice rising an octave as she squeezed again.
'I will obey your every command, Madam,' she said, squeezing again and making my knees buckle.
'I will obey your every command, Madam!' I repeated, not wanting to suffer permanent damage below the waist.
'Good boy,' she giggled lightly, relaxing her grip.
'Clothes off, Stephen,' she continued in a commanding tone and, when I hesitated, a darker note entered her voice. 'Don't make me ask you again,' she said, and squeezed slightly harder. When I say slightly harder, I mean very much harder. It wasn't nice at all and my penis - having previously been quite keen on galloping into battle - turned tail and ran.
In spite of this , I continued to hesitate. But only for a moment. When she squeezed again, I quickly unbuttoned my shirt and removed it, followed - as she finally released me - by my trousers, underpants and socks. In no time at all, I was as naked as Mrs Carter and her husband. And, as a result - I was relieved to find - still in one piece.
I felt terribly vulnerable. Late in the day, it occurred to me that, for all I knew, Mr and Mrs Carter were a couple of homicidal maniacs. The next thing anyone heard of me, I'd be found upside down in a ditch with a carrot up my bottom and a bewildered expression on my pale, dead face.
'Good boy,' said Mrs Carter. 'Now show me what you can do.'
'I'm sorry, Madam?' I muttered, because I wasn't quite sure what she had in mind. A spot of light cleaning, perhaps, or a quick mow of the lawn?
When she pointed at my penis, and made a crude pumping gesture, the clouds of doubt rolled away.
She wanted me to masturbate for her!
Away to my right, poor Henry was still pumping himself to no effect and I suddenly realised why. If I'd been in my room, on my own, with a copy of
Mayfair
- or just the image of a naked Mrs C in my head - I'd have been up like a rocket and already reaching for the tissues. But standing in front of her naked, while she encouraged me to give it my best shot, just wasn't conducive to a successful outcome.
She shook her head, clearly disappointed, turned her back on me and walked back to Henry.
'Let me show you what happens when you disappoint me,' she said, roughly removing her husband's hand and closing her fingers around his cock. The other hand cupped his balls and jiggled them lightly.
The poor man promptly stood to attention, arms by his sides, and his head facing forward. In no time at all, Mrs C had him fully erect, her hand flying up and down his shaft.
'Remember the rules, Henry,' she counselled him. 'You mustn't come. Not without permission.' She sighed loudly and jiggled his balls again. 'You know what happens if you let yourself come.'
I heard him groan and watched as his face creased miserably. That he was on the point of coming was all too clear from the way his eyes narrowed and his mouth drooped. But there was a fear in his face, too, that made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. What on earth was going to happen to him if he came?
