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the quiet confessions of Ms C

1:23 pm Wednesday, 6th November, 2013

yesterday it rained heavily and for most of the day. the high street flooded as it always does - the deep sea drains bubble over and the road to the flows like a shallow but swift moving little river. the locals remain inside at such times and i'm happy to follow their example.

i was, therefore, snug in front of the wood-burner when when C called around. she tapped the door lightly and let herself in. i did not rise to greet her.

'i'm not... disturbing you... am i?' she inquired, somewhat sheepishly i thought.

'disturbed...? no! i don't... disturb easily. You are, however, interrupting me.'

'oh! Perhaps i should...?' she waved her hand, indistinctly in the general direction of the door. her booted feet, however, remained fixed to the spot.

as i was not properly prepared for visitors i was reluctant to play the 'good host'. however i remain sufficiently curious about C to permit her some latitude. and, besides, it was raining out and it occurred to me that she might provide some... little distraction... for a while.

it obvious that C had walked some distance before settling on calling in on me. her hair was wet and lank, her cheeks stung crimson, and her boots and hem of her plain dress were splattered with mud.

'take off your coat,' i instructed.

she complied almost too quickly, trapping her elbow in the soaked sleeve of her coat as she hurried to rid herself of it. the dress beneath was as plain as the hem had hinted - a pinafore of sorts, navy with a white faux collar and with pearl-like buttons running up from the waist to neckline. it struck me that she looked like a novice nun - though one who had come quite late in life to her... calling.

when she had hung up her coat i told her to come and stand by the wood burner. almost immediately a fine mist formed around the the hem of her pinafore and the goose-bumps that decorated the area of exposed flesh between hem and top of her boots, began to settle. paradoxically (perhaps) the closer to the source of heat she stood, the more she shook.

'unbutton your dress,' i told her - my tone was firm.

her hands trembled and she had difficulty in manipulating the small buttons but eventually she was... undone. she was not wearing any support or undergarment as far as i could see. i took my crop (i keep it by my side when i am at home) and used it to push the dress aside and so fully expose her small, pale, breasts. i took care to brush the little buds of her nipples as i did so. as the crop passed across their hardness a distinct shiver travelled up her spine, adjusting her hips so that they almost thrust themselves in my direction.

'are you still dreaming of cock?' i inquired.

C nodded and attempted to lick her lips, but her mouth was dry too. her only wetness, as her scent again betrayed, was concentrated between her legs.

'are you still fucking yourself with your fingers while you dream of cock?'

she nods again, and looks as though she wants to say more, but perhaps her mouth is too dry.

'not only your fingers then?'

the shake of her head is almost imperceptible. i, however, hear her confession loudly.

i instruct her to search the kitchen and bring to me as many of the objects that she has been feeding her cunt while she dreams of cock.

it takes her more than several minutes to gather together examples of the objects she has been regularly fucking herself with. some are... conventional: the obligatory banana, the cucumber, the wooden spoon, the empty Champagne bottle.

'he was never... hard... my husband,' she almost whispers as she places a whisk on the table, and then a rolling pin.

'not really.. hard! and then he'd... empty himself and then it was... soft and... gone for another.. week.. sometimes more. and when he was done i'd sneak downstairs and i'd put anything.. anything inside me.. anything....' her whispers trailed to nothing.

some objects were less... conventional: a variety of light bulbs (never to be recommended), the handle of a sturdy meat cleaver, spout of a teapot....

'just to be... filled,' she said, simply and not without some dignity.

i told her to bend herself over the kitchen table so that i could more closely examine her cunt. she held herself open. the inside of her thighs were trailed with creamy wetness but that was not what caught my attention.. but rather the little threads of scars where he had too enthusiastically fucked herself in the past with some... object not quite suited to the task.

the cunt itself remained unscarred and supple in its wetness - so that i reasoned that no permanent damage had been done.

'it was guilt of course.' i told her.

'it was a betrayal to be fucking yourself in the kitchen while he slept in the slop of his own cum. so there was no... pleasure in it for you... despite the.. intense pleasure of it...'

'sometimes i would bleed,' she confessed. 'not much.. but a little. it was like.. sometimes... like i couldn't make it painful enough to stop myself cumming...'

it is my turn to nod.

i take the meat cleaver from the table, turn it in my hand, feel the heft of it and girth of that stout handle. i lay the cleave of it to her trembling flesh so that she can anticipate the promise of insertion. cold to the heat of her flesh.

she sighs as the all the little dreams form into something more substantial... at last.

outside the rain is relentless.



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Comments
5:52 pm Wednesday, 6th November, 2013

Don't you just want to rip her panties off and fuck her?? (when she wears them)

 3 people like this

7:16 pm Wednesday, 6th November, 2013

she wasn't wearing any. and all good fucks come to those who wait........

 1 people like this

4:19 pm Thursday, 21st November, 2013

 1 people like this

4:55 pm Thursday, 21st November, 2013

Large long solid oak kitchen table be perfect might sort of resemble some tudor style torture chamber though if you were tied at all four corners.....

 1 people like this

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