of the weakness of flesh..... Pt. 1

When Mrs D had climaxed for the fourth time, I lowered her legs, loosened the knots around her ankles, and suggested that she might like to shower before we spoke. I would normally have insisted that she make her way home with the stench of cunt, and cum, and sweat still clinging her worn out flesh. However, on this occasion Mrs D had asked to speak with me immediately after our ‘lesson’, and I thought a shower might help her to relax. Besides, it never hurts to alter the routine now and then.

“You want me to clean myself up,” she said – I don’t think it was a question.

Still a little shaky on her feet, she sat down on the edge of wooden bench. She rolled her toes onto the wetted floor, paddling in spreading pools of her own fluids. I knew it would take some time before that stunned look on her face faded, and the natural rose of her cheeks was restored. Our time together in the ‘quiet room’ took a great deal out of both of us, though it is fair to say that toll on Mrs D’s flesh was invariably far greater than on my own.

“There are warm towels in the bathroom.” I told her.

“Join me in the kitchen… when you’re ready.”

Mrs D could barely raise her head to acknowledge my words. Her breath was all out, and her already heavy breasts struggled to rise against the weight of her exhaustion. A while back she told that she probably never looked so old as she did after one of our sessions.


“Or felt so young,” she added, as though she had not realised it before.

In fact I was always struck by how unexpectedly youthful Mrs D appeared when she was naked. While not quite the frump, her choice in clothing left much the imagination – buttoned up blouses and light woollen knee length skirts in the summer, heavy tweed suits in the winter. This natural modesty had spared her skin the sun’s ravage, and - despite their volume - her breasts had somehow managed to largely defy both the forces of time and gravity. Clothed, she was a plain, if handsome looking woman. Naked, she was… rather impressive.

“Take your time,” I said, as left her to recover.

I couldn’t help but wonder what Mrs D might want to talk to me about. She was a reserved sort of woman – outside of the ‘quiet room’ at least. In general she spoke only when she felt that she had something worth saying. It seemed reasonable, therefore, to assume that she had not asked to speak to me about some trivial matter. It crossed my mind – if only fleetingly - that she might have decided to put an end to our ‘lessons’. I didn’t think it terribly likely given her very recent displays of… enthusiasm – especially in regards to her anal-training. But over the years I’ve learned that Subs can be very unpredictable creatures, subject to all sorts of sudden doubts, and insecurities. (Hardly surprising really, given the extreme, and demanding, nature of their… calling.) Still, it would be a pity, I thought, to lose such an excellent pupil as Mrs D. She had been developing some very intriguing tendencies of late, and I had been looking forward to exploring these much further - and to both of our advantage.

For example: Mrs D had been a God fearing woman all of her life. A good Catholic, she would not leave the house without first ensuring that her rosary was tucked away inside her handbag. (The rosary itself was quite valuable piece: Spanish in origin, and hand-fashioned in ebony and silver.) As a further mark of her devotion her mantelpiece at home was a shrine to the Saints, and for as long as she could remember, a pale - and yet, somehow still gaudy - facsimile of the Blessed Virgin had gazed down from the wall above Mrs D’s bedstead.

Twice a week, while her husband was still alive, she would diligently confess her sins – such as they were. Most of the time these were so trivial that even her priest could often be overheard suppressing a yawn. Once or twice she had considered throwing in the odd ‘impure thought’ just to spice things up a little for the old cleric. In the event her imagination had proved far too limited to provide her with the necessarily lurid details. There were ‘the dreams’ of course, but the contents of those were vague at best. She could not even be certain that it was the dreams that were responsible for that waking-wetness between her legs. Besides, as she had no control over her dreams, any sin attached to them was Venial at best, and, therefore, barely worth the effort of confessing – as her priest would, no doubt, have been quick enough to point out.

It was only over the past year, that the contents of those dreams had begun to reveal themselves:

“Priests,” she confided once - and only to me.

“Seven priests… like the sacraments… I suppose…. And they force me down… onto my knees… and they tell me all the things that I should confess… even though they are not my… sins. And when I protest my… innocence… they… punish me. Or thy make me punish myself – force me to flay my own… flesh. They say this is my… penance.”

Mrs D had said that she wasn’t sure how interested I would be in her dream. I told her that I was more than interested – even fascinated.

“I mean, it’s all so… Catholic isn’t it? Priests fumbling under their skirts… acts of contrition… and… penitence. I’m on my knees, and one of them is trying to drive the demons out of my mouth with his… prick. And the others are mouthing some sort of mass, and stroking themselves. And the one in my mouth keeps saying that he is the flesh of Christ as he… pushes his… thing… all the way to the back of my throat. And when he is done with me, another takes his place, and then another. And at some point they are all inside me and all at once… and… and… then I… wake up.”

Recently Mrs D had woken up to discover that she been pleasuring herself with her precious rosary. It was wrapped around her wetted fingers, and almost every one of those beautifully turned beads had been driven – in some sort of fury, she reasoned – into the depths of her cunt.

“I opened my eyes and she was looking down on me – the Virgin. Not Her… of course… just some faded picture I cut out a magazine years ago and stuck in some cheap frame. But even so… you’d think – seeing her looking down at me – you’d think I’d have felt some sense of… shame. But… somehow… the thought of Her watching me, only made the moment more… complete.”

I suggested that, perhaps, she had grown tired of being measured against the standards of a God she no longer had much faith in.

“It was my mother’s rosary,” she offered - as though this were the epiphany.

Mrs D’s capacity for the fetishistic was not (as it turned out) limited to mere iconoclasm. Of late she had discovered that she was also something of a Kleptophiliac. The act of stealing – even the smallest, least significant, of items – could, as it transpired, induce a state of almost rapturous arousal in her.

A few weeks previously, while having lunch with a friend, she had accidentally (or at least subconsciously) acquired the other woman’s rather expensive lipstick. These things happen of course – especially between good friends - and are easily rectified. On this particular occasion, however, Mrs D found herself unable (more than unwilling) to return the item in question. Even before her friend noticed that her lipstick was missing Mrs D was aware of exactly what had happened. But, instead of immediately admitting her ‘silly mistake’, and making some weak joke about ‘being a jewel thief in a past life’, she pretended to have no idea what might have happened.

“Well that’s very strange isn’t it?” she said, perfectly mirroring the perplexed expression on her friends’ face.


“Do you remember where you had it last?” she enquired, as she made some show of searching through her own belongings.

“Perhaps you put it down… and forgot to pick it up again,” she suggested, even as she tucked the lipstick down under the coils of her rosary.

Mrs D had never stolen anything in her life, and was flatly astonished by what an expert thief, and liar, she was turning out to be.

“ Are you sure you checked your handbag?” she asked, with brazen innocence.



Theft, of course is a Mortal sin, and perhaps it was that - at least in part - that had lent the act its almost shockingly erotic edge. Almost unaware how it had happened Mrs D found herself aroused. So much so that she could barely stop herself from tipping into climax even as she sat in such a public place. Oddly (or, at least Mrs D considered it to be odd) it was not the fear of discovery that had wetted her, and made her swell. In fact: the more certain she was that she was in no danger of being discovered, the more intense her arousal. The pulsing little spasms between her hips quickly intensified to a point where they could no longer be ignored. She hurriedly excused herself

“I have to go to the… girls room.”

She barely heard her friends’ request that she look for the lipstick while she was there.

In the Ladies Toilet on the fourth floor of the John Lewis department store, Mrs D shakily applied a thin film of Rouge Allure onto the tip of her index finger. Almost before she was able to apply it to the swollen stem of her clit, her legs had already begun to buckle underneath her. The walls of the cubicle, she told me later, were almost too flimsy to contain such a wild and abandoned thing as she was in the long moments that followed.

“It had never really been… like… that before,” she had.

“Not when I was… alone.”

She brought the Lipstick to our very next meeting - along with a small leather-bound prayer book, and an inexpensive looking ballpoint pen. All of these objects, she explained, had recently, and - more or less inadvertently - come into her possession. I was rather pleased by how imaginatively I was able to incorporate all three items into our ‘lessons’. Mrs D had fainted – actually fainted – as she licked my cum from pages of that prayer book. It was a most… gratifying moment.

All in all Mrs D was turning out to be a most interesting ‘project’. It would have been a matter of no little regret if it transpired that she was no longer happy to continue with her ‘lessons’.

In the event I need not have worried.

[To be continued…]

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