The two lives of Mrs T.......

Mrs T, almost plump, and certainly… voluptuous, took up the weight of her breasts in her hands so that she could ‘bathe’ her generous nipples in the formed pool of precum on the tip of my cock. When they were glistening, and almost dripping with my musky fluids she lowered her head to draw each of those hard buds into her mouth. There is something close to violence in the sounds of her suckling.

The pale, smooth, and generous cheeks of her arse shudder, and part, as I move myself behind her and settle my shaft between them. I press her thighs apart, and they are damp already against my thighs. She groans as I lift her leg, and tugs at the hard bud in her mouth with her sharp little teeth, as she feels the pulse of my cock as it slides, hot, over the knot of her arse. Reaching under her, I slip two fingers into her drenched cunt. Reaching in front of her I rough the proud stem of her other nipple between my thumb and fingers.

“Please may I cum?” she whispers.

“No you may not,” I almost snap.

I take her hair in my fist and I direct her, quite forcefully, onto the big bed. When she is on all fours I bind her elbows to her knees, and attach a spreading-bar between her restained limbs.

“When, exactly, are you permitted to cum?” I inquire, firmly.

“When you tell me I can come,” she intones.

Without warning I flick my wrist and the cane (which I keep nearby for just such moments) snaps against the soft inner flesh of her thighs.

“And can you cum before I give you permission?” I ask.

“No…” she concedes, if a little reluctantly.

Over time Mrs T has developed a bit of a fetish for latex. Today she is wearing a very fetching wasp-waisted corset with cutaway bust. Even the scent of it arouses her, she tells me. Her ‘stockings’ are made of the same material, and they are slippery now as he cunt drips, and little streams of almost creamy wetness trail from her flesh and gather momentum on the already slippery latex. I let her hear the swish of the cane in the air, and watch as her cunt contracts in anticipation of the next stinging blow. By now her clit is so engorged that it has forced itself out from under that pretty little cowl and now almost glints in the late evening light.

One stinging blow later I pull Mrs T’s head to edge of the bed and I slide my cock deep into her mouth. She sucks as greedily on my hardness as she had on her own nipple. Her mouth is wet and her tongue almost wraps itself around the stem of me. She forces her head forward until she almost gags before her throat opens and she takes me still deeper.

When she is like this I find it almost impossible to remember the woman who first arrived all those months ago. Such a respectable looking woman: modest in her dress, as she was in her manner. She was the most unlikely looking prospective-pupil I think that I have ever seen; almost shapeless in her big coat, and not so much as a hint of her generous curves beneath. On her third visit she had admitted (not entirely freely) that she had never seen her own naked body. She further confessed that though she had occasionally experienced orgasm, it had always been while she was fully dressed and only by closing her eyes and rubbing herself against some piece of furniture. In this way, she explained, she could somehow distance herself from the act – even pretend to herself that the incident was accidental in some way.

Fully awakened now, and my cock almost lodged in her throat, and her haunches quivering, and the scent of her arousal thickening in the still air of the quiet room, I have to remind myself that this is the same Mrs T who had blushed when she first saw me erect.

I withdraw from her mouth, a little reluctantly I have to admit. But discipline applies equally to both of us.

“I will leave you here… for a while… to give you time to… think,” I say.

I tell her that if she is very good, and very still I will return so that we can continue our… lesson. She moans and writhes involuntarily, but she does not voice her disappointment.

“I will be good,” she promises.

Because I know it will add to her frustration I take some of her wetness and I paint it over her plump and perfect cheeks. Then I blow a little chill of breath along the stem of her clit. She almost cums then, but, somehow manages to control herself in time.

“Good girl,” I tell her.

“I am a good girl,” she says, breathless.

“We’ll see,” I say. “When I get back… then we’ll see.”

In the kitchen I find Mrs T’s clothes neatly folded on a chair. I smile to think how few clues these simple (and still more than modest) garments would offer of the real Mrs T. I wonder what the ladies of the Women’s Institute would think if they saw their local chairwoman as waited impatiently on that bed to gush, and spill, and abandon herself the purity of pleasure?

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