by: Georgina
Chapter 2
The time was late now, night had come and I was quite hungry. Julie, our maid, had left a small salad in the fridge for me, I was never a great eater, but I was really ready for it. The house was quite dark as I went downstairs. The street lighting was the only illumination as I descended and it was utterly quiet. Swishing down the stairs was a wonderful experience. The taffeta skirts rustled and whispered little words of sensual desire. The pull of the suspenders seemed to massage my legs. Nylon hissed on nylon with a sibilant swish. My bodice held me close and the cups of the brassiere caressed the sensitive skin of my hot, budding titties. The nipples, hard, excited, brushed electrically over the soft, yet tingling, net that lined the inside. My trapped body glided rhythmically with my movements, pressing insistently against the satin panel of the high waisted corset. My hands, gloved in those magnificent taffeta gloves, tingled. My heels made me walk tall and proud, yet they added a softly undulating gait to my walk. I knew now why women put up with them.
I reached the bottom of the stairs, I was, after my orgasm, much calmer now and I seemed to move almost in a dream as I entered the drawing room and, before switching on the lights, drew the velvet drapes to the window. I then drew all the drapes in the rest of the downstairs rooms. I took out the meal from the fridge and ate it in the dining room. I so enjoyed doing that and it seemed as if a new, more delicate, more gentle person had taken me over. Finishing all my food, feeling replete, I washed up everything and put it away, something I would not have done as a boy, yet, as a girl, it seemed totally natural to clean up behind me. After that I went into the drawing room and lay down on the chaise longue and picked up a copy of the latest Vogue magazine.
It was a lazy hour I spent, leafing through the magazine, identifying with the glamorous models that graced the glossy pages. Models like Barbara Goalen, resplendent in heavy, gleaming, strapless, silk satin gowns. Her curvaceous body, with its tiny waist was far more of a turn on than the pornographic magazines of today. Still is as a matter of fact. I lay back on that gorgeous chaise longue and idly caressed my trembling, taffeta sheathed body with taffeta gloved hands, exploring the soft curve of tender breast and hard, throbbing nipple. Then my hands slid down, whispering over the bodice of the gown to slide, gently, insistently, over the hard tube of flesh that pulsated, throbbed, beneath the satin prison that was my elegant, utterly sensual, corset.
I was so hot again, but this was a different kind of heat. It was a slow, powerful flame that burned its way to the very core of my feminised body. It was then that I wanted someone else to share it with me. Someone who understood my desires, and would help me to achieve them. In my mind there was only one person who could fulfil my wishes. The one person who had given me the wherewithal and opportunity, my one and only, beautiful and softly gentle, mother. Yes, many would say that it was a perverted desire. Maybe so, but how many of us harbour strange or deviant desires. The evil person is the one who brutally imposes those desires on people who do not wish to be involved. Mutual consent, between people, as long as they are not physically, or psychologically, hurt by these actions. But I digress. At that time all I knew is that I wanted my mother to help in my sensual and sexual desires. Whether she would I did not then know.
Now, as I lay back on the couch, her image floated into my consciousness. A coolly beautiful, elegant, slim and vivacious blonde, with a heartbreakingly lovely and serene face, which broke out into frequent laughter, sometimes at the oddest times, she had suffered, as I had, at the hands of my father. Now, although we were extremely well off, courtesy, may I add, of her family, not his, she still felt that she had to do something, even though the money she got was not necessary for our existence. That, in fact, it was done for a different reason I was yet to find out. She was, in my dreams, always elegantly and beautifully gowned, either in sensuous dishabille, night-gowns and lingerie, or in a lovely evening gown or slim and gorgeous cocktail dress. Her hair was never long and she wore it in a very simple page boy style that gave a perfect frame to her lovely eyes, high cheekbones and full, sensuous lips. Her body, slim and elegant as I have previously mentioned, was saved from total boyishness by gentle curves and a lovely pair of pear shaped breasts that did not, and I did see them several times, need any support at all. She was always free and easy around the house and, when we were alone, she always liked to lounge around the house in an elegant night-gown and negligee, of which she had a multitude. She was, without the shadow of a doubt, one of the most beautiful women that ever was in London at that time, and mine was not the only like opinion. She loved clothes, and had a very extended wardrobe. In fact up to three years before, she had done quite a lot of modelling for some of the major fashion houses at the time. A favourite picture of her I still have, dressed in a fantastic, printed, silk-satin, full skirted, cocktail dress was a dream indeed.
As my hands slowly and delicately traced paths of sensuous pleasure over my softly writhing body my eyes closed and softly ethereal forms floated through my dreamy thoughts. I seemed to be in a subtly lighted room, laid with couches, similar to what I lay on, and I lay there in the company of many of the top models of the day. They, like me, were dressed in elegant evening gowns, all of satin, taffeta and velvet, all by the top designers of the day. Dior, Balenciaga, Worth, Hardy Amies. I seemed to be the centre of attraction and slowly the elegant beauties rose from those couches and, with the soft rustling of taffeta, the sibilant hissing of satin, they approached me and settled their sumptuously gowned and gloved bodies around me. Gorgeously made-up and neatly coiffured they were, heartbreakingly beautiful, and sensuously inclined. My dream felt so real. Maybe it was only my hands that caressed my body, drawing out the sensations that threatened to rip my body apart, but it felt so real.
My mother was there, in my dream, and she was the most beautiful of all. The dream seemed to shimmer, coalescing into an entity, till it was only mother’s hands, and sweetly smiling face that was there with me. And her hands, knowing, insistent drew me ever higher in my passions that were the most powerful I had ever experienced. I was crying, moaning, writhing in my deep desire. My hands were wildly pressing over the engorged flesh of my trapped body. But, it wasn’t my hands, it was mother’s hands that drew me on, it was mothers sweetly smiling face that made me so hot. it was mother’s softly whispered words that echoed in my ears.
"Come, my sweet baby," She uttered, and her glossy, lipsticked lips drew closer to my face. "Come, my sweet little child. Give mother what she wants, give mother your hot white seed. Let mother feel it on her hot, gloved hands!"
My hands, no, mother’s hands, feverishly drew up the taffeta skirts of my gown and then pulled out the pulsating centre of my wild passions from underneath the satin corset, exposing it to the cool, evening air. It wasn’t really my hands but mother’s hands that ripped the thin latex sheath off the trembling length of engorged flesh and it was mother’s, not my, hands that moved so gently over the sensitive glans to send me into a wild, utterly encompassing orgasm that ripped my whole body and spirit apart as the orgasm took over my entire self. The jets of white, sticky spend were so violent and strong that they burst through the clutching, caressing, taffeta gloved hands, spraying wildly over my nyloned limbs. The roaring in my ears was still quiet enough for mother’s whispered words to penetrate.
"Yesss, sweet baby, come for mother, sweet little girl, come for mother!!!"
And, once more, I fainted.
End of chapter 2.
© 2001
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