6 comments/ 21441 views/ 14 favorites The Fourth Bridesmaid Ch. 01 By: potsherd Sir Harold and Lady Stockton, of Seagrave Manor, Seagrave, Leics., had one much-loved daughter, Araminta Claudia. Araminta was a beautiful young woman, tall, slim and regal, and the contrast between her long honey-blond hair and her treacle-dark flashing eyes never failed to startle those who met her for the first time. In her second year at Imperial College, London, she met Juan Carlos Corradera, from Argentina. He was a skilled seducer, extremely rich, athletic and breathtakingly handsome, but he had no desire to seduce Araminta. For him it was all or nothing. Within a week of their first meeting, the couple were plunged headlong into love, and within six months they were married. And that is where I come in. My name is Brian Cazenove, I am in my late twenties, and I have a photographic studio in Leicester. Before the war I worked Saturdays and holidays in my uncle's photographic shop on Humberstone Gate, but I really learned my trade in wartime, as a war photographer attached to the Seventh Armoured Division and the Eighth Army. I had the privilege of serving for a short time under General O'Connor, the finest general in the British Army in the opinion of his troops. I kept a quasi-official photographic record of the war in North Africa, Italy and Southern France. Many of my photosets appeared in the Soldier, and some in Picture Post and in the well-known series of HMSO illustrated books. My work is well known, but my name much less so. I had the great good fortune to be in Naples when it was liberated. Naples in the early spring of 1944 was a city where everything was for sale, and the price of everything was negotiable. The city was thronged with beautiful young women and girls who were delighted to pose nude for photographs for a small fee. Sweeten the deal with a pack of Marlborough cigarettes or two tins of corned beef, they would not only pose, but also offer intimate personal services. With these unlimited opportunities, I quickly learned that beauty alone was not enough, and there had to be some special quality in a girl to make her sexually desirable. In a three-week r & r, I shot a hundred and forty rolls of film (looted from a German mobile darkroom,) of over 200 girls. I developed a dozen or more rolls of film each day, refining my skills as a processor of films, and poring over the negatives with a strong lens to improve my skills at the delicate arts of portrait and glamour photography. It was a post-graduate education in itself, and I continued to find beautiful models as we travelled north, up through Italy and into France. Tobruk, Anzio and Monte Cassino honed my skills as an action photographer; Naples gave me my skills at photographing beauty and passion. I came back to Leicester at the back end of 1945 to find that my uncle had been forced to stop work with an incapacitating stroke, and the shop was closed. I assessed the situation and made it my priority to take a train to London and on out to Ilford to arrange regular supplies of photographic film and paper, and chemicals for developing and printing. I raised the cash for renovations by selling most of my nude and erotic photographs to a man in Chicago who could not have cared less about copyrights or model releases. Then I started to put to good use the Leica llla and the Rolleiflex Automat I had acquired in Italy. Uncle Bert and Aunt Irene were happy to move into the ground floor flat I found for them off Knighton Lane, and I took over the whole building. The ground-floor front was still a photographic supplies shop. But the back room was made into a large, commodious darkroom and storage area. Upstairs we had two studios. The smaller; the boxroom, is fitted out with toys and games, large cushions and a wooden playpen. The walls are papered with characters from Walt Disney (my personal aversion, but kids love them), Loony Tunes, Popeye and Betty Boop. The word soon got around that we cater for babies and toddlers, and a sizeable part of the business now is baby photographs. The trick is so simple – over-expose the black and white image, then get a competent colourist to colour-wash the print and highlight with touches of bright colour. Poised somewhere between a photo and a painting, they sell like hot cakes. The larger room is divided into two with a folding screen. One side of the partition holds a large double bed covered with a coverlet, the other side holds a leather four-seater settee on one wall, and two matching armchairs on the adjoining wall. The large sash windows are covered with milky translucent screens to diffuse the light. One window screen swings back, because sometimes I want to pose a model looking out of the window. I put a bed in the little attic room, and made myself at home. Compared with some of the billets I had in the army, it was luxury for me. So much for back-story. Anyway, in the spring of 1949, what happened is that Araminta Stockton, bless her, wanted some really good wedding photos, and what she wanted, she got. And, apparently, she had asked around and got my name as the best photographer for this kind of work, thanks to good mates in the Leicester Mercury and its sister paper the illustrated Leicester Chronicle. She wanted full coverage at the Church and the reception, naturally enough, but she also wanted colour portraits of herself and each of the four bridesmaids, plus a group. Colour film was just becoming available again. Kodachrome was still not commercially available in Britain, but the USAF bases east of Leicester contained helpful young men who, in exchange for some saucy nude photographs, would get me rolls of film from their equivalent of the Naafi. So that was fixed. I could use up a film or two getting used to the colour palette, and the obliging young USAF blokes would send them home for processing. Al this could be fixed up well in advance of the late June wedding, and on the due day, June 5th., everything was ready for the photo session. I had obtained five barstools with thin, tubular chrome legs and a very short back support, and grouped them for the group photograph, and prepared a variety of pastel coloured slides for back projection to tone in with the dresses and makeup. At ten the group arrived, but it was a group of only four. The fourth bridesmaid was stuck on a job in Edinburgh, and would have to come along later. Of course this made nonsense of the group photograph, which would have to be deferred to the wedding morning. The task for today was to take four colour portraits, of the bride and three of the bridesmaids. And a very pleasant task it turned out to be. They were four lovely girls, two brunettes, a redhead and the honey-blonde bride. Three were voluptuous, with the Hollywood hourglass figure, large in the bust and hips, slim and nipped-in at the waist. The fourth, the bride herself, was tall and slim, with long, long legs that would make Rita Hayworth or Katharine Hepburn envious. As she was, in a short-sleeved blouse and pinstripe tailored slacks, she looked like a mannequin; in her wedding dress she would make a couturier wet himself. I have a very particular skill that is a part of my success as a glamour photographer. I am my own make-up artist. Oddly enough I learned the essentials of the job in my teens by hand-colouring photographs. I could make the colours blend to bring out the best features of the subject and conceal their failings. In Italy, I started practising on live subjects, and began to insist on doing the makeup of all my female portrait subjects. The dresses were similar in design, having deep off-the-shoulder necklines, so I insisted in applying foundation and powder make-up to the neck and shoulders as well as to the face. I pointed out that it would only take a couple of minutes to apply, and not much longer to wash off, so the time would be well spent if unwanted reflections and hot-spots were avoided. Soon I had four lovely young ladies in their underwear, sitting on barstools, chatting nineteen to the dozen as they waited their turn for the application of powder and paint. Three young ladies in strapless bras, knickers and half-slips, and the fourth, the bride, who declared, a trifle ruefully, that she had never worn a bra in her life, in just her cream silk knickers. I longed to take a clandestine photo with my trusty Leica, but that would have been crass. The photo-session went very well. Three pairs of willing hands helped each girl in turn into her dress and protected her elaborate hairdo. In turn each one half-sat, half- leaned on the tall stool, I bustled about moving a light a fraction, adjusting a diffuser or a reflector, on one occasion pausing to apply lipstick a shade paler to a rosebud mouth. The individual shots were taken, and I cajoled them into a group for the sheer pleasure of the contrasting tones of fabric, hair and skin. They all wore dresses of similar shape with low necklines, bare shoulders, little puff sleeves, and almost floor-length tulip shaped skirts that owed something to current fashions, but something more to the bride's own good taste. The two brunette bridesmaids wore rose pink, the redhead in jade green. The bridal gown was, of course, pure white silk, but embroidered with arabesques of silver thread and sprinkled with pearls. They finally left towards lunchtime, but not before I had been flattered into agreeing to go to Seagrave House the morning of the wedding to do their make-up, whilst the hairdresser put up their hair. I could then take the elusive group photograph. ***** Two days later my phone rang. "Hello, is that Brian Cazenove? This is Vanessa Christiansen, Araminta's other bridesmaid. Sorry I missed my appointment, but I'm ringing to make another. I'm free for the rest of the week, so pick a time and I'll fit in with you." "Hello Miss Christiansen, I can make the afternoon free on Thursday if that suits you. We could start any time after twelve, and we should be finished in about two hours." "Book me in for mid-day please. Do I need to bring anything apart from the dress and shoes?" "It would help if you could bring along the makeup you usually use, and if you can manage it, book the hairdresser for the Thursday morning to do your hair the same as it will be on the 26th." "I can do that all right. Good! See you midday on Thursday. I'm looking forward to it. The girls were all very impressed." Thursday came around, and at ten to twelve, the door opened and in walked a dream. Her hair, done up in an elegant French pleat, was pale blonde with a broad platinum streak along the crown of her head. Her skin was pale, with the cheeks pink as if she had been hurrying. Her lips, slightly broad, were a delicate pale pink. Her most striking feature, her eyes, were palest blue, wide open under arched eyebrows. Oddly, her long eyelashes seemed white against her fair skin. I knew that the four bridesmaids were old and close friends of the bride, but if they had been selected by a casting director, they could not have better matched and contrasted; two brunettes, one blond and a redhead, three buxom and full-breasted, one slender. The bride had to be supremely confident, and deservedly so, to place herself in their company. Most telling of all, the bridesmaids dresses had not been designed, as so often, to avoid competing with the bridal gown. They were designed, unequivocally, to flatter the wearers. I knew without looking that Miss Christiansen's dress would be jade green, and that it would look stunning on her. I was about ready for a cup of tea, so I offered one to her, but she had just finished a coffee at the hairdresser's. Instead she had a glass of water, and happily agreed to share my corned beef and marmite sandwiches. As we sat over our lunch, I saw that her eyes were drawn to a nude photograph on my corkboard. It was a back view, full-length, of a very pretty model, lighted with natural light from an attic window. I was proud of it because it was the first photo I ever got published in the great national, mass-circulation magazine, the ever-faithful Men Only the magazine that had had followed us servicemen into every theatre of war, every airstrip and every ship in the fleet. "Did you take that one?" "Yes, in Naples towards the end of the war." I explained why I was so proud of it. She was interested, and asked about my other published prints. I pulled out the copy of Picture Post that had my double-page of tank crews washing and shaving in the desert just before meeting Rommel's Afrika Corps at El Alamein. She was impressed, but her mind was elsewhere and she turned the conversation back to glamour photography. "Your nude is very well done. The light and shade are beautiful. Have you any more I could look at?" "Would you like to come and have a look, Miss Christiansen?" I have two filing cabinets full. I led the way into the back room, and, on an impulse, opened a drawer. These were not going to be sold in England, but would be perfectly legal in most of Europe and the USA. I pulled out a folder and she leafed through it. She caught her breath. "I have never seen anything like this in a magazine. They are like the photographs my dad took of my mum when they first met. This one is really beautiful." She picked out a shot of a dark-haired girl with a full bush of pubic hair. The cleft of her sex showed as a darker vertical band leading the eye down to the suggestion of labia below. What was special about this picture is that the model's face was lit up by laughter, and you almost fancied that you could see her breasts jiggle with the breath she was taking. Miss Christiansen looked on and on, setting aside many of my favourites for another look. She was enraptured. On impulse, she picked out another folder. This was a two-model set, two lovely girls playing. She smiled broadly as she looked at them, Clearly she was no prude. Then on to a third folder, and I almost reached out my hand to stop her taking that one. It was made up of the spanking sets I sold to fetish magazines. She opened it, and looked at a picture of a model, in a gymslip, lying across the lap of the middle-aged male model dressed as a vicar, complete with dog-collar. His hand was raised and about to come down in a huge slap. Her bottom showed dark patches that would have been red in a colour print. The girl's face showed a little smug smile. Miss Christiansen ate it up. She began to blush and giggle to herself. She licked her lips as she leafed through the pictures, and stopped dead at a photograph of a caning scene. This time the same male model was in a Police Inspector's uniform and the girl was dressed as a bus conductress, Her jacket hung open, her slacks were pooled around her ankles, her knickers at half mast and she was bent over a table in a very revealing pose. The experienced eye could see that the half-dozen tramlines on her beautiful, full bottom were not made with stage makeup or lipstick. Each track showed two parallel ridges, and there were deep dark marks at the centre of the cheek where the tip of the cane had bitten into the tender flesh. Vanessa was lost for words. There was no mistaking that the spanking images spoke to some private part of her being. It was time to move on. I suggested that we put the photosets away for the time being, and she agreed, with just a tough of reluctance. I suggested that it was time to do her makeup, and she went to get her make-up bag and the dress. Five minutes later she was sitting on a stool in nothing but a pair of almost transparent violet French knickers that looked hand-stitched and cut by a master. I took a chance and commented on them as I began applying foundation. "Those knickers are the end! They must be French or Italian, judging by the cut and the exquisite stitching." She spread her knees a couple of inches to give me a better view. "No, I cut them out and sewed them myself," she announced proudly. "Dad found me a couple of yards of parachute silk, and I dyed half of it this violet, and the other half crimson. My mum taught me to cut and sew. She was a seamstress at Jacques Worth before the war. "Mum became a nudist when she worked in Paris in the twenties. She met my dad at a naturist resort in Germany. Dad was from Norway; he was a pilot for a Danish airline. On stopovers his whole crew headed for the nearest nude beach. When Mum and Dad became close, he moved to England and flew for Imperial Airways. Mum worked as an airhostess until she had me. I spent my summers at naturist camps until I was about twelve, so I feel very comfortable with no clothes on, especially with you. "We have loads of nude photos of Mum, and a fair few of Dad. Mum was a knockout. Dad has photos hanging in his office to prove it. That's where I learned to appreciate nude photographs. Her pictures are au naturel, with body hair and everything." Vanessa was sitting there, in see-through silk knickers, chatting without a care in the world. Not flirty exactly, but very open. I finished the body makeup, grinning as I touched up her little pink nipples with a little lipstick. She smiled and simpered a little. Now she was really flirting. She knew as well as I did that this had nothing to do with her portrait and everything to do with the age-old dance of a man and a woman. I finished her face, colouring her lashes a shade darker to make them emphasise her wide baby-blue eyes. Then I held the dress whilst she stepped into it, and drew it together to cover her beautiful body. She turned to invite me to do up all he tiny pearl buttons down her back, and the dress was complete. She pulled on a pair of silk stockings and gartered them above her knees, with a long, languorous glimpse of her violet underwear, and slipped on her three-inch heel, sling-back shoes in matching jade green. A rapid touch-up of her hair and she was ready. She pirouetted in front of the full-length mirror and looked at me for approval. The lighting was perfect with the natural light from the windows diffused through the opalescent screens. I made use of a back-projected coloured filter to make a blue-green background, fading to creamy-white at about waist height. Then a confirmatory light-meter reading, to check my speed and aperture settings. The first shot looked perfect, but I took two more to be certain. Job done in about five minutes. Helping her out of the dress was the work of seconds, and she bustled about, packing it in tissue paper and folding it into the large carrier beg with the dressmaker's name on it. She took off her stockings and shoes, folding the expensive silk stockings and packing them carefully. She looked up at me uncertainly. Would you like me to take some glamour shots of you? They can be for your private album if you like. Unless you sign a model release, you hold the copyright, and I would protect your privacy, I promise." She smiled, looking very pleased. "Yes, that would be nice. I just wouldn't like them to appear in Men Only or Lilliput" "No fear of that, I promised you." I walked over and opened the window screen, lifted it off its rising butts and placed it out of the way. I used her given name for the first time, and gave her an instruction. "Vanessa, come over here, stand by the window". "First of all, turn around and look out of the window. Hollow your back a little and stick your bottom out...yes, that's just perfect. "Now, turn a little so that the curve of your right breast shows, Draw back your right elbow a little. Yes." The dark shadow of the cleft between her buttocks, widening a little towards the centre, made an enticing image. I shot off a couple of shots with the Rollei, that made the best of the smooth, sculptural lines of her beautiful back. The Fourth Bridesmaid Ch. 01 "Now lift your head just a little, and turn as if you were about to say something to a person behind you." Her face took on a new vivacity as she turned, a smile on her face and the mouth slightly open. "...Yes, just right." Now came the decisive moment. So far she had been a model of compliance, doing exactly as she was told. Would she refuse my next instruction? She was not, after all, a professional glamour model, she was here to be photographed in her bridesmaid's dress, and I was being paid to photograph her. Still, nothing ventured... "Vanessa, keep your back slightly hollowed. Now slide your knickers down over your hipbones and let them slide down to your ankles, but leave them around your feet." She kept her face in half profile, and did as I had described. The knickers were not elasticated; they were held by one small button on her left hip. She popped the button out of its buttonhole. The violet wisp of silk slid down her smooth legs. I could see that she was excited; the inner gusset of her knickers was obviously wet. Her beautiful, rounded bottom was totally exposed, and I could clearly see the cleft of her sex, and the fringe of silky hair around it. "Vanessa, you have been a naughty girl, haven't you?" She shivered. Her colour heightened in a flush. "Yes," she whispered. I've been a very naughty girl. I've wet my knickers." "Well then, you know I shall have to spank your bottom, don't you?" "Yess...I know you will have to spank me." "It's your first spanking, isn't it?" "It's my first anything. I've never wanted to 'til today." He felt a huge thrill of excitement course through his veins. Perhaps this is what those jazz musicians felt when they took their first hit of heroin. A feeling of ecstasy and a sense of unlimited possibilities, mixed with a dark thrill of fear. Perhaps it was more comfortable for both of them for her to talk to him over her shoulder. But... "Now, pull up your knickers and turn to face me. Move across out of the direct light of the window. Yes, that's right. Look over my left shoulder, and chin up just a bit. With your right hand, cup your right breast and lift it just a tad...Shift your weight onto your left leg. Yess, that's perfect." "Now, drop your knickers the same way as before, allow them to drop, but don't step out of them." The silken veil slid to her ankles. The sight that was unveiled made me catch my breath. Her bottom was a thing of beauty; her golden triangle of soft, downy hair, bisected by a thinly veiled cleft was beauty at another order of magnitude. She saw my mouth drop open and my eyes widen, and she laughed aloud. I took four more pictures, and for the fourth I asked her to put her right hand on her pubis, as if caressing it. She did exactly that, but there was no "as if" involved. Two figures were running up and down her slit and I knew that the camera would show the glistening of her precious nectar. "Ok, that will do." "Vanessa, please, please let me have a copy of this photoset. I promise you that no-one will ever see it but me." "What, you mean you won't be sitting with me and look at them on the slide projector? I was looking forward to that." "You cheeky brat. You really will get a spanking now. You'll be eating your dinner off the mantelpiece." "Oh! Oh!" she laughed. "Help, help, this big bully is going to smack my tender little bottom." "Listen Vanessa, do you know about safewords?" "No." "Well, if the spanking goes on too long, or gets too heavy, don't say No! or Stop! Say Lobster! If I hear that I know you are not playing, and I'll stop instantly." "You'll know that my bottom is red enough." "You've got it." I sat down on a chair, and beckoned the beautiful naked girl. She came over and draped herself across my lap. A thought struck her. "Did you want me to put my knickers back on, so you could make me take them down?" "No, we'll forgo that for now. Next time maybe." I stroked her bottom gently and teased the crease between her buttocks with my finger, then, copying her actions in the last photo, I ran my finger all along from perineum to clitoris. She jumped, but made not a sound. I had observed that the spanking pictures had really excited her and I was sure that Vanessa had engaged in spanking fantasies. But what her tolerance level would be was an unknown. Now was our time to learn. I raised my hard right hand and brought it down in a resounding slap. Not as hard as it sounded though, because my hand was slightly cupped to amplify the sound. She let her breath hiss out from between her teeth. Another, on the other cheek. Again the little his of expelled breath. The next two were harder, with my hand flat; then another two. The four slaps in rapid succession. By now she was panting hard, and her face was almost as red as her bottom. "Now, this is what happens when naughty girls get what is coming to them." I said quietly, with a hint of menace. She did not reply, no cries, no pleas, no entreaties. I gave her another six at a measured pace, and her beautiful pale bottom was now blotched with red. I ran my fingers down the crack of her buttocks again, lingering over her pink puckered anus, then along between the inner labia, and up to her clitoris, and lingered there too. She was soaking wet by this time "You remember the safe-word, don't you? I asked. "Yes," she squeaked. "So, I can go on." "Yes, go on." I took the supple leather strap I use in some spanking sequences. It makes a lot of noise but does not bruise or leave weals. I gave her half a dozen strokes with medium severity. This broke her silence and she started to squeal out loud and squirm. Her legs started to kick, and I knew that this was a good time to stop. I had put a jar of arnica cream by my chair, and I picked it up, took a large fingerful of cream and began to cool and soothe her bottom. She sighed with pleasure. "Oh, that feels so good." A few minutes of luxurious silence, and... "Brian..." thus was the first time she had used my name..."would you be able to take a photograph of me being spanked?" "Well, it's a bit hit and miss, but both my main cameras have thirty second time delays. We could use the Leica, because it is loaded with black and white and I can develop it myself. The colour film in the Rollei has to be sent away to the USA, and they can be very puritanical about some things." "Will you try for me, please?" "Yes, my duck. I'll try. Can you stand another couple of smacks on your bum?" "Of course I can, you old silly." She was in a non-stop giggly mood now. I towelled the shine off her bottom and dusted it with powder. I set up the camera on the tripod with a long shutter release cable right to my chair. She got her knickers and put them on, just for the pleasure of dropping them around her ankles. This girl knew how to set up a shot. I gave her the shutter release, and reminded her that the lens would actually open thirty seconds after she pressed it. A quick check through the lens and a light reading, and we were ready to play. She was ready. I hard the click, and counted ten slowly, then began smacking her bottom at a slow, measured speed. My hand had just come down in the third smack when the shutter opened and the picture was taken. We took two more frames to be as sure as possible. Then it was all over. I began softly probing her wet, slick inner labia with a gentle finger. "Vanessa, are you a virgin?" "Yes, I told you so earlier. I've never met a man I fancied until today." "Do you intend to remain a virgin, say until you get married?" "Well, that's what I should prefer. But it is not altogether my decision is it? If you tell me you are going to take me, I'm hardly going to get up and go home, am I?" "Vanessa, you have trusted me so far. Will you believe me if I make you a solemn promise." I let her up from my knees, sat her down beside me and looked her in the eyes. "Yes, I trust you Brian. There is no need to make promises. If you tell me something, I shall believe that you mean it." "I solemnly promise that I shall never, never try to persuade, cajole or coerce you into doing anything against your will. I promise to respect your virginity for as long as you want me to do so. Only you can release me from this promise." She sat quietly, absorbing what had been said. I tried for a little lightness. "We can still find a lot of ways to enjoy ourselves. I have the choice of your lovely mouth and your luscious bottom." She looked away from me, down at the floor, "Why choose. Why not have both?" she asked quietly. There was only one response to that. "Come on, let's go to bed." She rose, gracefully, to her feet, and led the way into the other room where the large double divan bed was waiting for us. To be continued. Please let me know if you like the story so far, and wish to read part 2. Part 2 is in draft, but not set in concrete. If you have suggestions on how it should go, please share them with me. The Fourth Bridesmaid Ch. 02 I took my clothes off and lay down on the bed. Vanessa lay beside me and we looked at each other for a time without moving. I could feel my erection rising, and Vanessa reached out a hand to touch it. I stopped her. "Vanessa, I want you to lie quite still, and leave everything to me." She smiled at me, and I gently pushed her onto her back. I sat up over her and began to kiss her face. She closed her eyes as I kissed her eyes, and then, one by one, her ears, pointing my tongue and wiggling it in each ear in turn. Then I nipped each earlobe with my teeth, not hard, but firmly. I rolled her over so that I could get at the back of her neck to nibble it and lick behind each ear. Then I returned her to her back, kissed her nose and applied myself to her full, pink-lipped mouth. By now she was in a world of her own, Her eyes were closed tight, her face flushed pink, as was her neck and down to the upper slopes of her lovely, round, firm breasts. Her eyes were closed and she softly murmured unconnected fragments of speech. I kissed, nibbled and but gently on the sides of her neck, discovering major erogenous zones that made her moan aloud. I had never had a more responsive partner, and I worked at keeping her on the upper slopes of Mount Orgasm for as long as possible without letting her get to the summit. This plan slipped as I suckled on her breasts, and she squealed like a piglet as her orgasm hit her. She reached down to her pubis, and I gently but firmly removed her hand. I spoke severely: "Vanessa, I told you to lie still. Will you behave, or do I have to restrain you?" "No, I'll keep still, I promise." I turned her over onto her tummy, and began to caress her pink bottom. I could see the beginning of a little bruising over her haunch-bones, and I massaged them gently with the arnica cream. Then, my fingers still slick with the cream, I ran them down the crease of her buttocks. I drew the cheeks apart and stroked her little puckered pink starfish. Then I licked all the way down and around the anus itself. My stiff tongue started to probe. Vanessa started in shock and tried feebly to pull away. I slapped her bottom hard. "Vanessa. Lie still." "I'm sorry, but I never dreamed that you might do that. It was like an electric shock. It felt so lovely. " She groaned aloud as I licked her little rosebud again. It was wet with her sweat and her nectar, and tasted salty and sweet, with just the slightest tinge of bitterness. Then I got between her legs and licked all the way down between her inner labia, and tasted the full rich flavour of her essential femininity. Please Brian, may I turn over now? "Yes, my sweet, turn over and spread yourself wide for me. You are my banquet and I'm going to feast on you." "And then, will you teach me to feast on you?" If that is what you want, my lovely." She spread her self like a picnic on the green grass I buried my face in her womanhood, as she whimpered and tried to force herself closer. Finally, I moved from her inner thighs, slick with her natural lubrication, to the downy lips of her sex, and finally I unveiled her clitoris from its hood. By now she was in for an unstoppable climax. I loved the way her perfume clung to her silky hair. I had never liked the practise of shaving the public area. Shaving left stubble that was unpleasantly rough, and what is worse it stole from the lover the storehouse of the unique scent of the loved one. I knew from the young Italian girls who had adopted the habit during the German occupation, that unless they shaved every day, the bristles chafed unbearably and led to inflammation. By now she was intoxicated. I had one thing left to do before I was satisfied. I kissed down the soft, silky insides of her thighs, and her freshly shaved calves, down to her toes, and kissed and sucked each toe and licked the spaces between. "Stop, please stop, it tickles." She threshed about and complained. When I did not stop immediately, she shouted, "Lobster!!" We both collapsed in laughter. What a use for a safe word! We lay for a while, her head on my shoulder and her arm and leg draped across my body. We kissed, but they were now gentle kisses. She reached over and took my penis in a gentle hand. She stroked it and fondled it, rather timidly, as if she was not sure what would cause pain or discomfort. Half to herself, she said: "It's beautiful. It must be about the same as dad's. Mum says a nice double handful is enough for any girl, and better than most of them will get." She looked straight at me. "A little while ago you were talking about enjoying my mouth. I have never done anything like that. Will you teach me what to do? I should love to give you some of the pleasure you have given me." "What do you know about it? Have you heard the word gam or gamahuche? "Yes, at work I heard a girl from Doncaster refer to gamming somebody. The other girls heard it and laughed. 'You mean you gave him a gobbler,' they said. A London girl said, where she came from they called it plating. It all means the same, putting the head of a man's cock (is it all right to say cock?) in your mouth and sucking on it until he comes. In my own mind I simply think of it as cock-sucking." "Ok, so all it means is cock-sucking. And, by the same process, an ocean liner is a large waterproof metal box. Maybe that's what they mean by reductio ad absurdam." She laughed delightedly, and picked up the game. She was laughing so hard that she could scarcely get it out for gasps and hiccups: "Yes, I suppose you could say that all you did to me was a bit of slap and tickle." My turn to laugh and laugh. After my stultifying childhood, I love a girl with a raucous, vulgar sense of humour, like my lovely auntie Irene. This girl was fun to be with. She had the "something special" besides beauty, and she had it in spades. I did not know long I would have a portion of her life; a day, a week, a year, a lifetime? It was in the lap of the gods. But one thing I was sure of. For the rest of my life I would look back on this time as my Age of Gold. "Vanessa, I want you to think about some of the things I did with you, and try to think how to do something similar to me. Men and women alike have erogenous zones all over our bodies, not just in our genitals. Experiment, and I will give you some hints..." She started with kissing my face, working around towards my lips, then letting her mouth fall open, and teasing my mouth with her tongue. I could feel that this was already exciting her. The feeling of control and initiative she got from my passivity was stimulating her has it had stimulated me. She spent some time licking the patches of hair under my arms and breathing in my sweaty scent. I blessed the impulse that had led me to fit the sort of shower you find in pithead baths, and the impulse that led me to shower that morning. "Do you like that?" I asked. I knew that it was one of my private pleasures. "Yes, it's so heady like the bubbles in champagne. I feel giddy already and I haven't even got to your bullseye yet." She suckled on my nipples and nipped them gently between her teeth, just as I had done to her. It had the desired result that my cock swelled even more and began to throb. If she went on this way, I might have the sort of hands-off ejaculation that brought the house down in the Paris Music Halls of the naughty nineties. I needed to cool myself down, if I was not to embarrass myself. "Vanessa, please, I need a drink of water." She rose straight to her feet and headed for the kitchen area totally naked and graceful as a gazelle. It was not my intention to send her off to do my bidding, and so I said to her as she returned. "It was my pleasure," she responded. "I love to do things for you. It makes me feel like a Lady in Waiting at your court." When she came back on the bed, as if responding to my unspoken plea, she knelt between my open thighs and focussed her efforts on my cock and balls, kissing them all over with tiny butterfly kisses, then licking my scrotum from perineum to the base of my cock, and up the shaft to the head. She gently, oh so gently, retracted my foreskin, freeing the glistening purple helmet head to expand to its full size. Her tongue traced the rim of the mushroom all round, and, by instinct or by knowledge, I did not know, she lapped at the nexus of nerve-endings that faced towards her luscious lips. I knew she was teasing me from the way the corners of her mouth quirked up when I caught her eye. I had held her on the brink of orgasm for twenty minutes before sending her into freefall, and she was getting her revenge. She may have no experience and precious little knowledge, but she certainly had an imagination of seemingly unlimited possibilities. I held my breath as her lips closed over the helmet and slid an inch or so down the shaft. Now she was not teasing me any more; she was working her mouth up and down the shaft rhythmically. I remember in my mid-teens that when a girl took hold of my penis, some instinct told her how to work the foreskin up and down to produce an ejaculation. This seems to apply to Vanessa, the combination of all the cumulative excitement; her gentle sucking motion and the silken motion of her fluttering hands were hurrying me to a climax. And this girl thought she needed advice from me! I cleared my throat. "Vanessa, I am going to come. Please try to keep on sucking until I finish. What you do after that is up to you." A few second later I began to shoot rope after rope of come into her mouth. She was swallowing as fast as she could, but a trickle of pearly grey semen oozed down her chin and dripped onto her breast. I counted six spasms as my spasming prostate gland pumped out seed, then a final trickle. I don't believe that I had come so hard in ten fairly busy years. Vanessa looked at me proudly, and licked up the escaped come back into her mouth. "Odd stuff, isn't it? The texture of raw egg, and a taste like salty, slightly bitter tapioca. I dare say I shall get used to it." She smiled, complacently. My love, you were wonderful, I can't teach you a thing. Just follow your instincts and you'll be fine." "Yes, but you have to give me bags of practice, so I can learn to really please you. Maybe you should give me a spanking if I don't get it just right." "Would you like a drink, my duck? There's most of a bottle of Beefeater and a bottle of tonic, and some beer and ginger beer in the pantry." "Ginger beer sounds lovely. You have a g and t. Shall I get it for you? A large one?" I started to demur... "Please let me do it for you." "Ok. Yes a large one please. And have whatever you like." We took our drinks back to the bed. I pulled the sheet over our cooling bodies, and we lay, peaceful and, for the moment, satiated. "Now," I invited, "tell me about yourself." "Your wish is my command," she grinned cheekily. "Well, I've told you a bit about Mum and Dad. Dad was flying out of Croydon when mum fell for me, but Mum comes from Market Harborough, and she wanted to have a home near Leicester. So when I was small, we spent some of the time at Dad's flat in Shirley, and the rest at our house in Barrow-on-Soar. "Mum had inherited quite a lot of money when her Gran died, and they decided to send me to Cheltenham Ladies College. I got a scholarship there, and boarding school life really suited me. I got to know Araminta when I was her house prefect, and we found out that we lived only a few miles apart, so we travelled to and from school together, and became really good friends, although I was three years older. "By the time I left school, it was the middle of the war, so I couldn't go to university. Dad was a transport pilot, ferrying planes to RAF and Coastal Command bases around the country. This let him live in the midlands, 'cause a lot of the planes were built between here and Coventry. Mum was working in her own dressmaking business and by the end of the war she had two people working from home to help her. Of course it was mainly alterations and repairs because cloth was so short, but networks are networks and the network of fliers meant hat there was always someone crossing the Atlantic, and they made sure that bolts of cloth fell into her lap every so often. "During the war, dad got to know Whitney Straight and they became friends. After the war, dad was really at the end of his flying career, but Uncle Whit headhunted him as his personal trouble-shooter at BEA, and then took him to BOAC as a member of the management team. Now, in effect I work for dad. He manages all the routine inspection and servicing of aircraft all over the world. "When I left school it was 1943, and dad helped me get a job at the Hawker factory at Langley. I was trained as a capstan lathe operator. By the time I got there the Hurricane was coming to the end of its career, and I worked on it for a couple of months, then I worked on the Typhoon for another couple of months. "For the rest of the war, I was put into training department and I worked with the skilled toolmakers and the foremen to make sure the girls were well trained, and well treated. In the process I learned all about the Tempest and the Sea Fury. It was a wonderful experience, and I am so proud to have worked on the Hurry, the plane that really won the Battle of Britain. "Anyway, for the last four years I have worked as my dad's trouble-shooter. When we get a sniff of something iffy I go and check it out. I have uncovered frauds, embezzlement and all kinds of skulduggery, and I have worked all over the world. A couple of days ago I was at Edinburgh checking out a rumour that defective parts were being refurbished and sold on. Luckily there was nothing in it on this occasion, but it happens time and time again." "That's more then enough about me. Now, tell me about yourself, darling. The thing I really want to know is; do you go to bed with all your models? "Are you kidding? I would as soon shag sheep. Most of them are as thick as two short planks, and you wouldn't believe how vain and self-obsessed they are. No, I sleep with very few of them." "Yes, I can believe that. If you had said never, I would have thought you were lying." She kissed me on the cheek, and it soon turned into a full-bodied snog. Her hands found my rising erection, my finger found her clit. Stay there a minute;" I said as I came to the surface for a moment. "I'll turn about and we can try soixante-neuf. A moment later we were top-to-toe with my head buried between her slippery thighs, and my cock half-buried in her mouth. After a few minutes she raised her head. "It's no good Brian. I can't do two things at once. Let me do you first, then you can do me." This time her wish was my command. Her sucking was urgent this time, and several times she took my cock too deep and gagged on it. She was not at all dismayed. She drove on with total concentration until I filled her mouth with my seed. She swallowed it all this time, and her look of smug self-satisfaction made me laugh out loud. "Oh my little love, you really do look like the cat that got the cream." "Well, that's just what I am, and what lovely thick cream too. Did I do better that time?" "I loved both times. The long, leisurely, Sunday morning in bed gobble, and the "Quick, got to finish before the bus comes," approach. They're both wonderful, if the pleasure is shared. Now it's your turn. Which would you like?" "The bus shelter please. Make me scream." A stiff tongue probing the entrance to the vagina, followed by teeth nibbling on her clitoris. One finger and thumb twisting an erect nipple, and a finger covered with her juices, sliding past her anal sphincter and into her rectum. She gasped out an orgasm a minute after I started, and screamed out another, huge one that drenched my face two minutes later. And still the bus hadn't come... I noticed that it was just after six. "Vanessa, are you expected at home at any time?" "Mum and dad will be having dinner around eight, and they will make enough for me, but it's not a problem. I can just ring them and say I'll be late. May I borrow your phone for a minute?" Sure, you go right ahead." I could hear her voice, speaking its usual crystalline clarity from the hallway. Mummy, I'm still in Leicester. You now you have always told me to wait, and it would happen. Well, it has. I've met the most wonderful man. He had me in the palm of his hand inside five minutes. His name's Brian Cazenove, and he is a photographer..." "Yes, he did. Starkers. It's as if we have known each other all our lives. He just said 'drop your knickers' and they fell down all on their own." The huge smile on her face was audible in every word she said. Her mother was obviously laughing just as hard at the other end." "No need for them. Mum. He promised that he would respect my virginity for as long as I asked him to, and I really believe him. The question is, how long will I go on asking him to?" "Yes, I'll ask him. Hold on a minute." She called from the next room. "Brian, mum says would you like to bring me home and stay to dinner?" "Yes, that'll be great. We could be there in an hour." She said goodbye to her mum, and came and sat, naked as a needle, on the bed. "I've got a bone to pick with you. You promised to make love to both my mouth and my bottom. You've done my mouth, twice, but all my poor bum has had in it is a finger. Now what have you got to say for yourself?" "I did not promise to do it all today, did I? Tomorrow morning I shall develop and print all the pictures on the Leica. That's the black and whites of the bridesmaid's dress, and the nudes and the spanking shots. You promised to sit with me and look at them all. Tomorrow we can both keep our promises." Her face brightened That's great. Meanwhile I can ask mum about being buggered from a woman's point of view, and she can give me some good advice. I am sure you have had lots of girls that way, but I am willing to bet you have never had some bloke's willy up your jacksie." "You would be dead right, and long may it stay so. Do you talk to your mum about absolutely everything? I am totally gobsmacked. As far as I know, my mum's still a virgin at fifty-five." "Yes, she has never hid anything from me, and neither has my dad. My mum knows all about my daydreams. She knows that I have always made stories about powerful older men, punishing me and using me. She had always said that one day I would find a man of my own, who would make my insides melt. She always says, 'when it happens, go for it.' Don't worry about the future. Until she married dad, she went where her fancy took her, and she has never regretted a thing." I told her that we did not have to go to Barrow on the bus or train, I had a motorbike, a Triumph 350m cc. Tiger 80, garaged just down the road, and a spare crash helmet for her. Her face lit up. "This is a day of firsts for me. I've never been on a motorbike in my life, and I've always wanted to try it." We climbed into our clothes and she restored the birds nest of her hair to a semblance of order. We walked a couple of hundred yards to a block of garages on a former bombed site that sat between the shops like the hap a missing tooth leaves in a tramp's smile. I pushed the bike out, we put on our helmets and I explained about sitting straight upright and not trying to steer the bike around the potholes. Her arms came around my waist, and her chin rested on my left shoulder. I kicked the engine into life and it roared its roar. The long stroke of the single cylinder engine settled into a rumble. I swung my leg over and Vanessa climbed on behind me. In three minutes we were stopping a florist's on the Belgrave Road for a nice bunch of yellow rosebuds, then out towards Loughbrough. Ten minutes later we were in Quorn and turning right, over the humpbacked bridge, up Slash Lane and then left into Barrow. The Fourth Bridesmaid Ch. 02 Vanessa lived in a lovely double-fronted house on the corner of Bridge Street and High street. I parked the bike and we shook ourselves down. Mum was a stunner, an outward and visible sign of what Vanessa would look like in twenty years. She hugged Vanessa and kissed her soundly, then turned and folded me into a hug, and kissed me on one cheek, the other, and the first cheek again. "Hello and welcome Brian, I'm Madge and I can't say how glad I am to meet you." She led the way into the house and closed the door. "Nessie, your father got off the train an hour ago, and he has already talked to Tokyo and Singapore and now he's on the phone to Los Angeles. What are we to do with him? He's due to retire in nine months, and he's still trying to work a fourteen-hour day. Can't you do something? You're supposed to be taking some of the burden off his shoulders." "Mum I am only human. I suppose I could break his legs if that would help, but you know he'd find a way round it. If he doesn't come down to dinner, I'll go and drag him down by the ears." "I'll just go and put the vegetables on. Ness, you get your young man a stiff drink. I think he's in for the bright lights and rubber truncheon when your dad finally deigns to make an appearance." I got a lovely Speyside single malt, as smooth and deep as only the really great scotches can be. Vanessa came and sat down beside me and held my hand tightly. "She's only joking, darling. Dad won't say a cross word and neither will she. Anders Christiansen, Andy as he introduced himself, was a big, handsome man for whom the late sixties was the prime of life. He had a shock of white hair, and eyes and blue as his daughter's. The traces of a Scandinavian lilt were perceptible in his voice, and his smile was open and guileless. If he could be a hard bastard with a touch of ruthlessness, as he would have to be in his position, you could see no hint of it in this setting. At dinner we swapped war stories. He talked about the misery of the Norwegian campaign, where his friend Whitney Straight had flown a Hurricane in combat. He told with tears in his eyes how he had tried desperately to volunteer for a combat role at that time, but he was already far too old. I talked about pursuing and routing the Italians under my hero, General O'Connor, and the desperate, fatalist courage of the Polish Brigade at Monte Cassino. The women listened attentively, and every now and again refilled a glass with a rich, full-bodied burgundy. This was a male bonding, something sacred and mysterious to them both. We enjoyed a lovely meal, and sat companionably over drinks, then at around half past ten I rose to take my leave. I make no doubt that Vanessa would have been happy to accompany me, or that I could have stayed the night and shared a bed with her. But she needed time alone with her parents, so we kissed goodnight, and arranged to meet again at midday on Friday. The family waved me goodbye as I mounted my bike and headed home in the darkness. Part 2 demanded to be released immediately upon an unsuspecting world, and you can't say no to your children can you? I am still looking for suggestions on how to develop this story. It doesn't want to end just now.