2 comments/ 8124 views/ 0 favorites The Dressing Table By: CamillaHumby Dressed, she poses, not showing her interest in his reaction. His eyes move just as she desired. "Good," she thinks, and moves just a bit, noting his flushed response. Flustered, he stammers a 'good-day', she nods, and he walks out. A smile she permits herself, noting her carefully cultivated prettiness in the mirror of her dressing table, she stands and begins unbuttoning her dress. She leaves her pearls about her throat, anticipating the effect over her nude breasts. They were a gift from him, she wondered if it was too much, the calculus of this overwhelming her, fascinating her, surprisingly arousing to her. She sees her neck and chest flush about the pearls. She feels she has given something of herself in wearing them for him to see. What would he expect in return? She notes another smile, for yielding to him, excruciatingly slowly, pleased her in a way she felt was scandalous. Not the yielding, but the pleasure she took in it. Her dress unbuttoned, she gathered it and pulled it over her head, releasing it once free and holding it before her. It was a pretty thing, purchased quite dearly and fitted over and over until it was precisely the her she wished in her mirror. She walked to the closet, found the hanger made especially for this dress, and hung it carefully. She stooped to spread the train, admired it once more, and exited her closet before she began an extended tour in planning her appearance for the rest of the weekend. He did not know how he played in her calculations, what reactions she planned for each encounter, the satisfaction she took each time she predicted correctly, the despair she felt when she feared he had not noticed the feature that she wished promoted. What did men see in women? Could it be far simpler than she thought? Not possible, she concluded, they are easy enough to guide, but it cannot be so obvious. Turning, she found her way to the dressing table, gazing at her form over the multitude of pretty jars and bottles, the endless modalities of color, scent, and texture in the various options for the proper presentation at times of day, days of week, seasons of the year, and infinite web of relationships now here, desired to be there, this bottle to ensure the finest material is saved for her dressmaker, this jar to provide just the right sheen to catch his eye in a room lit with candles and one great fire, this small box precisely right for a chance (is there such a thing? no, she dismissed the possibility) encounter by moonlight. Oh, yes, one's appearance guided the decisions that others made about you that could ensure success or guarantee failure. She knew all this at an exquisitely young age, practicing on those about her, laughing with her friends at their failures, crying alone and with her closest friend when the best they could do just didn't quite work. She removed her slip, teasing herself with a strip before the glass, wiggling just so, presenting the curves one by one, realizing she was quite literally practicing for him. There, she thought, he must be the one. Was it his eyes, his shoulders, those absurdly large hands? The pearls, she fingered them, it was definitely the pearls. Of course, in accepting them, she had given herself away. Now he knew the next level of liberty would be permitted, didn't he? Well, we'll see, she thought. She trusted herself to work all the sums when the time came and to react correctly given the situation. He was certainly becoming her man, though she was sure he did not know what that meant, yet, but she intended his education to continue. She set a determined look, glanced at the mirror, and had to stifle a giggle at herself. She removed her earrings and placed them in her jewelry box. Standing, she reached behind herself and unclasped her brassiere, throwing it on the bed. She seriously examined her breasts in the mirror, the pretty pearls hanging down just so, above them, the curves in this direction complementing those, the cute pink points growing at her (embarrassment?, or was that what she called her arousal, now?) reaction to seeing her nude torso and knowing she was practicing it's presentation to her future husband. No, he would not see it until after they were wed. Before, and he might not like what he'd seen. She turned, wiggled, watched herself in the mirror. No, a second thought, he would fall desperately in love with her and become a nuisance, just wanting to see them over and over, or heaven forbid, wanting to touch them. With those broad hands, the fingertips, touching her so softly, like so, caressing (how did he know?) so softly, then firmly squeezing them (like this...) kneading their complex texture, feeling the sudden rush of warmth beneath his palms, the nipples growing so firm, so hard, he bent to take them in his lips...) She broke away from herself, fanning herself, was she losing her perspective? Did her charms fall away so easily? Was she in love? She imagined him naked, had him pirouette in her imagination as she turned before her mirror, her breasts swinging before him, displaying herself for his pleasure. his hands sliding down her waist to her hips, finding the band of her panties, the lace no challenge to his powerful arms, slipping down, down, baring her pussy to his gaze. She pulled the flimsy fabric back up, naughty imagination! The panties were beautiful, lacy, transparent, the carefully crafted shape of her pubic hair kept trimmed into a heart above her ... showing through the pastel green flimsy. Yes, it's there, it's our road to heaven, but first you must... first, you must, be worthy, be you. This will all be simpler if at the precisely correct moment, you simply take me. Force me. Give me no choice but to surrender. We are the weaker sex, slaves to our emotion, no match for your cold calculating logic, your burning insistent lust, your steel hard manhood. She slides the panties down, they fall to her ankles, she drops her head in the mirror and steps out of them, sodden, and surrenders (she peeks upward to be sure her pose is true, that her future husband will know he has defeated her utterly and can claim what is his and his, alone. Now she stands, she sees, quite naked, her makeup heavy-day formal, her pearls drawing attention down to the most feminine breasts, signaling her fertility and virginity, the gaze automatically dropping to the quite natural maturity of the hairy middle above the strategically remaining hose and heels. Her legs were her best feature, she thought, and she dressed to provide him a glimpse of the lovely things he'd find twined about him if he proved himself to her. She hoped he'd caress them, endlessly, the softness and moisture maintained carefully for his future touch, his fingertips gliding around her calves, kneading , stroking, caressing, surreptitiously working their way up toward her thighs, so forward, this one, he glides toward her middle, did he want to touch it, her pussy, rub it, inflame it with his touch, the lips reddening in the mirror, swelling, parting, inviting, ready for his finger to pierce her, to glide within? Her legs falling open, surrendering to him, the light skin of her inner thighs guiding him to what he wanted to what she wanted. She could feel his finger inside her, joined by a second, sliding in until she felt his knuckles against her, Her hands above her head, grasping the bedclothes, His head bending to kiss her face, her cheeks, her eyelids, yes, now softly closed, her mouth parted slightly. an "oh" of surprise, passion, arousal, surrender just passing her lips, his fingers sliding in, out, in, out, now her hips, trembling, match his rhythm, traitors, thrust toward him, aiding the caress, signaling her readiness that he might that he might that he The sound of his zipper intrudes, she turns her head, clasps her eyes tightly, he moves closer to her, his finger, no, his fingers grasp her hips, raising them to him, a fiery hot, so soft, so hard, so huge tip touches her lips, gaping wide, their color so red, inviting him into her (Yes) And now, those beautiful legs, now hanging in space, the stockings, one fallen, the heels, up He pulls her to him, fully, he's so strong, So insistent, she Feels His strength, The shaft filling her the thrusting Fulfilling her Her hand flies over her, the rubbing, her hand a blur, her pleasure is her Now, now, now, NOW yes It's him His seed spills in her, it's too much, it fills, it runs out. She sees stars, spinning, she faints. yes, It's him. A knock. "Just a minute." She finds a gown, wraps herself. "Who is it?" A delivery boy, what? She can only hope. She cracks the door, exchanges some singles for a large box. Roses? She dares... Closes the door, opens the box. They're Red. She leaves the card for later. She knows. She puts them in water, and, Turns To the table. Smiling. The Dressing Table Ch. 02 He's gone now. I sit alone at my dressing table, my gown disheveled, still wrapped around me. My perfume of vanilla and patchouli floats on the air, as does his scent of the outdoors and tobacco smoke. It is a pleasant mixture, mindful of our relationship. I play the delicate flower, he the rough woodsman. I shiver as I remember his hands on my skin, not quite scratching, but firm, strong, unrelenting. I gaze at my nails, shiny crimson, done and re-done in preparation for our evening together. He supplies whatever I need to be pleasing to his sight, to be admired by his friends, to be desirable as his consort. Tonight I won his smile and I wonder, was it my hair, my gown, my makeup? I never know, I'll never know. I reach behind and re-fasten the clasp at the back of my neck, then undo it again. I pull down the dress and reveal my breasts fully in the mirror. Ah, Ladies, you cast your magic tonight! He stared at you, repeatedly, when he thought no one was looking. He planned his assault on you throughout the evening, and wooed me that I provide my favors lovingly once we were alone. Silly man, he knows I love him and would have him make love to me anytime, any place, but it's nice to know he thinks I'm worth the effort. His gifts, his sweet words, his loving attention make my life so full, so complete. His deference to my feelings and the respect he gives me in public, with his friends and their wives and girlfriends, are the currency of my wealth. Yes, dear husband, it is you I love, It is to you I pledge my favors. That you find my breasts fascinating makes me blush even now, your kisses on them still moist in the soft light here. See the nipples freshen as I remember? They are lovely, aren't they? "My curves, your pleasure", you said. I touch the petulant nipple with my fingertip. You'd like to watch me pleasure myself, wouldn't you? I can't do it as well as you. This moan escaping my lips is yours, my love. I stand, slip the gown down about my hips. My belly, still flat for now, a plane of pride for me, a downy field yearns for your hands to stroke me once more. You love my tummy and kiss it thoroughly in your passion, patient to wait for the pleasures to be found somewhat lower. You know how I love your lips about my belly, nibbling and kissing, winning the field again and again. It stirs me, remembering the tickle of your evening face on me as you kneel before your lady, soon to be your lover once again. Careful, my Master, there's a zip before you slide my gown off my hips. I slap playfully at your strong forearms as if I could stop you ripping it off and you pause in alarm. I chid you as I would a child but I unzip the waistband, slowly, lovingly as befits a gown of this exquisite beauty, I do not draw it down, however. That is your right, your privilege as my husband. Uncover your prize as slowly as you wish. I gaze at your strong shoulders, your broad back, your loving eyes as they take in the wonder of my slight form, your adoration of my beauty, the glamour I've cast about me as gift to the man that I love. My belly fully adored, you touch me there once last time in your exploration. Your child sleeps there though I haven't told you, yet. Love me fully tonight, dear man, and I'll give you the good news in the morning. We sleep apart, yet, you see. He provided me a large suite all my own, my bath and dressing room just so, my closets of clothing ample and rich. Yet, my favorite is this dressing table. I make my face for your, my love, here, in this light, at this place. When you find me tardy for our evenings out, it is here I have tarried, making myself beautiful for you. See, this curl must do this, this eyelash must be here. My art is ancient, my devotion to how you see me deep inside what makes me female. Our differences challenging, yet pleasing to us, together. We've never needed any music but our own. I yearn for your hands now, at this time, before this mirror. How cruel you are to leave me. Shall I call you back? Yes, once I've dressed for bed, prepared my skin to sleep. Will you come back with the promise of a single kiss? I believe you shall. I stand once more, and drop the gown away and hold it up before the mirror. It is a lovely thing. You told me it cost as much as the first brace of horses you bought for yourself. My eyes must have looked hurt, for you hugged me and reassured me that this was the ultimate purchase of your life except that you would buy a million more to dress me so beautifully forever. I let your sweet kisses, carefully applied so as to not disturb my makeup just as I taught you, win back my smile and I gave you a quick peck on your cheek to show you I was placated. I took this opportunity to whisper in your ear, "Ravage me tonight, husband. I need your cock deep inside me." After all this time, you still blush when I play the wanton with you. "And a spanking," you whispered back, biting my ear just about the earring. "Yes, of course," to anyone listening as you smiled at me. Your hand brushed my bottom. You wouldn't find out until later I wore no undergarment beneath the dress. I hang the gown carefully and step back before the mirror to gaze upon your treasure before I cover it back up for bed. I only know what men want by what you've wanted from me since our romance began. It is the singular blessing of my life that you find what I see in the mirror so pleasing. My face still firm, my breasts still titled upward (what will the baby do to them, I shudder) the nipples aimed directly toward your mouth for now, as long as wear this heels. I pause to consider my legs, without blemish covered in the fine silk stockings you buy me. One of the first demands you made upon me once I accepted your offer of engagement was that your family would provide me all my hosiery from that moment forward. A tradition, you said, and whispered that you wished only your gift to be next to my legs for the rest of my life. Of course I thanked you for the gift and have remained true to my pledge. I pause and roll them down carefully, sensually, just the way you would. I slip my heels off, pull the silk away and place them beside the table. I find my legs too plump, but you correct me repeatedly. You love them, especially, and caress them when we're alone. A secret leg and foot man, are we, husband? I love it when you massage them with creme, kissing and licking, delighting in suckling each toe in turn. I shiver, again, at the memory, and look ashamedly at the mirror. I left you kissing my belly earlier tonight, didn't I? That was not the end of your lovemaking, thank god. You slide the gown down slowly as I watched the top your head. In your passion, you grasped my bottom and I thrilled to the touch of your hands there. I love your taking me, giving me no choice but to accept your caresses. Oh, I press on your arms, delighting in my helplessness as you kiss my pussy for the first time tonight. Your hair looks like that of a wolf from my view above and your attentions become stronger, more forceful. How long your tongue is, Mr. Wolf, as it covers my thighs and tummy in your slaver. My hands stop trying to push you away and I find myself pressing your mouth harder to me. I wiggle to open the crevice to your exploring tongue, and you laugh as it finds my rosebud, standing proud yearning for your attention. "Not yet, my pretty," you laugh and you quickly stand, then sit on the chair in my dressing room that is designated as your own. You turn me this way and that, then force me across your knees. "I promised you a spanking, you naughty wife, didn't I? "Yes, dear Master, but haven't I acceded to every wish since then? Can we forego my punishment, so richly deserved, if I promise to ---?" "NO," he shouts, "Your words had the most lascivious effect upon me. As my trousers were so tight, it was most uncomfortable!" "Oh, please, husband, I would deny you nothing," this from the ungainly posture of lying across his knees, "Let me play the French ----?", begging, pleading. He slaps me not too firmly once on each buttock, "There, I am a man of his word, it's done! Now, on your knees before me and make good your promise!" I get up and kneel before him, whimpering (of course, I love this more than he, but once cast, the part must be played.) I reach up, unzip his trousers and smiling, reach in and pull out his cock. "Kiss it, quick, wife, lest I be vexed!" I love it when he talks this way. Silly me. I take him inside my mouth and begin a vigorous suckling, my hands and lips and tongue all over him just as he taught me. He notices, though, when tears run down my cheeks. "Stop, wife, why are your crying?" "Tonight has been perfect, my Lord, but my tears are my frustration." "What frustrates you, my love, my dear?" "I'm so angry. I want your cock deep inside me!" His eyes soften and he strokes my head, "There, there, my dear, you know I love you, I desire you to the core of my being and want you to be happy in all things." "Yes, you do, and I know it. I am the happiest wife possible and I hope you're pleased with me. I just want you to fuck me. Now." He turns me toward my bed and bends me over it. I feel his fingers probing the crevice of my bottom, teasing my anus, even flicking inside it briefly, Then something much, much bigger finds the lips of my pussy and pushes them aside. His thing finds no resistance and he buries himself deep inside me. "Oh, husband, oh," words become a moan of pleasure as he begins his rhythm of loving attention. The wolf returns and I don't think the man is fully responsible for the ravaging he gives me. He knows he must pay no attention to my needs, to my pleasure while he does this - if I say, "Fuck", I mean I want him to take me and let me find my own way. "Don't' hold back", I told him. I'm transported, enjoying the pure sensation of his hands around my waist, holding my hips, the cock running fully in and out, in and out. He pulls out completely and I get the sensation again and again of being used for his pleasure of being his woman, his fuck toy. I surrender to him, let him use me this way. My sounds of pleasure match his own. No words, no words. I feel it building. I feel it. Yes, It begins. He explodes inside me. How can there be so much? It is my favorite sensation, being washed with his seed. (Can't get me any more pregnant than I am, husband!) My pleasure ebbs away and he collapses on the bed next to me. I turn to him, he smiles, guiltily, and pulls me close for a kiss. It is a sweet, loving kiss, not demanding, just communicating his love for me. He's so sweet just after he's come. It's so lovely. His hands stroke me here, there, he finds my breasts and squeezes them, pinching my nipples with his fingers. He pauses, calls me his 'love', his 'dear', his 'sweet, sweet wife.' "There, my dear, is that what you wanted?" "Oh, yes, husband, yes, thank you for ..." He places his finger over my mouth, "There, my love, no words, just kiss me once more." I do. He places a small box in my hands. "For you, my love." "Ooooh, what is it?" "Open it and see!" I tear away the ribbon and open the box and the jewelry box within. It's a beautiful ruby ring, the central stone surrounded with tiny diamonds. I squeal, place it on my finger, and hug him. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" "You're welcome. It's an early anniversary present. It came today and I thought I wouldn't wait to see you so happy." I hugged him again, "You are the best husband in the world. I love you so, so much." "I love you, too." His smile so broad. He loves it when he hits the target, just in the center. "Why didn't you give it to me earlier? I'd have finished the oral pleasure or offered you my ---" "You don't require gifts to give me everything sexually that I could imagine any man would want." (Thank you, God, for this man and his love. Thank you!) "Let me promise you something extra, every day, until our next anniversary." He is intrigued, "I'm not sure I should let you promise when you're so overcome with emotion. It seems --- unseemly." "Please, husband, I'm so happy. Let me promise!" "Very well, but tell me you know I'll hold you to it." "Every day until our next anniversary...if you don't' get a blow job from these lips...it'll be because you stopped me." He laughs, "I love that promise! I accept, even if I do know that you love giving it as much as I love getting it." "I'll wear this ring every day to remind me. I'll only ask one thing in return?" "You didn't ask that first, so I'll see. What do you want?" "Please sleep with me. Every night." He nods, smiling, "Yes, I think it's time. I love you, honey." "I love you, too." He leaves to have an after love brandy, as is his habit. I pull on my clothes, again, and gaze into the mirror. This time, he'll be back. I wonder if he'll bring me a drink? Gotta lay off the alcohol, I guess...