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It had been a busy week at the palace. The festivities leading up to the Christmas period had kept me busy, but now, as servants dashed around in the great hall, I began to feel as if my plans were finally coming together. As a child, I had always dreamed of being entrusted with the Yule ball. It was the traditional job of the princesses at Blenheim, and as my sisters had grown older, married, and left our family home, it was now my turn.
My musings were interrupted by our housekeeper, Ms Dashwood. Attempting to balance several holly wreathes simultaneously, she rambled away, until I interrupted her by swooping one out of her grasp. “There is a woman outside for you,” She managed to stutter, swaying slightly under the weight of the decorations, “She’s here to help with the food.”
That’s strange, I thought. The catering team was supposed to be arriving late this afternoon.
“I see. Will I find her at the gate?”
Nodding, Ms Dashwood bounded off, leaving me to smooth down my dress in front of the wall-length mirror. I regarded myself for a moment.
Reaching to my face, I pushed back a lock of dark hair which had escaped from my ponytail. My neck seemed suddenly so exposed, without the usual cover of my wild hair. Drawing up the collar of my turtle neck towards my jawline, I turned on my heel, and swept out of the hall. The English cold blasted tiny daggers in my cheeks as I crossed the grand old courtyard and I soon found myself in the palace gardens. There, at the West gate, I spotted a woman I had never seen before. My visitor had donned a dark trench coat, strikingly outlining her figure against the snowy backdrop of the palace’s grounds. Her gloved hands were folded across her front, delicate and yet somehow menacing.
“I see the festivities have begun,” She remarked, gesturing towards my hands. I glanced down, bleary-eyed, and then saw that I was still grasping one of Ms Dashwood’s holly wreaths.
“Yes, quite.” I reply tightly, glancing over her face. She certainly cut a striking figure. Her rounded cheeks which plunged into a tight jawline made her face seem heart-shaped, cherub-like even, especially paired with her full lips. My grip around the wreath tightened.
“I can’t stay long, my driver is waiting.”
“Oh,” I felt myself say. There was a pause. I looked around, confusedly. “I was expecting news on the catering for this evening?”
“Ah yes,” the woman replied, and she clicked her fingers sharply, feigning remembrance. “The food, how could I forget.”
She strode over to me, crossing the space between us with an unexpected alacrity. Becoming suddenly close, I felt her eyes rove over my face, sucking the breath from me.
“I have some very specific tastes which I would like you to fulfil.” With her whisper, she gently took my arm. Fingering my wrist for a second, she travelled to my fingers and uncurled their grip around the holly wreath to reach for my palm. There, once exposed, she placed what looked like a Polaroid photo into my hand, face down. Drawing back, and looking into my eyes, she softly continued:
“I’ll see you this evening.”
I watched her turn on her heel, and saunter back to her car. Tearing my eyes away from her, I looked down at my hands. As I turned over the photograph, I let out a small yelp.
The photograph was me.
I don’t know how I managed to find my way back to my rooms but I suddenly found myself resting on the end of my bed. Staring down at the photo clutched in my hands, I squinted at the image.
Well, it was certainly me.
The photo was shot from the perspective of someone directly above me. I was lying down on my back, in a bed I did not recognise. Admittedly this was not all that surprising, as I was blindfolded in the picture. My hair was sprawled across the pillow perched beneath my head. I followed one of the wavy strands until I found its end, circling my wrists, which were tied in a single knot above my head, the taught material cutting into my skin. My lips were parted, and I could see a gasp emerging from them, almost hear it, even.
Even in the panicked state that my mysterious visitor had left me in, as I studied the photograph, a part of me couldn’t help but notice that I looked good. Was she going to blackmail me for being hot? I mean, for god’s sake, so a member of the royal family likes to get tied up and fucked every so often, would that be such a big deal? I considered it for a second… this photo on the front page of Tattler Magazine. Yes, actually it probably was best this did not get out.
I ran my mind furiously through the possible contenders who could have supplied the photograph. I had had my share of dalliances whilst at university in St Andrews, even some serious girlfriends, and looking back there were more than enough opportunities for them to take a photo akin to this nature. But surely none of them would release it to the highest bidder like this? The timing wouldn’t make sense either, why now? Not to mention Demetevler Escort the legal ramifications that my family lawyer had made plain to them if they spoke out. At this point, practically the sight of a Non-Disclosure-Agreement made me wet. It was simply standard foreplay.
Gazing down again, I studied the image more closely. The picture didn’t necessarily reveal that the person dominating me was even a woman (or person(s), in all fairness, my final year had been quite a liberating time). Studying further, my eyes were drawn to the left corner, just past the end of my bare stomach. My mouth went suddenly dry.
“Oh fuck.” I softly whispered.
Just there, in the corner, barely perceptible but certainly present, was the beginning of a thigh, wrapped around my waist. My photographer had been straddling me when they took the shot. They had been careful to not catch themselves in its lens, but despite their best efforts, I could glimpse the beginning of a small tattoo, etched on their upper thigh. I knew who those legs belonged to. A thrill of panic crept up my spine. This was bad. Oh my god, this was very, very bad.
My panic was interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Jolting upwards, I managed to squeak out a sound that hopefully resembled a ‘Come in’ to my visitor. To my relief, it was Ms Dashwood, who rushed in immediately, her mind evidently still racing through the plans for the ball.
“I have your dress for this evening Miss” she began brightly, laying the garment out on the bed. As she smoothed out the fabric, I felt her eyes fall on my face, in a look filled with pity and apprehension. I couldn’t blame her for her concern. I must have looked a mess, which she might have attributed to the weighty connotations of the stylish cargo she had just delivered to me.
The dress had been picked out for me by my stepmother, who picked out all of my clothes for public gatherings, especially for ones as public as tonight. I knew how Ms Dashwood must perceive this gesture of control. I mean, a young princess tragically loses her mother, evil stepmother steals away her widower father, and then imposes her reign of tyranny on his vulnerable offspring? It was the perfect Grimm’s fairy tale, and I always appreciated her concern for me.
“Thank you, that will be all.” I attempted a smile, waiting for her to leave the room before I moved towards the dress. It was, as always, a beautiful gown. The midnight blue velvet rippled in my fingers as I traced the material. Holding it up against my body in the floor-length mirror, I imagined slipping into it this evening, visualising how the silky fabric would cling to the hourglass of my waist, the curve of my thighs. How it would clasp at the dip, in my lower back.
I hung the dress against my mahogany wardrobe and left my quarters. There was too much still to be done for that evening to wallow any further. I was simply too busy for a stationary breakdown. Busing myself in the great hall, directing food in one place, drinks in another, decorations over there, I desperately racked myself to address this new problem. Should I just abdicate now? Flee to the Bahamas? They are technically still in the commonwealth. Amongst these thoughts, I realised that despite my panic, that cherub face, and its snowy backdrop, kept swimming back into my mind. I chuckled. If I was going to be blackmailed, at least there was eye candy.
Finally, the evening came, and I began to welcome my guests. I was dressed in my instructed gown, and felt all eyes on me as I traversed through the dance hall, greeting everyone. I had paired the dress with a pearl necklace, one of my mother’s old treasures, and a pair of sapphire earrings, the exact shade of its material. As I was greeting the prince and princess of Saxe-Coburg, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Ms Dashwood, who, unless my eyes deceived me, seemed to have helped herself to a large sum of the palace’s sherry.
“It’s that woman again, Miss. The one about the food.” Oh shit.
“Ah yes,” I flashed her a smile. Extending a polite, “Would you please excuse me” to my guests, I followed Ms Dashwood to a darkened corner of the hall. Sure enough, there she was, in the same black trench coat as that morning, although I could not help noticing that she had her hair down this time. I enjoyed how the dark ringlets surrounded her face. She must have caught me staring, because as I approached she smirked, and raised her eyebrows slightly in surprise. God, what weird, sexy Stockholm syndrome was this?
“Has somebody got you a drink?” I asked her immediately, sending ‘fuck off’ eyes to Ms Dashwood who scurried away. I sip my own glass, hoping my question has thrown my blackmailer off her game slightly. This was my ball after all.
“No.” She replied smoothly “I won’t be staying long.”
Relief overtakes me. But, am I also kind of, disappointed? She certainly has me intrigued.
“I just came Otele gelen escort to give you this.” Suddenly we were very close again, and her eyes were gazing intently into my own, just like at the palace gate this morning. I felt my knees tremble, as her hand grazed my waist, before tucking something into my clutch bag.
“That’s my business card.” She murmured softly, not breaking eye contact. “Give me a call tomorrow.” Her gaze flickered down to my lips for a brief second. “I don’t suppose I have to tell you not to mention any of this to anyone?”
“Right, yes.” I hurry. I can feel how my cheeks have begun to burn at her touch. I see the corner of her mouth go upwards. God someone’s enjoying themselves. This woman was born to intimidate princesses. I watch her stride off, exiting the hall. I was about the reach for my bag to see what she had placed there, before I was stopped in my tracks.
I felt a spark of energy fly through me, and a pair of eyes fastening themselves on the back of my head. Turning to face the hall, filled with dancing guests, I see her. She is leaning against a pillar, standing next to my father. Her green eyes, visible even from across the ballroom, stare blazingly at me. I watch her push herself off the pillar’s edge, and tap my father to indicate her departure. Then, reaching slowly for the fabric on her upper thigh, she raised the hem of her dress, before gliding towards me. My stomach lurches as she approaches. Her dress is a deep green, contrasting shockingly with her ivory skin, which I glimpse through the subtle leg slit in her gown. The ballroom lights glance off her shoulders and face, illuminating her. All of her blonde hair has been gathered into a loose bun at the back of her head, and her lips are painted red. Before I know it, she is by my side, observing the room with me.
“It is quite the sight, isn’t it?”
I gulp. My stepmother’s gaze remains intently fixed on the dancing around us, not looking at me to respond. Predictably, I blush slightly, not answering.
“Although not all guests are as welcome as others.” She continues. My heart rate goes up exponentially. Looks like my secret will be coming out quicker than even I could have predicted.
I nod, but she has not waited for my response, and has already began striding to a back entrance. Glancing to ensure no one has seen us, I follow her hurriedly. Silently, she leads me down into the servant’s quarters, into a derelict room which I think used to be used by the pastry chefs. I step gingerly through the doorway and cross to the back wall. I can still hear the music above us, and the sound of hurried feet. My step mother remains by the door, gently pushing it shut. Reminding me of her stance against the pillar upstairs, she leans her head back against the door for a second, examining me.
“You know I love you in that colour.”
Her voice is level, but something is flashing behind her clear green eyes. Is this finally going to happen again? I would have worn this dress to breakfast if I had known. Taking my chance, I slowly move towards her, reaching for her hand. In a familiar action, I raise it to my face, and press my full lips against her wrist, careful not to break eye contact. I see something give way inside her, and her ferocity, her longing, overtakes.
“I have missed you, my girl.” She murmurs.
I don’t know how it happened but suddenly our mouths are pressing hungrily against each other in a desperate kiss. She wastes no time before pushing her tongue into me, searching for my own. Her hands find my waist and clenched me tightly against her. We spend a second by the door, roughly exploring each other’s mouths before she stops the kiss to stare at me steadily. I cast my eyes down her dress, until they rest on the top of her leg slit, which had only been perceptible when she had been striding across the ballroom towards me. I realise now that this was probably entirely intentional on her part, a show just for me. Reaching down, my fingers open the gap slightly, to reveal the tattoo on her upper thigh.
I look up at her face again. Her right eyebrow is arched, and a small smile is playing across the corners of her mouth. Suddenly she seems to remember something, and the smile is gone, although her arms remain encircled around my waist.
“Marianna. Who was that woman?”
“No one.” I smiled, my hunger for that kiss again ensures that my lie has some composure. My mouth feels empty without her lips on mine. But her eyes remain fixed on me, unrelenting. I can see something playing across her mind. She even looks a little unsure, and I realise with a small thrill that she is jealous. Oh, this is too good.
“Mistress,” I begin, raising my hand to trace her collar bone, and pausing, before leaning into her ear. “You know your little girl has no one apart from you.”
The words were barely out of my mouth before her lips were Balgat Escort on me again. Firmly she begins pushing me backwards, and soon I feel my lower back hit what must be the counter. Her hands move from my cheeks to grab my backside, pulling me upwards to then lift me onto the surface.
God, she always surprised me by how strong she is. I remember the first time this happened. How roughly she had had me. These memories wash over me, and my eyes close, almost involuntarily under her assault, I feel her grab my jawline and shove my face so that it points upwards, allowing herself access to my throat. My lips fall open letting out a gasp.
I realise with frustration how desperate I am for the attention which she has denied me for weeks. A small part of me hates the way that I always let her do this: ignore me, dress me how she pleases, and then have me whenever she wants, however she wants it. But at this moment, as her kisses persist down my neck, I know a larger part of me does not care.
Reaching for her shoulders I pull her into me, crushing the space between us as my legs wrap around her waist. I feel the vibrations on my skin as she growls, animalistic and gruff, into my neck between kisses. I grinned to myself. It’s good to know I’m not the only one who has missed our meetings. Only I can make her like this. So glamorous, so poised in public, and completely undone in our quietude together. Moaning, my hands leave her shoulders and grab at the back of her neck, the way I know that she loves. This clearly works, as suddenly I feel her hand leave my face and begin to reach hungrily for the bottom of my dress. Knowing what she wants, I help her eagerly, and hike up the material so that it bulks around my waist, leaving my inner thighs exposed.
To my surprise, she paused. Her look is questioning.
“What?” I breathe out, unable to keep my voice stable. My fingers remain pressed into her neck. I feel my ankles curl further around the back of her thighs, betraying my desire.
“Are you sure?”
I could laugh. Am I sure? She’d never asked me that before. She must have read my confusion in my expression, and sighed, still millimetres away from my lips.
“Tonight has seemed… intense, for you. You have appeared distracted.”
She could fucking say that again. I just nod slightly, my continued arousal wishing that she would stop talking and just fuck me already. It’s not like she’d ever cared about my internal being before? Well, not my spiritual insides anyway. She continued.
“I suppose you are getting older now.” She murmured, stroking back the loose hair which had fallen onto my face. “With that comes your own mind. I suppose I can see how this arrangement might not suit you anymore.”
A part of me wants to point out that my stepmother fucking me in the servant’s quarters did not get more inappropriate the older I was. In fact, it was surely the opposite? If I had to choose in like, the world’s weirdest greek tragedy themed game show that is.
Her eyes look at me questioningly. I know she wants some kind of verbal response but the heartbeat in my pussy was proving hard to ignore. Choosing another route, I smile in what I hope is a sufficiently reassuring and yet ultimately suggestive manner, and guide her hand between my legs. With this gesture of consent done, I see her eyes darken. The emotion which had seemed like concern left as suddenly as it had come. She let out another growl as her hand found the wetness which had pooled between my legs. Back to her usual self, she wasted no more time, and I gasped as her fingers plunged inside me.
I moaned, pressing my lips hard against her neck, running my tongue over her skin.
God, it had been so long. I had even been eyeing up the guardsmen for the past few weeks in my depravity, but there was nothing like her. Losing myself in the feeling of those fingers, softly curling inside me, I forgot about the evening I had just had, and my body responded by clinging desperately to her. I knew instantly that it was not going to take long. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, lifting my hips to allow her to reach deeper inside me.
“Does my little princess like that?” She breathed out into my ear, between thrusts. I felt the smile in her ragged voice, panting against my skin. A shudder of pleasure rushed through me from this question alone. God, I love it when she says horrible things like that.
“Yes, you know your princess loves it when you fuck her.” I manage to breathe out, as her thrusts quickened, scooting me further and further back along the counter. My head hit the kitchen wall. She would normally drag this out for much longer, and make me wait for it. But saw from the darkness clouding her eyes that she wanted me to come as much as I did. My hands groped for the wall so that I could push back against her thrusting hand.
“Harder, please. Fuck me harder -” I panted out. Her moans against my neck intensified at these words. Shifting on her feet to get better leverage, she moved her hand expertly to thrust in and out of me harder and harder. Both our heads were close to the wall suddenly, and being shoved roughly against the bricks only drove me closer to my orgasm. I felt her thumb begin to graze gently against my clit, and this sensation was all it took to much me over the edge.
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