NSFW. Unapologetic Pornography. Adults Only Please
The train decellerated, entering the station, coming to a stop with a groaning of the brakes. The passengers disembarked, not like in the movies of the Thirties or Forties, but as modern, mundane travellers, tugging on the wheeled suitcases, or their backs bearing rucksacks, as if a cadre of Quasimodos had come to town.
Flor was the last passenger to climb off, carrying what was once known as a makeup case. She would have been mortified, had the latch failed, the contents exposed to the motley crowd of travellers, There was the makeup to be sure, but also a glass dildo, butt plug, a butterfly vibrator. and a “bullet”. Most embarrassing would have been the knickers she had been wearing only minutes ago, she removed in the unspeakable toilet.
“Miss Flor?” asked the uniformed chauffer, a muscular young man, with large hands and manicured nails. He took her case without asking. Flor obliged with no protest.
“Captain Lettow is waiting in the car. Please follow me.”
Flor was more than curious and no less fearful. Accepting invitations from strange men on dating sites seemed reckless, but a site for those with “peculiar” interests would seem to bring out the kamikaze in an otherwise sane woman. But she said to herself, “Why not?” as her partner dozed away, the CPAP machine working in the background. That was a week ago.
Instructions followed the next day in a Fed Ex envelope. It listed certain “expectations”, nothing so blatant as demands. In it was an American Express gift card for three thousand dollars. She was to buy a tailored suit, and high heels. She was pleased that a quality shop carried a suit that flattered her more than ample buttocks and that the heels, while high, did not have an absurd spike to them. She loved the expensive silk of the pants suit, a stunning black in the style of a tuxedo, but with a short tailored jacket and notched lapels. The white tuxedo shirt with the pleats and studs was a pleasure to wear, opaque, so leering eyes could not see that the silk camisole next to her skin aroused her. The Captain specified. “No bra.” She complied. Intensifying the feeling she was reliving an old movie was the hat she found at a vintage clothier. It was as if Ingrid Bergmann, Marlene Dietrich or Hedy Lamarr had loaned it to her.
The chauffeur escorted her to the limousine, parked defiantly in a taxi space.
“If you would put her case in the boot, Barrows, Madame Flor will not have need of it.”
Flor was surprised, but not surprised, as the man with the short cropped salt and pepper hair, and the authoritative voice, turned to her, greeting her through the open car window.
“It is truly my pleasure to finally meet you. I am Karl Lettow.” Barrows then opened the door, and Lettow climbed out. He took her extended hand and kissed it. Shaking hands was clearly too plebeian a gesture for this Continental gentleman. It was as if the past 104 years had never happened. And Flor had to tell herself, she had just left a train after a long trip from Savannah, not a long trip from Nice, arriving in Paris.
Lettow stated, ” I had a history professor who had a sign on his desk, “Live In The Past. It’s Cheaper.” It said. Good advice. That has something to do with why you were instructed to use the train. The ride allows one to collect their thoughts, see the world at ground level, and listen to the sounds of motion.”
“They certainly did that Karl, or do I call you Captain?”
Truth be told, the chauffeured limo ride made her feel partly like an heiress of very old money and partly like a teenager on her way to the prom. But the Captain, The Captain, was the cultured and courteous retired Naval officer, his biography said he was. The decoration ribbon in his lapel was a Navy Cross, she learned from the internet. Could he really be 74? Everything about him reflected the story of his naval and diplomatic career, Navy special warfare officer, and a defence attaché at embassies in the more unsavory parts of a brutal world. In short, there would be things about this man she would never know. Nor want to know.
It wasn’t the classic mansion with the ivy-covered brick wall surrounding it, but it was dignified and imposing enough, she noted as the Rolls entered through the security gate, the guard, a grey haired man with a prosthetic hand, greeted them.
“I see it’s your shift tonight Chief. Good to see you,” the Captain greeted him.
“Cruz’s grandson has a football game tonight. I scheduled myself, so he wouldn’t have to ask for the night off.”
“Carry on, Chief.” It was as if the courtesy so ingrained in The Captain carried through to all around him.
There was a Ladies maid to greet Flor, take her case, and show her her room. She informed Flor that dinner would be at Nine, (“Spanish” hours) and would she like to bathe, enjoy some mineral water, perhaps allow her to fix her makeup. She could choose from several Dior evening dresses for dinner. She chose the green silk dress, with the enticing decolletage, After her bath, shower actually, Greta the maid, did do her makeup, brushed out her hair. Nonchalantly she offered to wax her pubic mound, as casually as if she were inquiring about a manicure.
Flor replied with equal naturalness, “Yes, please,”, as Greta led her to the massage table in the spacious dressing area. Greta was undoubtedly an expert in these skills. After another mineral water, Flor was ready, coiffed, dressed, about to offer herself to this gentleman, this affable and courtly rogue.
Dinner was as relaxed and effortless as if Flor and The Captain were old chums, not a pair looking for an “experience.”
The dinner, an elegant Dover sole, was delightful. The dessert of fruit and sorbet was a perfect complement to the heavy sauce of the entré. Florent noted the absence of any wines or liqueurs. The Captain would have his wits about him, she knew with certainty.
The Captain dismissed the staff. He looked deeply into Flor’s eyes and asked.
“Why are you here, Flor? You’re too old to play Cinderella, Liza Doolittle, or even Sally Bowles.”
“There’s something missing, Sir. Words fail me. It’s just that I can’t take another day of imagining, then denying. Imagining what it’s like to be paddled like a school girl, then used like a pirate’s whore, and flogged again.. I want my will and what few morals I have left to be dropped at the dungeon door.
The Captain assumed command. What else could his action be called? It was his nature to take. He took her by the hand, drew her to him and kissed her. Slowly, with building intensity, his kisses fired her. His hands caressed her back. She responded with intensity that heightened with every moment. She feverishly stripped the gown off, standing before him naked. His eyes looked down, she dropped to her knees, unbuttoned his trousers and took his penis in her mouth.
Was this a move in a game, a tried and choreographed pas de deux, or the burning inside her losing control?She sucked his prick, then deftly pulled his trousers down, digging her nails into his buttocks.
“By God, you are a whore, aren’t you? How long have you dreamed of being this Captain’s bitch?”
“Bitch” resounded in her ears as if it were the highest accolade she could receive. Turning him, her fingers spread his ass cheeks and she tongued his anus skillfully, her pleasure, her duty.
Finally, lifting her to her feet, he led her to the leather couch, draped her body over the back, presenting an open, slutty, and shameless view of her cunt and her asshole. She wondered how she would be used, but she didn’t care. Captain’s Choice? Wasn’t that the expression?
She stopped her wondering when she felt a gob of spit hit her asshole, then a lubed finger toyed with her butt, then two, skillfully thrusting, then pulling almost out. She felt so open, so ready, and then his cock entered her anus, just as his hand sharply swatted her buttocks. There was his thrusts, her grinding her ass into his thighs, his wet fingers diddling her clit, his grunting, her deep gutteral noises she had no idea were inside of her.
She felt his semen spurt into her guts. He collapsed over her, kissing her neck. After a silent interval, as his prick went flaccid, he left her there, walked out of the room. And she was alone.
How long?, she wondered, would she be here, on this couch, contemplating her buggering. She was, in this moment, the whore she dreamt of being.