The dream deposited me into the middle of this woman’s life, somehow knowing everything about her past. Sometimes I saw the events as a bystander, sometimes the dream shifted and I experienced it as if I was her. As it was a dream, it didn’t bother accounting for things that would be anachronistic to us.
She woke up alone in her bed, but immediately squeezed her eyes shut again, remembering that the events from the night before. She forced herself out of the bed, and started dressing. It seemed to be some time period early in the twentieth century, as she wore a corset under a long dress, with a somewhat full skirt and pinned her hair up before leaving the room.
I saw snatches of what had happened the night before to agitate her as she dressed. She had been at a dinner to entertain her husband’s visitors, in a small but posh basement restaurant, somewhere in the city. The nicest in this neighborhood of the city, the portion that he controlled, with dark oak panels, silver settings, gas lights dimly glowing. She knew without being told it was to impress something of his power and influence upon these out-of-town guests, or her attendance wouldn’t have been compelled.
He sat at the head of the long table, holding court, pretending to be the civil gentleman he most certainly was not. And at some point during the interminable evening of forced small talk on her part, she caught a flash of color in her peripheral vision from the other end of the table. Turning, she saw with dawning horror that it was exactly who she labored to avoid his mistress, standing out vividly with her bright blonde hair and a garish pink satin dress. She seemed to be swaying somewhat drunkenly on the arm of her escort and had a scowl on her face directed down the long table at him that indicated impending disaster. Of course, she recognized her immediately, it had been years now since he’d bothered keeping up the pretense that he was faithful to his wife, even in public.
There were thinly veiled innuendoes, then barbed comments, which turned to yelling as tempers flared. Oddly, though, she wasn’t focused on that. Perversely fascinated, her attention was drawn to the right shoulder of the loosely draping gown the ‘actress’ wore. It was already clear when she started yelling that she wasn't wearing a bra, and as she leaned over the table to rant, the strap was teetering precariously on her shoulder.
There was a short moment’s thought of the ignominy of having to endure the next few weeks pretending she hadn’t overheard the whispered comments of the neighbors’ discussing this night’s events, before, inevitably, the right strap of the dress succumbed to gravity and fell.
If the other patrons of the restaurant looking on (as they surely were) gasped as her right half was exposed, it was lost to the sound of their chairs scraping back, she and her husband standing at the same instant. He bellowed with fury and threw down his napkin and drink, shattering it, ordering her to cover herself and leave at once. Now, any reasonable person, seeing this former bare-knuckle boxer who clawed his way into a position of power over this section of the city in rage at them, would cower and comply. Either emboldened from drink, or familiarity, or equal temper, the mistress’s eyes widened at that order, she reared back slightly and threw off her other strap off as well.
Near pandemonium broke out as her gown fell to her waist, everyone at the table was on their feet now. All his men seemed to know they should be seen to take some sort of action, but none knowing exactly what it should be. He stormed from around the table and she threw her hair back saucily, sticking her chest out further, inviting all gazers. Just before he closed in on her, she turned and stalked towards the restaurant entrance, amazingly continuing to shout and shed other pieces of her clothing as she went. Small though it was, the crowd seemed to part before her, staring in fascination.
She couldn’t help but notice one couple, a husband who’d frozen in the act of helping his wife off with her coat, gaping like a fish as he watched the naked woman walk towards him. She felt a little anger surge at seeing this, of all things, the embarrassment he was causing his wife by not being able to take his eyes off that (admittedly, very striking) form sweeping past them to the stairs at that moment. "Even so, she’s still not worth it, you know." she snapped at the spellbound man, staring him down, forcing herself to also turn and head up the stairs behind the bare-assed tart with as much dignity as she could muster.
Collecting his coat and his hat, while his men stumbled through the restaurant picking up the mistress’s discarded pieces of clothing along the way, her husband overheard this exchange and quietly chuckled and shook his head.
Though she hadn't realized it, her comment that night of his mistress’s public display as they left the restaurant, had, for the first time in years, pricked a small amount of interest in his head.
After I finish dressing, I head down towards the kitchen to gather the food and supplies I’d intended to distribute that day. I try to turn my thoughts away from the previous night’s events and toward my plans for the day.
He was eating in the dining area just off the kitchen, with a few of his goons standing around, as was typical. The house was fortunately large enough that I could generally avoid crossing paths with them. This morning, he was just finishing up his breakfast of cold lobster with tea. I skirted around them to the far side of the kitchen, aiming to grab the supplies I'd come for and be gone before I was forced to interact with any of them.
As they were all distracted with talk of what their day's business would be, I eyed the remains of his breakfast and allowed the slightest sneer to curl my lip. His practice of eating lobster at nearly every meal was abhorrent to me, by now. He told anyone who would listen it was what helped him keep his fighting physique, but I knew him well enough to know why. He craved it because to him, they represented all the wealth and fine trappings he didn't have as a child and desperately yearned for. I scoffed at the idea, and smiled a bit as the perverse thought entered my head, "If smelled more like those damn lobsters, maybe he'd actually touch even me."
Even with my head down, bowed to my task, I noticed an eerie stillness from across the large kitchen when all conversation suddenly stopped. I looked up to see his eyes locked on me from across the room. I felt the color drain out of my face. I must have said aloud what I had been thinking without even realizing it, so used to being just as ignored as the maids sweeping,
Oh yes, he had heard me. My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach as he rose from the table and crossed the space between us. One of his big hands clamped on my upper arm and maneuvered me into the pantry off the kitchen, nearly shoving me in. He slammed the door behind him and turned towards me. As I backed against the opposite wall, I saw the plate of leftovers in his other hand.
"This?" he hissed. "This is what you want?" and flung the remains of his breakfast from the plate towards me.
I flinch as pieces and sauce splatter me, then try to dash behind the butcher's block in the middle of the small room, desperate to have something large between us. He grabs me before I can make it completely out of his reach, managing to get a grip near the collar of my dress. He yanks that down, easily tearing it nearly in two, the tiny buttons scattering everywhere and bouncing across the stone floor. By now, I’m assuming the worst, that he's snapped, and I might actually die in here.
As he moves around the table to reach me, I feel myself instinctively trying to shrink into a smaller target. I lean back, prevented from further retreat but the large wooden table behind me; he grabs my leg behind the knee and pulls, that’s all it takes for me to land backwards on the table.
Before I can even adjust to my new orientation, he pushes my skirts up to my with a sweep of his arm. Now I'm confused. Is he going to humiliate me before he beats me? Push me out to the kitchen naked, in front of his men, just as the tart had paraded herself last night? I feel a little sick anticipating that impending new humiliation.
But he’s not even looking at me, at my face. He’s staring at what he’s just uncovered, breathing as if to calm himself. My knees instinctively squeeze together, I feel exposed, and fear how he’s contemplating punishing me. His hand, scarred from years of rough fighting in and out of the ring, reaches down and starts stroking my stockinged legs, until he reaches my right thigh, the leg closest to him. I’m afraid to move and fight my instinct to squirm away. He makes a fist there, gathering the tights. They give in a second from his tug, a muffled pop and a large hole bursts open in the tights, exposing my thigh. He freezes, staring at it and time seems to hang for a moment.
After the slight pause, he reaches up to top of my left leg, grabs again. It finally begins to dawn on me what he’s trying to do, or what I hope he is trying to do. My apprehension starts to creep towards something more like anticipation, and warmth spreads through my chest and my breathing becomes more like panting. An even larger hole pops into the stockings from his pawing and twisting at them, but he growls in frustration when the seam down the middle keeps them intact.
My corset starts to feel too tight and is fighting my back’s instinct to arch. How quickly my body betrayed me! I can’t stop watching him watch my stockinged legs, and hoping he’ll stroke them again. Now it wants the same, it wants him to cast off those damn stockings and get at what he wants. After years of nothing like this between us; I hadn't even dared to try to remember the times when I used to respond like this to his presence. And now, I could feel my nipples hard and aching for his touch.
Surprisingly, he steps back.
"No!" I think. "Not now. Oh God, I wanted it, too!" I barely keep myself from whimpering with disappointment.
He casts about the room with his eyes, and I worry that he's about to come back to his senses, and realize I'm not the one he wants. He reaches past me and picks up a one of the smallest knives from the side of the butcher's block I'm lying on. I feel a twinge of fear again. Perhaps I’m wrong. Have I read his intent wrong? Perhaps he has finally snapped and decided to just be rid of mein a horrible fashion.
Instead of drawing it back though, he looks me in eyes, and with slightly trembling hand, and presses the small knife into my right hand. His eyes dark, breath ragged and voice low, "You do it," he bites out.
I blink, stare at him for a beat, but then quickly, before he can change his mind in a direction I fear, grab the knife and start to thread it under the seam over my panties.
"Wait," he interrupts. "Here, first," he points to a spot lower on my left leg, closer to my calf.
My eyes are darting back and forth, but he is too absorbed staring at the spot he indicated to notice the mystified look I give him.
"Slowly. Gently," he warns, his voice sounding hoarse, breathing shallow.
I oblige, of course, fearing for my own skin underneath, and hold the knife at a steep angle, first piercing then gliding slowly across the tights as lightly as I can manage. A small but growing oval hole appears, looking dainty compared than the large rips his hands had caused.
"Stop," he orders. I halt immediately, now wondering if my hands will start to tremble.
"Now here," and touches a spot higher on my leg, on the inside of my thigh.
I shudder at his touch. As I start gliding the knife across my stockings again, he reaches to the small tear I had just made, fingering the shape of it, the edges of the hole where the nylon and skin meet. In the quiet room, the soft zipping sound can be heard as the nylons give way again to the sharp little knife. He groans and grabs my hand to stop as he presses his crotch into my side, and I can feel his erection straining against his pants.
My head nearly falls back with my own need at that. I feel like I’ll run out of air. He takes the knife out of my hand and with his thumb, uses it to snap away the seam of the tights that prevented him from fully tearing open the crotch earlier. I gasp, hear the knife clatter to the floor, and then it was my turn to groan as he presses the heel of his large hand flat and hard against what he had revealed.
"So wet," he said staring at the damp spot on the crotch of my white panties when he moved his large hand. "So ready for me, already" he said huskily as he looked up at me, more intently than I could remember in years. He starts to unbutton his pants.
I inhale sharply as he leans over and sweeps me up, quickly reversing my position on the table. He holds me above him as he lies back on the table, gathering my skirts up again. I’m straddling him now, and he reaches to move my panties aside, my heart pounding and my breath catches at even this brush of my sex. Grabbing my waist with both hands at the dip in my corset, he lowers me on to his shaft, and we both moan at the contact. I slide on easily, and tremble with the near forgotten feeling of being filled up in this way. I don’t have long to relax into the feeling as he starts to buck his hips under me while lifting me up and down on it. My hands fall forward to plant on his chest to hold myself up and my head lolls back. I want to beg him not to stop, but I can’t even make the words, so exhilarated at the feeling of his slamming into me with unpredictable timing out of my control.
As if he knew my nipples were aching for his attention he reaches up with one hand to pop my breasts over the top of my corset and squeezes a nipple between his fingers. That’s all it takes to take me over the brink, I’m undone by this. I shout in ecstasy as I cum and my arms collapse beneath me. I fall onto his chest, my hair, having come unpinned, spills out around our faces. I feel limp and boneless, but wetter and more sensitive than ever between my legs. He pulls me down again, I gasp and my hips roll almost involuntarily in response. Slower now, he continues to tug me down by my waist, my breasts rubbing across the fabric of his shirt as he does. Just as I think I might weep or cry out again from the overwhelming sensations, I feel him surge up into me, one deeper thrust, he groans as his whole body tenses, and clasps my hips firmly ground to him. He slowly relaxes and hugs me to him tightly, I feel small shudders in his body underneath me and his cock pulses within me. I sigh in utter contentment.
I lay on top of him, dripping, panting, the details of our surroundings and situation start drifting back to my consciousness. I'm afraid to move and have to meet his eyes. I don’t want to leave this room, and face others. I don’t know which man will be looking back at me when I sit up, and I certainly can’t imagine what the future of our relationship will be now.
smackadaisical