Fine Silk Scarves

"Indeed. For in truth, you possess a most glorious posterior, one that begs to be used in the most lascivious manner, my dear Mrs. Wallchester," Amos declared.

"Oh, oh Juliette, do cease, do not..." Lydia cried out as she felt Juliette's thin fingers press against her bung hole.

"Dear Juliette, would you care for another chocolate?" Amos crooned, gently pulling the girl from her mistress's fundament.

"Oh, yes, yes please, Professor Wallchester," the girl replied with enthusiasm.

"Very well. Do take care to savor the flavor, allow the treat to dissolve on your tongue," Lydia heard her husband instruct the servant.

Lydia then heard a delighted squeal, soft moans and the occasional odd slurping sound. She could imagine the spectacle of the slender red headed eighteen year old girl on her knees, freckled face all smiles as her husband thrust his rampant manhood into the girl's receptive throat. And as Juliette's hands were not bound by beautiful colored scarves, Juliette was most likely frigging her sex. The girl was most wanton in her self-administrations.

On more than one occasion, Juliette had bemoaned to Lydia, "It's because I'm unattractive; I've learned the art of self-pleasure.

Lydia would always declare to the girl that she most certainly was not unattractive. Why, with her flaming locks of ankle-length hair, those lovely and warm brown eyes and her demure smile, Juliette was a very becoming woman.

"Ah, but I've not the breasts or the posterior you have been so graced with," Juliette would then opine.

"Oh, oh I spend, I spend, no, no dear girl, swallow, do not make such a countenance, swallow what I've offered to you," Amos ordered.

"It is quite bitter, like boiled turnips that are not quite ready for harvest," Juliette complained when Professor Wallchester pulled his slowly deflating member from her lips.

"My dear Lydia, another chocolate?" Amos did offer.

"Oh, yes please, Professor Wallchester," Lydia readily agreed.

"My Juliette, your maidenhead. Has anyone had the pleasure of plucking your maidenhead?" Amos inquired as he helped the girl to her feet.

"No sir, Professor Wallchester, sir," Juliette simpered.

"She believes herself to be unattractive to males, my dear husband," Lydia disclosed.

"What? Why, that, that is quite preposterous! You, my dear Juliette, you are truly a vision of loveliness. With that flaming hair, those wonderfully expressive eyes, that unpretentious smile? And your form! Those delightful breasts adorned so with a fair dusting of freckles and sweet pale pink nipples and that thatch of ginger. No, no, my dear, you truly are a delightful vision," Amos declared.

"Thank you, Professor Wallchester sir," Juliette whispered.

"But, come, come, let us serve a chocolate morsel to the lady," Amos ordered.

Lydia felt his strong but gentle hands ease her to right herself. There was then a rustling and the sounds of a soft thump. Then Amos again forced his wife to bend at the waist.

"Oh! Oh dear Amos, dear Professor Wallchester," Lydia groaned as her nipples again rasped against the highly polished surface of his desk.

The smell was heady, quite erotic. Then her face came in contact with a scruff of coarse hairs. Nestled within the scruff of hairs was a wet spongy surface.

"Tongue. Use your tongue to locate the chocolate," Amos instructed his wife.

Lydia did find the chocolate at the top of Juliette's wet slit. With her tongue, Lydia pushed the chocolate back and forth over Juliette's bud of pleasure. With several teasing swipes of her tongue, Lydia brought Juliette to the brink of her crisis. Then, pulling the chocolate morsel into her mouth, Lydia gently sucked on the chocolate confection while lightly gnawing Juliette's clitoris.

"Ack! I, oh, oh dear Lydia, my dear mistress!" Juliette cried out as her mistress tongued her to climax.

"Mmph! I, oh, oh dear Amo...Professor Wallchester!" Lydia cried out as she felt her husband's fingers at her fundament.

Using a thick, quite cold pomade, Amos did push his finger into Lydia's resisting fundament. The intrusion was unsettling, to be sure.

"I, ah! Ah, oh, this, this is not right, Professor Wallchester," Lydia protested as his first finger was joined by a second thrusting digit.

"Unusual, perhaps. Yes, yes, some would even declare this to be the very definition of deviant," Amos declared as he thrust two thick fingers into her rectum. "But, it is quite right and truthfully, it is my duty to introduce you to this source of pleasure."

"Is he? Oh! I must, I simply must see this perversion for myself," Juliette cried out, wiggling from her reclining position across his desk.

"Oh, oh my lady, my lady, he, there are three fingers plunging within your bung hole!" Juliette declared breathlessly.

"Yes, yes, I feel his fingers," Lydia agreed, dragging her nipples back and forth across the desk's smooth surface as she thrust herself back to meet his forward thrusts.

"Oh my lady! My lady, should I be as fortunate as yourself!" Juliette sighed as Amos pressed the head of his greased member against Lydia's fundament.

"Oh dear Heavenly Father, I, this, this is truly most vulgar!" Lydia cried out as her bowels were violated by her husband.

The intrusion was painful; a sharp, searing pain that did begin at the center of her bung hole and radiate outward through her very core. Lydia was sure that she should be torn asunder in such a degrading manner.

Lydia's crisis was quick in seizing her and she bucked, grunted and cried out in pleasure. She begged her Husband to use her bowels as he did wish. Laying her head on his desk's surface, Lydia sobbed out in continuous climax.

"I, oh I do spend, I, oh dear wife, here. Take my seed," Amos cried out and pumped a torrent of semen into his wife's fundament.

"Yes, yes, my husband. I am yours, yours to use as you see fit," Lydia sobbed out as Amos collapsed across her back.

Her breasts pressed most painfully against the desk, trapped between herself and the unyielding wooden surface. She gasped and cooed as she felt his lips softly touch her ear, then his teeth gently nip at her bare shoulder.

Rising up, Amos delivered a soft stroke to her buttocks. He then unfastened her left, then her right leg. Next, he unfastened her wrists, which she was sure would be bruised from her struggles. The elbows were finally loosed and Lydia worked at loosening her stiff, aching shoulder muscles.

When Amos unknotted the purple scarf that bound her large breasts, Lydia nearly toppled onto her knees. She cried out, then whimpered as the blood coursed through her tortured breasts again.

"Her breasts, dear Juliette. Do rub, do massage your lady's breasts," Amos ordered the servant.

"Oh!" Lydia let out a long breath as Juliette's small hands did knead her aching breasts.

The last scarf to be removed was the scarf about her head, blocking her vision. Blinking against the harsh light, Lydia was finally able to see about herself. Directly in front of her was the beautiful, adoring face of her faithful servant. Lydia bent her head and softly kissed the lips of Juliette.

"My dear, your scarves," Amos said, again handing the box of neatly folded scarves to Lydia. "Happy Saint Valentine's Day, my darling."

"Yes, yes," Happy Saint' Valentine's Day my dear, sweet husband," Lydia agreed, smiling happily.

"And should you care to look?" Amos said, smiling. "See? Here are six more scarves, six more colors we did not find a suitable use for on this evening."

"Oh!" Lydia gasped, shivering at the thought.

"Perhaps you and your servant? Perhaps you might find a purpose for the fetching pink, the vibrant yellow?" Amos suggested, his hand resting upon his wife's attractive buttocks.

"Oh! Shall we?" Juliette did beg her mistress.

"I believe..." Lydia stated, dark gloved hand gently combing through Juliette's long red hair. "I do believe we shall indeed make use of this wonderful Saint Valentine's Day gift."

"Now, you two do scamper to your chambers, dear wife," Amos ordered. "Seek the charms of one another. For myself, I shall avail myself of coffee and a fine cigar before I retire."

"Yes, my beloved husband," Lydia agreed, clutching the box under one arm while dragging her nude servant out of the library.

"James?" Amos called into the voice pipe near the door of the library.

"Coffee, sir?" James's muffled voice could be heard in response.

"Yes, yes dear man," Amos agreed, using a soft cloth to wipe the pomade and other matter from his wilted member.

"Sir," James announced, entering the library with two cups of steaming coffee and two snifters of brandy on a silver tray.

"James would you care for a cigar?" Amos genially asked, refastening his tie about his neck.

"Yes sir, thank you sir," James agreed, carefully snipping the end of his master's cigar, then his own with a sharp penknife.

The two men sat upon the settee. James lighted his master's cigar, then lighted his own. The glass ashtray was situated between the two cups of coffee and two snifters of brandy that James had set onto the low table.

"A satisfying Saint Valentine's Day I would assume, sir?" James asked.

"Yes, yes, a most satisfying Saint Valentine's Day, my good man," Amos agreed, blowing a plume of blue-gray smoke toward the high ceiling of the room.

"To be sure, Mrs. Wallchester is quite a becoming young woman," James offered.

"Yes, yes, nearly as becoming as the first Mrs. Wallchester," Amos reflected.

"Yes, yes, to be sure, the first Mrs. Wallchester was..." James agreed.

"A pity, though," Amos interrupted James. "Fine blonde hair, creamy skin, innocent blue eyes? All did conspire to mask her true mercenary nature."

"Sir," James agreed, remembering the quite demanding demeanor of the first Mrs. Wallchester.

"And no liberties should be enjoyed without due recompense," Amos stated, eyes lighting upon the riding crop that did belong to Agatha, the first Mrs. Wallchester.

"Sir," James agreed, blowing out a plume of smoke.

"The coffee, the coffee is most excellent as always," Amos complimented.

"Yes, yes, due of course to the capable hands of Mrs. Marcoloni," James agreed.

Amos silently reflected; the same dreaded influenza outbreak that had claimed the life of his beloved Agatha had likewise claimed the life of the husband of the faithful cook, Mrs. Marcoloni. As ill-tempered, as demanding as his Agatha may have been, Amos had shed bitter tears over the loss of his wife.

"In truth sir, you may find agreement with the youth and vitality of Mrs. Wallchester," James spoke, interrupting Amos's musings. "For myself? I much prefer the beauty, the companionable comforts afforded by one such as the very comely Mrs. Marcoloni."

"Hmm? Oh, to be sure, to be sure," Amos agreed, smiling as James motioned to the voice pipe near the door.

"I do believe she is listening in," James whispered quietly to the master of the house.

"Have you let your intentions be known?" Amos whispered.

"Do speak louder, sir," James whispered.

"Well, to be sure, she is quite becoming and does possess a fine figure," Amos agreed at normal volume and timbre. "Yes, yes, a fine figure. But, James, have you let your intentions be known?"

"But sir! I, I am far too old for such a fine beauty as she," James declared.

"Oh, poppycock and balderdash, poppycock and balderdash," Amos stated firmly. "You are a spry man of fifty one and she is coming onto her thirty fourth or is it thirty fifth year?"

"Do you believe I should, sir?" James asked, extinguishing the small stub of his cigar.

"Most assuredly," Amos stated. "What is it that those about Wall Street are saying? Nothing ventured, nothing gained?"

"Very well, sir. When I return our cups and snifters to the kitchen, I shall pluck up my courage and ask the beautiful Mrs. Marcoloni for the pleasure of her company."

"That's the spirit, man, that's the spirit," Amos encouraged.

"The college, sir? How is the college coming along?" James politely inquired even as he gathered their cups and saucers and brandy snifters onto his tray again.

Were it not for the politicians? The Wallchester College of Architecture and Design would already be instructing its first students," Amos complained, gazing out of the window onto his rear lawn.

"Yes sir, damned politicians," James agreed, parroting what Amos routinely declared.

"The lawns? Of course, right now they are covered by snow," Amos said, looking at the bare trees that surrounded the rear lawn.

"Yes sir?" James asked, impatient to return to the kitchen, anxious to formally approach the rotund Mrs. Marcoloni.

"The new gardener, hmm, a Mr. Delchamps I believe? How is he getting along?" Amos inquired.

"Well, sir, as you've noted, there is not much for him to tend to at this time save for keeping walkways free of snow," James said. "So, in truth, he does spend much of his time in the company of Stevens, your driver."

"Stevens, eh?" Amos smiled a tight smile.

Amos did not like to think of his Gardner and his chauffer dallying about with one another. In truth, he had hired the services of the slender fair-haired Ronald Stevens believing the first and now the second Mrs. Wallchester would be spared any ill intentions of the servant. Stevens did ferry Lydia about, was alone with the very comely young woman for periods of time. The Thornes, Amos's neighbors to the east had suffered an embarrassment when Mrs. Thorne did become quite infatuated with their driver and often manufactured travels into New York City so that she and Paul could be alone together. A farmer, spying the luxurious automobile on the side of the road and believing it to be in need of assistance did drive his team of horses over, only to see Mrs. Thorne's legs wound around the narrow hips of Paul's as she ordered him to service her and service her vigorously. Mrs. Thorne was sent to reside in the home of her scandalized parents and no one knew for sure what had become of Paul.

But the handsome, well-mannered young Ronald Stevens was of no threat to Lydia's attentions or reputation. To be sure, Stevens was a very striking figure; his black coat was always neatly pressed, his white shirt starched and pressed, open at the throat, and his pale gray jodhpurs tucked into his highly polished boots. His black cap with leather bill sat upon his head at a jaunty angle. But, again, he was polite, articulate, and of no threat to Lydia's being.

In fact, Amos had hired Juliette Stevens, Ronald's youngest sister on the word of Stevens. But, even as he had hired the young man on specifically due to his predilections for male companionship, Amos did find it disagreeable to think of his gardener and his driver bringing pleasure to one another in the apartment they shared, the small, comfortable apartment just above the garage that housed their two automobiles.

"Yes sir, Stevens. They do seem to be quite familiar with one another," James admitted. "Will there be anything..."

"Here, here, James," Amos said, taking a long box from a shelf. "I'd intended to gift this to my dear Lydia for her birthday in March. But perhaps you could show this to Mrs. Marcoloni and inquire if she might have any suggestion regarding its use."

"Oh, sir! This, this is lovely, quite lovely indeed. But sir, are you certain you would not rather gift this to Mrs. Wallchester?" James asked, seeing the highly polished riding crop within the box.

"I've time to procure another whip for her fine haunches," Amos smiled. "And in truth? I believe the young Mrs. Wallchester would rather that I gift her with the seed within her womb. I believe it should be time, high time that she become with child. Her birthday shall mark that day."

"Very well, sir, and thank you sir. This, this is a fine gift. A fine gift indeed," James happily said, sidling toward the door.

"Off with you, then," Amos smiled, dismissing the servant.

"Thank you, sir," James's voice travelled from the hallway.

Amos approached the voice pipe and placed his ear against the opening. He smiled as he heard Mrs. Marcoloni greet James. There was the faint rattle of the tray and the tray's contents.

"Ah, Mrs. Marcoloni? Ah, well, here's the long and short of it," Amos heard James start, then falter slightly.

"Yes, Mr. James?" Lucia Marcoloni asked and Amos smiled, hearing the interest in the woman's voice.

"Well, it ah, as you know, it is Saint Valentine's Day," James stated.

"Why, yes, yes it is indeed Saint Valentine's Day," Mrs. Marcoloni agreed.

"And I would like to wish you a Happy Saint Valentine's Day, perhaps with a kiss? Upon the lips if I may be so bold?" James inquired hopefully.

"I, I think that should be fine," Mrs. Marcoloni granted.

"Oh, that, that was exquisite, simply exquisite," James declared a moment later.

"Why yes, yes it was," Mrs. Marcoloni allowed a delighted giggle escape.

"And I should appreciate another, and another," Amos heard James enthuse.

"Now, James. One kiss between acquaintances upon Saint Valentine's Day is one matter. Another and another? Why that would be..." Mrs. Marcoloni said, a teasing lilt to her words.

"Should this make us more than mere acquaintances?" Amos heard James inquire.

"Oh! That, yes, yes, that beautiful riding crop should indeed make us more than mere acquaintances," Mrs. Marcoloni gasped in wonder. "Oh to be sure, the kiss of fine leather does..."

Amos pulled his ear from the voice pipe. With a smile, he tended to the dying embers within the fireplace, emptying the glass ashtray into the bed of embers. He closed the heavy screen and turned the gas jets off, casting the room in a dull red glow. He firmly shut the door of the library and turned to the left to the stairway that led from first floor to second floor of his fine manor.

He paused by the firmly shut door of his beloved wife's chambers and could hear the faint murmurs and giggles of the two eighteen year old beauties within. With a tender smile, he proceeded to the next door, the door of his own chambers.

Within his own chambers, the voices of the two girls became louder. Amos saw that his beloved had neglected to fully and firmly shut the door that joined their two suites. Therefore, the door had not latched. Should he so desire, Amos could press his eyeball to the small chink and peer within. He could spy upon his wife and her servant pleasuring one another with fingers and tongue.

"Thank you, my beloved," Amos murmured, knowing that she had intended for the door to remain slightly ajar. "Happy Saint Valentine's Day, darling Lydia."

Amos readied himself for repose. Sitting on the side of his bed, he reached for the control of his gaslight. Upon his bedside table was a framed photograph of the first Mrs. Wallchester. The photograph was, in truth, a most unflattering likeness of Agatha; her features appeared harsh, even disapproving. Even though she was but eighteen years of age as she posed for the photographer, dressed in her wedding dress, the lighting, the pose conspired to have Agatha appear much older. The image was of an unhappy, quite dour woman.

In contrast was the wedding portrait of Lydia. The photographer had managed to capture, memorialize Lydia's playful, happy nature. Amos smiled; that one lock of her hair that always seemed to escape her hair clips was very prominent in this photograph.

"Good night, dear Agatha," Amos whispered, gently touching the glass that separated photograph from his fingers.

"And, good night, darling Lydia," Amos stated, fingers resting against the thin pane of glass that separated his fingers from her photograph.

With a smile toward his wife's chambers as a light squeal then giggle floated from her room to his ears, Amos twisted the gas jet off. He then sighed in contentment as he reclined on the goose down mattress.