Little Lucy and the Big Bad Wolf Ch. 04

*A longer chapter which develops the narrative and characters before the most detailed sex scene yet. I hope you enjoy and please feel free to comment.

Chapter Four

The sun was slowly sinking beyond the hilled countryside that surrounded the village as Lucy made her way through the streets towards her teacher's house. It had taken a painstakingly prepared meal and a neck massage the night before to persuade her grandmother to let her stay out.

"Young ladies shouldn't be away from home during the night," she had repeatedly told her until her protestations that 'Amber's house was as safe as anywhere' and 'wasn't it about time that I was allowed such privileges' wore her down and she finally acquiesced.

Of course, Amber's house was in the opposite direction to where Lucy now walked.

The wind was getting stronger, colder, and her black summer dress with red rose pattern gusted about her thighs as autumn took hold of that provincial village. As she felt the first spots of rain, Lucy reflected on her relationship.

One thing was certain; she loved him. At first it was infatuation but that feeling of completion when she held him and he held her caused such an emotion that it caused a physical sensation in her chest. Not for the first time since the day before, however, she considered the fact that they hardly knew each other. She didn't think it mattered too much in her own case; she'd lived her whole life in this tiny place with its red phone boxes and elastic bands on driveways from the postman's round; what was interesting about her life?

As for him though... Where did he come from? What had those green/blue eyes of his seen over those hilly borders where life wasn't black and white and people begged for cigarettes and copper?

The rain was falling steadily now and Lucy realised it was seriously time to buy an umbrella. She wrapped her arms around herself in a vain effort to keep warm and turned onto his street. The houses were few and far between here, and thick oaks spread their branches over the road, their leaves collecting on the pavement beneath as they cycled through their annual phases. She had straightened her hair and regretted not tying it up as the wind blew it about her face, ruining her stylistic efforts.

At last, she approached his house and stepped through the knee-high wooden gate, rain droplets gathering on her skin and running down into her cleavage. She stepped onto the path that led to his front door and considered his house.

It was large and classical with three storeys but the windows were dark and closed, as they always had been those summer days when she had rung the bell in the vain hope of seeing him.

Except one.

Beneath what she assumed was the living room there was a tiny, frosted window that looked out onto the grass of his front lawn. It glowed red.

He must be home, he had to be, but she felt trepidation and her hand hung in the air before the iron chain which would sound his doorbell. All those times before with no answer made her fear being ignored once again. She quickly mastered her fear, however, and gave the chain a tug.

Somewhere deep in the house a bell jangled but for a minute or two there was no sign of movement. She stepped back from the door just in time to see the red light beneath the living room wink out and a moment later a yellow glow appeared beyond the thick mottled glass of the porch. Then she regarded a shadowy shape through that glass.

The lock clicked, the brass handle turned, the heavy wooden door swung inwards, and there he was: her desire, her teacher, her saviour from that prison of monotony. He wore a black shirt and slacks and, she was amused to note, a dark tweed sports' jacket (even indoors he overdressed!).

For a moment they merely regarded each other with a smile, uncertain what to say but enjoying what fate had led them to nonetheless. Then, suddenly, he snapped out of it and ushered her inside.

"Come in, come in; out of the rain," he gestured at the warmth of his house.

She stepped over the threshold and beyond him and the heat inside made her cold, damp skin tingle. There was a welcoming feel about his place, a scent in the air of pine and maple, and she felt immediately at home.

He closed the door behind her and she turned to face him. She stepped up and, pushing herself up onto her toes, leant forward to meet his lips. He placed his hands around her waist and reciprocated. The warmth of his mouth was like a warming shot of liquor that coursed throughout her body. Their kiss ended and their lips echoed off the tiles at their feet.

"Hello," he said, with a smile.

"Hi," she replied and wrapped her arms around his neck. "I missed you."

He leant forward and kissed her cheek and she blinked as her eyes watered slightly.

He took her hand and led her into the foyer. She gazed wide-eyed and the ornately carved staircase before her, the classic portraits which hung from the walls.

"Um... a teacher?" she laughed.

"Not always," he replied with a rueful smile. "Or rather: privileged background. Are you hungry?"

The prospect of food made her stomach growl.

"I could eat."

"Good, because I'm rather a dab hand in the kitchen, if I do say so myself. But," he regarded her in the dim yellow light of the wall sconces, "You're all wet; can't have you getting a cold, can we?"

He tugged at her hand and led her up the giant staircase to the first floor. On either side of the landing were long corridors, shadowed and mysterious. He pressed a switch and the one of the left was suddenly illuminated.

"We'll have to find something more appropriate for you," he said as he led her down the corridor past several closed door. "I'm afraid I don't have a wardrobe you may be used to but I'm sure you'll find something you like in here."

They stopped outside a door at the far end of the corridor and she watched him withdraw a set of keys from his pocket. Sliding one into the lock, he opened the door and it creaked on its aged hinges.

"Haven't been in here since I first moved in," he winked at her.

She was immediately struck by a strange scent that wafted forth. She frowned as she struggled to place it; for some reason it reminded her of doing the washing up.

"Choose whatever you like, whatever you think is suitable; they're all in your size I believe. When you're done, you'll find me downstairs. Just follow the smell of steak. Oh," he leant inside the doorway, retrieved a small bottle and handed it to her, "You'll need this."

"Okay," she responded, slightly confused, and looked down at the bottle in her hand. It was black plastic and the words 'Dressing Aid' were printed on its neck. She looked up and saw him descending the stairs. Frowning, she turned back to the room and stepped inside.

She flicked on the light and observed that along one wall were several wardrobes, their doors shut, and in the corner stood a floor-length mirror. Besides these, and a soft red carpet, the room was empty. She stepped up to the nearest cupboard and pulled open the doors. Inside hung dresses, tops and skirts. Her eyes widened as she realised that they were no ordinary fabrics, however; these were all fashioned from rubber. Now she realised the connection of before; washing up- latex gloves! But these weren't the cheap marigolds she used to clean plates with; these looked expensive and stylish... and sexy.

She reached out and felt a skirt with her hand. The material was strange and smooth and had a weight which was so unusual. She looked down at the bottle in her hand. She unscrewed the cap and poured a drop of its contents onto her palm. It was clear and oily and odourless and, as she rubbed it with her fingers, she realised that it was a lubricant. Her fingers immediately felt smooth and supple.

So, choose a latex dress and prepare herself. She could do that. She looked at the shine of the rubber clothing and realised that she couldn't wait to see what her body would look like encased within some of it.

She stepped up to the second wardrobe and pulled at its doors. More latex hung inside, of all different colours and designs. Lucy sighed; there was so much of it, she was spoilt for choice. Apart from the general look of the material, however, nothing in particular had caught her eye.

She tried the last wardrobe and was surprised to find this one empty. No, it wasn't empty; there was one dress which hung at the far end. It consisted of a white, long-sleeved top with a connected black, flared, hipster skirt. In the front was a peephole which would give a view of her cleavage and around the collared neck hung a black and white striped tie, also in latex. Next to it hung two knee-length latex socks with frills at their tops.

A latex school uniform: clearly the most appropriate choice.

Lucy unhooked the dress and socks from the rail, stepped over to the mirror and placed them on the floor. Hooking her fingers into the hem of her dress she pulled it up and over her body and let it fall to her feet. She looked at herself in the mirror clad in her usual white cotton underwear and realised that tonight would be another transitory point in her life. Tonight was the night she would fully transform from the little girl and become his, totally. She couldn't wait.

Reaching round to her back, she unhooked her bra and let it fall on top of her dress. She stepped out of her panties and picked up the plastic bottle he had given her. On the back she read 'Use liberally' so she poured a good amount into her palm and rubbed her hands together to warm the oily liquid. Then she began to apply it to her skin.

She started with her breasts, massaging the dressing aid into the firm orbs so they began to shine in the yellow light of the dressing room. Her nipples reacted to her fingers and became firm. As she brushed the oil onto them, she felt tingles of pleasure run down her back. Then she moved her hands down to her waist and brought them round as best as possible to her back. Squeezing out a little more oil from the bottle, she rubbed her arms and shoulders, trying to ensure that she was as frictionless as possible, before unhooking the rubber dress from the hanger.

She examined the uniform, trying to discern how exactly she was supposed to put it on. On the back was cut a keyhole which would expose part of her shoulder blades and which culminated in a press stud collar. It looked like as good a place as any to squeeze through.

Lowering the dress to knee height, she placed her legs through the keyhole and beyond and slipped the tight dress up to her waist. The rubber gripped her skin pleasantly and she could feel herself becoming more turned on as she put her arms into the long sleeves. The dressing aid helped the rubber to slide across her skin and she very quickly was pressing the stud on the back of the collar. The rubber was so tight across her chest that it held her breasts comfortably, lifting them up, and she was very pleased with the sight in the mirror of her fulsome cleavage through the peephole.

One thing remained; the socks. She applied more dressing aid to her legs and then worked them up her calves, giggling at the snapping sound of the rubber against her skin when she let go of their frilled tops.

She stood up and looked in the mirror at the subversive fantasy she had become. The latex clung to her curves like a second skin, and its shiny surface glinted in the light. It felt strange as she moved but intensely erotic all the same. She ran her hands over her body, her fingers feeling the smooth surface over her waist and breasts. Where the material covered her it kept the heat on her flesh and she felt warm and comfortable. Her vagina was still bare though and she didn't feel that her usual cotton panties were really appropriate for this new outfit.

She stepped over to the wardrobes and withdrew the drawers at the bottom. Inside lay several examples of latex underwear and she found a pair of white panties with a frilled back. She slipped them on and was shocked by a sordid thrill as her pussy lips kissed their insides.

A sizzling sound was rising from downstairs and Lucy quickly pulled her hair into pigtails using the red hair bands she always kept on her wrist to fasten them. She slipped her black high heels back on and, with a last look at her shiny self in the mirror, left the room and made her way to him.

As walked towards the stairs, the surfaces of her outfit rubbed together with a squeaking sound and she was struck by the eroticism of the whole scenario. The youthful and innocent connotation of her outfit juxtaposed with the sordid rubber fabric it was fashioned from was undeniably arousing in a way she had never before experienced.

She descended the stairs and made her way beyond them to a doorway from which drifted the divine smell of grilled meat. She stepped through the door and regarded the object of her affections, minus his jacket (finally!), plating up two steaks in an expensive-looking kitchen area.

Her heels clicked on the tiled floor and he turned to face her. His eyes immediately widened but at the same time his brow knitted and her smile faded.

"Don't you like it?" she asked, concerned at his expression.

"I... I didn't think you'd choose that one. I thought I'd... Never mind."

She smiled and replied, "Why not? It's perfect, isn't it? It fits perfectly."

He stepped up to her and stroked her cheek.

"It is," he told her and then, his eyes glancing to the side, "Of course it is."

"It feels so good. You do like it, don't you?"

He kissed her then, long and sensually.

"Of course I do," he whispered in her ear, "You look absolutely beautiful."

"Well... I'm REALLY hungry."

He smiled and picked up the plates of steak and chips.

"Well, follow me, little girl," he stepped back into the foyer and made his way to a room on the other side of the stairs. "Step into my parlour."

***

The food was perfectly cooked (in contrast to the stodgy mess her grandmother usually prepared) and an intense feeling of satisfaction spread through her as she ate her meal at his enormous oak dining table. They were drinking red wine (something she wasn't normally allowed) and the full-bodied warmth of it had made her a little light headed. She'd been so hungry they'd hardly spoken as she devoured the meal, although she couldn't help noticing that he had barely touched his own food. She cleared her plate and placed the cutlery next to each other on the plate.

"Good?" he asked opposite her and his voice echoed in the spacious dining room.

"Delicious. Thank you so much," she replied and reclined in the high backed chair, the rubber of her outfit squeaking against the wood.

She sipped her wine and observed him take a bite of his steak. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was just the appropriate time, but it she suddenly felt an urge to find the answers those questions which had begun to burn.

"So," she began, and immediately took another sip of wine, "What's the story, Mr Porter?"

His eyes met her own as he slowly chewed.

"I mean," she continued, "You decide to move here six months ago- here, of all places! You're single- well, apart from me of course- you have a, forgive me, a bit of an issue about innocence and sex and what you think is corrupting my little soul, but you make love to me like I imagine a god would. And now... a room full of kinky clothes that just happen to fit me?"

He swallowed but did not speak and she perceived more needed to be said so that he didn't misunderstand her.

"It's just... I love you, Richard. But I need to know you. I think I deserve that. Don't I?"

He took a large gulp of wine and sighed.

"You're right," he admitted but could no longer meet her eyes, "You do deserve it."

He placed his glass back on the polished surface of the table and took a deep breath.

"I had a wife. Her name was Alice. We were quite happy together... for a time. Christ, it seems like a lifetime ago. She... it doesn't matter where she worked or where we lived, the point is that... well, you know me well enough to know what I like... what turns me on."

"I'm learning," she laughed, but realised this wasn't the time for humour. "Sorry."

"She was never entirely into it but she did it because... well, she loved me, I suppose. All those outfits and fetishes and... well, they make me... hard. I... I'm a good person. But it's like a part of me needs that sordid, that subversive, scenario for me to truly feel complete, satisfied."

"The outfits, the rubber, they were hers weren't they?" The words came back to her from the wood-panelled walls and stung her ears.

"Yes," he sighed and still he could not meet her eyes. "What I bought for her to make things more exciting for me... all the time ignoring what made her feel right."

"But... what's wrong with a few outfits?"

"She was from a quite strict background, a religious one. She wanted to distance herself from all that when we met, and we'd slept together many times by the time we married, but it was always there, clawing at the back of her mind, tearing her soul. And every time I made her dress up for me and pee for me and... other things, well maybe it got worse for her.

"But she wouldn't ever tell me. She had this idea of the dutiful wife, the loyal partner and if her problems and concerns got in the way of that, well, she wouldn't tell. But eventually, it got too much for her."

He paused and took another large gulp of wine. She had to admit that she was a little uncomfortable at wearing his ex-wife's clothing but she could see his pain and her heart felt squeezed in sympathy and the need to comfort him was overwhelming. But he had more to say and she restrained herself; this was important for them both.

"We... she got pregnant. We hadn't planned it but there you go. She was so happy. So happy."

She could see the sheen of tears in his eyes.

"And I was happy too. I knew how much it meant to her to have a baby- go forth and multiply and all that. And, I suppose, deep down, I knew that she hadn't been entirely happy before," he paused. "Well... it died."

She leant forward but her feet were pinned to the carpet.

"HE died," he continued. "And her world came crashing down about our ears. But, you see... it was my fault."

"How?" she asked, a little frightened.

"Because... because of all THAT," he gestured at her dress, "That's the dress. The dress she wore that night. It was my fault because of my sordid little fantasies and fetishes and what I made her do for my pleasure."

"I don't understand," she told him.

"She stopped speaking, for weeks- she couldn't handle it. Then, one day, she woke up and looked at me and said, 'It's all your fault.' And she was right. Don't you see?"

She frowned, trying to understand him.

"When she conceived I had made her dress up... She blamed me because... He died because we made him in such a depraved way."

"But that's nonsense-"

"But that's what she thought and, I don't know, maybe she was right. And one day I came home and she was in the bath and... the water was red."

He sniffed and finished his wine but he needed to finish.

"The razor was floating in the water and the water was cold. I pulled her out and tied some towels round her wrists and called an ambulance but it was too late."

"God," she breathed. Her own eyes had begun to water at his pain.

"Post Natal Depression. That's what they called it. But every day I went back to that hollow shell of a house and heard my footsteps echo and her words bit deeper. Maybe it WAS my fault."

Lucy couldn't hold herself still any longer. She leapt from her seat and crouched before him, placing her hands in his lap.

"Richard, you didn't do anything wrong. How could it be wrong to make you happy?"

She rocked forward on her heels and kissed him.