Oggbashan Stew Pt. 02

She turned away and opened a drawer. She pulled out a cascade of her scarves. They made my erection almost too painful. Her scarves were so much a part of her that it seemed as if I was being admitted into her closest secrets. She advanced towards me with scarves trailing from her hands. The sound of them swishing together hypnotised me. She seemed to grow taller and more commanding.

"Lie down, Tom"

I had no doubt that this was an order. I lay down and swung my legs up. She flipped a shimmering blue scarf round my ankles and tied them together so quickly that I barely realised what she had done. Another scarf caressed my knees before grasping them firmly. I didn't know what to expect next and I opened my mouth to protest. That was a mistake. A wadded scarf was pushed deep into my mouth and held in place with another. I was gagged so effectively that little more than a faint mewing sound emerged. Then she sat down beside me on the bed.

"Tom?" she said as if she was talking to me in a perfectly normal conversation. I looked at her, this woman who had taken control of me and made me such a helpless captive.

"I spoke to your parents this afternoon. They are staying away tonight, so I agreed to look after you. I told them what a great help you had been and I said that I would feed you tonight and tomorrow morning. So I will."

I didn't quite follow that. She would feed me? She already had fed me. What relieved me was that my parents were away. Even the village wouldn't gossip if Mrs Lamb was "looking after" their son. I hoped the village never knew what sort of "looking after" I was getting.

Then my eyes nearly popped out. Mrs Lamb pulled away my dressing gown, leaving me stark naked except for her restraining scarves. She slowly undid the buttons on her blouse revealing a bra much more interesting than the bra ads I had studied so furtively. It was translucent, barely hiding a beautifully moulded pair of breasts. The bra was front-fastening. I hadn't realised that not all bras fastened at the back. Her nipples were prominent, surrounded with brown skin stippled with white drops. I'd never dreamt of lactating breasts. Of course I knew about "breast-feeding" and I knew that cows gave milk but these breasts were nothing like a cow's udders. They were beyond even my wildest fantasy.

"Well, Tom? Are you ready for feeding?"

She didn't mean...?

She did!

She unhooked her bra. Her breasts sprang out at my face. She loosened my gag, pulled it down round my neck and as she eased the wadded scarf out of my mouth she pushed a breast in. Even if I'd wanted to, she gave me no chance to protest or yell. A soft silk gag was replaced by a warm, soft, firm, dripping breast.

"Suck!" she murmured into my ear.

I sucked. I felt surrounded and controlled by her. There I was, naked on her bed, tied hand and foot with her silk scarves and gagged with her breast. My head was cradled in her arms and I couldn't see, smell, taste or feel anything but her. Her warm milk dribbled down my throat. I realised that I was being totally possessed by her. That thought triggered my erection into explosive action that nearly knocked me out with its intensity. The result was caught in a carefully positioned scarf.

After what seemed like hours of bliss the breast was replaced by the other and the cradling and cuddling continued. My erection returned as I felt her hands reaching under her skirt.

How she'd managed it I'll never know but her damp panties appeared as if by magic in front of my face. They wiped across my eyes and nose leaving an odour I'd never experienced before but one I'd like to smell again and again. Then they replaced her breast in my mouth, tied in by a scarf. I was gagged speechless again.

She lifted herself off the bed, refastened her bra over those succulent orbs, and re-buttoned her blouse.

"I'll be back shortly, Tom. I'll just make sure you stay where you are."

She looped a scarf through my bound ankles and tied it to the bottom rail of the bed. Then scarves under my armpits linked me to the head rail. Finally she pulled off the scarf she'd worn on her head all this time. She tied it on my head framing my face before knotting it behind my neck. Then she left me struggling feebly.

As I lay there I felt that I hadn't been bound but hugged by her scarves. They felt so sensuous against my bare skin. Although I couldn't move I didn't feel uncomfortable. The last scarf was scented just like her hair and she seemed to be still there, pressed to both sides of my face. I wondered what she would do next as I re-lived all she had done so far. My imagination hadn't dreamt of anything as fantastic as this reality. I was more in love with the real woman than I had ever been of the dream of her.

She was back soon, wearing just two scarves. One was worn as a sarong, the other as a halter holding her breasts. I was entranced but for one thing... the tea was making itself felt and I needed the toilet. It was so unromantic. There I was, on my goddess's bed, tied with her scarves and looking at her wonderful body yet my physical need was ruining the scene. How could I tell her? I was so effectively gagged that I couldn't make a sound. My hands were tied so firmly that I couldn't signal to her. My legs were bound together and I was stretched out on her bed unable to do more than a small wriggle.

She sat down beside me. Her hands stroked my face and then she slowly removed the scarf around my head. Then she loosened the gag and pulled her panties out. I gasped with relief but I was still too embarrassed to voice my need. Luckily for me she sensed that something was wrong.

"What's the problem, Tom? Haven't you enjoyed your reward so far?"

"Yes... but..." I couldn't say it. I blushed.

"Of course" she said. "You need the toilet."

She was so matter of fact about it. She must have read my mind. My relief was obvious to her and I felt that her understanding was another proof of her perfect control of me.

"Right!" she said briskly "We'll get you to the toilet."

She untied the scarves holding me to the bed, removed those binding my ankles and helped me to sit on the edge of the bed. Then she leant into me as she helped me to stand up. Her silk covered breasts pressed against my bare chest rousing me again even though the other need was urgent.

She held my arm as I hobbled knee-fast to the bathroom. Then she held my tool as I relieved myself gratefully. She even shook the last few drops off as if she had been doing this all her life. Then we shuffled back to the bedroom and she sat me back on the bed.

"I think that your urgent needs have been met now, Tom" she said "and we have time to take things more slowly. Lie down again."

I obeyed. She joined me on the bed. Had she forgotten to tie my ankles? It seemed unlikely. She knew exactly what she was doing.

"Now we'll try the normal way when you are ready."

From between her breasts she produced one of the unmentionable "precautions" that we boys endured intense embarrassment to get from the barbers. She tore the packet open.

"This is to protect me from getting pregnant. Have you ever used one?"

I shook my head reluctantly. I knew that I was admitting that I was a virgin but I think she knew.

"It has to be put on when you are erect. The first few times just putting it on is likely to take away the desire unless you know what you are doing. You can practise on a banana or cucumber."

We both laughed at the thought of that sort of practising. It defused my tension and made me feel warm about her again. Her hand reached for my tool and stroked it gently. It rose as if she was a snake-charmer. While I watched her, her other hand opened the "precaution" and then both hands rolled it down the shaft. It didn't look or feel right. The flaccid teat on the end looked disgusting. Despite myself my tool began to shrink. She startled me by grabbing my chin and kissing me hard. Her tongue insinuated itself between my lips and tickled mine. Her arms clamped round me and I was kissed expertly and lovingly. Then she pulled an arm free to push her hand between her legs. She moved rhythmically beside me then her hand clasped my tool gently. Her hand was warm and wet. With her other arm and shoulder she rolled me on top of her. We were face to face as her legs twined around me. Her hand fed my tool inside her. Then that hand pulled my body up, thrusting me deep. Her legs clamped hard, holding me tight. Her arms held my shoulders and began to rock me rhythmically. My tool became my whole being. I, not it, was squeezed by her vagina. I, not it, was engulfed by her. I may have been on top, but I was not the one in control. I moved to her prompting. Soon, all too soon, I reached a crescendo and shuddered to a climax.

She didn't let go. Her legs still held me tight. My shrinking tool was still being manipulated by her internal muscles. She un-knotted her halter. That scarf she wound round both our necks before tying us together. Her lips sought mine and her tongue played inside my mouth. Surely I'd finished? I couldn't do any more once I'd "come", could I?

Slowly I began to respond to her advances. Perhaps I could do more? There wasn't the urgent desire there had been before, but I felt relaxed and loved and owned.

As my tool reacted slowly to its continued stimulation I felt her whole body begin to change. Her movements became less ordered, more urgent. Her muscles, all her muscles, grabbed at me more fiercely. She was strong everywhere!

Then she shuddered, just as I had. Unlike me, she didn't stop! The shudders came in waves, stronger; weaker; stronger again. Finally I spent myself again and we came to a halt. I was exhausted. I even felt sore down below. I'd been wrung dry. I'd been through the mill as if I'd done hours of hard physical labour. I lay on her breasts wondering whether I could do this again and if sex with any woman could be this overwhelming. I doubted it. This was sex with the woman I'd adored ever since I'd been aware of girls. This was my first time. No matter how many more times I made love in my life Mrs Lamb had been the first. I smiled inwardly. Mrs Lamb! Even after all this I still referred to her as "Mrs Lamb"! I knew that her name was Jean but I still didn't feel I had the right to use it.

I was still held by her scarves round my wrists, my knees, and held closely to her face by the scarf round over necks. I kissed her. That was the first time I had taken the initiative in the whole encounter. She kissed me back, then smiled at me.

"What do you think of your reward, Tom?"

I smiled.

"I couldn't have asked for a better one if I'd thought about it for a year." I replied. "It was far more than I deserved and one for which I'll always be grateful."

Her arms hugged me.

"I enjoyed it too, Tom"

She untied our necks, reached behind me and released my wrists. She moved out from under me and freed my knees. Then she cradled my head against her breasts and stroked my head as I drifted off to a blissful sleep.

What happened in the morning? Did the relationship develop? Will Tom's parents or the village find out? You'll have to wait for the next episode. But that is now unlikely. You'll have to use your imagination.

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Story 037

Much Ado

We all belong to an Amateur Dramatic Society. The Society's ambitions, and particularly our Director's ambitions, frequently exceed our abilities.

At the end of the short run of Hamlet the Director addressed the next meeting of the assembled members.

"Although we sold enough seats to cover the production costs, our audiences were disappointed. Why? We knew the lines, or most of them, we tried to act competently, but we lacked passion and commitment. No one cared about Hamlet's internal anguish, nor about Ophelia. That isn't a criticism of those who played those roles, but you, the whole company. You were wooden, uninspired..."

He continued for several minutes in the same rant. Most of us had switched off after the first few sentences. We knew we were bad. We didn't care. The Society was a pastime, a hobby, not the climax of our lives. We enjoyed performing but we don't have enough competent players to stage Shakespeare. Some of the minor roles had been filled by reluctant friends of friends, almost blackmailed into joining us. A few of them neither knew nor cared what play it was. They came on, delivered their lines and adjourned to the pub across the road until they were needed again.

As with most similar societies, the age spread was distorted. The Director and Committee were retired. Most of the main players were students or younger married couples with no children yet. The Committee members were sensible enough to know that their time for playing major Shakespearean roles was past. In Hamlet they had been Claudius, the Ghost of the King, Polonius, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. In other productions they had been Dukes, courtiers etc.

The consequence was that the major roles went to the younger members who weren't really experienced or competent enough. We struggled to remember and deliver our lines. Serious acting was beyond most of us. Yet the Director and Committee kept choosing serious plays for us to deliver. Hamlet had been a disaster. We knew that. Friends and family had filled the seats, as they always did, but the general public, unless they had a particular interest in Shakespeare, stayed away.

The Director was still droning on. All we wanted to hear was the title of the next production and the casting. Would he ever finish criticising us for not meeting his standards, which are beyond the Royal Shakespeare company's abilities? He can dream. But we actors know the reality. At best we can appear competent. In Hamlet we were amateurish. Why not? We ARE amateurs.

Eventually he got to the point.

"After long and serious discussion, the Committee has decided that our next production will be a comedy. We have chosen Much Ado About Nothing because it reflects the recent tensions within our company..."

Ouch! That was a serious dig about the infighting that happened between us during Hamlet before Christmas. Now, in March, the wounds inflicted by the partner-swapping were beginning to heal, but the scars still showed. My sister and I had nearly come to blows about our two-timing boyfriends. Sibling solidarity had won in the end and we had ditched the erring boyfriends. We hadn't chosen new ones yet, but we thought they would be within the amateur drama group. We knew the worst about them.

Apart from us, two divorces were in process. Both splits started during the run-up to the Hamlet production and had caused some significant cast changes which hadn't helped our competence.

"...These are the cast members." Arthur, the Director was speaking very slowly, making the most of the moment.

But now we were really paying attention.

"Don Pedro - David

Don John -- Terry"

Those two were older committee members.

"Claudio -- Alan"

Alan was a potential boyfriend for my sister Anne or for me.

"Benedick -- James"

James was our other possibility. Would we be playing roles with them?

"Leonato -- Adrian

Antonio -- Harry

Balthasar -- Edward

Conrad -- Ian

Borachio -- Patrick

Friar Francis -- George"

All older members except Patrick.

"Dogberry -- myself"

That is Arthur.

"Verges -- Sam"

Another old member.

"A Sexton -- Evan"

Yet another old member. Had they influenced the choice of the play so that they had so many roles?

"Hero -- Anne"

My sister, opposite Alan as Claudio. That could be interesting.

"Beatrice -- Lorna"

Me! Opposite James. That has possibilities. I was mentally hugging myself. Beatrice is the best role in Much Ado. I was startled to be chosen and slightly frightened. My performance could make or break the production. It was a major endorsement of my performance as Ophelia in Hamlet.

"Margaret -- Margaret. Who else?"

Margaret was ideal for her namesake. She flirts with anything male, including the older members. Opposite Patrick as Borachio she should succeed by just being herself.

"Ursula and other minor roles? We don't know yet. It depends who we can call upon."

I wasn't surprised. Arthur had named almost everyone except the older ladies and there aren't many parts for them in Much Ado.

"We will meet next Tuesday evening for a first read through. If you haven't got a copy of Much Ado About Nothing..." Arthur made a production of tipping books out of his briefcase, "...these will do until we get marked up performance copies."

The meeting adjourned for tea and biscuits. I made a beeline towards James. We met halfway because he was heading towards me.

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Story 038

Nail Decoration

My girlfriend Sandra sometimes works in her mother Alice's nail decoration shop in our local High Street. Until I met her, I hadn't thought that such a business would be viable but they have regular customers every week, which is more than many of the nearby shops have.

A few years ago the premises were owned by an elderly lady who had run a corsetry business while living upstairs. She had closed the shop twenty years earlier after the demand for corsets had declined in the 1960s. She and her husband had owned several properties around the town and lived well on the rental income. After her husband had died and she became frail, she decided to sell her properties and move into sheltered accommodation. She had sold the shop building and contents to Sandra's mother at a lowish price because the property needed repairs and modernisation.

The repairs led to me meeting Sandra. My father is a local master builder and Alice asked him to arrange the repairs, modernisation and shop fitting. Normally I wouldn't have been involved because I work in the City of London but he had sprained his wrist so asked me to be his driver and helper that week. While he walked around with Alice I sat in the kitchen behind the shop talking to Sandra. We got on so well that I was just thinking of asking her out when our parents returned.

"Sandra," Alice said, "We're going to have to make room for the work to be done. Do you think you could live in our old flat for a few months?"

"Of course I could," Sandra replied, "But what about you, mum?"

"I'll be OK in the third bedroom but it's too small for both of us. I think I should be here all the time to answer any queries and keep the workers supplied with cups of tea."

"We need to empty most of the rooms downstairs," my father added. "Normally I'd help but..." He held up his bandaged wrist. "Ian, could you use my van to move things for Alice and Sandra?"

"Yes. As long as it is at evenings and weekends when I'm not at work."

I was happy to agree if it meant seeing more of Sandra.

"Then we'll start tonight. 6pm?" Dad suggested.

"Sandra will need some furniture for the flat," Alice added. "That could be the first load. Then the store room needs emptying quickly. That could go in the spare bedrooms at the flat. I think some of it needs throwing out. Sandra could sort through it before next term. We might need a skip..."

"Hmm! That could be expensive. We'll need a skip for the building work," Dad said, "but there won't be much room for anything else. Ian could take stuff to the council tip in his car, not the work van. If he uses his car he won't be charged commercial rates for rubbish."

I agreed. Alice hugged me. I would rather have been hugged by Sandra, but a hug from Alice was pleasant.

That Thursday evening Alice, Sandra and I loaded the van with furniture including two double beds. The 'old' flat was about half a mile away and was the ground floor of a large Victorian house. Sandra and I unloaded at the flat while Alice was sorting out the next load. Sandra gave the orders, clearly and distinctly. She left me in no doubt about exactly wanted she wanted where.