Petal's Unfurling

My friend Lutecia was a domineering woman of marriageable age and nothing else marriageable about her.

Young enough to have still the looks required of most men's approval in marriage and courting, upon first meeting as teenagers at a ball that looked primarily held for young bachelorettes already promised to be wed, after the sneering and drinks we were certainly NOT meant to be consuming, among the jokes at the expense of the less pleasant dancers and tedious pieces of her tragic woeful teen-year-old life, I found out exactly one important thing about her.

She detested men.

And be it the drink or the lingering sense of fear and requirement of politeness weighing down upon me like a Mother's tightened bonnet, I had to agree. As a result I had spent many a year fallen in with the same hatreds, and stoking my fires of past betrayals and heartache which fell from the most reasonable and painful, to the most trivial and petty.

For the both of us, though her four years the older, marriage had always been a point of fervent discussion.

As teenagers hating the thought of it... as young women craving and despising it... as women full-bodied who longed for it and feared it's lack...

When Lutecia finally gave in to her softer side and plucked a handsome Henry from the ballroom's aether, I thought such would calm her somewhat and reveal a woman I now would much rather talk to... a kinder one... a gentler one... one who had just needed a man to turn her to something more rather than less, to show her the love we could both have, and I could myself take the proverbial shot of shame and give in to my own man, and we could talk about such together...

But when first I met her soon after the engagement, and even soon soon after the wedding night, the same feelings remained. Her fiance was not exempt, her husband was not exempt. Her man was no exception.

I detested her. Detested myself for being so young, so stupid. Keeping not in touch for some four years, I realised myself a young woman of twenty-seven, panicking and smiling politely, looking desperately for men who could keep up, terrifying myself with fears of brute force and servitude. I longed for them. And in the same way of prejudice and constancy, I longed. I lost. I gained nothing from playing as a frightened girl waiting, nothing from saying and berating and whining that the men in my life were doing nothing to appease me. Confessions were plentiful. Rejections more so. Gifts fell short, love letters tasted dry...

Because it was me.

I thrived on hate. Needed it. Required it. Yearned for it for myself from more men. I needed hate needed lust needed fire and passion and murder in a man's eyes... I got simpers. Bows and stuttering. I loved them. I could not give in, couldn't admit the girl I was, couldn't show myself to any of them... because in truth that is what had happened to the beautiful Alicia Lycette; bachelorette of twenty-one.

At the time of my confessions, she was now a well reputed spinster of fourty-two and feeling all manner of tug at every opening in the skin and heart.

She lusted.

------UPON ARRIVING AT AN OLD FRIEND'S-----

She visited her old friend again, hoping at least to be somewhat encouraged at seeing a fourty-six year old face. Perhaps she'd be lined with age from the family she'd started some twenty years ago.

She chapped on the door to find a man.

Not Henry. Yet dressed nor as a butler. He politely informed her with kind eyes and a bow of servitude that though his Mother was indeed in, he knew not the whereabouts of his father, nor the identity of the woman to whom he spoke. He smiled. And he asked. It was courtesy, important, and of course- the fact of the matter being though I was well-dressed and in kept shape and make-up and perfume- we had never met. And so I was a spinster of fourty-two on the door of the boy's house, asking about his Mother.

'His Mother?' I thought.

And I gasped when I realised.

'Her son...!'

I looked him properly for the first time. The moment was going on forever anyway, love at first sight being what it is... he wore his poet's shirt and thin trousers... thin everything really, but not gaunt, never gaunt. He was tall... but not so tall. His hair was as the fashion, but with modesty, slight curls and dark shine of nothing mudding it, simply good upkeep of reasonable wealth. And his skin was a little pale, enough to perhaps make a lady draw comparisons with several terrible erotic novellas she mightn't have read were she so enraptured with a man herself...

He let me in, with not just a bow but a motion for the servants. Normally I bid they wait, but on this occasion I made an exception. I pictured him a man of steady growth, unashamed to do what needed be done in the face of pomp and decorum. I pictured him a lot as I walked past him in the giant skirts and bumped him against the wall.

He smiled, laughing a little. He didn't care what I was wearing, just for the blush on my cheeks... was I really so old? So alone? So needing of this kind of attention? So bereft of it?

I put all thought of age aside and focused on the house. And... saw that it was old. It was big, beautiful, white, bare. Lutecia.

I could have laughed. But I didn't want to prattle on like an old fool in front of this boy... I wanted to impress him.

No. I wanted him to impress me.

I turned and started close to him, staring him in the face as the servants nodded bows and bobbed past into the stairwell, the boy motioning up to rooms as I stared and him frowning slightly, seeing me as if truly for the first time. Perhaps it had been the hat. I realised though such was not entirely proper... if we were to be friends... family even? I gently plucked it from my head and laid it on the rack.

I turned to him and stared again. We heard the servants' ebbing feet away up the stairs... but more importantly- I knew that he heard it. A subtle difference, but...

"How old are you, young man, if I may ask...?"

A gulp. He replied that he had twenty-one years to his name.

And there it was... an opportunity. I smiled sweetly and nodded gently, him being the man of the house after all, and I a guest.

"Show me to my room."

He remembered, panicking a little and nodding, rushing up to help lead me. He rushed back down and offered an arm. I laughed gently and made sure he could feel the pat on his arm. I made sure that he could feel the little rub on the back of his hand.

He was to be my escort, it appeared.

---------LATER, IN THE BATHROOM-------

The bath was near boiling, and my breasts grew red and perfectly hot inside.

Something particularly pleasing about a bath in the heat, rather than the cold... not sure what it is beyond an excuse to lightly boil oneself, but occasionally... if the thought arises... I played with myself only a little in my dear friend's tub, only teasing the nipples and absently working my fingers around the skin of my labia, as though testing that they still all worked. They did. Quite well! My face grew red and flushed, my fingers pinched and pulled at my small pink nipples, brushing gently at the slightest of bumps as they worked and pulled pleasantly, feeling my breath grow to a lighter one and my body writhe up like a sea serpent.

I heard myself moan for the first time and focused on what I was trying to picture through the heat. Oh usually it was past lovers... men who promised themselves to be good and were corrupted... men who had promised they were good and corrupted me...

I had visions of being fucked in a bathroom I had never been to, surrounded by white and sitting on the kitchen counter, feeling the man's sex pump in and out of me, feeling the hit of his muscular frame and hearing the slap of his genitalia on my behind. Though I would never admit it publicly... the little slaps excited me... the sounds of it... the fact that he could be so consistent, and during the day! Shouldn't we have been working? At least... shouldn't he?

I couldn't suppress the moan. I wanted him inside me, this man I had known who had left because I was too quick-witted for his liking. I rubbed lower into my labia and felt the warmth fall to a more manageable temperature, as my own rose... I could hear absent moans along the coolness of the water now, light echoes in the room, but I didn't care if anyone heard me. I was getting so steadily aroused, already I had that familiar temptation to grab a servant and order them to fuck me raw, take me the way only a rich husband should. Only a... poor farmhand...

I played and tugged at both nipples now, one after the other, tongue out to lick at nothing, longing for kiss. Longing for... well...

Something masculine.

My mouth needed filled.

But it wasn't enough... I had never yet taken another man into my mouth, though not for lack of trying, the first two thinking it much too forward and the last few ending it all at the mere suggestion of the lewdness.

Is it wrong that that had always gotten me off, all the way through to the edge, so so quickly compared to any loving decent thought?

That I was a slut... a harlot... a whore... whom no man could satiate... the thought thrilled... I felt so sexy... so... needy...

I arose to my peak and felt my behind hit the bottom of the bath, sinking back and making an effort not to float my way out and the water spilling under the fucking door... I tucked my fingertips down under my labia now and started rubbing the more sensitive skin, shutting my mouth turning the moans to whimpers without a man there to cause them nor hold them back.

I was tugging on my nipples and clinging to my breast like a girl again, as though for the first time... in truth it had been a long journey, and I was so so very sweaty...

But I needed something.

So I thought of him. He was the most recent picture after all, handsome... boyish... unafraid to show himself in front of a lady...

I intended to pat him on the hand again, thinking it all ludicrous and awfully crass. He was too young, much too young-

My moans echoed and returned to mock me for broodmare. I felt myself grow hotter and another spurt of water lapped from the tub, I was beginning to feel like a whale... but I wasn't a whale... I was modestly thin and wet-haired and it was longer and sticking to my eyes and down my face, and hiding me like a girl again as I...

...got closer... I pictured him walking up to me against the wall, pinning me and grabbing my wrist... telling me he had heard all about me and demanding to know why I had yet to marry- I pictured telling him what for, that it wasn't his business and he was too young yes much too young and had no right to push me around like that-

I pictured him hiking up my skirts, and ripping them a little and showing a bit of leg... and then taking me roughly and without kiss... while my lips pined for his...

And I was getting there with every thought now, he pulsed through my veins like an opiate. I moaned and didn't care, feeling the water around my ears and cheekbones, lapping and rising as my wet fucking petals...

And- and- and- and-

"Y-Young Locksley... we simply m-m-MUSTN'T! It would be SCANDALOUS! What- what if your cunt mother found out-"

I moaned like a bitch.

I'd like to tell you I felt a little bit bad about that last. Because then I could be a good woman with a husband who'd fuck me every single night like I deserved, and not when their wives were away and I was in town visiting.

But I can't.

Because I didn't feel bad.

I stepped out of the bath, gently walked and curtseyed as was proper for a Lady, even naked in another woman's tub... gently wrapped the towel around myself...

And after walking out the last steps across the landing to my room... with the towel on my shoulder... I felt suddenly wetter again.

I let it drip down my legs... I wanted them to smell it.

I wanted him to smell it. The only thing I can say made me the slightest bit scared- was the trail I left... as I rubbed my gently crying pussy lips and hole until my fingers were covered, and began to run it, all across the banister to what I had seen was his room that very morning.

I rubbed a little on his door, under the door, like it was neck and ankles on a very handsome man who had just taken me.

Fitting, I think.

Were it not for the fact that I wanted to PROPERLY fuck him, I would have chapped on his door right then and pushed him in.

Because as all good boys should know, a proper fucking begins with hours and fucking hours of foreplay... the first proper fucking is of the head...

As it was, I settled for moaning gently, choosing to touch myself sitting down this time, not on the comfort of the big plush soft bed- but on the floor. Like a brothel whore. On my behind. With my mouth into his white white wall.

When I came the first two times, I made sure to giggle. By the fifth I was laughing.

I had made my choice. She could have returned and shown herself the greatest woman alive, apologised for the way she had been treating me and herself and anyone else for that matter, setting me up with a man in the instant. I didn't care.

I was going to take Lutecia's son.

------AFTER THE BATH, IN THE BEDROOM----

I never slept in more than the slightest negligee in New England heat. It relieved me to have a house in the place to visit... and... well it excited me. The simplest of adventures did so now, travelling alone but with servants and of course all the cases a woman of repute should carry, I felt a wave of young woman come over me in the simplicity of it and the wildness, the freedom in my confining room being so... right. So childish. So lovely... I was a girl staying with an old friend. A heroine of intention of kindness and love.

I was throbbing at the breast. My heart pounded even hearing my little feet patting on the wooden floorboards, back and forth like a little mouse or kitten. Though I had seen none, I hoped for a cat to appear in the front room so I could pet it and make myself comfortable. No longer presentable, no longer fearing, no longer a woman of repute. Just a girl. With her hair in a woman's bun.

I took the pins from my bun and felt it fall. I messed with the tornado of hair and worked my fingers into it in scalp so it all fell free and low. It was longer than I had remembered when I was in Paris. In Paris it had felt small, seeing all the other women, what were clearly brothels lining streets, and their girls pouring out and teasing more than just the men with their figures and faces and hair.

I pictured the younger of their faces now... the blonder... prettier... more young-Alicia like.

I curled a lock in my finger, teasing and biting my lip. I was rebuilding myself, yearning for parts of me to be called pretty, beautiful, desired. My hair was neither gold nor brown, it ran from one to the other in both lights. I saw dust gently rising around me from the mirror. I wondered how well kept the house was, but... but... well the dust had me worried for... the boy. It wasn't the house really. It was the boy. My womanhood fell from me, my needs and worries of anything beyond talking gently and being simple.

I was a girl. And it wasn't the house or dust I was interested in.

It was the boy.

----LATE AFTERNOON, DOWN THE STAIRWELL-----

I tiptoed down the stairs, hearing not a creak and smiling pleased with myself, pinching my lips and clinging to the banister as I peered about. There was no-one around, the servants having their rooms and own floor above us, closest to the cold as was right with these houses and places of standing.

This left us on our own, myself having ordered them as a general rule not to disturb me in ANY house as a guest under pain of swift retirement and strict letters to everyone of repute I knew, that they would be sexual deviants and perverts for even interrupting my talk with old friends!

Rather than... well what would actually be happening... with them gazing upon me in my shocked Spinster state with less than an enormous petticoated dress on.

And so I was happily alone, drifting down... negligeed... with the finest most modern and enticing from Paris... a modest corset... for a whore... garter belts... and bare feet... gently painted with just varnish, to make my own pink pop. They matched my face.

I peered each way about, preparing what I would say to Lutecia if she had arrived, if she had men with her, I'd simply walk up and smile, taking her hands and acting as though I was not wearing anything out of the ordinary. I prepared.

Not enough.

I heard moaning.

I peeked through the crack in the moaning's guarding door, my breath going red and face all flushed... I saw the ever-familiar movements I had laughed at as a young girl... the movements of a boy... treating himself rather harshly with both hatred and love... hearing his gentle gasps and stiflings under hand. I watched. I pinched my lips and felt my legs twitch. The one crossed, on toes, feeling them grip at nothing but... well... wood.

I heard the servants laugh once, huge upstairs. I gulped. I longed for there to be other things for me to gulp...

I watched him breathe. He was good at it, whatever it was, he groaned gently and his breaths came, as though another tier of passion had revealed itself. I thought such would have ended, based on the gossiping I had heard from even the most scoundrels among women about their husbands. But they all spoke true... or... even untrue to make their husbands seem worse than they were, the older passion and lust being that of the approval of other women.

I had no such lust. No such women. No such age. I was a girl. My toes gripped and twisted. I leaned my head on the frame and watched.

He GROANED. He nodded to himself, breathing and shutting his eyes. Even from here with the light I could see the slightest detail... His shirt on the floor... his trousers around his ankles... his behind and legs tense and accentuated by the light... his strong back and arm working and working as he grew quicker and closer more hunched over. I longed for him not to, to inch back and get me a proper look at the thing.

After a few light gasps, myself on the edge of my need and beginning to reach my fingers gently down, I tiptoed and turned my head to get more comfortable, beginning to rub two fingers down my pelvic bone and either side of my labia. I tugged a little with the inseams of my fingers as I did, sliding gently down and teasing myself -as I so often began in my own lovings- with thought of clitoral stimuli. I felt my own mouth open and gasp. I felt a need to stifle them but... beyond that was a greater need. A mating call.

That he hear me... m I gasped like a girl and felt my thumb graze the hood of my clitoris, beginning to tickle my sex with my other fingers and run them gently up and close, now into the minora and feeling the slickness stick and hold... [Moaning] I longed for more... this was the beginning... but I wanted to reach down between my legs and push them gentler into my vulva, feeling the familiar pressure of resistance and the hole surrounded by more wet than I had had in quite some time... meaning months...

But I did no such thing. I didn't get that far. I got about as far as gently teasing the skin below my clitoris when I felt him go completely silent in a way I had not seen from any man before or since.

I heard a light pat. Then another pat. He gasped. He GROANED. I felt horrible, a loss, but a perfection. He had gone too soon... left without me... I was just beginning my arousal and descent... there would be no more fun for him for quite some time, even were he to see and love me the way I was now absolutely fantasising...

I couldn't help myself. In my light shirt and undergarments, I reached a point of care and past and slipped my finger gently down the same spot of skin to feel myself lightly shiver, an appetiser before sliding the finger all the way down my slip of pink slick, collecting wet and lubricant for my aching red cunt. And I slipped it in.