Supper At Oxondon Hall Pt. 01

Lady Olivia Mowbray was Cambridgeshire aristocracy. Sharon had helped her with one of her charity projects, working with returned service personnel. For some reason -- Sharon couldn't really say exactly why -- she and Lady Olivia had got along really well. They had just ... well ... clicked.

'Now that this project is coming to an end,' Lady Olivia had said one day, 'Richard and I must have you over for one of our little suppers.'

'That would be nice,' Sharon had told her. 'Thank you.'

Lady Olivia had said that she would be in touch. But, in her heart of hearts, Sharon somehow knew that Lady Olivia would probably get distracted by other things (she was a busy woman) and forget all about the supper invitation. Still, it had been a nice thought.

And then, an invitation really did arrive. A proper printed invitation. On heavy white card. With gold edges. An invitation to 'join Lady Olivia and Sir Richard Mowbray for an intimate supper at Oxondon Hall'. The supper was to be held on Saturday. Not the following Saturday, but the Saturday after that. 'Six-thirty for seven.' And, at the bottom of the invitation, there was a note that said: 'Ladies, please dress with restraint'. Sharon had to admit that she had no idea what that meant.

There was also a separate hand-written note from Lady Olivia saying: 'Please come, Sharon. I so look forward to seeing you again. I will send a car. Shall we say six o'clock for the car? -- Liv xx'

For those of you who are not familiar with Oxondon Hall, it is more a castle than a house. It has stood for more than three hundred years on a low limestone mound, glowering out across the fens. The building has not always enjoyed good times. Just after the First World War, it had fallen into such disrepair that there had been talk of demolishing it. But it had somehow survived. And, in the 1970s, it was acquired by the National Trust. And now, during the summer at least, the gardens and some of the rooms were open to the public. But the Mowbray family, who are descendants of the original owners, continue to live in an apartment in the west wing.

Once Sharon had recovered from her surprise, she replied that she would be delighted to accept Lady Olivia's invitation. Yes. Delighted. Although she still wasn't quite sure what 'Ladies, please dress with restraint' meant. No jeans, perhaps? No Guns N' Roses T-shirts? Who knew?

And then Sharon remembered that she and Lady Olivia -- or Liv as she had signed the hand-written note that had accompanied the formal invitation -- had been looking though some websites, in search of someone who might supply the charity with T-shirts at a friendly price, when they had stumbled across a site for 'structured undergarments'. 'Oh, yes,' I do like a good corset,' Lady Olivia had said. 'That wonderful feeling of restraint. That wonderful feeling of being held in, of being contained.' Was that what the invitation was saying? Ladies please dress in a corset? Sharon could certainly do that. Not just a corset, of course. She would also wear a dress. But she could certainly start with a corset.

When the day came, Sharon took a leisurely bath and then stood, naked as the day that she was born, in front of the bathroom mirror. Sharon was not tall. She had to stand on tiptoes just to get to five feet. But she was all woman. All woman. There was no way that Sharon was going to be mistaken for a bloke.

Even though she was going to be the only one who knew, Sharon decided that she would give her bush just a tiny bit of a trim in honour of the occasion. Not too much. Just a snip here and there. Sharon had decided that she would wear her white corselet, the one with the pale blue appliqué flowers and trim. It was an open corselet that nicely exposed her mound. And she had decided to wear it without any knickers. What was the point of an open corselet if you were then going to cover everything up again with a pair of knickers?

With her bush trimmed, Sharon tucked herself into her corselet. Yes, Liv had been right: It did feel wonderful being held in. 'Is this restrained enough for you?' Sharon asked the mirror, as she first 'weighed' her large breasts in her hands and then smoothed her womanly hips. She certainly looked good, she told herself. She even wondered, for a moment or two, if she might have time to give herself a quick finger-fuck. But no. Perhaps later. Perhaps when she got home again.

With her corselet in place, Sharon put on a simple-but-elegant navy blue dress. And then a pair of blue stockings -- French navy, if the description on the pack was to be believed. And, finally, she slipped her feet into a pair of navy blue patent leather Salvatore Ferragamo court shoes. Cinderella was ready to go to the ball.

The car that Lady Olivia sent to collect Sharon was a Bentley. It was not a new Bentley. But it was a Bentley nevertheless. Driven by a uniformed chauffeur with a peaked cap. The Mowbrays certainly knew how to do things in style.

On her arrival at Oxondon Hall, Sharon was greeted by a young man in an ornate brocade waistcoat, one of those Georgian-style waistcoats that was slightly longer in the front than it was at the back. 'Your host and hostess are taking drinks with the rest of the guests on the terrace,' he said. 'If you will just follow me.' And he turned and led the way. And, no, it was not Sharon's imagination. Apart from a pair of shoes, the ornate brocade waistcoat was all that the young man was wearing. And he did have a very nice bum.

'Sharon!' Lady Olivia said, when they reached the terrace. 'I am so glad that you could come.' And she gave Sharon a little hug and kissed her on both cheeks. 'Come and meet my husband. Richard ... meet my new friend, Sharon.' And Sir Richard Mowbray (who was perhaps a little older than Sharon had expected) also hugged Sharon and kissed her on both cheeks. And then Liv introduced Sharon to the other guests (a tall, important-looking woman, and two older men) and there were more hugs and still more kisses.

It was just after Sharon had been introduced to Alexina (the tall, important-looking woman) that a tray of champagne cocktails appeared before her. The tray was being carried by an attractive young woman wearing an ornate brocade waistcoat similar to the waistcoat that had been worn by the naked-arsed young man who had led Sharon out to the terrace. As Sharon helped herself to a drink, she could not resist the temptation to glance down to see what else -- if anything -- the young woman was wearing. Apart from an elegant pair of shoes, she too was naked from the waist down. Although the woman did seem to have her fluffy snatch-thatch dyed a bright rusty colour to match her waistcoat. Yes. Very nice.

'And how do you come to know Liv?' Alexina asked.

'We ... umm ... worked on one of her charity projects together,' Sharon said.

Alexina smiled and nodded. 'Ah, yes. And, of course, one good turn deserves another,' she said.

'I suppose so. And you?'

'I am the headmistress of a school for young ladies,' Alexina said. 'Liv is our patron.'

And then Liv was back again to inform Sharon and Alexina that, since they would shortly be going through to the dining hall, now might be a good time to disrobe. Sharon frowned. Disrobe? Undress? Get naked? Not that Sharon had any problem with being naked. In her younger days, she had even modelled for an art class. But being naked in front of a bunch of would-be artists was a little different from being naked while having supper at an aristocrat's castle with a bunch of people whom she had just met. Had Sharon misunderstood the invitation?

Lady Olivia obviously noticed Sharon's slightly concerned expression. 'Sorry,' she said. 'I thought that you would realise that "dress with restraint" was an invitation to perhaps wear a corset of some sort. Or perhaps a girdle. But it doesn't matter if you haven't. I probably should have been more specific.'

'Oh. Yes,' Sharon said. 'A corset. Yes. I have worn a corset. Well ... a corselet. My favourite. My favourite for the moment, anyway. Full length. Open style.'

'Oh, excellent,' Lady Olivia said. 'Perfect. Then let us go and remove our frocks.' And she led the way to a room that seemed to have been set up specifically for the purpose of removing any unrequired layers of clothing.

Lady Olivia herself was the first to strip off. Beneath her cocktail frock she was wearing a pale olive-coloured corselet, full length and, like Sharon's, in the open style, with the corselet's burnt-orange trim framing Lady Olivia's delicious-looking aristocratic mound.

Alexina -- who was taller than Lady Olivia, and very much taller than Sharon -- had opted for a two-piece restraint. Restraining her upper torso -- and lifting her rather smaller breasts -- she was wearing a navy blue, longline strapless bra with hot pink detailing. Very fetching. Below, she was wearing a modern take on an old-fashioned crossover girdle, also in navy blue. With broad suspender straps. Sharon thought that she looked fabulous. In fact, Sharon almost wished that she could taste Alexina there and then.

'Yes. I think we look the business,' Liv announced. 'Now ... let's go and join the chaps, shall we?'

'The chaps' were already seated at the open-horseshoe dining table. But, when the ladies entered the room -- resplendent in their restraint -- the chaps rose to their feet and offered a round of applause. 'Well, well,' Sir Richard said, 'sex on a stick times three. Very nice. Yes, very nice indeed.'

For the first course, the waistcoated (but naked-arsed) servers served plump oysters. Au naturel. (Which seemed appropriate enough.) With the choice of a dark, salty, Asian-style vinaigrette or a smoked paprika and tomato ketchup. To accompany the oysters, there were glasses of lean, briny Muscadet. Delicious. In fact perfect.

The diners sat only on the outside of the horseshoe. Sharon was seated between Sir Richard and a chap named Malcolm.

'And what do you do, Sharon?' Malcolm asked.

'Do?'

'Yes. You know. How do you fill in your day?'

'Oh, with a bit of this and a bit of that,' Sharon said.

Malcolm nodded and looked approvingly at Sharon's ample satin and lace-covered breasts.

'And you?' Sharon asked.

'Umm ... a bit the same really,' Malcolm said. 'I used to be a vicar. But the bishop didn't seem to think that I was really suitable. He thought that I was a bit too fond of the ladies.'

'Oh? And are you?' Sharon asked.

'Umm ... well ... yes, I do like ladies,' Malcolm said. 'But that's no bad thing, is it?'

Sharon just smiled.

'You and Liv ...,' Malcolm said. And he nodded in the direction of Lady Olivia.

'Friends,' Sharon said.

Malcolm nodded again. 'Good friends?'

'I like to think so,' Sharon said.

Again Malcolm nodded. 'Yes. Liv and I have never actually ... you know.' Malcolm made a circle with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and 'stabbed' it two or three times with two fingers of his right hand. 'We've come close once or twice. But never actually .... But maybe tonight, eh? What do you think?'

But Sharon didn't have time to think. With the oyster platters cleared away, two footmen (except both footmen were actually foot women, dressed in white breeches, stockings, buckled black patent shoes, and nothing else) arrived with what Sharon could only describe as 'a contraption'. It looked as if someone had set out to build one of those library chairs with adjustable everything. But then they had lost their way. The result was some sort of wooden frame, with upholstered bits and pieces here and there, all sitting on top of four black and chrome castors.

One of the bare-breasted footwomen wheeled the contraption into the empty space in the middle of the open-horseshoe dining table.

'Oh-oh,' Sir Richard said. 'What have we here, eh?'

And then the young woman -- the same young woman who had served the drinks out on the terrace -- arrived and positioned herself, kneeling on a couple of the padded rests at one end of the contraption. The kneeling rests were spread, and so, when the young woman knelt on the rests, her nicely-toned thighs were also spread. And then the woman leaned forward and stretched out so that she was face down with her pulchritudinous posterior exposed for all to see. One of the footwomen stepped forward and 'drove' the contraption around the horseshoe so that each of the diners could get a closer look at the young woman's fine attributes.

'Bravo,' Malcolm said. 'First class arse. That's what we like to see, eh? First class arse.'

Sharon had to agree. The young woman did indeed have a first class arse.

And then, from somewhere, the other footwoman produced an ornate, Georgian silver jug with a long, fine spout, and she began to slowly -- very slowly -- drizzle something that appeared to be oily into the prone young woman's intergluteal cleft.

'Baby oil?' Sir Richard suggested. 'Is that what it is? Baby oil for a baby's bum.' And he laughed as if he had just made a particularly good joke.

Even from where Sharon was sitting, she could see the oil (which might well have been baby oil) slowly trickling along the young woman's crack, putting a shine on her delightfully-puckered arsehole, and then going on to flood her cunt which was now opening up like some sort of glossy flower.

And then the jug-bearer stood to one side, and the other bare-breasted footwoman once more paraded the contraption-prone damsel so that the diners could each gaze upon her now-lubricated not-so-private parts.

'Are we permitted to ...?' Edward asked, looking along the table to Sir Richard and waggling his fingers.

Sir Richard frowned slightly. 'Umm ... perhaps later,' he said. 'We probably need to let our champion do his stuff first. Chef gets a little tetchy if we deviate too far from our schedule.'

Edward looked a little disappointed. But he seemed to accept his host's reasoning.

And then 'our champion' (who was actually the young man who had earlier welcomed the guests, and who was now sporting a pretty decent stiffy) arrived and took up his position astern of the exquisitely-lubricated filly.

On a signal from Lady Olivia, 'our champion' first slipped a finger into the prone damsel. And then he slipped in two fingers. And then ... was it to be three fingers? No. At least not on this occasion. On this occasion, he withdrew his two fingers and wiped the oil and other juices that had transferred to his fingers onto the mauve head of his erect cock.

'Oh-oh. Here we go,' Malcolm said to Sharon. And he reached under the table, perhaps to rearrange his own stiffy.

As fucks go, the one performed for the entertainment of Lady Olivia and Sir Richard and their guests did not set any duration records. But it was, in its own way, pleasantly arousing. And it was one of the 'squelchier' fucks to which Sharon had been witness. Probably a combination of a very wet cunt and a generous helping of whatever the oil was, Sharon decided.

'Bravo!' the chaps shouted as they got to their feet and applauded 'our champion's' final salvo. 'Well done, sir. Well done.'

And then the naked-arsed fucker and the naked-arsed fuckee took a bow, and it was time to serve the main course: a fillet of local muntjac with a burgundy and dark chocolate jus, accompanied by assorted seasonal vegetables. (The steamed and buttered asparagus was particularly good.)

The wine selected for the main course was a Craggy Range Gimblett Gravels Cabernet Sauvignon. It too was excellent. Edward refused to believe that it was not a First Growth Bordeaux in disguise. 'Are you sure it's not a Chateau Latour?' he said. 'Or a Hot-Brian perhaps?'

There was still light in the sky when they had finished dining, and Sir Richard (who Malcolm referred to as 'King Dickie') suggested that they return to the terrace for coffee and cognac. 'Oh, and bags off,' he said.

'Bags off,' Malcolm and Edward echoed. And the three chaps stood and lowered their trousers.

'House rules,' Malcom explained to Sharon, as he fluffed his half-hard stiffy.

King Dickie's cock was also in a state of partial erection. Edward's cock, however, just hung like a flag on a still afternoon. 'Doesn't work anymore, I'm afraid,' he told Sharon. 'Medication. Bloody quacks, eh? But my tongue still works,' he said. 'If you'd like to take it for a spin later.' And he peered down at Sharon's corselet-framed bush. 'No problems with my tongue.'

Lady Olivia smiled and nodded ever so slightly, and Sharon got the distinct impression that Liv was not altogether unfamiliar with Edward's tongue.