tagInterracial LoveThe Blossoming

The Blossoming


One I put together after an idea, but it went a little out of control. As ever, I hope you enjoy the story. If you do, post feedback saying what you enjoyed; if you didn't like it, again, post feedback citing why.

Personally, I'm unsure about the premise of a finishing school, but I wanted to manage a contrast between the [apparently] stern Mrs Blythe and Mathilda. How to arrange a mixing of all three characters that's plausible? Difficult, so I probably pushed the boundary in terms of suspension of belief. What the hell, it's only stroke!

I self-edit, and as a result there are undoubtedly errors still embedded. As usual I ask you to forgive any that remain.

GA - Samara Beach, Costa Rica. 7 March 2012.

'Mrs Blythe – I'm sorry to disturb you but there's a little problem.' The woman, Marion Ingles, Mrs Blyth's deputy for the past eighteen months, took a timid, birdlike step into the office. 'I know you're awfully busy,' Marion added, her diction suited to a BBC newsreader from a bygone era, 'but,' she pecked a cough against the back of her hand, 'well, it's about one of the blossomings.' Mrs Blythe looked up from the papers on her desk. Marion Ingles wrung her hands and grinned, her typically meek defence to the Iron Lady's glare. 'I'm sorry, Mrs Blyth ...' the woman simpered.

Years of practice, and indeed, her grounding as a Young Lady in the very establishment in which she presided, efficiently masked Mrs Blythe's irritation at the interruption. 'Not at all, Marion,' she said, brusque but smiling to ease her deputy's sensitivities. 'Never too busy if there's a problem. Especially if it's a blossoming.'

The two women walked the corridors, with Marion speaking hurriedly as they went. Again, Mrs Blythe's years of practice concealed her surprise when, after a peremptory knock upon a door, she encountered the scene. Closing the door behind her, she left her deputy on the other side.

Oh, my ... she thought, her dilating pupils the only outward sign of interest while she asked: 'And what seems to be the issue, Mathilda?' Marion had given a quick brief, the girl's name and a quick outline of 'the problem'.

The girl, cheerleader blonde, tiny and afraid amid the swathe of a thick cotton bathrobe, looked up, eyes wide, from where she knelt on a huge bed. Everything about the room whispered opulence, spoke of money and luxury. It was that sort of place. Mathilda's eyes widened further at the ominous presence of Mrs Blythe. Her lower lip trembled. 'Am I in trouble?'

'Trouble? Why no, dear, not at all. Put that nonsense out of your head. I'm here to help. Nothing more.' Mrs Blythe turned to face the room's second occupant, the one who'd elicited such a dramatic response from her. Giving no outward indication of her inner turmoil – clenching, oiling sex, heart jack-hammering inside her ribcage, nipples that had thickened and ached to be touched ... bitten, she asked: 'May I come in?'

The man stood, offering his perfect, white teeth. 'Of course,' he replied.

Mrs Blythe saw a tall man, mid-thirties, short hair, and with rich, brown skin.

'Emily Blythe,' Mrs Blythe said, stepping further into the luxury of the suite and extending her hand formally. 'You must be Jason?'

The man paced forward. His long, dark fingers closed around Mrs Blythe's extended hand. 'I am,' he responded.

The mature woman felt suddenly warm at the touch, a heat that suffused through her body, the epicentre of which was her pulsing vulva. He's so beautiful, she thought. And so well-mannered, so well-groomed, and he smells divine! 'A solicitor, I gather,' she said out loud. Jason nodded, holding her hand for a second or two longer than was entirely appropriate. Mrs Blythe's stomach, despite her maturity, fluttered and her clitoris pulsed. 'We only use the best for our little ceremonies, Mrs Blythe added.' Why did she say that? she wondered. A pointless observation, the man knew all about the selection process; he'd been through it after all. He knew why he was there. It was the girl who was the problem.

'Thank you, Mrs Blythe,' Jason said, smirking slightly, taking in the businesslike air – no nonsense, straight-talking – of the immaculately groomed, well-presented professional lady. Jason saw a woman in her early-fifties – great legs, matronly bust; a bit serious in the face but pretty when she softened and smiled. A stunner in her day, he thought.

In an effort to regain some degree of self-control, Mrs Blythe said: 'Why don't I sit here ...' she settled, after smoothing the skirt of her suit over her hips, into the embrace of a velvet covered chaise. 'We can discuss the problem and hopefully triumph.' The man sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, his hands and their long, black fingers hung loosely between. Big hands, Mrs Blythe thought. I wonder ... She shifted on the seat, crossing her legs, noticing Jason's eyes flick down; saw them widen with appreciation as he took in the smooth sweep of her calves. The woman moved again, ostensibly in an effort to get more comfortable, whereas her real motive was to ease the tight hem of her skirt higher up her thigh.

'So, Mathilda ...' Mrs Blythe concentrated upon the forlorn figure on the bed. The girl looked up from where her chin had sunk onto her chest.

'Mrs Blythe?' the girl replied.

'What is it, dear? Please, take your time. I don't want to upset you. But why am I here?'

Mathilda's eyes flicked towards Jason. 'It's ..." she began, and then shrugged. 'Oh, Mrs Blythe,' she said, her voice tremulous. 'I know I'm being silly, but ...' She shrugged again.

'I can tell you what it is,' Jason interjected.

'Please do,' Mrs Blythe said.

'It's a cliché,' Jason explained, 'but ... Well ...'

He actually looked embarrassed. And he was embarrassed. Here he was, with a gorgeous but shit-scared nineteen year-old girl, while Margaret Thatcher stared at him from across the room. OK, the Thatcher thing was a bit unkind. Mrs Blythe, Emily, came across as a stern disciplinarian type – a superb dominatrix, he thought – Pretty sexy in that ripe way some women blossomed into. He nearly laughed. Blossomed, he mused. That's apt. That was what they called ... this. What he was doing, what he was meant to be doing. With the girl. Blossoming.

'Please, Jason,' Mrs Blythe said. 'Do continue. Don't feel awkward. After all, I know why you're here.' She smiled and shifted her rump on the chaise. The hem crept higher, showing more leg. 'I'm unshockable, be assured of that. You can speak frankly.'

'It's just too big.' The voice was Mathilda's. 'When he showed me ... It's just too big,' she repeated.

Oh. Dear. God. Mrs Blythe thought when, sans underwear as was her custom, the throb in her clitoris lubbed more urgently and desire slid from her opening. She imagined Jason's long, black cock, and wondered: How big is he?

'Like I said, a cliché.' Jason offered an apologetic smile and spread his hands, a gesture that showed the pale skin of his palms.

'Show me,' Mrs Blythe instructed, somehow keeping the tremor from her voice. 'Just so I can make an accurate assessment,' she added.

A moment's hesitation, then the man stood and slid the belt at his waist undone. The robe parted.

Mrs Blythe, po-faced, in an enormous effort of self control, said: 'Hmmm. Yes. Well, I see.'

Jason looked down at the thing hanging there like a length of fire hose, a great outgrowth of black meat. 'There it is,' he said simply.

'It certainly is larger than the average,' Mrs Blythe commented, sliding her spectacles down her nose as she uncrossed her legs and leaned forward to inspect Jason's offering.

A snort erupted from Mathilda's nose at this understatement. 'Sorry, Mrs Blythe,' she murmured, eyes downcast, appalled at her outburst. The whole point of being in that establishment – a finishing school as it was known in Mrs Blyth's day – had been to teach her etiquette and deportment and other essentials for the daughter of a wealthy family. The Blossoming, as the euphemism went, was just a single element of her learning.

'Mathilda, please,' Mrs Blythe reprimanded quietly, pushing her spectacles back up to the bridge of her nose.

At the reminder of the school's purpose, Mathilda flushed. 'I apologise, Mrs Blythe,' she returned. The older woman inclined her head, almost imperceptibly. Mathilda understood. 'Of course, I extend the apology to you also, Jason,' she finished.

'Not a problem,' the man shrugged. Two pairs of female eyes noticed the effect the movement had on the penis lounging between his legs, the pale tip of which reached to the mid-point of the long muscles in his thighs.

The curvature of the languid, insouciant jib meant that the already impressive length was foreshortened. A detail not unnoticed by Mrs Blythe's practiced eye.

You beautiful boy, she thought. That gorgeous black cock ... She squirmed against the irrepressible itch between her legs.

'Don't be intimidated by it, Mathilda,' Mrs Blythe said. 'It looks big, in fact it is big,' she continued, nodding. 'But, you know, darling girl, you're designed to accommodate it. You are,' she added when the girl's face indicated her incredulity. 'You might not think so, but you can do it.' She thought to herself: And I should know.

'I ...' Mathilda began, shaking her head, staring at the exposed length. 'It just—'

'—Are you a virgin?' Mrs Blythe asked, bluntly interrupting.

The girl shook her head.

It had been so different in Mrs Blyth's era. In those days, when she herself had undergone The Blossoming, the young ladies, very nearly every one of them, had been virgo intacta. There had been the soft lesbianism, of course; the sharing of rail-thin beds in the dormitory, as it had been, when shared accommodation had been acceptable. Times had changed, the place was now more a country house hotel, but in the days of the dorm there'd been the kisses and soft caresses; the occasional licking of nectar-sweet vulva; wet fingers, muted sighs and the rustling of sheets in the dark; all permissible; more a comfort than anything overtly sexual. Mrs Blythe sighed at the passing of a more innocent age.

And she had been innocent. Until her blossoming.

And then her marriage ...

'Well now,' said Mrs Blythe,' her hands leaping in a gesture that implied the answer was obvious. 'You're comparing Jason to ...' she paused momentarily, the first occasion, for at least two decades, been lost for words. 'Whatever you've experienced in the past, trust me,' she implored, recovering her composure, her eyes meeting the girl's, 'You can manage it.' She turned her attention the black man who still stood there, his threatening length ever visible. 'Tell me, Jason. What's been your experience? Have you ever known a woman who can't accommodate you?'

Jason shuffled his feet. 'No, Mrs Blythe,' he admitted. 'I haven't.' He shrugged again. 'Sometimes it took a little ... ah ... shall we say easing ... But no, there's never been much of a problem.

'I didn't think so.' Mrs Blythe paused, her mind whirling despite her outward calm. 'If,' she began, hesitating again. She regarded Mathilda, still huddled inside the protective shield of the voluminous robe. 'If,' she continued, reaching a decision, 'I reveal an aspect of my past that's rather ... sensitive. I might remind you of our philosophy here, Mathilda. Integrity ... Can I count on it?'

Shocked by Mrs Blyth's questioning of her accepted values, a morality instilled both by instinct and breeding, and which had been reinforced by the teaching at the school, Mathilda whispered, 'Of course, Mrs Blythe.'

'And you, Jason,' Mrs Blythe asked, her eyes moving, somewhat reluctantly upward from his cock to his eyes, ' Can I rely upon your discretion?'

'Unquestionable, Mrs Blythe. Beyond reproach.'

'In my younger days,' the woman began, taking a step towards Jason, her hands moving to the buttons of her blouse. 'After I went through this very school,' she added, 'I married young.' The buttons flicked open under her fingers. Her blouse gaped, revealing the well-filled and pale skin beneath. Both Jason's and Mathilda's mouths dropped open with surprise. Ignoring them in her reverie, Mrs Blythe carried on. 'My husband was a diplomat and our first posting together was Kenya.' She shrugged the suit jacket from her shoulders, uncaring about where it fell. The white blouse followed. In her bra, knickerless below her skirt, Mrs Blythe reached for Jason's cock. 'I came home one day...' she went on, hefting Jason's stiffening length in her palm, testing the weight of it. '... and found him balls deep in the maid.' She barked a laugh. 'At first I was angry – I mean, how could he do that to me? But, of course, I took my revenge ... Or so I thought.'

Jason, staring down at his slowly burgeoning erection, swallowed heavily. 'I did the obvious thing,' Mrs Blythe said. 'I went out, found two of the biggest, blackest boys I could, took them home, and fucked them in the reception room of the house.'

Mathilda gasped. Jason groaned.

'This was in the days before AIDS,' Mrs Blythe said. 'Of course there was a risk of me baking a brown loaf in my oven, but I was so spitting mad ... I timed it so he would catch me – in flagrante,' she revealed, squeezing Jason to a full, heavy tumescence. She spoke directly to Mathilda in words designed to shock: 'I was on my hands and knees, with one of them in my mouth and the other one behind, stretching my cunt.'

The girl gasped at the obscenity while Jason merely smiled, his eyes closing. Oh yes, he thought. Oh yes. Oh yes. Oh yes.

'Unzip my skirt, Jason,' Mrs Blythe instructed. The man complied. Mrs Blythe wriggled her hips and the skirt fell to the carpet.

'Stockings,' the man commented. 'Stockings and no knickers and a shaved pussy ...'

Mrs Blythe smirked. 'I'm not as I appear,' she said. 'I have a role to play here. I'm in charge. But, underneath ... Oh, my dear boy ... You just don't know.' She spoke to Mathilda, commanded the girl to join her. 'Come here,' Mrs Blythe barked. 'Stop being such a silly girl. There's a beautiful black cock for you to enjoy. It will open you, fill you; you'll be fucked so deep and so hard ...' Mrs Blythe groaned, her fist quickening as she recalled her past experiences with dark pleasures.

The girl jumped up, numb with shock at the enormity of what Mrs Blythe had revealed. Stunned by the crude obscenities, and startled into action by the harsh tone. She timidly moved to where Mrs Blythe, naked less the suspender belt, flesh-toned stockings and heels, lazily coaxed Jason's erection to life. The cock swayed in the woman's fist, the single-eyed, blunt snout of it wavering as though sniffing the air; as though the thing sensed fresh, sweet meat.

Jason let his robe slip to the carpet, where it lay in a heap, forgotten, alongside Mrs Blythe's skirt. He looked at Mrs Blythe's fingers wrapped tightly around his cock. 'Tell me about Kenya,' he murmured.

'I had one in my mouth, sucking on him so deep I could only gag, spit, and then let him fuck my throat some more. The one behind me, the one with his black fingers digging into the flesh of my pure-white hips, was so deep I thought he would shatter my back teeth. I was stuffed with black meat, so full of him that I couldn't fart.'

'Mrs Blythe!' Mathilda gasped, shocked and appalled.

'You don't understand, you silly girl,' Mrs Blythe sighed, her eyes glazed in rapture at her reminiscing. 'It was the most beautiful feeling, the experience ... the sensation of those two boys, those two huge, beautiful cocks ... I was so full, overwhelmed by how fucking good they felt inside me, stretching me and filling me up like my husband never could.' Jason groaned when Mrs Blythe's fingers squeezed his circumference and she uttered the profanities. The mature woman reached for Mathilda's hand. 'Touch him,' she instructed. 'Hold him, just like I am. Feel it. It's so thick and heavy ...' She looked at the girl, her eyes glazing as desire swept aside the facade of her dignified manner. 'Touch his fucking cock,' she murmured.

Mathilda slowly reached out her hand. She gasped when her fingers touched the gnarled, thick-veined length of gristle. When she looked down and saw Mrs Blythe's ringed fingers at the root, with the edge of her own hand alongside, there still remained a good-sized portion of cock waving in the air from their twin grasp.

'Oh ... Mrs Blythe,' the girl mumbled. 'I ...' She shook her head, unable to convey the sensations touching that penis elicited between her legs. In her mind she saw Mrs Blythe, a younger Mrs Blythe, one recently married, who knelt under a rotating ceiling fan, while a dark-skinned man fucked into her cunt and another forced black meat between her stretched lips.

'Touch him,' Mrs Blythe said. 'Squeeze it and stroke it. Make the gorgeous bastard groan.' She moved behind Jason, releasing his appendage to the girl's solo effort. 'Lovely muscles,' she sighed as her hands touched the man's shoulders before tracing a line down his tapering back to Jason's waist. 'Such taut buttocks,' she added with a sigh. Jason craned his neck to look at Mrs Blythe when her hand slid between his legs from behind and her fingers gently squeezed his testicles. 'Heavy balls,' the woman muttered approvingly. 'Full of jizm for us ladies.'

'Stroke him, Mathilda,' Mrs Blythe coaxed. 'Keep him interested. But don't get him too carried away. We don't want him to come ... Not yet. That would be such a waste.' She smirked and squeezed the hanging sac again. 'He's got some work to do before we let him come. He's got to fuck us both.'

'Oh, Mrs Blythe,' the girl moaned. 'The way you say it ... It's so ... I feel so ...'

'I think you should take off that dressing gown, dear,' Mrs Blythe suggested. 'Let us have a look at you. I think,' she added, releasing Jason's scrotum and moving to the girl's side, 'I think I'd quite like to have a little taste of your cunny. Is it wet yet, my darling poppet?'

'Yes,' Mrs Blythe,' Mathilda whispered, blushing.

'Sweet Jesus ...' Jason blasphemed. Could this really be happening?

'Isn't she just divine, Jason?'

The man opened his eyes. The old bitch was right, the girl was gorgeous. Long, straight hair brushed her smooth, tanned shoulders. He saw her little tits, peach-sized mounds high and tight, with button nipples centred within the coins of their areolae. Her body was lithe, virtually flawless, her navel decorated with a jewel, pudenda smooth, and with the shy folds of her neat labia just visible, peeping from that place between her thighs.

'Oh but she's just perfect,' Jason agreed, nodding.

'Feel her cunt,' Mrs Blythe ordered crudely.

The man's fingers slid between Mathilda's legs. The girl, open-mouthed at the affront, looked beseechingly into Mrs Blythe's eyes. 'Oh–!' she managed.

'Black fingers upon white skin,' Mrs Blythe groaned, a hand moving to saw urgently at her own sex, jugs shivering like jellies as she fingered herself. 'Kiss me,' she whimpered. 'Kiss me, girl.'

Jason stroked his erection slowly with one hand and fingered the girl's slippery vulva with the other. He stared at the women. The older one, the one with the immaculately sculpted, honey-coloured hair piled atop her head, the one wearing the stockings and heels, kissed the younger, and the girl's mouth opened after only a moment's hesitation. Their tongues slid together. The mature woman's hands came up to cover the girl's breasts.

'Mrs Blythe,' Mathilda gasped when the kiss broke. 'What's happening?'

'The Blossoming, my dear little girl.' Mrs Blythe leaned towards the girl's breasts, squeezing the fruit together and sucking at each nipple in turn. 'The Blossoming. And you're so lucky to have this beautiful, black penis for your adventure. When I went through the Blossoming,' she revealed, 'I didn't have such luck.'

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