These Golden Threads Ep. 01

Kneeling awkwardly with the flat of his left hand against the plaster, John Forrester turned his face sideways and positioned an eye to the wall, next to an upright timber, which had a slight gap down it's edge. After a moment or two, his eye adjusted to the light in the room beyond, and he could then make out a view of a low fire place, and an old oak dresser standing against the wall to its left.

The firelight beyond flickered, as something passed between it and his straining eye. It was the white swish of cloth, a long shift with a slightly ragged hem. Almost instantly the shape re-appeared and them paused in front of him, revealing as it did so, a pair slim, shapely, female legs, silhouetted through the fabric by the fiery glow. He snorted quietly through his nostrils as he pressed his face close to the peephole. Already he could feel himself beginning to stiffen inside his britches, the familiar pangs of arousal still strong in him despite his advanced middle age. The subject of his observation then suddenly bent, and crouched in front of the fire, leaning forward on her haunches to attend to something on the hearth. She was heating water he realised with excitement. She must intend to wash, and where could she sit for her ablutions other than on the stool by the dresser – by the warming fire. No other furniture had he provided the room with save a large cupboard, and the bed at the opposite end of the chamber – away from the fire.

Her crouched position drew the cloth tautly over her buttocks, or her " magnificent arse," as the old merchant breathed to himself whilst he fumbled at the fastenings at his waist. She stood up, and was lost to him temporarily, as she carefully poured hot water into a china basin. He eventually triumphed over the last button, and just as her shift dropped to the floor, he released his engorged prick into the darkness, peeling back his foreskin and savouring the kiss of the cool night air on its smooth, hot glans.

She sat then, side on to him on the stool, outlined at an slight angle, and for the first time he could see her completely, naked and glorious. Her dark hair was tied up at back, and coiled loosely on top of her head so that wisps escaped over her ears and the nape of her neck. Her breasts were perfection itself, of a medium size, firm, conical, and held high over a smoothly rippled ribcage and gently sloping stomach. At her waist, as she sat, her hips rolled gently outwards against the seat, like the curves of the bell jars in his stockroom below. He was overwhelmed by her, and could not breathe for fear of disturbing her.

Gradually she bent, dipped and cloth in the water between her feet, and began to wash her legs, calves first and then her outer thighs. Now he drew a breathe, and began to pleasure himself as he watched. Holding his erection upright in front of his belly, fingers curled behind the head, he tugged on it hungrily as he stared through the gap, awestruck, and made light-headed by his desire.

After a short while, his eye became bleary, and he turned his head aside to use the other one, ignoring the growing pain from his knees on the hard wooden floor. The young woman washed her groin, behind her leg and out of his view, taking no more time than needed, and seemingly without any awareness of herself.

When she bent again to dip the rag, her smooth alabaster breasts glowed in the warm fire light, small pointed nipples jutting out noticeably. Next door the hidden masturbator bit his lip and groaned softly as he felt his climax building. He pumped furiously on himself now, aiming his member down before him as his hips bucked involuntarily, and the first long ribbon of sperm jetted from the cockhead and streamed down the wall in front. A few blissful, shuddering spurts more, and then his ejaculation was over, and his heartbeat slowed.

As his rational mind began to reassert itself again sudden sense of shame washed over him. Look at him...how squalid and pathetic a figure he would cut if people were to see him now. If his friends, his colleague of the guild, or his customers, were to see him, the Master of their guild grovelling on his attic floor, britches round his ankles, illicitly tossing himself off over his dead sister's girl.

He leaned his forehead against the cool plaster and closed his eyes. When he finally opened them again she had moved away, and only the empty stool stared accusingly at him. Despite his self disgust however, close scrutiny of the attic space in the days and weeks to come would have revealed by tell-tale stains, the evidence of several such episodes of frantic self relief, as Forrester's weak flesh again and again won out over his protesting spirit.