Under Madam's Bottom Pt. 01

Hello. I'm generally known for writing - and publishing - strong facesitting femdom. This story is a new departure for me. It's an autobiographical story (and, sadly, fiction; I wish it had happened to me, but it didn't!).

It's in several parts, with only this opening Part written so far. It's a gentle tale - spiced I hope with humour - about an innocent young man who's about to be deflowered in ways even I haven't yet dreamed up. I hope you'll like it and want me to continue.

*****

PART ONE

I was 18 years old when it happened. When I heard the 11-word sentence (allowing for apostrophes) that would change my entire life.

It was 1972 and I'd just gone up to university; to study law in the hope of making the world a better place and myself a lot of money. (Well, even saints have to eat.)

It was the first time I'd ever left home, and I was understandably anxious. My widowed mother had no money to speak of and I was on the full student grant. It wasn't much, certainly not enough for me to live on once I'd bought my books and paid for board and lodging. I knew I'd have to look around for paid employment. A job with hours I could fit into and around my three years of study.

So when Emily Carter came into my life and offered me money, a car, a room and free meals, it seemed churlish, not to mention impossible, to turn her down.

I'd answered her ad - for a room 'at a reasonable rent' - and was astonished to find that the house in which she lived (and where the room, not surprisingly, was situated) was a large detached Georgian building in its own grounds. A long, winding drive added to both its seclusion and sense of privacy - as did a manicured lawn and, beyond it, a lake and several acres of thick woodland.

'I've had several applicants,' she informed me across the kitchen table, while I did my best not to spill my tea and make a bad impression. 'But none of them has so far proved suitable.'

I was pretty certain, just then, that I would shortly be joining their ranks.

Mrs Carter was a plump (but not fat) woman in her early forties (or so I guessed). She wore a dark blue blouse that matched the colour of her eyes. Her face was round and delicate, with a small, proud nose and a hard chin. Her lips were full, one lower than the other, which gave her a slightly sullen look, though she was clearly anything but.

As for her hair, it was long and dark, but pulled back, at the time of our first meeting, into a severe, school-marm-like bun that gave me the shivers. She looked like the sort of woman who might put a young man across her knee and give him a good spanking.

I hadn't had much experience with women at that time. Well, to be perfectly honest, I hadn't had ANY experience with women so my imagination tended to wander. I had a very active sex life - in my mind at least - and had mentally been with just about every women I'd ever met who wasn't related to me.

Just then, I was finding it hard not to look at Mrs Carter's breasts, which seemed unnaturally large and barely contained inside a blouse cut far too low for either modesty's sake or, in my opinion, a woman of her age.

'It's the work that puts them off,' she remarked carelessly. 'Which is a pity but there it is.'

'What exactly is the nature of the work?' I inquired after we'd been chatting for about half an hour and hadn't touched on it at all.

She regarded me carefully for several seconds as if trying to make up her mind and then, having evidently done so, replied: 'I'm looking for a man who's willing to lick my bottom.'

That was it - in case you've forgotten by now - the 11-word sentence (allowing for apostrophes) that altered everything.

'I'm sorry,' I muttered, convinced I'd misheard. Possibly she'd said she needed someone to 'look after my bottles' but had a speech impediment that made it difficult for her to pronounce certain words. I wasn't sure why she would need such a person - perhaps she had a well-stocked wine cellar and hoped to keep it that way. Either way, it was her business, not mine.

'I'd like you to worship my arse,' she replied, a little more bluntly this time, and removing all doubt that wines of any vintage were involved. 'In return, you will have free board and lodging, a small allowance and the use of a car. If you don't drive, we can come to an arrangement over taxis. It's not a deal-breaker, what do you say?'

I had no idea what I wanted to say and simply stared back with my mouth wide open like a goldfish waiting to be fed.

'I will require total obedience,' she continued, 'and, on occasion, sexual satisfaction in the presence of my husband. Will this be a problem for you?'

'In front of your husband?' I repeated stupidly, finding my voice at last. I was lost in a moral minefield, but at least we'd moved on from her bottom.

'I like to keep Henry in his place,' she explained, as if that made everything clear, even for a dimwit like me. 'It does him good to see another man enter me.' She smiled, then added, as if the thought had only just occurred to her, 'But you won't be allowed to come inside me. Not unless I give permission.'

'OK,' I muttered, though I wasn't sure if a shrill squeak counted as muttering.

'Have you ever licked a woman's bottom before?' she inquired, as calmly as if she'd been asking if my library ticket had expired.

I shook my head. I wasn't sure if it was the right response but, quite frankly, any response seemed wrong to me just then.

'Excellent,' said Mrs Carter. 'You're a virgin! Perfect! I shall take great pleasure in your training. By the time you leave, you'll be ready to serve any woman who takes control of you.'

She spoke with such authority that, though I opened my mouth to reply, I quickly shut it again. When she stood up, I stood up, too, though I had no idea why.

'Would you like to see your room?' she said. 'I have a contract for you to sign. It will make everything legal. Then you can move in ... and get to know my bottom better.'

I said nothing, but followed her out of the kitchen. She was wearing slacks, fine black cotton that clung to her buttocks like a second skin. As we climbed the stairs, I watched, mesmerised, as they swung from side to side, two plump, fleshy boulders of life.

The house was sumptuously decorated. I'd never seen anything like it before. Portraits and landscapes lined the walls and dotted about were exquisitely fashioned items of furniture and fine china pieces. My room was equally well appointed, with a large double bed and two broad French windows that gave way onto a balcony. I'd viewed a cheap bedsit earlier in the day, that was still scarcely within my budget. This was like climbing from Hell into the highest reaches of Paradise. And all I had to do to earn my keep, it seemed, was lick a woman's bottom.

I made up my mind there and then. There were worse ways to pass the next three years than here in this house being 'trained' by Mrs Carter.

I signed on the dotted line, and moved in three hours later.

Which was when I realised, a little later than I should have, that I might just have made the biggest mistake of my life ...