The students around me in the lecture hall held their breath. “Feels like when they open the envelope at the Academy Awards,” someone near me said.
We were attending Dr. Hightower’s graduate seminar, “Art in the Age of Velvet Tea-Gowns.” Rosy light from stained glass windows silhouetted the professor standing at the podium in her invariably perfect posture. Her auburn hair was imprisoned in a tight bun, and she wore a high-collared white blouse under a dark gray blazer and a below-the-knee matching skirt with flat-heeled black shoes. Her gaze slowly swept the audience, dramatizing the suspense. The scholar hired only one of her top grad students for her prestigious museum curator internship and we were about to learn her choice for this semester’s program.
“Come on!” someone whispered. I was probably the only relaxed student in the room, because as an American attending Imperial College for just the summer, there was no way I would get selected.
Suddenly Dr. Hightower’s gaze cut through the rows to exactly where I was sitting, and she said my name in her posh English accent, “Raymond Johnson.”
I blurted, “Really?” and heard a smattering of laughter.
“Truly,” Dr. Hightower said.
I stood and said, “Ma’am…uh, professor…I feel honored. Thank you!” In contrast to the BBC accents of my fellow students, my Texas twang made me sound like a cowboy.
“She always picks a guy,” I heard a woman behind me complain.
“And always a hunk,” said another woman under her breath.
Professor Hightower’s gaze was still locked on mine, so I didn’t turn around to find out who thought I was a hunk. I was flabbergasted at my great luck. Here I was, in London for the first time, and I had managed to land an internship at the British Museum working with a world-renowned art historian. I’d be spending the next nine weeks assisting Dr. Hightower with the research and cataloging of Victorian-era art, clothing, textiles, and crafts donated to the museum. It was going to be somewhat intimidating – no, scratch the word “somewhat” – it was going to be scary working alongside such a famous scholar, and a peeress, no less: The Lady Emmeline Hightower. But what a shiny gold star to stick on my resume in sociology.
My first day on the job. I was seated at a workstation in a curator’s studio located on the museum grounds. I was feeling a bit on guard as I awaited my boss, reminding myself to act cultivated in her presence. In walked the professor, pushing a four-wheeled library cart. She was dressed in humdrum attire – call it “prim academic” – but her green eyes shone with enthusiasm.
“Raymond, look what we’ve been gifted!” Neatly arranged in the cart were a couple dozen matching albums. The plush leather covers of each album had the same title in gold-leaf lettering on the spines: Aphrodite’s Daughters, plus a volume number in Roman numerals. “It’s Victorian-era photography.” She grabbed a volume and opened it wide to reveal large-format black-and-white photos of a nude young woman. “Erotic photography! And from what I’ve seen, the condition of the collection is pristine.”
My first peek at 19th-century porn jolted me. A single photo of the same teenage model took up each page. On the left page, she stood, hand on cocked-out hip, nude except for thigh-high white stockings over buttoned boots, her pussy adorned with thick dark hair. She posed in front of a penny-farthing bicycle — but the bicycle’s seat had been replaced by an obscenely large dildo. On the right hand page, she had mounted the bicycle, and the dildo was buried deep inside her. My boss was holding up the images in my face.
I had been on guard? Not for this! My cock had instantly roused and was nosing against my jeans. Not knowing what else to say, I asked, “Who was the donor?” and gently pushed the book out of my face.
“Anonymous. Delivered this morning by package express. No return address.”
Over the next five work days, my boss and I sat at a large metal desk, wearing powderless nitrile gloves, carefully going through the albums of erotic photos. Of course the images would never end up on display in the British Museum. However, the institution-owned storehouses filled with all sorts of stuff preserved for scholarly research that never sees the public eye.
The boss drank Earl Grey tea, and I drank black coffee. We made digital copies of the photos, labeling each image file with a few descriptive words. Some of the frequently recurring models had names inked in the margins or on the photo itself: Evangelina Cuthbert was a favorite. Some models had married names: Mrs. Reginald Fitzsimmons. Mrs. Terrence Williams III. One model, posing as shamelessly as all the others, was even a peer: The Lady Agatha (we researched it, the title was real). Most of the women were nameless, so we assigned them numbers: Model #17, topless, white pantaloons. Model #23, nude, with rocking horse.
Even knowing that Victorian pornography was nothing new to an art historian like Dr. Hightower, I felt awkward perusing the bawdy images while seated almost shoulder-to-shoulder with the straitlaced scholar. Adding to my discomfort was my chronic hard-on. Many of the vintage photos strongly turned me on, which I honestly had not expected. After all, women of the 1800s did not shave their pussies or underarms — or sometimes, even their legs — so they looked nothing like modern, air-brushed pornstars. Their breasts weren’t plastic. They seemed more…real…which lent the images an intimate feel. About a third of the women were Rubenesque, a body type that doesn’t attract me much, but most of the models were surprisingly fit, a feature of their youth and a less sedentary era. I like long hair on a woman, and some of the models had hair down to the waist, or even past the hips. A few minutes into each day’s work, and I would have to adjust my jeans so that my burgeoning cock could grow along my thigh without getting too crushed. My libido was getting a Victorian education.
“The upper class extolled a rigid morality and anti-sensualism,” Dr. Hightower said, “but you can see what actually went on behind that masquerade.” She handed me a photo of a nude young woman, literally wearing a masquerade mask, giving head to two men at once. The men were dressed in swallow-tailed coats and had not even removed their top hats. “The whole era was characterized by a secret obsession with sex.”
Ha. My secret obsession with sex was overwhelming me. More than once I took a bathroom break “to induce a paroxysm,” as they might have put it in the 1800s.
Dr. Hightower learned that I had never read any Victorian erotica. “I insist that you remedy your ignorance,” she said. “You’re a sociologist, Raymond. The erotica of an era gives a private view of the mindset of the entire age.” The next day, she brought me a modern reprint of a pornographic novel, Autobiography of a Flea, first published in 1887. “Consider it a class assignment,” she said. The ridiculous plot involved lots of incest, and ended with an orgy of priests and nuns. Both women and men were on display as objects for sex, and nothing more. But I’d be lying if I said the story didn’t lead me to a paroxysm.
By now, I was viewing my boss in a new light. But it was not just a shift in my perception. I had grown sure that she was presenting herself differently. She seemed to be softening.
Thawing. It was a gradual progression. On the fourth day, she wore a trace amount of lipstick. Subtle. The last work day of the work week, she set her long red hair free from that awful bun. She did it nonchalantly. I was labeling a digital copy of a vintage photo: Mrs. Clarence Welby with a strap-on dildo, fucking a skinny naked gentleman — Mr. Clarence Welby? Dr. Hightower undid her bun and suddenly her red hair spilled over her shoulders in a luxuriant cascade.
“Beautiful!” I blurted. “I mean…uh, yeah…your hair is very nice, professor. You should always wear it down.”
“Please call me Emma.”
“Sure, okay,” I said. “And call me Ray. That’s what my friends call me.”
In the second week, she still wore blouse-blazer-skirt professional attire; but the blouse had taken a deep plunge, showing cleavage, and the shorter skirt reached to just above the knee. She had added eyeliner to her make-up. I detected a faint hint of expensive perfume. A progression, not as subtle. She was nearly old enough to be my mother, but I had developed an unmistakable crush on her.
At the start of the third week of my internship, my boss strolled into the conservator’s studio wearing a yellow blouse over a blue denim miniskirt and high heels. My mouth fell open, and not just because she looked gorgeous, but because now she really had morphed into another person altogether.
“Wow!” I said, genuinely taken aback. “Look at you.”
“What?”
“You look great.”
“I do?” She gave the sexiest little spin-around, making the skirt flare at her hips.
“Emma…uh, how old are you?”
“Do your research, Ray,” she said. “But before you find out, how old do you think I am?”
“Hard to say. When you were…” I hesitated. “You know…when you wore those matronly outfits, you looked like you were in your fifties. Today…?” I looked her over with undisguised wolf’s eyes. She looked so fuckable! “Today you look like, maybe thirty-one, thirty-two?”
“Ooh, thanks for that.” She gave me a bright smile. “Now come with me. We’ve received a mysterious donation, and I’m dying to find out what it is.” She actually took my hand and led me down a long hallway to the back of the building. Not sure if our touching was appropriate, but I loved the sensation of her warm slender fingers in my grip. I stealthily adjusted my bulging cock in my pants, and she pretended not to notice. We stopped before a heavy door with an electronic keypad, and she entered a code.
Inside the spacious room, the far wall opened to a loading dock, two walls held floor-to-ceiling steel cabinets labeled alphanumerically, and the remaining wall held shelves storing a miscellany of items. I saw a bronze censer embedded with rubies the size of shooter marbles, a Tiffany lampshade, and a limestone chair that I think was Egyptian. A knight’s dented shield leaned against shipping boxes for a Hewlett-Packard computer and printer. If I wasn’t mistaken, the shield was a Templar artifact from the First Crusade.
“Is that real?” I said, pointing at the shield.
She laughed. “I have yet to find any stage props in the British Museum.” She stepped toward a sofa-sized pinewood crate at the rear of the room. “This is what we’re going to unpack.”
I felt her excitement. “What’s inside?”
“I told you: it’s a mystery. I haven’t the foggiest idea.”
We got to work with crowbars, prying apart the slats. I learned that the crate had been shipped from a Victorian-era estate in Sussex. The entire estate had been bequeathed to the British Museum all the way back in the 1950s and the curators had already received its extensive art collection decades ago; most of it was now on exhibit or on loan to other museums. But it was not until the estate’s dilapidated mansion had recently been torn down that a secret cellar was discovered, and in it, the crate. Since the original bequest still pertained, the crate had been sent to the museum, where it had just arrived – better late than never.
In minutes, our efforts revealed a rectangular structure with ornately carved mahogany bars spaced about ten inches apart.
“Some kind of cage?” my boss said. “The Victorian elite kept all kinds of live exotic pets – birds, reptiles, monkeys; even big cats, like leopards. They also built decorative cages to display taxidermied animals, say, to create a jungle diorama. It would make a modern-day ecologist weep.”
I wasn’t listening. The bars were too widely spaced, and the interior was anything but a cage for an animal. The far side of the cage from where I stood held a low mahogany cabinet with drawers. The floor was carpeted with an oriental rug, now dull and moth-eaten, but it had once been elegant. Mounted on the exterior of the bars were blown-glass sconces for holding candles. The front door had a smaller porthole. What creature would be caged in it?
That’s when I noticed the leather wrist cuffs. I caught my breath and looked closer and saw they were lined with soft fur. At the opposite end of the cage, fur-lined thigh cuffs were affixed to the bars. Holy fuck! This was not a fancy kennel for marmosets or ocelots.
“Emma! This cage is for humans! Look! See the cuffs for the wrists? It’s for sexual bondage!”
“Truly?” Her eyes grew big. Was that academic enthusiasm, or was she turned on by the cage’s purpose? “But surely no person could fit in there.”
“See the thigh cuffs at the rear? The woman’s legs extend behind, they poke out through the bars.”
“Why presume it was a woman who was caged?”
“Oh. Right. That was sexist.”
She smiled. “Forgiven.” She made a slow walk around the cage. Then, without a word, she opened the door and lowering to all fours, backed inside, thrusting her legs out through the bars at the rear. “This is…” Her voice trembled. “This is bloody fascinating.”
She’s turned on, I thought, and the idea that she was aroused made my cock strain against my jeans.
“Close the door,” she said.
“Close the door?”
She nodded. “I want to feel what it’s like.”
I stepped to the door. “It automatically locks, from the outside.”
Do it.”
As the door clicked shut, she had to back up till her ass pressed the bars at the rear of the cage. Her denim skirt rode up her hips, exposing a lacy black thong sunk between the firm globes of her ass cheeks. Her face came right to the small porthole in front. If the cage had been a wedding gown, one would say it was a tailored fit.
“Anything in the drawers?” I said.
She opened a small drawer and pulled out a padded blindfold made of glossy purple satin. A second small drawer stored crimson wax candles. A bigger drawer was next. “Oh. Lingerie.” She pulled out a white lace corset, and white linen pantaloons with layers of ruffled cuffs. The next drawer yielded red leather button-up boots with high heels. “There are initials on the inside of the tongue,” she said. “E.C.”
“Evangelina Cuthbert.”
“Could be.”
The last two drawers yielded a strap-on harness with a lifelike big rubber cock, and a suede flogger with a woven leather handle. She held up the flogger, gave it a flick of her wrist. “Well, I say! This is–”
“–bloody fascinating.” She laughed at my botched attempt at imitating her upper-crust British accent.
“Tomorrow we’ll take photos,” she said. “Open the door.”
No! Not yet. “We should…”
“What?”
I didn’t know how to turn my roiling desire into words. “We should…yeah, take photos,” I said lamely.
“Tomorrow. Now open the door.”
“I will. But first…”
“Ray.”
I didn’t even know what I wanted, just that I badly wanted. Everything. I wanted to ravish her from crown to toes.
“Ray. Let me out.”
I swallowed. “First take off your blouse and put on the corset.” My voice sounded husky.
She shook her head. “No. Ray. I think…I think we’d better–”
“–Put on the corset, just for a little while. I need to see you in it. Then I’ll let you out.”
“No. We’re going to stop this.” She turned her head to look up at me and her face was flushed. “Now.”
I opened the door and she scooted out and leapt up to put her face close to mine. “Don’t pull that shit again.” She turned her back on me and strode out of the room.
The next day, she came to work lugging a photographer’s kit bag: tripod, lighting reflectors, backdrop screen, and digital camera. She was wearing a deep purple sleeveless blouse over the blue denim miniskirt and heels.
“We’re going to photograph the… What should we call it? The cage?”
“The sex cage.” I couldn’t erase my vision of her bubble ass pressed against the bars.
“But first, I thought we should spend a couple hours finishing up the last volume of photos.”
We got to it, making and labeling digital copies. I turned to the last page of the album. “There it is!” The sex cage. Outdoors in a flower garden, not hidden in a secret cellar. And it was a smiling Evangelina Cuthbert posing next to it in one photo, dressed in the white lace corset and pantaloons and leather boots. In the last photo of the collection, she was inside the cage. The corset squeezed her waist tight, accentuating the curves of her pale ass, which pressed the bars like an inverted valentine heart, the inner folds of her hairy pussy on display.
“Crotchless,” my boss said. “The pantaloons had no crotch.” I could hear sexual arousal in her voice. “That’s the only way a woman could use the toilet when she was fully attired in a dress with a bodice and petticoat and chemise and corset and pantaloons. She didn’t have to take off any layers, just sit on the toilet and go.”
My heart was racing as I imagined Emma on all fours in the sex cage, wearing the white lace corset and the crotchless pantaloons. Whoa there, stallion! Levi’s should make baggier jeans. “Let’s go take the photos.”
In the back room, we busied ourselves photographing the sex cage from various angles. We also took photos of the blindfold and candles, the lingerie and boots and flogger. When we were done, we just stood gazing at the cage, saying nothing.
“Ray. I… I want to get inside again. It’s…I don’t know. Maybe I’m trying to relate to these Victorian women we’ve spent the last three weeks with.” She gave me a look. “But no funny stuff. Alright?”
I shrugged.
She knelt and then backed inside the cage.
“You want me to close the door, or not?”
“No funny stuff,” she repeated.
I shut the door. My professor fit snugly inside.
Seeing her on all fours, penned behind bars to be used like a sex toy, got my heart thumping. I stepped to the rear of the cage. Today she wore white cotton panties. When I saw the damp spot at the center my cock gave a little lurch. She was ruttish. I could faintly smell it. I had to adjust my engorged cock. I tugged it out of my boxer briefs and let it stand tall past the elastic waistband. Better. But it ached like an animal to be set free.
The professor had gotten quiet and her breathing had changed.
I slowly walked around the cage, looking down at her. Lush red hair draped her upper back. The Lady Emmeline Hightower on all fours behind bars. “So what are you feeling?” I said. “Can you relate to Evangelina?”
“I…it’s…to be in this…position. In this cage. It really is just… mesmerizing.”
“Emma.” I squatted so that our eyes could meet. I knew the direction I wanted to take things, but I had to be careful not to spook the skittish fawn in the cage. “Maybe today you really should put on her clothes. Get into role-playing. Then you’ll know her.”
She looked away, but not before I caught the flare-up of desire in her eyes. “In your dreams, mister.”
Oh yes, she wanted to. But she embodied the Victorian age, personified its fear of sexuality, all the while secretly smoldering with lust. Fuck in the cellar. Suck on the sly. Cunt behind the curtains. Black-and-white photos of women humping bicycle seats. I’d had enough of repressing my feelings, of squashing my cock – I was ready to walk out of jail.
I returned to the rear of the cage and knelt behind her. “This is no dream, Emma.” The white panties stretched over her round ass, wooly strands of dark red pubic hair peeking out of the leg openings. The mahogany bars indented her flesh. With my fingertip, I lightly touched the small wet spot in the center of her panties.
“Don’t,” she said, but her voice shook with desire.
“Don’t what?” I feather-stroked the cleft between her labia, gliding atop the cotton from the opening of her pussy to the clit, then retracing my route again and again. The spot grew larger, wetter.
“Oh god. Stop.”
I kept up the feathery touch. I had all the time in the world. I leaned close and puffed hot breath over her pussy. She shuddered, and the wet spot oozed liquid, soaking the cotton. I wish I could bottle her fragrance! Unhurriedly, my fingers sneaked under the edge of the panties and I touched her warm slippery lips, flesh on flesh.
“No. Ray. You don’t! We don’t do that.”
I repeated my slow and easy tracing of the cleft between her pussy lips, gliding my fingers to her clit and pausing to gently tug and squeeze her joy button, my fingers ever more slick and perfumed with her juices.
“Oh my god. Oh my god. Ray. Ray.”
In a sudden sweep, I yanked her panties down to her knees, baring her lavishly furred pussy.
“No! That’s enough. I’m your boss. Let me out of the cage.”
“Are you my boss?” I let my thumb dip into her pussy while two fingers rubbed and twiddled her clit. She shuddered. “Are you my boss, Emma?”
She rocked back on my thumb sinking it deeper. “Oh. Oh. Oh.”
“Who’s your boss, Emma?” Her pussy wanted more thumb than I’ve got, so I withdrew it and gave her four fingers from my left hand, while still massaging her clit with my right hand.
She began to pant and grind her clit against my fingers, so I squeezed hard. “Ow. Ow. Ow. I’m coming, I’m coming, goddamn you!” Suddenly she held her breath, her back arched, and her body went rigid. Then she let out a long wail like a cat in heat and spasmed against my hand for what felt like a minute. Finally, her head sagged and she collapsed onto her forearms.
She said weakly, “May I get out now, boss?”
“Will you put on the corset that Evangelina wore?”
She shook her head.
“I want to see you in her lace corset, you’ll look so beautiful.”
She shook her head more vigorously. “Please. I came hard for you. Isn’t that enough? Just let me out.”
I may be a cowboy, but I wear a white hat. I relented, even though my balls ached for release. “Okay,” I said. “Not today. But soon. We’re not done here with our ‘cultural studies’. You haven’t yet understood the Victorian ladies.”
I opened the door to the sex cage and she scooted out, then she literally ran down the long hallway all the way to the front of the building.
When she arrived the next day, I felt my heart sink. She had reverted to her ho-hum attire, and her sexy red hair was imprisoned in a heaped-up bun.
I handed her a morning cup of Earl Grey. She could hardly look me in the eye.
“Emma–”
“–I’d rather you address me as Dr. Hightower.”
“So we’re back to the ice age?”
“Raymond, I would be grateful if you could forget what happened yesterday. Erase it from your memory.”
“Erase it? It’s all I’ve been thinking about ever since. I got off three times last night just remembering how you looked. And your smell. God, you smell so wonderful!”
She looked away, but I think I caught a flicker of pleasure in her eyes.
“I want to photograph you in the clothing that Evangelina Cuthbert wore,” I said. “We can make it an academic project. You could write about it. You could publish.”
“Bollocks!” She said. “Write about my insights on wearing crotchless pantaloons while my young male assistant photographed me inside a sex cage?”
I had to laugh at my own bullshit. “Okay. That was reaching.”
“Reaching? That was fucking absurd.”
Then we both began laughing, which was a good start, a bit of an ice-breaker.
Nothing happened that day. Or the next. Or the next. We had three weeks’ worth of work ahead of us to catalog a huge donated collection of textiles that were fine examples of the Arts and Crafts Movement of the late 1800s. Over time, Dr. Hightower warmed up again and thawed. She let her hair down on about the fifth day, and by the end of three weeks, we were back to strapless mini-dresses and Emma and Ray.
Back in Texas, I had bow-hunted white-tailed deer, and the patience I practiced with Emma was akin to waiting motionlessly for the quarry to appear. When Emma had grown relaxed enough with me to flirt – leaning in so our shoulders just touched, and bending forward over the worktable to offer me a generous view of her breasts – I knew it was now or never.
I called up on my computer screen the digital photos of Evangelina Cuthbert posed outside and inside the sex cage. “Emma. Look. I believe you and Evangelina have already met.”
She nodded. “So beautiful.”
“I think you’re even more beautiful.” I meant it. “I think you want to understand her. Understand how it feels to be–”
“–a sex object?”
“Okay, call her a sex object. An objet d’art. An ornament who delivers tremendous pleasure to her lovers and even to voyeurs. Look at her. Doesn’t she turn you on?”
“I’m not a thing. I’m a person.”
“And like every person, you play many roles. Almost like a fictional character, starring in your own play – your life.” I took both her hands in mine. “Be honest with yourself. We both know you’d love to play the role of a sex object. It would thrill you to submit to being used for the pleasure of others.”
Her cheeks flushed. “I can’t let myself go that far.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“I’m afraid I’ll get swallowed up by that persona. I’ll lose myself to the slut who loves to be dominated. I’m scared of how much desire, how much pleasure I know I’ll feel.”
“So you really are a Victorian.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re an eroto-phobe. Here we are, more than a hundred years after Victoria croaked, and you’re still afraid of your sexual feelings. But you, yourself, told me that all that public display of morality was a masquerade. The Victorians were obsessed with sex.”
She nodded, and sighed.
“Repression is the glue trap that keeps people obsessed. The best way to not be obsessed with anything is to bring it out in the sunshine, feel it, explore it, don’t smother it in darkness.”
“Oh, wise one.” She looked into my eyes and smiled. “What do you call that?” she said, exaggerating her Posh English accent. “‘Cowboy Zen’?”
I had to laugh. My Texas drawl is so thick, it twangs like a banjo.
“Give me the weekend,” she said.
“What?”
“Let me have a couple days to think about it.”
I gulped. “About putting on–?”
“–the corset, the pantaloons, the whole slutty outfit.”
Oh hell. I was going to have trouble sleeping this weekend.
Emma looked divine in the white lace corset. She could make an angel cum.
She wore the white linen pantaloons with the layered ruffles above the buttoned high-heeled boots. She crouched on all fours and backed into the ornate cage. Then she took the glossy satin blindfold from the drawer and draped it over her eyes, tying the leather thongs behind, completing “the whole slutty outfit.”
She sucked in her breath as I closed the door, driving her into a snug fit against the rear bars. Then I knelt and securely bound her wrists to the cuffs on the mahogany bars at the sides of the cage, spreading her arms wide. She had grown quiet. I heard her quick breathing and I knew her heart was pounding. Walking to the back, I attached the thigh cuffs, spreading her legs and parting the fabric of her crotchless pantaloons, giving me a glimpse of her pussy lips, pink as a peach and already shiny wet.
I was so aroused, I didn’t even know where to begin. Freeing my straining member
seemed urgent, so I tugged down my boxer briefs and Levi’s. My bent cock sprung out thick and tall, twitching with my pulse. I kicked off my loafers and stepped out of the underwear and jeans. Now I only wore a black T-shirt.
I needed to slow my Mustang down, or I’d be creaming like a fountain as soon as I entered her, so I walked around the cage and breathed deeply, grounding myself, settling into the incredible moment. She turned her head to follow my path around the cage. This was really happening!
I knew that abandoning ourselves to this scene wasn’t just going to transform Emma into the erotic persona she longed to become, but also feared. The whole tableau – pretty Emma bound and blindfolded inside the cage, so vulnerable, so open, so submitted to me – was calling up a deep emotion in myself that I’d never met. She was staged as my sex slave, that was the portrayal, and by god, I was going to master her. The feeling was akin to fury, but it was certainly not anger; it was masculine passion, a storm, a rage to sexually dominate a woman, spellbind her, enslave her to my heart and my cock. I had never felt so almost painfully aroused, emotionally and sexually. I wanted her to feel my fever, my heat. How do I share with her this fire inside me?
I remembered the leather flogger and my heartbeat raced. I reached through the bars and took the flogger from its drawer. Emma knew what was coming and said softly, “Oh Ray. Oh Ray.” I clutched the hilt, felt the weight in my hand. With a flick of the wrist, I slapped the leather falls against my thigh. Ouch. I smiled. Just the right degree of ouch.
I dragged the falls of the flogger across the bars, back and forth, directly over her head, letting her hear their presence.
She gulped. “Oh Ray. I don’t know about this.”
“You don’t need to know. I know. You are my love slave, Little Miss Hightower.” I stepped to the rear of the cage. “We’ll begin with me flogging your adorable ass.” With controlled violence, I yanked her pantaloons down to her knees, and she gasped at her exposure. Her luscious pale bottom! A white-tailed deer! I gently dragged the leather tails of the flogger up one firm ass cheek and down the other, in a steady circling. A string of oily liquid dripped from her womanhood.
“Ready, darling?” I brought my wrist down in a snap. Thwack! “Ow!”
I alternated side to side. Thwack! “Uh!”
Thwack! “Uh!”
Thwack! “Uh!”
Her ass was turning bright red, quivering with each blow.
“It’s not that you’ve been a bad girl.” Thwack! “Uh!”
“It’s just that you turn me on like crazy.” Thwack! “Ow!”
“But I can’t always have you.” Thwack! “Uh!”
“So it drives me mad.” Thwack! “Uh!”
“‘Cause I’m full of pent-up cum.” Thwack! “Uh!”
“And I want to shoot my cum inside you.” Thwack! “Uh!”
“Cum in your pussy.” Thwack! “Uh!”
“Cum in your mouth.” Thwack! “Ow!”
“Cum wherever I want to.” Thwack! “Uh!”
“Cum whenever I want to.” Thwack! “Ow!”
“Every single day.” Thwack! “Uh!”
Emma began softly crying, overcome by the heady mix of pleasure and pain and deep arousal. When I was sure she was drowned in a sea of feelings, I tossed the flogger aside and began soothing her bright red ass with kisses and caresses. The skin was so hot! I slid my fingers into her sopping pussy. She smelled like expensive musk.
“It’s time, Emma,” I said. “I’ve been wanting to fuck you for so damn long! Now I’m going to plow you open like the earth.” I plunged my cock to the hilt on my first thrust and she cried out, “Oh! Fuck me so hard! Fuck me so deep!”
I cocked back my hips till just the tip of the head was inside and plowed her again and again and again. Her slippery pussy sheathed my hard cock in a loving grip.
“Oh yes! Just like that! Give it to me! Fuck me!”
“Then take it!” I roared, “Take it!” and I began ramming, ramming, ramming her ass, knocking her forward against the thigh restraints. She made a loud groan with each impact. In seconds, her legs began to quake. “Oh fuck! Don’t stop! I’m coming! I’m coming! Don’t you dare stop! Oh my fucking god! Oh Fuuuuuuck! ” Her pussy clenched my cock in powerful spasms.
I was her fucking god. Her god of fucking. I didn’t let her pause from her long orgasm, I sent her right into the next paroxysm, and the next, until she was bucking against her restraints in a fit of ecstasy. Then I reached my limit and I felt the cum stir in my balls, so I quickly withdrew, because I was saving myself for the enticing porthole at the front of the cage.
Emma hung limply, head down, her weight supported by the cuffs on her thighs and wrists. Her pussy lips were swollen and her inner thighs were slick with her juices.
I stepped around to the front. Sweaty strands of red hair had fallen into her face. I bent and reached through the bars and slipped off her blindfold. She was still breathing hard. She looked up at me and smiled, proud of herself. “I…lost…control!”
“And how did that feel?”
She didn’t answer for a long moment. “Losing control… For an instant, I felt like I was right at the brink of…I don’t know…infinity.” She shook her head, “It was scary. Then it was heaven. Pure heaven. I saw lights. I heard thunder.” She laughed softly. “That was an exceptionally fine fuck, Sir!
My cock was as stiff as a sapling. She stared at it and sighed, turned on by my fierce desire. “Let me deliver you now. Use me as you please, Sir.”
I opened the porthole door. “Look up, Emma. Keep your eyes on mine.” I stuck my cock, still damp from her pussy, through the glory hole. A fat bead of pre-cum glistened at the knob and I touched the tip to her lips. She gave a little moan of pleasure and inhaled deeply, enjoying her own redolence mixed with mine. I rubbed the head back and forth across her lips, leaving them shiny and slick.
“Now open to me, Little Miss Hightower.”
Obediently, her lips parted slightly and I pressed my fat cock against them, forcing her lips to open wide and filling her mouth with my manhood. “Uhhhh.” A grunt from down in my belly escaped my mouth. I began to slightly rock my hips, gently pumping my hard cock into her soft mouth.
“Mmmm,” she moaned, squeezing her lips tight around my tool and bobbing her head to meet my thrusts.
“Uhh. Uhh. Uhh.” She was doing wonderful things with her tongue and I couldn’t hold down the guttural sounds coming up from my belly. “Uhh. Uhh. Uhh. Uhh.” I began to more forcefully fuck her mouth, driving my cock toward the back of her throat. Her green eyes were locked on mine.
“Mmm. Mmm. Mmm.” Now she had a rhythmic chant going too, in sync with my sounds of pleasure. Together, we made a noisy duet.
I felt my cum start to boil, so I withdrew my cock and rested, panting. Her eyes questioned me. “I want it to last,” I said, my voice shaky. After a few seconds, I resumed fucking her mouth, now pulling my cock all the way out on each backswing of my hips, so I could feel the thrill of shoving it past her puffy lips, forcing her mouth open again. And again. And again. There was nothing else in the world but my hard cock pumping Emma’s mouth.
“UHH! UHH! UHH!” My grunts grew louder and once more, I had to pause for a few seconds to keep from exploding. Then I returned to our lovemaking. The look of deep surrender in her emerald eyes as I fucked her beautiful face was beatific: she was worshiping my manhood.
I found myself wishing that her hands were not bound, so that she could massage my balls. Then I realized there was no rule that I couldn’t pleasure my own damn balls, so I began to squeeze and tug on them in time to our thrusting and bobbing. My whole body was alive with pleasure.
At last, the animal deep down in my brainstem took over and my uncontrolled grunts of pleasure made me sound like a wild ape. “HUHH! HUHH! HUHH! HUHH!”
Suddenly cum leapt up in my balls and I yanked my cock from her mouth to hold on, but the bliss overwhelmed me and my cock jerked hard and my balls let go of the first creamy ribbon and it shot over the top of her head. “Open wide!” I cried and squirted the next few ropes of cum onto her tongue, then I buried my cock in her mouth to finish. She suckled me like a hungry little lamb, and I was reduced to helpless whimpering as she drained my balls, swallowing every drop.
My knees had gotten weak and I had to sit on the floor. Emma smiled, proud of herself again. “I made you lose control.”
“Yes, you did,” I said, still breathing heavily. “You’re a wonderful love slave.”
I undid her restraints and opened the door of the sex cage. She had shed the pantaloons and when she scooted out and stood up, she was wearing just the white lace corset and red boots. The corset pushed up the globes of her pretty breasts and squeezed her waist, accentuating her curvy hips. Her dark red pussy hair formed a neatly shaped delta below the curve of her belly.
My professor. My boss. My love slave. She was genuine, she was her unique self in each of those roles and many others.
There were only three weeks left in my summer internship before I returned to the States. I felt joy that we were no longer going to hold ourselves back from the pleasure we craved.
The weeks melted away. We exhaustively explored the uses of the sex cage. I even took my place inside it. Twice. You’ll recall the strap-on dildo. Oh my fucking god!
On my last day of work, just before we made our final good and proper use of the sex cage, The Lady Emmeline Hightower let this cowboy photograph her, dressed in the corset and boots. I used a large format camera from the curator’s studio and took a single black-and-white photo. Emma’s attire and her hairy pussy makes the photo look like vintage Victorian porn.
*************************************************************
In a storage room at the British Museum, Dr. Hightower and her intern, Ernesto, a grad student from Spain, pried apart a sofa-sized pinewood crate. Ernesto felt honored to have been selected for the prestigious internship, in its eighth year. It seemed to him a bonus that his boss was a very attractive woman, although she was old enough to be his mother. As they worked, her luxuriant red hair spilled down her back in a lovely cascade.
He could sense her excitement when she told him that the crate had spent decades forgotten in a secret cellar in a Victorian mansion.
“What’s inside?” he said.
“I haven’t the foggiest idea.”