![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
r_scribblesFrom the CP Prompt meme - Irene has a new favourite sub. It's a bit of a surprise to her that he's a man, but she's made exceptions before, and Martin really is terribly sweet. Martin worries about the fact that Irene generally prefers women, and wonders if she'd like him better if he were female too. So, one night, he offers to become Marta for her.
Irene Adler (BBC Sherlock) / Martin Crieff (Cabin Pressure)
NC-17
Cross Dressing, cunnilingus, pegging, masturbation, voyeurism. Het in Femslash clothing.
Girls Night In.
Irene crossed her legs as she sat in the hotel lobby, and waited.
She didn’t feel bad about this. Not in the least. She’d feel bad if she were getting Martin to dress as Him, but that wasn’t even an issue any more – not really. She’d pictured it occasionally, in the early days. She’d never tell Martin that, of course. Martin was still blissfully innocent regarding Him. The Man. After all, Martin was almost the polar opposite to Him, with the exception of that voice, and that face. Martin didn’t have to know that He was the reason she’d initially seduced him. He certainly wasn’t the reason she kept seeing Martin now – why whenever she got a text or email letting her know he’d be in New York she’d cancel all of her clients for his stay, or why, when she felt it had been rather too long since she’d seen her favourite sub, she’d book his little charter company on an errand that would take him to her side of the pond. She’d use a false name, of course. She felt that they were both rather too proud for her to admit that on those occasions, she was the one paying to have the partner of her choice’s company for the night.
The Man had never yielded to her – never knelt for her – never trembled and gasped in a collar for her, and never would. Martin, on the other hand, was a natural. He took everything she wanted to give him beautifully, and was always just so deliciously grateful. He was her Sub. The perfect Sub. The second man she had ever fallen for, and for very different reasons to the first.
Martin didn’t know about The Man, but he did know about the women. All the women. They talked sometimes, afterwards, as she bathed him or held him in bed. Talked about past lovers and experiences. Irene loved to watch him flush and stutter as he mumbled about what precious little experience he had. She was slowly trying to convince him that it was nothing to be ashamed of. She liked it. He was like a perfect field full of pristine, barely ruffled snow for her to tread patterns into. And she knew that Martin found her interest in women titillating, if perhaps a little bewildering.
He’d asked her once, while she was washing his hair, if she considered herself Bisexual.
‘More of a lesbian,’ she’d replied, massaging in the shampoo, ‘who makes the occasional exception.’
‘That… sorry if this sounds rude, but I’m not sure how that makes sense.’
‘Affection rarely does. Head back. I need to rinse you.’
‘Do you ever wish I was a woman?’
‘You’re perfect as you are.’
‘Sometimes I wish I was. Not… in a Trapped-Inside-A-Woman’s-Body way. Just with you. Sorry. Sounds weird. I just… I wonder if you’d enjoy me more if…’
‘I wouldn’t spend so much time with you if I didn’t enjoy you as completely as I do.’
‘We could… we could try pretending I was, you know. If you wanted. If you wanted to feel what it was like. If I was a girl.’
‘Sounds to me more like you wanting to know what it was like if you were a girl.’
He’d flushed again. ‘It was just an idea. Something I could do. For you, I mean. Because you do love women. And I… I love…’
He’d bitten his lip down, cutting off the end of his statement. She’d kissed his wet forehead.
‘It sounds like a lovely idea.’
She had bought “Martha’s” clothes herself. He was short and slight for a man, with small, delicate feet, so most of the outfit had been easy to buy. A little black dress, with a good jacket, since his shoulders were one part of his anatomy that would never pass for female if bared. Simple, elegant shoes with practical heels that a newcomer to women’s shoes would be able to walk in. Stockings with suspenders. Oh, how she loved to run her hand up a silk stocking. A corset, to squeeze and push that little waist of his into a more feminine silhouette. A touch of padding for the hips. Nothing for the bum – he didn’t need it – lovely round, slappable little thing. She decided that his frame would suit a C Cup and got a bra with prosthetics to that end. She spent a very long time ruminating over knickers, plumping in the end for a pair of lace French Knickers that she judged sturdy enough at the front to keep certain unladylike parts safely tucked. The wig she chose was as close to an extention of Martin’s real hair as she could find – shoulder length auburn locks that fell about in big curls. When Martin had emailed to let her know he had a long stopover in Baltimore coming up, she’d booked a beautician to help him prepare, along with his train tickets to Manhattan.
This went beyond pampering a Sub, she chided herself as she sat in wait. This was keenness. Far too keen for her own good. But oh, this was going to be a treat. Her lovely little straight, straight-laced boy – laced. She closed her eyes and thought about those knickers again. She liked those knickers.
She opened her eyes at the sound of the lift. The doors slid open.
And there was Martha. She looked awkward and self conscious– well of course, she did, considering. The light foundation that the beautician had applied evened out her complexion but a bright, hot glow still beamed out from those cheeks. Martha’s gaze fluttered up to meet Irene’s briefly, before it was cast demurely down again. Simple make up – a touch of mascara and shadow around the eyes, and a subtle lipstick that just pinked those plump lips ever so slightly. Gorgeous.
Martha took a few, careful steps towards Irene.
‘Do you like it?’ Martha’s voice was no silly falsetto – Martin had pitched it only a little higher, but added a certain breathiness that Irene had heard from him before – usually while she had him bent over a tabletop, or squirming over her knee.
Irene quirked a smile. ‘Give us a twirl’.
Martha did so, with a little difficulty.
Irene caught Martha’s hand, lifting it up to her lips for a chivalrous kiss. Elegant fingers – Irene had always loved those – rather coarse, but nothing could really have been done about that. The beautician hadn’t gone with false nails, but had neatly clipped and varnished the nails she’d been presented with. She ran a thumb past Martha’s jacket cuff and up her forearm. Her arms had been waxed. Legs too, no doubt. She made a mental note to tip the Beautician well.
‘Gorgeous,’ she announced.
Martha smiled – pleased, but nervous. ‘So, what did you… um. What shall we do?’
Irene trailed her hand along Martha’s arm and down her side. ‘I want to show my gorgeous bit of arm candy off, of course. Let’s go out to dinner.’
‘Out.’ Martha’s eyes widened. ‘Er. To a restaurant. Like this. I mean… Er. Of course, but…’
Irene’s expression didn’t waver as she swiftly changed her plans. ‘This hotel has an excellent little restaurant and bar. Very intimate.’
‘Dinner here.’ Martha exhaled with relief. ‘Yes. Yes, I like intimate. Thank you.’
Irene leaned in close to Martha. ‘You’ll have to make it up to me later,’ she murmured in Martha’s ear. ‘Won’t you?’
A lovely, familiar shudder shook Martha’s big, auburn curls. ‘Yes.’
‘Yes what?’
‘Yes, Mistress.’
‘Good girl.’
-x-
The restaurant fare was far simpler than Irene had hoped for, but she’d rather have a relaxed Sub than a particularly fancy meal any day. She ordered for Martha, and made no particular demands on her during the meal. She slipped off her shoe and skimmed her foot up Martha’s stocking leg, watching her cheeks grow pink. She placed her hand on Martha’s knee under the table as they were waiting for the bill, sliding the hand up and up until she reached the stocking top and the slim, waxed thigh beneath. Martha kept her eyes cast down demurely at her plate, not uttering a word.
‘Upstairs,’ Irene murmured as they left the restaurant. Martha headed towards the lift. Irene squeezed her forearm to stop her. ‘I said,’ she added in a low growl, ‘stairs. You first.’ She gave Martha’s bottom a little smack, propelling her in front of Irene as they started up the stairs.
Irene very happily watched Martha’s backside as they climbed. Martha struggled a little on the stairs in her high heels. Her skirt was short and fitted, and rode up as she climbed, flashing suspenders stretched taut over pale pink skin.
‘Faster,’ ordered Irene, giving the bum in front of her another tap. Martha sped up, obediently.
‘I haven’t got all night,’ Irene added, sternly, and Martha tried to quicken her pace again.
Just before their landing, Irene’s demands that Martha hurry on the stairs had their desired effect – Martha stumbled forwards, catching herself painlessly on her hands and knees, and treating Irene to a full up-skirt view of suspenders, kickers and all.
‘Hupsydaisy.’ Irene helped Martha up – one hand on her waist, the other between her legs. ‘That wasn’t very ladylike, was it?’
‘Sorry, Mistress.’
‘You’ve got a lot of making up to once I get you into our room, young lady,’ Irene murmured into her ear.
‘Yes, Mistress.’
Irene kept a firm hand on Martha’s hip as she ushered her towards their hotel room.
‘In,’ she ordered, pushing Martha through and closing the door behind them.
Martha stood quite still in the middle of the floor, her back turned, her head bowed.
‘To the back of the bed.’
Martha complied.
‘Cross your left foot over your right, then bend over to hold the footboard. Legs straight.’
Irene’s order was obeyed again, giving her another lovely view of the ridden-up skirt over Martha’s stocking suspenders.
‘You’re beautiful,’ Irene breathed, pulling her favourite riding crop out from her wardrobe.
‘Thank you, Mistress.’
‘I wanted to show you off properly. I wanted the whole of New York to see what I’ve got. But you didn’t want that.’
‘I’m sorry, Mistress.’
She ran the riding crop gently up Martha’s legs. ‘Are you shy, little Martha?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you worried about men coming up to you, my pretty girl – wanting to grope that beautiful arse?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wrong.’ Irene swiped at Martha’s thigh with the crop. ‘That wouldn’t happen, Martha. You know why that wouldn’t happen.’
Martha gasped at the sharp stroke of the riding crop. ‘You would be there to protect me.’
‘Correct. So it doesn’t matter if you go out dressed like a little slut, because you’re my little slut. Understand?’
‘Yes, Mistress.’
Irene hitched up Martha’s skirt some more so that her knickers were completely exposed. ‘I’m feeling merciful tonight. You have those slutty little knickers to thank for that. So, you’ll only take ten for making me take you to the hotel restaurant, and another five for tripping on the stairs, and five more for not trusting that I will always protect you from anybody else who would want to touch you. Always. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Mistress.’
She readied the riding crop. ‘Count them.’
Irene could have kept going for longer. She knew Martin’s limits intimately – usually, 30 was the right sort of number for him. If she was being perfectly honest, the reasoning behind the briefer correction with Martha was more to do with Irene’s impatience in this case than anything else. Were this a paying client, she would never be so slack or selfish. But this was supposed to be a treat for her, wasn’t it? And as much as she loved to watch that bottom turn pink and hot beneath her crop, the very sight of it sent urgent sparks through her body that she simply couldn’t ignore for long.
After Martha had counted 20, her breath hitching and her voice cracking delightfully, Irene set down the riding crop.
‘You may stand.’
Martha straightened up, her back still to Irene.
‘What do you say?’ added Irene, rubbing the hot, sore backside through the lace knickers.
‘Thank you, Mistress.’
With a fluid, graceful movement, Irene slipped off her own underpants under her skirt.
‘I think you can thank me better than that.’
She reached to push aside some of Martha’s mad curls with her free hand, and ran the one still holding the used knickers down the side of Martha’s face – over eyebrow and cheekbone… God, those cheekbones… over lush lips and long, elegant neck. She planted a hard kiss in the crook of that neck as she continued to paint a line of her scent down Martha’s body.
With another tap to the bum, Irene walked around her, and sat on the edge of the bed, knees parted. ‘Thank me properly.’
Without another word, Martha sank to her knees in front of Irene, positioning herself between Irene’s legs, and sinking her head down low.
Irene didn’t twitch at the first kiss to her ankle. She was used to this – this was an established routine with Martin – one that he knew she particularly enjoyed. Tiny, feather light kisses began to trail their way up her calf. Irene smiled.
‘Are you good at giving head, little Martha?’
‘They tell me I am,’ replied Martha, quietly.
‘The other girls?’
‘Yes.’ The little kisses reached Irene’s knee and kept on going.
‘Have you licked a lot of pussies?’
‘Seven.’
‘That’s not many.’
‘I wish it was more.’ The kisses ran along the inside of Irene’s thigh.
‘You like pussy.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re a whore for it.’
I would be.’ Martha ran her bottom lip over Irene’s mound. ‘But I like yours the best.’
A mocking smile quirked Irene’s mouth. ‘And why’s that?’
A single, worshipping kiss on the slightly parted lips of her pussy. ‘Because it’s a part of you.’
Irene closed her eyes and ran a hand over Martha’s hair. ‘Oh, you can be very, very good with that mouth sometimes you know, girl.’
Martha’s only answer was to slowly run her tongue along the delicate inside of Irene’s vulva – up from her opening to clitoris and back. Some more kisses – ridiculously chaste, considering they were direct to Irene’s clit. Then, Martha rested her cupid’s bow top lip against Irene’s clitoris, opening her mouth wide and letting her tongue slide down once more. The tip of her tongue lapped insistently at the opening of Irene’s vagina, curling up slightly with every retraction. After twenty seconds or so, Martha returned her full attention to Irene’s clitoris – kissing and licking, experimenting with flattened and pointed tongue – before leaving her top lip there to provide that little bit of pressure and returning once again to tease at her vagina.
Irene knew from experience that she could come like this, very happily so indeed. Perhaps if Martin was being Martin, she would have done – she’d have clutched his hair and pushed his head down and come so hard against his lips that he’d have orgasmed just at the sensation of bringing her off. She loved it when he did that – his untouched cock spurting hot, helpless lines against his thighs and belly just at the sound of the cries that he was able to wring from her. But he wasn’t Martin tonight – he was Martha. And since he’d gone to all that trouble, she wanted to do something a bit special for the occasion.
‘You are the best little slut, Martha.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Get up.’
Martha obeyed.
‘Hands and knees. On the bed.’
Again, Martha complied. Irene had a pair of small nail scissors in her bedside drawer. She pushed Martha’s skirt right up, then used the scissor blade to make a nick in the back of Martha’s knickers.
‘Such a whore,’ she added. She grabbed the cut underpants and pulled. There was a very satisfying ripping noise. ‘Look at that – these silly, flimsy little knickers are just falling apart, you tart.’ The knickers had torn right up to the crotch. The lace fabric at the back fell away from Martha’s skin now, revealing the criss-cross of reddened lines over her buttocks from earlier.
‘Oh, and look at my handiwork,’ she cooed, running a finger along one of the angrier welts. ‘You love waving that gorgeous, round bottom in girls’ faces, don’t you? And happily take whatever happens to it as a result.’ Her finger trailed to the cleft between Martha’s white buttocks, dipped inside. Found the little pucker. Tickled a fingertip over it and watched Martha twitch and squirm. ‘Oh, don’t act coy, now,’ Irene breathed. ‘You’ve been teasing me with that perfect bum all night.’ She got up. ‘Don’t move. Shall I tell you what’s going to happen to you now, or would you rather guess?’
‘You’re going to bugger me,’ Martha said, quietly.
Irene smirked. ‘Ever been fucked in the arse, before?’
‘Yes,’ replied Martha in the same, meek voice.
And of course Martin had. Irene had been the one to introduce him to that particular pleasure herself. As delectable as taking that virginity from him had been, it was a practice that continued to improve every time as he grew more and more accustomed to it – more confident about getting fucked. She could tell that he genuinely enjoyed it as much as she did.
‘I might have known. You’re a dirty little tart, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You like being fucked in the arse. Don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because…?’
‘Because I’m a dirty little tart.’
Irene took out the toy she’d chosen especially for Martin, the first time they’d decided to do this. The double dildo had one end that fit snugly inside her, so that there was no need for straps to hold it in place. The shaft that jutted out was slim and white. She enjoyed looking down at it – it looked in keeping, rising out of neat little patch of pubic hair, rubbing against Martin’s upturned face or pale buttocks. She was wet and all too ready for the toy as she slid it into herself, enjoying the weight of it as she turned back to Martha with a tube of her favourite lube. Martha’s breath hitched as Irene slipped a lubricated finger inside her arse.
‘Fuck yourself on it.’
Martha did as she was told – shifting her criss-crossed backside back and forth, whimpering every time it caused Irene’s finger to disappear down to the knuckle inside it.
Irene added a second finger. ’Don’t stop, Martha.’
Martha continued to rut obscenely against Irene’s fingers.
‘Oh, you’re loving this, aren’t you? I’m going to enjoy this so much.’
‘Please?’ Whispered Martha. ‘Please…?’
Irene withdrew her fingers and lined the dildo up against Martha’s backside. Martha pushed back a little again, but a slap to the rump stilled her.
‘Greedy girl. You’ll get your fucking when I choose to give it to you.’
‘Please?’ Martha murmured again.
‘Since you’re asking nicely.’ Irene pushed forwards, and Martha moaned deeply as the dildo slid deep inside. The end inside Irene shifted as she moved as well, rubbing against her G Spot.
‘Oh, yes,’ Irene gasped, ‘you are just the perfect little whore for me, aren’t you?’ She pulled out and thrust back in again, eliciting another breathy moan from Martha. ‘I should share you with other clients. I should let them watch me fuck you before I start on them – show them how it should be done.’
She started up a rhythm – each thrust rubbing her G Spot with the dildo and her clit against Martha’s buttocks, as well as drawing a moan or a whimper from Martha.
‘Maybe,’ Irene continued, ‘I could keep you tied over a table while I correct my clients, and let them fuck you as a reward for being good girls and boys.’
Martha gave a dainty little cough that sounded a lot like the word “concorde”.
‘No,’ continued Irene. ‘No, on second thoughts, why should I share you? I promised I’d protect you so I could have you all to myself, after all. I should film this. Film me fucking this beautiful girl and show it to them, so that they can see what I’ve got, and they’ll never have.’
Martha’s cough had miraculously disappeared. There was nothing now but bitten down whimpers. Irene sifted her grip on Martha’s hips and thrust harder, throwing her head back and gasping out with the pleasure of it.
‘Please?’ murmured Martha, beneath her. ‘Please? I…’
‘You can touch yourself over your knickers, if you need to,’ Irene replied, head back, blissed out.
‘Thank you.’ With one elbow still holding up her body weight, Martha moved the other hand to palm herself in time with Irene’s movements.
It was Irene who crested the first orgasmic wave before Martha, slamming hard into Martha’s body and holding herself deep inside, shuddering and crying out through the orgasm. Martha was tipped over the edge seconds later, her head bowed, her body trembling against Irene’s. Irene took a few deep breaths, changed her grip on Martha once more and started pounding yet again through the end of Martha’s orgasm, and after a minute or so, came a second time against Martha’s spent, sweat prickled flank.
She relaxed, pulled out, and rolled onto the bed, setting the toy aside for later cleaning. Martha was still slumped, face down on the bed, her spread knees pushing her bottom high in the air. Irene took Martha’s shoulder and pulled her over onto her side. ‘Nicely fucked now, are we?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘Show me your knickers.’
Martha dutifully pulled the skirt up over her hips. The front of the ruined lace knickers were drenched.
‘Wet,’ smiled Irene. ‘I love to make juicy little sluts wet like that. Show me inside?’
Martha pulled the waistband forward, and showed Irene down the front. The softening cock was nestled in a sticky white coating of cum that covered the inside of the underpants.
‘Dirty girl. Look what a mess you’ve made of your knickers.’
‘Sorry, Mistress. Shall I clean them?’
‘No. Leave them on. You can stay wet and messy for a while, as a lesson.’
‘Thank you.’
Irene felt yet another sharp keening. It was no good. Two orgasms just wasn’t going to cut it. Not with Martha around.
‘Lie on your back,’ she ordered.
Martha did so, and Irene got up to her knees, clambering up so that she was straddling Martha’s face.
‘Don’t touch,’ said Irene, sliding a finger across her own clitoris, ‘don’t lick. Don’t move. I’m going to wank in your face. Understand?’
‘Yes, Mistress,’ Martha breathed.
Irene looked down, concentrating on the wide eyed, pink cheeked face caught between her splayed thighs as she rubbed herself towards her third orgasm. Martha was beautifully debauched – lipstick smeared, mascara smudged, her hair wilder than ever. Martha’s gaze flicked between Irene’s eyes and the close-up gynaecological display she was being treated to.
‘So beautiful,’ Irene breathed. ‘All for you, Martha. This is all for you.’
She bore down on Martha as the orgasm started to take hold, first rubbing herself on her fingertips against Martha’s obediently turned cheek, then removing her hand altogether, spreading her wetness over Martha’s cheekbone, grateful of the very close shave that Martin had had in preparation.
Finally spent, she lifted herself up off a very happily sated Martha.
‘Did you want to clean yourself up, now?’
Martha smiled and shook her head, and when she spoke again, she was Martin.
‘No. But I think I might…’ Martin pulled off the wig. ‘Sorry. It was getting a bit hot under there.’
‘Quite all right.’
‘So, you. Um. You liked Martha?’
‘Oh, very much so. But the main question is, did you like Martha?’
Martin flushed a little. ‘Yes, she, er. Yes. She was fun. I mean. Maybe we could keep her things? Not for every time, but. You know. Just sometimes.’ He paused, and added ‘just for staying in.’
‘Of course.’
‘Was she all right? As a substitute. You know.’
‘A substitute?’
‘For girls, I mean.’
‘Tell me that isn’t what this was about.’
‘Well. Not really. I mean, I enjoyed it for itself…’
‘Well, good.’ Irene put her arm around him. ‘Because if there’s one matter on which I’ll never budge, it’s this – I never, ever accept substitutes. I take you for what you are. Understand?’
‘But why?’
‘Do I have to spank you again? Just tell me you understand.’
‘Well… yes, but…’
‘Good. Now, shut up.’
Irene closed her eyes and pressed her head against Martin’s shoulder, relaxing into a doze, filled with the scent of their sex.
‘I love you,’ murmured Martin.
Irene had promised herself she’d never love another man. Not after Him. Not after what He’d done to her.
‘I love you, too,’ said Irene. And, she meant it.
THE END
Irene Adler (BBC Sherlock) / Martin Crieff (Cabin Pressure)
NC-17
Cross Dressing, cunnilingus, pegging, masturbation, voyeurism. Het in Femslash clothing.
Girls Night In.
Irene crossed her legs as she sat in the hotel lobby, and waited.
She didn’t feel bad about this. Not in the least. She’d feel bad if she were getting Martin to dress as Him, but that wasn’t even an issue any more – not really. She’d pictured it occasionally, in the early days. She’d never tell Martin that, of course. Martin was still blissfully innocent regarding Him. The Man. After all, Martin was almost the polar opposite to Him, with the exception of that voice, and that face. Martin didn’t have to know that He was the reason she’d initially seduced him. He certainly wasn’t the reason she kept seeing Martin now – why whenever she got a text or email letting her know he’d be in New York she’d cancel all of her clients for his stay, or why, when she felt it had been rather too long since she’d seen her favourite sub, she’d book his little charter company on an errand that would take him to her side of the pond. She’d use a false name, of course. She felt that they were both rather too proud for her to admit that on those occasions, she was the one paying to have the partner of her choice’s company for the night.
The Man had never yielded to her – never knelt for her – never trembled and gasped in a collar for her, and never would. Martin, on the other hand, was a natural. He took everything she wanted to give him beautifully, and was always just so deliciously grateful. He was her Sub. The perfect Sub. The second man she had ever fallen for, and for very different reasons to the first.
Martin didn’t know about The Man, but he did know about the women. All the women. They talked sometimes, afterwards, as she bathed him or held him in bed. Talked about past lovers and experiences. Irene loved to watch him flush and stutter as he mumbled about what precious little experience he had. She was slowly trying to convince him that it was nothing to be ashamed of. She liked it. He was like a perfect field full of pristine, barely ruffled snow for her to tread patterns into. And she knew that Martin found her interest in women titillating, if perhaps a little bewildering.
He’d asked her once, while she was washing his hair, if she considered herself Bisexual.
‘More of a lesbian,’ she’d replied, massaging in the shampoo, ‘who makes the occasional exception.’
‘That… sorry if this sounds rude, but I’m not sure how that makes sense.’
‘Affection rarely does. Head back. I need to rinse you.’
‘Do you ever wish I was a woman?’
‘You’re perfect as you are.’
‘Sometimes I wish I was. Not… in a Trapped-Inside-A-Woman’s-Body way. Just with you. Sorry. Sounds weird. I just… I wonder if you’d enjoy me more if…’
‘I wouldn’t spend so much time with you if I didn’t enjoy you as completely as I do.’
‘We could… we could try pretending I was, you know. If you wanted. If you wanted to feel what it was like. If I was a girl.’
‘Sounds to me more like you wanting to know what it was like if you were a girl.’
He’d flushed again. ‘It was just an idea. Something I could do. For you, I mean. Because you do love women. And I… I love…’
He’d bitten his lip down, cutting off the end of his statement. She’d kissed his wet forehead.
‘It sounds like a lovely idea.’
She had bought “Martha’s” clothes herself. He was short and slight for a man, with small, delicate feet, so most of the outfit had been easy to buy. A little black dress, with a good jacket, since his shoulders were one part of his anatomy that would never pass for female if bared. Simple, elegant shoes with practical heels that a newcomer to women’s shoes would be able to walk in. Stockings with suspenders. Oh, how she loved to run her hand up a silk stocking. A corset, to squeeze and push that little waist of his into a more feminine silhouette. A touch of padding for the hips. Nothing for the bum – he didn’t need it – lovely round, slappable little thing. She decided that his frame would suit a C Cup and got a bra with prosthetics to that end. She spent a very long time ruminating over knickers, plumping in the end for a pair of lace French Knickers that she judged sturdy enough at the front to keep certain unladylike parts safely tucked. The wig she chose was as close to an extention of Martin’s real hair as she could find – shoulder length auburn locks that fell about in big curls. When Martin had emailed to let her know he had a long stopover in Baltimore coming up, she’d booked a beautician to help him prepare, along with his train tickets to Manhattan.
This went beyond pampering a Sub, she chided herself as she sat in wait. This was keenness. Far too keen for her own good. But oh, this was going to be a treat. Her lovely little straight, straight-laced boy – laced. She closed her eyes and thought about those knickers again. She liked those knickers.
She opened her eyes at the sound of the lift. The doors slid open.
And there was Martha. She looked awkward and self conscious– well of course, she did, considering. The light foundation that the beautician had applied evened out her complexion but a bright, hot glow still beamed out from those cheeks. Martha’s gaze fluttered up to meet Irene’s briefly, before it was cast demurely down again. Simple make up – a touch of mascara and shadow around the eyes, and a subtle lipstick that just pinked those plump lips ever so slightly. Gorgeous.
Martha took a few, careful steps towards Irene.
‘Do you like it?’ Martha’s voice was no silly falsetto – Martin had pitched it only a little higher, but added a certain breathiness that Irene had heard from him before – usually while she had him bent over a tabletop, or squirming over her knee.
Irene quirked a smile. ‘Give us a twirl’.
Martha did so, with a little difficulty.
Irene caught Martha’s hand, lifting it up to her lips for a chivalrous kiss. Elegant fingers – Irene had always loved those – rather coarse, but nothing could really have been done about that. The beautician hadn’t gone with false nails, but had neatly clipped and varnished the nails she’d been presented with. She ran a thumb past Martha’s jacket cuff and up her forearm. Her arms had been waxed. Legs too, no doubt. She made a mental note to tip the Beautician well.
‘Gorgeous,’ she announced.
Martha smiled – pleased, but nervous. ‘So, what did you… um. What shall we do?’
Irene trailed her hand along Martha’s arm and down her side. ‘I want to show my gorgeous bit of arm candy off, of course. Let’s go out to dinner.’
‘Out.’ Martha’s eyes widened. ‘Er. To a restaurant. Like this. I mean… Er. Of course, but…’
Irene’s expression didn’t waver as she swiftly changed her plans. ‘This hotel has an excellent little restaurant and bar. Very intimate.’
‘Dinner here.’ Martha exhaled with relief. ‘Yes. Yes, I like intimate. Thank you.’
Irene leaned in close to Martha. ‘You’ll have to make it up to me later,’ she murmured in Martha’s ear. ‘Won’t you?’
A lovely, familiar shudder shook Martha’s big, auburn curls. ‘Yes.’
‘Yes what?’
‘Yes, Mistress.’
‘Good girl.’
-x-
The restaurant fare was far simpler than Irene had hoped for, but she’d rather have a relaxed Sub than a particularly fancy meal any day. She ordered for Martha, and made no particular demands on her during the meal. She slipped off her shoe and skimmed her foot up Martha’s stocking leg, watching her cheeks grow pink. She placed her hand on Martha’s knee under the table as they were waiting for the bill, sliding the hand up and up until she reached the stocking top and the slim, waxed thigh beneath. Martha kept her eyes cast down demurely at her plate, not uttering a word.
‘Upstairs,’ Irene murmured as they left the restaurant. Martha headed towards the lift. Irene squeezed her forearm to stop her. ‘I said,’ she added in a low growl, ‘stairs. You first.’ She gave Martha’s bottom a little smack, propelling her in front of Irene as they started up the stairs.
Irene very happily watched Martha’s backside as they climbed. Martha struggled a little on the stairs in her high heels. Her skirt was short and fitted, and rode up as she climbed, flashing suspenders stretched taut over pale pink skin.
‘Faster,’ ordered Irene, giving the bum in front of her another tap. Martha sped up, obediently.
‘I haven’t got all night,’ Irene added, sternly, and Martha tried to quicken her pace again.
Just before their landing, Irene’s demands that Martha hurry on the stairs had their desired effect – Martha stumbled forwards, catching herself painlessly on her hands and knees, and treating Irene to a full up-skirt view of suspenders, kickers and all.
‘Hupsydaisy.’ Irene helped Martha up – one hand on her waist, the other between her legs. ‘That wasn’t very ladylike, was it?’
‘Sorry, Mistress.’
‘You’ve got a lot of making up to once I get you into our room, young lady,’ Irene murmured into her ear.
‘Yes, Mistress.’
Irene kept a firm hand on Martha’s hip as she ushered her towards their hotel room.
‘In,’ she ordered, pushing Martha through and closing the door behind them.
Martha stood quite still in the middle of the floor, her back turned, her head bowed.
‘To the back of the bed.’
Martha complied.
‘Cross your left foot over your right, then bend over to hold the footboard. Legs straight.’
Irene’s order was obeyed again, giving her another lovely view of the ridden-up skirt over Martha’s stocking suspenders.
‘You’re beautiful,’ Irene breathed, pulling her favourite riding crop out from her wardrobe.
‘Thank you, Mistress.’
‘I wanted to show you off properly. I wanted the whole of New York to see what I’ve got. But you didn’t want that.’
‘I’m sorry, Mistress.’
She ran the riding crop gently up Martha’s legs. ‘Are you shy, little Martha?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you worried about men coming up to you, my pretty girl – wanting to grope that beautiful arse?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wrong.’ Irene swiped at Martha’s thigh with the crop. ‘That wouldn’t happen, Martha. You know why that wouldn’t happen.’
Martha gasped at the sharp stroke of the riding crop. ‘You would be there to protect me.’
‘Correct. So it doesn’t matter if you go out dressed like a little slut, because you’re my little slut. Understand?’
‘Yes, Mistress.’
Irene hitched up Martha’s skirt some more so that her knickers were completely exposed. ‘I’m feeling merciful tonight. You have those slutty little knickers to thank for that. So, you’ll only take ten for making me take you to the hotel restaurant, and another five for tripping on the stairs, and five more for not trusting that I will always protect you from anybody else who would want to touch you. Always. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Mistress.’
She readied the riding crop. ‘Count them.’
Irene could have kept going for longer. She knew Martin’s limits intimately – usually, 30 was the right sort of number for him. If she was being perfectly honest, the reasoning behind the briefer correction with Martha was more to do with Irene’s impatience in this case than anything else. Were this a paying client, she would never be so slack or selfish. But this was supposed to be a treat for her, wasn’t it? And as much as she loved to watch that bottom turn pink and hot beneath her crop, the very sight of it sent urgent sparks through her body that she simply couldn’t ignore for long.
After Martha had counted 20, her breath hitching and her voice cracking delightfully, Irene set down the riding crop.
‘You may stand.’
Martha straightened up, her back still to Irene.
‘What do you say?’ added Irene, rubbing the hot, sore backside through the lace knickers.
‘Thank you, Mistress.’
With a fluid, graceful movement, Irene slipped off her own underpants under her skirt.
‘I think you can thank me better than that.’
She reached to push aside some of Martha’s mad curls with her free hand, and ran the one still holding the used knickers down the side of Martha’s face – over eyebrow and cheekbone… God, those cheekbones… over lush lips and long, elegant neck. She planted a hard kiss in the crook of that neck as she continued to paint a line of her scent down Martha’s body.
With another tap to the bum, Irene walked around her, and sat on the edge of the bed, knees parted. ‘Thank me properly.’
Without another word, Martha sank to her knees in front of Irene, positioning herself between Irene’s legs, and sinking her head down low.
Irene didn’t twitch at the first kiss to her ankle. She was used to this – this was an established routine with Martin – one that he knew she particularly enjoyed. Tiny, feather light kisses began to trail their way up her calf. Irene smiled.
‘Are you good at giving head, little Martha?’
‘They tell me I am,’ replied Martha, quietly.
‘The other girls?’
‘Yes.’ The little kisses reached Irene’s knee and kept on going.
‘Have you licked a lot of pussies?’
‘Seven.’
‘That’s not many.’
‘I wish it was more.’ The kisses ran along the inside of Irene’s thigh.
‘You like pussy.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re a whore for it.’
I would be.’ Martha ran her bottom lip over Irene’s mound. ‘But I like yours the best.’
A mocking smile quirked Irene’s mouth. ‘And why’s that?’
A single, worshipping kiss on the slightly parted lips of her pussy. ‘Because it’s a part of you.’
Irene closed her eyes and ran a hand over Martha’s hair. ‘Oh, you can be very, very good with that mouth sometimes you know, girl.’
Martha’s only answer was to slowly run her tongue along the delicate inside of Irene’s vulva – up from her opening to clitoris and back. Some more kisses – ridiculously chaste, considering they were direct to Irene’s clit. Then, Martha rested her cupid’s bow top lip against Irene’s clitoris, opening her mouth wide and letting her tongue slide down once more. The tip of her tongue lapped insistently at the opening of Irene’s vagina, curling up slightly with every retraction. After twenty seconds or so, Martha returned her full attention to Irene’s clitoris – kissing and licking, experimenting with flattened and pointed tongue – before leaving her top lip there to provide that little bit of pressure and returning once again to tease at her vagina.
Irene knew from experience that she could come like this, very happily so indeed. Perhaps if Martin was being Martin, she would have done – she’d have clutched his hair and pushed his head down and come so hard against his lips that he’d have orgasmed just at the sensation of bringing her off. She loved it when he did that – his untouched cock spurting hot, helpless lines against his thighs and belly just at the sound of the cries that he was able to wring from her. But he wasn’t Martin tonight – he was Martha. And since he’d gone to all that trouble, she wanted to do something a bit special for the occasion.
‘You are the best little slut, Martha.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Get up.’
Martha obeyed.
‘Hands and knees. On the bed.’
Again, Martha complied. Irene had a pair of small nail scissors in her bedside drawer. She pushed Martha’s skirt right up, then used the scissor blade to make a nick in the back of Martha’s knickers.
‘Such a whore,’ she added. She grabbed the cut underpants and pulled. There was a very satisfying ripping noise. ‘Look at that – these silly, flimsy little knickers are just falling apart, you tart.’ The knickers had torn right up to the crotch. The lace fabric at the back fell away from Martha’s skin now, revealing the criss-cross of reddened lines over her buttocks from earlier.
‘Oh, and look at my handiwork,’ she cooed, running a finger along one of the angrier welts. ‘You love waving that gorgeous, round bottom in girls’ faces, don’t you? And happily take whatever happens to it as a result.’ Her finger trailed to the cleft between Martha’s white buttocks, dipped inside. Found the little pucker. Tickled a fingertip over it and watched Martha twitch and squirm. ‘Oh, don’t act coy, now,’ Irene breathed. ‘You’ve been teasing me with that perfect bum all night.’ She got up. ‘Don’t move. Shall I tell you what’s going to happen to you now, or would you rather guess?’
‘You’re going to bugger me,’ Martha said, quietly.
Irene smirked. ‘Ever been fucked in the arse, before?’
‘Yes,’ replied Martha in the same, meek voice.
And of course Martin had. Irene had been the one to introduce him to that particular pleasure herself. As delectable as taking that virginity from him had been, it was a practice that continued to improve every time as he grew more and more accustomed to it – more confident about getting fucked. She could tell that he genuinely enjoyed it as much as she did.
‘I might have known. You’re a dirty little tart, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You like being fucked in the arse. Don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because…?’
‘Because I’m a dirty little tart.’
Irene took out the toy she’d chosen especially for Martin, the first time they’d decided to do this. The double dildo had one end that fit snugly inside her, so that there was no need for straps to hold it in place. The shaft that jutted out was slim and white. She enjoyed looking down at it – it looked in keeping, rising out of neat little patch of pubic hair, rubbing against Martin’s upturned face or pale buttocks. She was wet and all too ready for the toy as she slid it into herself, enjoying the weight of it as she turned back to Martha with a tube of her favourite lube. Martha’s breath hitched as Irene slipped a lubricated finger inside her arse.
‘Fuck yourself on it.’
Martha did as she was told – shifting her criss-crossed backside back and forth, whimpering every time it caused Irene’s finger to disappear down to the knuckle inside it.
Irene added a second finger. ’Don’t stop, Martha.’
Martha continued to rut obscenely against Irene’s fingers.
‘Oh, you’re loving this, aren’t you? I’m going to enjoy this so much.’
‘Please?’ Whispered Martha. ‘Please…?’
Irene withdrew her fingers and lined the dildo up against Martha’s backside. Martha pushed back a little again, but a slap to the rump stilled her.
‘Greedy girl. You’ll get your fucking when I choose to give it to you.’
‘Please?’ Martha murmured again.
‘Since you’re asking nicely.’ Irene pushed forwards, and Martha moaned deeply as the dildo slid deep inside. The end inside Irene shifted as she moved as well, rubbing against her G Spot.
‘Oh, yes,’ Irene gasped, ‘you are just the perfect little whore for me, aren’t you?’ She pulled out and thrust back in again, eliciting another breathy moan from Martha. ‘I should share you with other clients. I should let them watch me fuck you before I start on them – show them how it should be done.’
She started up a rhythm – each thrust rubbing her G Spot with the dildo and her clit against Martha’s buttocks, as well as drawing a moan or a whimper from Martha.
‘Maybe,’ Irene continued, ‘I could keep you tied over a table while I correct my clients, and let them fuck you as a reward for being good girls and boys.’
Martha gave a dainty little cough that sounded a lot like the word “concorde”.
‘No,’ continued Irene. ‘No, on second thoughts, why should I share you? I promised I’d protect you so I could have you all to myself, after all. I should film this. Film me fucking this beautiful girl and show it to them, so that they can see what I’ve got, and they’ll never have.’
Martha’s cough had miraculously disappeared. There was nothing now but bitten down whimpers. Irene sifted her grip on Martha’s hips and thrust harder, throwing her head back and gasping out with the pleasure of it.
‘Please?’ murmured Martha, beneath her. ‘Please? I…’
‘You can touch yourself over your knickers, if you need to,’ Irene replied, head back, blissed out.
‘Thank you.’ With one elbow still holding up her body weight, Martha moved the other hand to palm herself in time with Irene’s movements.
It was Irene who crested the first orgasmic wave before Martha, slamming hard into Martha’s body and holding herself deep inside, shuddering and crying out through the orgasm. Martha was tipped over the edge seconds later, her head bowed, her body trembling against Irene’s. Irene took a few deep breaths, changed her grip on Martha once more and started pounding yet again through the end of Martha’s orgasm, and after a minute or so, came a second time against Martha’s spent, sweat prickled flank.
She relaxed, pulled out, and rolled onto the bed, setting the toy aside for later cleaning. Martha was still slumped, face down on the bed, her spread knees pushing her bottom high in the air. Irene took Martha’s shoulder and pulled her over onto her side. ‘Nicely fucked now, are we?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘Show me your knickers.’
Martha dutifully pulled the skirt up over her hips. The front of the ruined lace knickers were drenched.
‘Wet,’ smiled Irene. ‘I love to make juicy little sluts wet like that. Show me inside?’
Martha pulled the waistband forward, and showed Irene down the front. The softening cock was nestled in a sticky white coating of cum that covered the inside of the underpants.
‘Dirty girl. Look what a mess you’ve made of your knickers.’
‘Sorry, Mistress. Shall I clean them?’
‘No. Leave them on. You can stay wet and messy for a while, as a lesson.’
‘Thank you.’
Irene felt yet another sharp keening. It was no good. Two orgasms just wasn’t going to cut it. Not with Martha around.
‘Lie on your back,’ she ordered.
Martha did so, and Irene got up to her knees, clambering up so that she was straddling Martha’s face.
‘Don’t touch,’ said Irene, sliding a finger across her own clitoris, ‘don’t lick. Don’t move. I’m going to wank in your face. Understand?’
‘Yes, Mistress,’ Martha breathed.
Irene looked down, concentrating on the wide eyed, pink cheeked face caught between her splayed thighs as she rubbed herself towards her third orgasm. Martha was beautifully debauched – lipstick smeared, mascara smudged, her hair wilder than ever. Martha’s gaze flicked between Irene’s eyes and the close-up gynaecological display she was being treated to.
‘So beautiful,’ Irene breathed. ‘All for you, Martha. This is all for you.’
She bore down on Martha as the orgasm started to take hold, first rubbing herself on her fingertips against Martha’s obediently turned cheek, then removing her hand altogether, spreading her wetness over Martha’s cheekbone, grateful of the very close shave that Martin had had in preparation.
Finally spent, she lifted herself up off a very happily sated Martha.
‘Did you want to clean yourself up, now?’
Martha smiled and shook her head, and when she spoke again, she was Martin.
‘No. But I think I might…’ Martin pulled off the wig. ‘Sorry. It was getting a bit hot under there.’
‘Quite all right.’
‘So, you. Um. You liked Martha?’
‘Oh, very much so. But the main question is, did you like Martha?’
Martin flushed a little. ‘Yes, she, er. Yes. She was fun. I mean. Maybe we could keep her things? Not for every time, but. You know. Just sometimes.’ He paused, and added ‘just for staying in.’
‘Of course.’
‘Was she all right? As a substitute. You know.’
‘A substitute?’
‘For girls, I mean.’
‘Tell me that isn’t what this was about.’
‘Well. Not really. I mean, I enjoyed it for itself…’
‘Well, good.’ Irene put her arm around him. ‘Because if there’s one matter on which I’ll never budge, it’s this – I never, ever accept substitutes. I take you for what you are. Understand?’
‘But why?’
‘Do I have to spank you again? Just tell me you understand.’
‘Well… yes, but…’
‘Good. Now, shut up.’
Irene closed her eyes and pressed her head against Martin’s shoulder, relaxing into a doze, filled with the scent of their sex.
‘I love you,’ murmured Martin.
Irene had promised herself she’d never love another man. Not after Him. Not after what He’d done to her.
‘I love you, too,’ said Irene. And, she meant it.
THE END
