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Dolled-Up In Straps

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The sight is tantalizing. Mortimer can’t stop staring at her. Her neck and shoulders are deliciously bare above those long dark gloves.

He makes the joke about her being clean because he can’t say what he wants to. This is his engagement party to her sister no less; he shouldn’t be thinking about the way her skin looks, soft and radiant in the evening light.

Charlotte smiles; he’s grateful he hasn’t offended her, and then she says, “You know what else is clean?”

“I couldn’t imagine.”

She leans in, her breath unnecessarily warm against his ear. “My vagina.”

“Miss Dalrymple,” Mortimer moves back hurriedly, but it’s too late. She’s already felt the stirring at the front of his trousers and now there’s a smile upon her lips, mocking him for it. It’s not his fault his body reacts like this. It’s not even the word itself for that matter; he’s a doctor for heaven’s sake. It’s the idea of her, her body under that dress, his mind imagining the washing of her most intimate parts in preparation for tonight. The slide of the washcloth against her bare thighs, her dark hair curling damply against her forehead as she washes herself thoroughly. Lavender and ivory, dipping into warm water.

Mortimer presses his lips together tightly as the crotch of his trousers draws unbearably snug. There is no escaping her mockery and he prepares himself for it.

Instead, Charlotte mercifully takes pity on him.

“Come with me,” her fingers brush the collar of his shirt. For a second, Mortimer imagines her pulling him forcibly, and oh god, his cock hardens even more. He stumbles after her into a side room, thankfully private, away from the rest of the guests.

His hands drop in front of his trousers. “You must forgive me. I had no intentions to offend you.”

Charlotte dismisses his protestations. “You haven’t offended me in the slightest. It’s rather nice to know all I have to do is brush against you to get that reaction.”

“It wasn’t that, I assure you.”

“Indeed. The words then?” She studies him, her mouth pursed in that thoughtful manner she has. “Or the act. Ah, I see, you were thinking about me washing my,”

Mortimer closes his eyes before he can see her lips form the word again. “This is most unseemly.” Why won’t she just leave so that his untimely erection can wilt before he has to return to the party?

“You’re probably able to visualize that image more fully than other man I could possibly say that to,” Charlotte considers. “Except of course, my father, but that,”

Mortimer gulps. “Please don’t talk about him right now.”  You’d think mentioning his prospective father-in-law would help with the situation, but it only increases the awkwardness. His father-in-law. He’s going to be married. And yet all he can do is dwell upon is how pretty her eyes look when they’re laughing at his misfortune.

“May I see it?” Charlotte inquires sweetly.

“I beg your pardon?”  Mortimer stares at her with incredulous eyes.

“Well, as people insist on reminding me, I am unlikely to get an offer of marriage any time soon. I’d rather like to see it.”

“I’m sure you could have any number of erections revealed to you should you desire it.” He doesn’t know what possesses him to reply to her in such a fashion. “I apologize, I.” Good lord, what is happening to him?

“I’d like to see yours.” Charlotte’s voice is firm. “Now, if you please.”

He should leave, but instead Mortimer’s trembling hands unfasten the buttons of his trousers. He can’t believe he’s doing this. Somehow, he wants to file it away under scientific research. Charlotte moves closer as he pushes his drawers down just far enough that his erect cock bounds free.

It looks absurd like this, sticking out there in the sitting room. His hand moves automatically over it.

“Don’t cover it.”

What possesses him to obey her? Mortimer just stands there helplessly as Charlotte moves closer, inspecting him.  Reaching out a gloved hand, Charlotte strokes the length of him. Mortimer represses a shudder as he watches her silken fingers touch the tip of his cock.

“It’s rather attractive.” Charlotte murmurs, smiling down at his cock. She’s looking at him with far too much interest, albeit probably normal curiosity. He must keep this on a purely scientific level.

“It’s perfectly adequate, I suppose,” He says. “Of course some men are larger than others, some smaller. It has no real effect on the act of copulation regarding future childrearing prospects.” Mortimer stops when he realizes her shoulders are shaking. “Miss Dalrymple, are you well?”

“Perfectly,” she assures him. “I think it’s sweetly gallant of you to attempt to educate me about the penis.”

She’s laughing at him. Mortimer realizes it even as the word sends a spark of heat to his groin.

“You said you’d never seen one.” Mortimer hisses.

“I said no such thing. You merely assumed that I, being unmarried, had no opportunity to gaze upon,”

“Please do not say the word again.” He begs. Her fingers still linger upon him, and Mortimer fears the effect it will have.

“Would you rather I said cock?”

“Oh god,” Mortimer bites his lip, “No, madam, I assure you, you’re wrong. I merely assumed you still clung to some shred of propriety.” He starts to pull his trousers up and then freezes abruptly, halted by her gloved hand stroking him.

“Miss Dalrymple.” He can’t. Her gloved hand fully upon his rigid cock, makes him painfully, desperately harder as she strokes her fingers along his length. It’s unbelievable and yet it’s happening.

“You like that.” Charlotte observes.

“Any physical response is simply, oh god,” His head falls back as his knees go weak and Charlotte takes him more firmly in hand. Mortimer’s pressed up against the desk for support, intoxicated by her skin, the allure of her bare shoulders; the ribbon around her neck taunts him.

“What’re you fixated on?”

Mortimer tries to clear his mind, focusing on anything that allows him to flee these heated passions threatening to overwhelm him entirely. He should be able to control himself, but never in his life has he been touched in this fashion. He’s powerless in her hands.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.” Charlotte whispers.

“That you’re perfectly capable of having whatever you like, whenever you please.” He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

“Am I?”  She leans closer, her lips are devastatingly, intimately near his, as luscious as wine. Mortimer can’t think for wanting to kiss them. Her hand slips up to cup his balls and his moan is embarrassingly loud.

“Why do you keep staring at my neck?”

“It’s merely that you look so…exceedingly lovely with your bare shoulders and that ribbon.” He’s perilously close to panting now as her thumb slides along his shaft.

Charlotte smiles.

“Here.” She reaches up, leaving his cock woefully abandoned, to pull the ribbon free. Somehow that’s worse. Her shoulders are so unabashedly bare. He wants to cover her shoulders with his kisses.

With a deft hand Charlotte wraps the ribbon in a loop around him, drawing it tight.

“Miss Dal,” Mortimer struggles even to get that much out. The slide of the ribbon around his cock makes him want to sink his knees and bury his face in her skirts.

“Close your eyes.”

Without thinking, or questioning, Mortimer obeys, only to hear the rustle of skirts and then she takes his hand, guiding it between her bare thighs and, oh.

“This is what you give to women.” Charlotte whispers in his ear as she brushes his fingers over her mound. “Pleasure, pure honest pleasure.  Utterly true satisfaction.”


“Satisfaction from our very own bodies.”

His fingers move over her on instinct now; she’s soft and warm and wet. “This is.” Highly irregular, and yet all he wants to do is touch her more.

“Desire, want, pleasure.” She breathes, against his hair, his beribboned cock thrusting against her thigh, naked against the velvet of her dress.

Mortimer strokes over her clit and she responds delightfully. He can feel the sensations against his fingertips; it’s wondrous. Her lips are so close to his neck now, her other hand has returned to stroking him. Mortimer can barely think coherently. He caresses her, but does he dare kiss her? His fingers move more quickly and then as her gloved hand speeds up, Mortimer strokes over her folds and his fingertip sinks into her.

“Oh god,” Mortimer’s shocked. He should stop immediately, apologize yet again for this .

But Charlotte only arches against his fingertip breathlessly, speeding up her stroke and he presses his finger deeper, marveling at the way her body reacts. He wants so badly to kiss her, just once. Mortimer leans in and his thumb brushes over her clit and Charlotte gasps, laughing a little as well.

Her gloved hand brushes over his scrotum, and she tugs lightly on the ribbon and with a violent shudder, Mortimer spasms messily across her glove. He blushes profusely. “Miss Dalrymple, I, I’m so very sorry.”

Her cheeks are still flushed as she assures him it’s all right. He only satisfied her a little, Mortimer knows. There was only the barest flutter of a paroxysm of her folds. He’s ashamed. He could have done so much better given the time to concentrate properly.

There’s semen coating her glove and he blushes harder at the sight.  Charlotte strips them off casually, tucking them into her bag.

“Your ribbon.” He’s breathless as she pulls it free from him.

“Well, Dr. Granville, I trust you’ve learned something.”

“Indeed I have, that women are infinitely capable of astonishing me,” her lips curve disapprovingly, and he adds, “And much much more beyond that.”

“Better.” She smiles at him truly this time. “We should get back.”

“Yes, yes of course.” Mortimer tucks himself away hurriedly and follows her back out to the party.