The Confusion of the Sexes

It had seemed a good idea at the time to pick up a second candlestick but the practical reality of carrying two candlesticks and a glass of water came to her as she stood at the old fashioned Belfast sink, having placed one candlestick carefully on each side. Harriet blew out one candle and turned to the door.

She had been pleased to find the kitchen after a few false starts even finding herself back in the dining room - a dining room already set for breakfast but with three places. Who would be breakfasting? Presumably her host and Harriet but who was the third? She had been told breakfast was at 8.30 am precisely.

Outside the kitchen the corridor was dark and silent, illuminated by the one candle she was now holding, a candle giving a pool of light around her but not sending its light very far. It was what people in the past had to deal with - in fact it was a better light than most. It was a petroleum wax candle giving a good white light, not the yellow hue of a tallow candle or the flickering spit of a rush light.

A slight noise, almost below audibility, a slight scraping sound and a sudden draught blew Harriet's candle out. It was almost classic, almost like a gothic horror film, very like a cliché but, for all that, in an old castle it was still not at all nice. It was a pity Harriet had snuffed the other candle out and, instead, left it burning in the kitchen. She could have gone back for that but now she was plunged into darkness and was really not quite sure of the way back to her room even feeling her way. And feeling her way might be very strange as she went past the statues!

Harriet was not a woman given to the vapours, given to screaming or panic: she remained calm and collected but she could not stay still, she knew her orientation even if her sight had gone but ahead, ever so faint was a thin strip of light under a door. She walked towards it, it was not far, she could find her way back.

A hand on the door handle, a turn and there was an open doorway still with just a hint of light - and steps leading downwards. What was the more prudent: to attempt to retrace her footsteps in the dark and possibly get lost or go into the wrong bedroom - not that she thought anyone else seemed to be in residence: or to see if the light meant the butler, her host or even a candle to light her own? Put like that the latter seemed the wiser course, albeit it was a basement and basements could be strange.

She wanted to get back to her room, be safe and snug between the linen sheets and, if she was honest, wanted to spread her legs a little, slip her hand down and think about - well probably Adam at the Rugby Club. She had enjoyed watching him play, his tree trunk thighs pounding up the pitch with the ball, muddy and masculine. He was not for her, Penny had him tight in her clutches but it would be pleasant to fantasise a weekend fling or something. Taking him home fresh from the field, all hot and masculine from the exercise and peeling off those muddy things and the jock strap...

Her steps, tentative at first, made sure the wooden steps were sound. She could not smell damp but she was worldly wise enough to know that steps to basements were things to be taken with care. The steps were solid, there was no give, no creaking; Harriet reached the bottom and stood on a brick floor. The faint light came from the end of a short corridor shining out brightly from below another door. The light coming as a strip below the door and through the keyhole yellow and strong.

A choice or choices: pull the door open with one firm movement and walk in, knock timidly and wait for an answer or peer through the keyhole and see what was beyond? It seemed ridiculous. Here was Harriet, a successful lawyer, wandering around in pitch black darkness in a dressing gown and nothing else - not even slippers - and peering through keyholes. But that is exactly what she did, placing the glass and candlestick on the floor; feeling her breasts slide against the woollen dressing gown as she leant forward, a rubbing on her already erect nipples; felt her breasts hanging there against the material, and what she saw should have sent her scurrying back up the passage, up the wooden stairs to seek her way back to her bedroom, however long that took, and lock herself in.

She should have done: but did not.

Harriet blinked as the bright light hurt her eye but there, framed in the keyhole, was a man, a big man, a naked man, a man moreover completely aroused in a sexual way and big in every way. Harriet had never seen a man with such an enormous penis; none of her boyfriends had come anywhere near that. Perhaps it was the keyhole; perhaps the small aperture of her vision distorted the image. She hoped so, for the sake of whatever woman was about to be the recipient of the monstrous appendage.

The man moved and the erection swayed. It could not really be that big, no erection could be a foot long on a man, rather than on a horse or a bull, and the head was not right either, it was wider than the shaft, quite a bit wider making the whole thing look like a club - a stick with a knob on! It jutted out from the man, not pointing straight up but not horizontal – it was half way between the two - a perfect forty-five degrees - give or take a degree.

Harriet made to get up and leave but found she could not: she found her body was not obeying and through the keyhole the erection was getting bigger or, more accurately, closer and closer. The man was coming towards the door! Panic on her part: why could she not straighten and run back down the brick floored corridor and up the wooden stairs to the safe darkness?

The erection was gradually filling her vision until that was all she could see through the keyhole - a man's quite enormous erection seemingly pointing right at her - almost poking her in the eye so to speak, the head shining and fat, truly the coal scuttle shape of the First War German soldier's helmet and looking her in the eye was the man's third eye - the eye of his penis - it was weeping a little, he was already well aroused.

There was a slight pause, Harriet could only stare at the erection - there was nothing else to see. Why could she not rise and flee?

The door opened, flooding Harriet with the light, its brightness making her blink and screw up her eyes.

"Good evening Miss Harriet, do please come in. Do come in."

It was as if a switch had been thrown, Harriet found she could straighten and as she did so she came face to face with her client. Who else was it likely to be in the castle, who else might be in the basement of his castle but why was he here rather than in a bedroom? And most importantly of all why was he naked and with such a monster erection?

A stone faced room. Harriet's head and eyes darted from side to side. To her right the butler, fully dressed in his dinner suit and tails with a silver tray and three glasses of white wine, and to her left... a table...

Strapped to the table, still wearing her maid's uniform was the little maid. But the uniform was dishevelled. Her arms were securely tied by a leather strap around her wrists well above her head, held tautly away from her body; across her chest, just below her breasts another leather strap with big brass buckle held her down and a further strap was stretched tight across her stomach. Her bottom was just on the table though her legs dangled free at its end. Her mouth was securely gagged with a handkerchief - a bright red spotted handkerchief. But it was not just the restraint that had Harriet open eyed and open mouthed it was the dishevelment; her blouse was undone - all the buttons undone - and her little breasts exposed, rising and falling as her breath came quickly, her black skirt rucked to the waist and her white panties lying beside her - very clearly removed by whosoever had strapped her down. What was more her thighs were open revealing not just the dark vee of her mons but her splayed vulva all fringed in black curls. It was obvious, blatantly obvious that this was a vulva that had recently been ravished, that it had been penetrated and vigorously used. It was not a sight Harriet was used to seeing.

"I must go." But she could not; she could not turn around and run.

"May I take your coat, miss?" The butler had put down the tray and was standing waiting for her.

"No, of course not. I've nothing..."

But Harriet found her hand already on the cord, undoing it and letting the dressing gown swing open letting the butler see her breasts. His face impassive, as he waited.

"So good of you to come." It was her client again. He was standing beside her with his monster erection. Had he been enjoying the girl? Surely it would not fit - his penis, surely erect it would not fit in the little thing?

"We have been waiting, just warming ourselves so to speak."

"We?" Who did he mean, surely not the butler as well? But the third glass, the third setting at breakfast, the..."

Warming themselves? The room was very warm, the big fireplace and burning logs saw to that. The room was bright from the many, many candles.

Harriet slipped the gown from her shoulder and handed it to the butler. Her whole body exposed to the two men and the wide eyed little maid. Why had she done that? They could see her everything, her breasts, her bottom, her neatly trimmed bush - tidied only the other day at the salon. It was impossible. She was naked in a basement with a fully dressed old butler and her naked and aroused client whilst strapped to a table was a girl being abused - it was absurd.

"Good evening, Harriet." The voice familiar.

The evening suddenly got much, much worse. It was not just her client who was up to no good. The voice behind her was so familiar, she would know that West Country brogue anywhere, someone she trusted implicitly - the senior partner of her firm, yes, her boss.

Harriet turned and a shock. She had never so much as seen her boss outside a suit, never seen him in casual clothes, or joined him in a sauna or at the swimming pool of a hotel but now she saw him completely naked, like her client, and, that was worse, just like her client he sported an erection. Not the enormous item that her client possessed but a normal sized penis but as much fully erect as her client's. Beneath the black cloth did the butler possess a similarly tumescent organ?

"Sir?" Harriet was speechless. It was not that she could not speak but she was struck dumb.

"Lovely to see you, Harriet, simply lovely - like that. I have always wondered but now, how pretty, how simply desirable."

He was not looking at her face but her sex.

"A lighter shade of red than your beautiful hair but yet so fiery. Is your sex like that? Fiery, hot and burning, needing to be extinguished, needing a man to extinguish the flames. How I have wondered? Or is the analogy wrong. Hot and steaming? A flowing liquidity like bubbling volcanic heated springs?"

Harriet's boss had never, ever talked like that before.

And casually he turned to the bound girl, walked between her thighs and, without his hands touching her, inserted his erection and pushed. Harriet watched wide eyed in amazement and disbelief. Before her very eyes her boss had just as casually as anything turned from speaking to her to fuck a girl. A few strokes and he withdrew, his penis gleaming wetly in the candlelight.

"I think perhaps Daisy can go now; she has warmed us well."

Surely the client could not really have penetrated the girl?

His hand was on the straps, pulling away the gag. But rather than scream and try to run, the girl simply got off the table, smoothed down her skirt and curtseyed.

"Will that be all, sirs?"

"Yes Daisy, you are done for the night. You may go to bed; your own bed tonight."

"Thank you, sir."

It was surreal... but if the girl was gone what would happen next? Harriet was sure she knew; completely sure she knew.

"A glass of wine before we begin?"

The butler and the silver tray, the offered glasses.

"No... thank you. I need to leave." But she could not. Her legs did not seem to work.

"I recall you like coconut."

Again unreality, surreality. What had this to do with what was happening?

"The restaurant last month, your ice cream. It was coconut."

Harriet would not have thought he would have noticed, he had been at the other end of the table; how closely had he been watching her and for how long?

"Yes."

"Good. You will like this then."

Like what?

The butler again. A bottle, a green stoppered bottle.

Her client poured. It was oil. A sweet coconut smell began to fill the air. Oil pooling in his open palm - for what purpose?

The oil on Harriet's back, running downwards, she could feel the trickle finding its way down beside her back bone, feel its journey right down to the dimples above her bottom.

"What!"

The client's hand began to smooth the oil.

"Don't touch me!" Her voice loud.

"Just whisper, Harriet, there's a good girl. Don't worry. You need to be prepared."

"Prepared for what," her voice box was gone, would not work as if she had a really bad cold. All she could do was whisper.

"Intercourse. What else? Terrence and I have played with young Daisy but she has gone to bed now and we really need full release. Surely you can see that – particularly with our host." A laugh. "It'll be best, you'll see."

"I don't want to," she whispered.

"Speak up, girl!" It was her boss.

"I can't." She whispered.

"Oh you can, of course you can. I know what you have been doing with the boys."

What did he know? He could know nothing surely and it was not men. Just a man. One relationship at a time.

The hands were all over her back. The scent of coconut strong. More oil was poured. Harriet closed her eyes. It would be the breasts. Her client's oily hands were about to mould and caress them. Quite unbelievable. He was going to touch her breasts.

The oil was slippery, slippery on her breasts, the massage firm and done with both hands. The oil well rubbed. The nipples, inevitably, had special attention. More oil and a firm rubbing between fingers, slippery, shiny nipples - there was no way for purchase to be achieved on the nipples without a tight squeeze before they were pulled.

Harriet found she could do nothing but submit, her arms did not seem to want to rise and brush the hands away. The man so close the tip of his giant penis was touching her hip. She stared at it. It would never go in and if it did would it come out again erect? Would the splay of the corona get lodged within her, unable to be extracted until, until it had done its thing and released semen within her, then to collapse into malleable flaccidity and come out?

What was worse than having this violation was finding her body, far from reacting in revulsion, was continuing the arousal she had felt earlier as if it was accepting there were men with her who needed to do things - to her.

There was no need for it - no need for any of this - but her client, if she could still call him that, was bouncing her oily breasts alternately in his hands, seemingly enjoying the sight of them going up and down, one after the other. First he had weighed them in his hands, felt how full they were. Harriet was neither small like young Daisy nor gross like Marcy, her boss' secretary. An awful thought came to her - was that why Marcy had been employed? Marcy had always seemed more, how should she put it, decorative than useful. Perhaps her uses were not those Harriet had a need for in the office. A further thought, a horrid one, did her boss see her utility in a similar way?

Up, down, up, down her breasts were bounced, together and separately, all slippery with the coconut oil and she could do nothing about it. Indignity. Being treated as just a plaything – very much in the hands of men.

Harriet looked at her boss; like her client his erection had not subsided one iota; from the look on his face she could see how much he was enjoying her bouncing boobs. Was it about to be his turn? Would she be forced to her knees and his penis placed in her mouth as his hands played with her boobs? Would she literally be sucking up to her boss?

The hands moved, a great deal more oil poured and she was turned to face her boss as her client's hands went to her bottom. Her boss wore a grin like she had not seen him possess before. His eyes flickered over Harriet's body. His penis at attention, all six inches almost vertical. Was he circumcised? It was difficult to tell with him like that. Why was she even thinking of that? It hardly mattered, a penis was a penis if you were about to be the forced recipient; though, in the case of the client, it was simply not true that a penis was a penis: her client's was improbably large. It might not be all of twelve inches - a foot - but it was not far off - and it was not just long, not with that head. If she could only knee the two of them in the balls and run, well three of them as there was the butler as well. If only she could escape.

The hands on her bottom were personal, very personal and kneading, taking their pleasure in her soft womanly buttocks, and then they got very, very personal indeed or a finger or two did. Not content with the smoothness of the buttocks, fingers found the crack between them and began making that slippery too. A finger or two running up and down the divide and then a finger on her anus, a very oily finger, a very oily coconut finger, a finger that found it as easy as anything to slip through the sphincter and into her.

"NO!" she whispered.

"Pardon?"

"Don't put your finger in my bottom." It came out more as she might have whispered in a boyfriend's ear and probably not really meaning it.

The client inserted a second and then a third. Harriet's face betrayed her shock. The smile on her boss' face just got wider.

No, surely not, he would not want to do that thing.

"Come, lie on the table. It will be easier."

Easier for what?

Harriet's recently violated bottom touched the table. She did not want to lie down but her body had other ideas. She lay where Daisy had lain. Would she be restrained by the straps?

Around her the two men, their bodies shining in the candlelight, their faces looking down on her a little in shadow but their white teeth betraying their pleasure. They had planned this together, it was clear, and were now reaping the harvest of their plans.

The jar of oil was passed to her boss. Carefully he poured a measure into his palm. His grin unabated.

"You have no idea how long I have waited for this. May I?"

He was not asking her, not seeking Harriet's permission, but her client's. He was looking at him not her. The big man nodded. Slowly her boss parted her legs, not hurting her but easing and gently pulling her knees apart and revealing her sex to the men. His penis quivering as held her knees open before applying the oil. Had she no say?

"Harriet, Harriet, what a little treasure you hide between your legs."

She knew her sex was compact, not a big fleshy vulva like Anne's - a comparison made at school one summer when growing up, all girls together talking about boys and sex and how it all worked. A whole group of friends comparing; they had even masturbated together at that pyjama party, six of them all on that bed with pyjama bottoms off and pyjama tops open. The room had been full of girl scent and she thought all of them had come off - certainly she had not faked it! A strange feminine sharing.

No, small and compact, everything there in the proper place but workmanlike, no frills or oyster shells! Neat really, like most of what she did.

"Little, but so perfectly formed."

He held his hand over her sex, the oil cupped in his palm, and then poured, letting the oil spill out and fall in a thin stream right down onto her sex. His fingers soon touching, running oily through her pubic hair. It glistened and then his fingers were on the soft skin of her inner thighs spreading oil along them. Something she would have so enjoyed with a boyfriend but with her senior partner of all people? No, certainly not! But her body was still betraying her; the sensual feeling arousing. The fingers oiling her legs. It would not be long now, she knew, before those self same fingers were touching her sex, running around it, feeling, stroking - no, not merely on but in.