You pose NAKED!

“It will be splendid to have a fine, strong young man about the house, Mr. Brandywine,” said Mrs. Dalrymple, as she took Corky’s hands in hers.

There was something unnerving about the half-smile that darted across her face as she looked at him sidelong. Corky didn’t quite remember the moment when he had agreed to become a boarder at Mrs. Dalrymple’s house, but the landlady certainly appeared to consider it a done deal. And indeed he could think of no reasonable objections. The room she was offering was large and well-appointed, the address fashionable, the rent surprisingly low. Mrs. Dalrymple herself was a fine woman, a widow of some means, with a bright, vivacious manner. In the firelight, her pale skin took on a rosy glow. Stray strands of crinkly russet fell from her loose bun to run along the delicate skin of her neck.

Mrs. Dalrymple stepped still closer. At this angle, her decolete gown revealed the rotundities of her sizable and well-separated bosom. Corky bit his lip with the effort of maintaining eye contact.

“Are you quite well, Mr. Brandywine?” the widow inquired with a concerned look. “You look terribly flushed!”

“Oh, quite <cough, cough!> quite all right,” Corky assured her hastily. “Just a little warm. Nothing, really.”

“Well, at any rate,” she said, “it will be good for the girls to have a man about the house.”

“The… girls?”

“Oh, my two daughters,” she explained. “Beatrice and Maggie. Delightful children. I’m sure you shall get on quite famously with them.” She leaned out the door of the room. “Maggie, Beatrice!” she called, “Come and meet our new boarder!”

She returned to Corky’s side and confided, “They’re dear, good-hearted girls, but with no one but an old woman to keep an eye on them,” (it took Corky a moment to realize she was referring to herself) “they do tend to become a trifle wild and willful at times. It will be ever so much better to have a firm, masculine hand available when they stray.”

With nary a sound of warning, two young ladies burst into the room, grabbing the door frame to check their momentum as they skidded around the corner.

“Girls, decorum, please,” Mrs. Dalrymple said without rancour, as her daughters patted their hair down, panting slightly.

“Sorry, mother,” grinned the shorter of the two, her eyes never leaving Corky. She looked more like a sister than a daughter; her cheeks were freckled where her mother’s were pale, and her figure had not yet fully ripened into the lush curves of the elder Dalrymple, but otherwise she might be the mistress of the house herself, displaced by two decades of age.

The taller sister kept silent, her straight dark hair a striking contrast to her sister’s reddish curls, her great dark eyes downcast, save for quick shy glances at the new tenant. Her ivory skin was lightly flushed from the exertion of her recent sprint and from the presence of the young male stranger.

Corky gazed at the girls with dismay. The notion that he might be called upon to fulfill a role as disciplinarian for these spirited females, his juniors by a bare handful of years, struck him as impossibly absurd.

“Mr. Brandywine, allow me to present my daughters,” the widow said formally, “Margaret and Beatrice. Girls, this is Mr. William Brandywine, an art student who is going to be staying with us this year.”

The dark haired girl–Beatrice–curtsied prettily, and mumbled indistinct greetings.

Her sister opened her green eyes wide and stepped forward. “An artist! You’re really an artist, Mr. Brandywine?”

“Well,” stammered poor Corky, “not really…or, or, or rather not *yet*…”

“That’s a terribly romantic occupation,” the girl exclaimed eagerly. “Do you think you should like to paint me? I’m sure it would be great fun.”

“Oh, no it isn’t!” Corky assured her hastily, “I’m afraid posing for studies is terribly dull work. You must be perfectly still for an hour or more, no matter how sore or cold you get.”

“La, wouldn’t it be a sight to have Maggie standing still for *five minutes*,” said Beatrice, and giggled.

“I can stand still for just as long as I choose,” exclaimed her sister indignantly. “But why should I get cold?” she asked Corky.

“Well…” he answered, “for figure studies, it’s traditional…that is, in a classroom setting it’s really not terribly…that is to say for, for, for purposes of artistic reference, the model will generally…”

“You pose NAKED!” stage whispered Beatrice.

“Nude, dear,” her mother corrected her firmly.

Maggie blushed a little, but didn’t look as displeased as she might. “Oh, my!” she exclaimed. “Is that really quite proper?”

“Now Maggie,” answered Mrs. Dalrymple, with an indulgent smile, “I’m sure Mr. Brandywine has enjoyed the sight of dozens of nude young ladies over the years, many nearly as pretty as yourself; and is none the worse for the experience.”

“Mrs. Dalrymple!” Corky exclaimed, “I have only been at art school a single week!”

“Ah, but I’m sure your social life has not been without the charms of many an unclad young temptress,” answered the widow coolly.

Corky was indignant. “It certainly has not! If you must know, my exposure to the fairer sex has been … *limited* up to this time, but I assure you that, even were that not the case, I would treat the ladies of my acquaintance with the respect and modesty due to a gentlewoman!”

Did the woman truly mutter “What a pity?” So soft was her tone that Corky wasn’t certain. A moment later, though, she spoke more clearly.

“Mr. Brandywine, you must forgive my rash words.” She seated herself on the duvet, and drew Corky down beside her, turning her slender shoulders toward him, and passing her arms about his neck. “Do my manners seem extraordinarily free to you, William?” she asked.

“No, no, not at all, Mrs. Dalrymple!” he lied desperately, feeling a bead of perspiration run down his temple. He was ashamed of his recent outburst, and painfully aware of the uncomfortable prominence in his trousers. The two daughter seated themselves in flanking chairs, Maggie watching the conversation with an expression of barely suppressed glee, Beatrice with rapt concentration.

“I spoke imprudently, and I hope you did not take offense,” the widow continued as her nails tickled at the base of his scalp, sending chills up his spine. “I was simply overcome by my delight at finding such a fine, well-bred, and handsome boarder to fill out a household that has been too-long given over entirely to the weaker sex. You see, a woman becomes used to the presence of a man about the house, to perform the necessary masculine duties.”

Corky’s spine stiffened and his face blanched. He wasn’t certain exactly what she meant by this, and he hesitated to speculate.

“Why, only last Sunday, I was forced to carve the roast myself! ”

Corky relaxed a little.

“I’m so glad you understand,” she said, kissing his cheek repeatedly. So distracted was Corky by the thrilling sensation of her warm lips upon his face that he failed to notice her hand creeping along his trousers, until she reached their distended apex.

“Oh, you poor man!” she exclaimed, grasping his rigid member.

“Madam!” Corky exclaimed, and attempted to spring from the divan, but found himself hindered by the widow’s hands at his shoulder and his inflamed groin.

“You must be in terrible discomfort,” she cooed, massaging his shaft through the fabric. “Here, let me relieve the pressure a little.”

And with those words, she pressed her new tenant back onto the cushions, and began to undo his trouser buttons.

Attempting to shield himself, Corky cried, “Mrs Dalrymple! This is entirely indecent!” He leapt from the divan, and made for the door. “I think this interview is at an end,” he exclaimed, his voice trembling with agitation. “Good evening, madam. I shall seek lodging–” The doorknob was failing to turn. “I shall seek–” It appeared to be firmly stuck. “I shall seek lodging else–”

Turning, he saw that Maggie Dalrymple–the daughter who had expressed such enthusiasm for the prospect of posing–was smiling triumphantly with a key in her hand. Without her eyes leaving his, she slid the key down the front of her dress.

“–where.”

“Girls,” the widow said, “Mr. Brandywine seems to be terribly agitated. Do help him to relax.

The two daughters sprang at him, and in a moment, despite his struggles, he found himself deposited once again on the divan, Beatrice grasping his desperately kicking ankles and Maggie holding his straining wrists above his head.

“Now, William,” said his hostess, kneeling beside him, “as I said, there some household duties to which the man of the house is best suited; but there are others where a woman certainly knows best. You are clearly in some suffering, and I would be a cruel woman indeed not to do what I can to ease your pain.”

She opened his flies, and withdrew his straining prick. Corky watched with wide eyes as she drew her delicate little fist up and down upon it. “It’s terribly hard and hot,” she murmured, her voice dripping with lasciviousness. She accelerated her stroking, and he groaned. She felt his shaft pulse in her hand, and a drop of clear fluid appeared on the enpurpled tip.

As she bowed her head, he suddenly realized the monstrous debauchery she was about to perform, and renewed his struggles against the unnatural daughters who restrained him. But it was to no avail–the widow’s pink little tongue darted out, and sampled the liquid from the apex of his prick, before she lowered her hot mouth onto his tool, and began to exert suction.

The sensation was intolerably exquisite. His hips bucked uncontrollably, his groans rose to a drawn-out wail as he spent in the older woman’s eagerly sucking mouth, then collapsed to the couch, panting.

After a few moments, Mrs. Dalrymple ceased her gentle suckling and lifted her head, a few drops of fluid adorning her chin like a courtesan’s mole.

“Mother?” came Beatrice’s voice in a low, tremulous tone. Corky looked down at the girl still gripping his ankles. Her face was flushed, and her brow knit with emotion.

“Of course you may, Dear,” said her mother.

Beatrice sprang from the foot of the divan and seized her mother’s face in both hands. Corky watched transfixed as the dark-haired daughter carefully licked every iota of spend from Mrs. Dalrymple’s face, before sealing her lips to her mother’s in a long and probing kiss. At the sight, Corky was dismayed to find his pego already surging to renewed life.

When the women parted, Beatrice was gasping, but the widow remained serene. “Do unfasten me please, darling,” she said, standing and turning about. The slender girl wasted no time in unlacing the back of her mother’s gown. “Now hold Mr. Brandywine a little longer, Dear,” she said, “I don’t think he’s fully reconciled to our treatment methods yet.

Corky tried to struggle, but his will had failed him, and with his trousers about his knees they soon had him fully under their control again. Their mother walked over to the fire, and turned to face the divan. Silently, she drew her gown off of her shoulders, and let it fall about her waist, exposing the pale form of her massive bosom and her broad dark, nipples. Then she turned about, and worked the material off of her hips, so that it fell to a puddle about her ankles.

“Dear lord!” he cried in alarm, “You’re wearing no undergarments.”

The widow grinned over her shoulder at him, as he resumed his struggle against the hold of the two treacherous girls. She leaned over slightly, so that the broad cheeks of her rump parted slightly, allowing a hint of glossy hair and glistening vermilion flesh to pass through. “My goodness, you’re right,” she purred. “You’d best avert your eyes, Mr. Brandywine.”

Corky found to his shock that his gaze no longer obeyed his will. In his mind, the swaying bottom before him suddenly resembled the menacing display of the hooded cobra, her plump bestockinged legs the powerful neck of the deadly creature, and himself the helpless rabbit, frozen in place, a doomed victim of its terrible mesmeric power.

Mrs. Dalrymple was clad now only in her stays and stockings. She turned in place, revealing a broad expanse of chestnut curls at the bottom of her pale belly. She stroked them pensively a moment, and then strode towards the art student, with a whorish sway of her rounded hips.

With renewed strength, Corky struggled against the girls’ hold, as his traitorous member bobbed rigidly, eager for more of the devil’s work. Even as he desperately bucked, he found he could not tear his eyes from the furred intersection of his captor’s shapely limbs.

She ran a cool little hand over his rejuvenated cock, watching her struggling victim with distant amusement. “Well, I’ve done something nice for you, William,” she said, placing one stockinged food on his heaving chest. This action revealed the rosy folds of the debauched woman’s cunt to Corky’s still-uncontrollable eyes. A sharp, intoxicating smell reached the young man’s gasping nostrils, and he found his mouth watering as his rigid member somehow increased its desperate engorgement.

“Now you can do something nice for me,” she continued, as she straddled Corky’s head, so that the exuberant tropical garden of her nether regions was mere inches from our desperate hero’s face.

Barely giving the young man an instant to adjust to this unaccustomed (to say the least) situation, she gripped his hair in her hands and pressed her moist and redolent flesh against his unprepared face.