TAFFETA TORMENT
THEY were
the worst of enemies – but before long she would ensure they were
the best of friends. On her terms!
Night after night, the banging upstairs of riotous parties seldom ceased.
Having just turned 50 years of age, Joyce only needed a few hours sleep
these days before she began a day’s work on the perfume counter at Farmers,
the city’s most affluent department store.
But since John, a 19-year-old student, had moved into the maisonette
flat
above two weeks ago, she felt more and more a prisoner in her own home.
Tonight, she would attempt a great escape.
She had been lyying on her bed trying to read herself
to sleep when a few
minutes after
of the bedroom, out of her flat and walked the few yards to John’s front
door. As Joyce waited for someone, anyone up the stairs to hear her
knocking, the cold night air outside the maisonette
began to bite. She was
wearing only a sheer chiffon nightdress, admittedly ankle length, but in her
anger, she had forgotten to take with her a coat.
One last rap of the knuckles and she could take no more – but then suddenly
John appeared.
“Do you know what time of night it is?” she demanded curtly but as the cold
began to get the better of her, she moved back to the comfort and warmth of
her own front door.
John was truly dismayed by her chagrin. “I’m really sorry,” he started and
moved to follow but Joyce did not stop, making her way inside to the refuge
of her hallway. In an instant, John was there but Joyce had disappeared into
her bedroom.
“It’s not fair!” John could hear his downstairs neighbour
call out and as he
turned the corner, he saw Joyce sitting on a huge double bed, lined in
silvery satin sheets and pillow cases to match.
“Can you hear the racket up above John?” she asked, rhetorically. Of course
he could. The noise was deafening, the trample of feet in the kitchen and
the drunken stumbling of students attempting to dance compounding the din of
heavy rock music.
“I’m sorry,” John blurted out but the alcohol was getting the better of him
now he had met fresh air with the warmth and alluring cocktail of this
scented bedroom. Joyce could see his giddiness and jumped up off the bed
just as he staggered and fell face first into her pillow and onto the satin
sheets.
This was a situation she had not expected but as she perused from up above
the teenage youth, slightly gangly but slightly good-looking, she was
determined to make the most of it.
Coolly, efficiently, she undressed the comatose young man until he was
wearing only boxer shorts. She brought up the satin bed sheet around his
shoulders and tucked him in. “Sleep tight, darling” she cooed and she knew
he would.
Ten minutes later, the party upstairs had dispersed, thanks to Joyce’s
urgings. “John has left for the night and he has told me to lock up,” she
lied to the gathering upstairs. “If you are not gone in five minutes, I
shall call the police or get you all to clean up.”
The latter threat did it and Joyce, now with a pale blue raincoat for
protection, was left alone to nosey around the flat. Her first stop,
naturally, was the bedroom. If only she could find something there to hold
over John…
Moving pile after pile of dirty and unwashed clothes, she finally found it.
Two magazines, one called Relate the other Accord with front covers of
Amazonian-style women dressed in rubber capes and macs
purring over victims
who were mostly bound in the most constricting corsets and girdles she had
ever seen.
Intrigued, Joyce flicked the pages and found to her amazement, more of the
same inside. Two particular stories, both illustrated, took her eye.
One concentrated on a lecherous male boss who was kidnapped by the typing
pool. The women had lured the boss to an apartment with the promise of sex
but instead he was drugged and dressed in women’s clothes by eight or nine
ladies who all seemed to take great delight in dressing him.
“Oh, he must wear this pretty red and white polka dot frock Marge,” one of
the ladies said while another offered her PVC coat, tied with a belt around
his arms and waist, to transport him back to the office. The plan was to tie
him to his desk whereupon he would be discovered the following morning by
the early staff. Of course, he was by now gagged and secured tightly while
several layers of taffeta and net petticoats were layered beneath his frock,
exposing the suspenders and stockings and foundation garment that lay
beneath. The other story concerned the owner of a lingerie shop who heard
the rustling of silk on nylon was a male customer walked in. In cartoon
strip form, the story depicted how the shop owner took the hapless male home
and overnight forced him to become her male maid, dressed in apron, cap and
a black swishing taffeta maid’s outfit.
Joyce was transfixed, fascinated by the subject matter – and in truth
slightly aroused by the possibility of dominating a man so completely. She
had been married once, long ago, to a brute of a man and although there had
been a few dalliances since then, she was not fond of male company and
seldom missed the uncomfortable ritual that sex had become ever since she
first married.
She grabbed the two magazines, left the flat in the mess it was in, locked
the front door with the key from John’s pockets and then locked herself in
her own apartment. John was still fast asleep, as she knew he would be
considering the amount of alcohol he had clearly drank. Her mind was racing.
She had a plan but for now she was tired. She waltzed into the spare room
before enjoying the soundest sleep she’d had for well over two weeks.
When John awoke, his head was thumping. His face felt as if his skin had
been pulled tight around it. His mouth felt disgusting. He was disgusting.
But just as he was about to pull himself out of bed, he realized he could
not.
His arms were secured to the iron back rails of the bed; each one stretched
to its full length, tied tight by a combination of silk scarves and rope. He
was unable to budge an inch. Beneath his head, several satin pillows had
been plumped up to make him sit up in bed. He could just about feel his legs
beneath the silk sheets and bedspread but otherwise he had no idea what on
earth was going in or if indeed, he was alive.
“Morning John,” a voice came from behind him as it wafted through the
bedroom door. In his position, he could not turn around to make out who it
might be although he quickly recognized it to be that of his neighbour.
“Mrs. Slack, is that you? What’s going on. The last
thing I remember was
talking to you in this room.”
Joyce moved closer to the bed but still partially on John’s blind side.
“Is that all you remember John?” she said, rather teasingly.
“Why, what else should I remember Mrs. Slack?”
“Oh please, call me Joyce, darling. For now anyway.”
As she spoke, she moved into his line of sight and walked seductively to the
dressing table and mirror a few yards from the bed. John was aghast. He had
never seen Mrs. Slack full made-up in any sort of finery but the image before
him now moved him to focus his bleary eyes.
All morning, Joyce had been refining her skills, honed for years on the
Farmers perfumery counter, to make herself up. As a
result, her lips were a
glossy pink that oozed gorgeous lipstick, her eyes were perfectly
illuminated between eyeliner and false eyelashes and her whole facial
demeanour was perfection for a woman of her age.
Her friend at Farmers, Jean, who worked in ladies wear, had taught her many
times about the art of dressing to thrill and the lessons had paid off
today.
She wore a black satin pencil skirt just below the knee that accentuated her
legs and calves while distracting from the plumpness of a middle-aged
figure. The skirt seemed to go on forever and each time she walked, it
appeared her thighs, encased in black nylons, would burst through the tight
confines of the material. Six inch high heels, black and immaculately
polished and gleaming in the bedroom lights, lifted her physique and
appearance while she had chosen a navy blue satin blouse with high collar
and bow fastening at the front, to finish the outfit.
It was a classic style but more importantly, she knew, the materials would
drive John mad. Little did he know that the
skirt had a taffeta lining and
that she had pulled on a black full slip, made also of rayon taffeta, to add
a further rustle to her movement.
Poor John was spellbound as Joyce minced around the bedroom, coyly smoothing
her satin skirt at the front, then after a few more paces, checking the
seams at the back and removing a phantom speck of dust from the hem.
Each step was a deafening roar of satin and silk on taffeta and nylon. And
Joyce knew it.
That hissing swish of nylons moving in a restricted skirt was electrifying;
John, watching her every movement entranced, was becoming aroused. And he
was becoming aroused in a satin pair of long panties.
“There, there, John, are you feeling all right,” Joyce asked moving towards
the bedside before sitting down. She crossed her legs meaningfully and
touched the hem of her skirt as she settled into place.
She moved back the bedspread and sheets to reveal John’s pleasure, tightly
bound in the satin panties. Her fingers, edged off with polished nails in
inviting pink to match her lips, gently stroked the satin sheets beside
John’s body.
“Is that nice John?” she pouted and laughed a little. “Don’t be shy. I think
you have a secret to tell me, don’t you pet?”
John’s jaw had dropped. Closer to him now, he could smell her fragrance, a
heavy, stifling but intoxicating perfume. Her manicure so near to his body;
her clothes so close and her neat coiffure, blond and slightly permed,
topping off a rounded but pleasing face, adorned with such grace and two
small but effective pale blue earrings.
“Mmm, do we have a secret John?”
“No, no—o, not really Mrs. Slack. I do wish you would let me go now.”
“Let you go,” the tone of Joyce’s voice was as imperious as it was
incredulous. “I can’t do that John. Not until we have had a little chat
about your behaviour, and your little secret. Now can
we?”
She stroked her skirt once more, the movement releasing another hiss and
rustle from the nylons and underskirt friction. She smoothed the top of her
thighs idly, knowing her young captive would be mesmerized. He perhaps
wanted to see if she was wearing suspenders but the cunning silk ribbons on
the top of the eight metal clips that held hers stockings so taught served
to hide the suspenders and not spoil the outline of the satin skirt.
Lingerie and foundation garments were just exquisite, she thought, as she
contemplated how she had struggled into a black, open bottom girdle earlier
this morning. Its satin front betrayed a garment that nipped and tucked like
no other, but the high waist combined with the matching black long line bra
had produced a magnificent contour for this 50-year-old woman.
Sitting here now snugly beside John, she felt no discomfort.
She felt nylon
and taffeta. She touched silk and satin. She felt sexy. She felt in control.
“I have a little treat for you John,” Joyce said, uncrossing her legs and
rising from the bed.
“For god’s sake Mrs. Slack, I have a lecture to hand in this morning. What
time is it? If I’m late, old Godber will be furious.”
Joyce was unmoved by his plea. It was
knew John would be going nowhere.
“If you don’t behave, you won’t get the treat. Naughty boys don’t get
treats, do they John?” Her tone was teasing, but thick with innuendo as she
moved towards her walk-in wardrobe. Inside she opened two of a myriad of
draws and rummaged inside. John looked on, nervously. He noticed her pose
bending over the drawers, the seam of her stockings rising from her high
heels and disappearing beneath the sating skirt, with its small vent at the
back to allow just a modicum of movement for the sheer nylons, but not
sufficient to prevent them touching each time the clip-clop of Mrs. Slack’s
heels propelled her forward.
“Ah, here we are,” said Joyce and walked back towards the bed. She was
holding a pair of black nylons that she fondled from the inside, stroking
the material through the ultra sheer material.
“Mmmm, just the job pet. Now
hold your head up and still while Joyce pops
one of these over your darling little head. That’s it, didn’t hurt did it?”
As it happened, the stocking fitted snugly over his head and down over his
neck. Joyce smoothed the nylon into place, snatching up a dainty garter that
adorned her dressing table. It was a purple garter, very lacy, the sort
brides expose on wedding days with two tiny satin bows around the outside.
Joyce pulled this over John’s head with some difficulty but once over, it
acted as a tight dog collar around his neck and secured the stocking in
place.
“Gorgeous,” Joyce explained as she applied the finishing touches.
“What’s going on, Mrs. Slack, let me out of here, please,” he began to bleat.
“Oh stop being a fusspot. I’m tired of you chattering all the time,” and
with that she loosened the grip of the garter and rolled the stocking up
above his nostrils. It was a brief respite for John for within seconds,
Joyce had forced a pair of silk panties into his mouth, blue silk with black
lace. The more he tried to repel them, the more Joyce pushed them in, taking
great delight with each new piece of the material that entered John’s mouth
to act as a muffler.
“There, there,” she said, pushing the final piece of satin into his mouth.
“You won’t be wanting to do much shouting anyway in
the next few minutes.”
With that, she took hold of the other stocking and tied a knot in the middle
before slipping it over and around the panties and John’s head. She fastened
it at the back so the gag was now complete then pulled the other stocking
down and securing that once more with the purple sating garter.
John was now utterly immobile and helpless. He could still see Joyce through
the black nylons albeit faintly; he could hear well enough, hear her talk
and hear that taffeta swish in her skirt as she walked. But try as he might
to plead his case, he could only manage a ridiculous muffled cry.
“That’s so much better. Now for one of my favourite
petticoats, a black
taffeta underskirt! That should do the trick.”
Joyce again took the garment from her wardrobe drawers, caressing the half
slip with relish as she moved towards the helpless John, tied and gagged on
the satin sheets.
“Now let’s slip this over those wonderful ladies’ stockings shall we
darling.” And she did, the taffeta petticoat tightening its grip at the top
of John’s head with its slightly elasticated band and
side zip. It immersed
his head, flowing down over his neck as the lace trim brushed against his
upper chest.
Joyce quickly got to work, leaning over her victim and whispering in his ear
through his taffeta and nylon prison. “Imagine your head is my thigh,
sweetheart,” she said, moving her hands over the underskirt to generate the
feeling of movement. Inside his prison, John could hear her taunts, smell
her perfume as she nestled close and hear that familiar rustle of taffeta on
nylon that drove him to distraction.
“It must be lovely just being my thighs for a day, darling. Being
caressed
in all the beautiful feminine finery, encased in nylons then brushing up
against my taffeta slips and skirts. And all the time, those gorgeous
lady’s
nylons clipped into place by eight suspenders clips draped in satin ribbons.
Doesn’t that make you jealous, my darling?”
John could not concentrate now. Mrs. Slack’s gentle hands smoothed the skirt
so skillfully that each rubbing of her fingers felt as if he were indeed
imprisoned beneath the lovely satin skirt she was wearing.
From time to time, she would remove one hand and check progress down below
where his throbbing member was on the verge of capitulation.
“Is it time for milking yet sweetie?” Joyce purred. But she knew the time
was not right just yet. There were other sensations that John must feel to
complete his feminine experience. The day was young; she had not begun to
start wearing her satin evening gloves yet and she was determined that,
before too long, John would obey her obediently, meeting her every whim and
dressing her as she required. He would do so in reverence to her. Joyce
leaned over and gently kissed John on his cheeks through the taffeta and
nylon. “Would you like me to put my other satin skirts over your slip
darling?” she asked John playfully. “It would make it more authentic and add
another layer of taffeta lining. Mmm!, would you darling?”
Just then, he gave out a huge long moan and his body shuddered. Down below,
in the confines of his silk panties, he had exploded amidst the relentless
torrent of Joyce’s talk and the sensation of nylon and satin clasping his
head.
Oh, this was going to be a long weekend Joyce thought.
TO BE CONTINUED