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By *ita23 OP TV/TS 9 weeks ago
Travelling |
The phone’s glow was the only light in Marcus’s apartment, illuminating the sharp planes of his face with a pale, hungry blue. His thumb moved on autopilot, scrolling past profile after profile on the app called “Velvet.” Too young. Too eager. Too… obvious. He wanted something else. Something with a little more… class. A challenge.
That’s when he saw her.
“EleganceSeeker57.”
The profile picture was an artful, shadowed shot of a woman’s neck and jawline, a single strand of pearls stark against pale skin. It was all suggestion. The bio was brief, almost aloof. “Discerning woman of a certain age seeking a gentleman of genuine refinement for discreet, mutually pleasurable company. No boys. Only men.”
It hit him right in the ego. A gentleman. Refinement. He was twenty-nine, a mid-level analyst who wore button-downs and owned a single good suit. He could be that. He wanted to be that. Her profile screamed expensive taste, quiet confidence, the kind of woman who wouldn’t be impressed by a cheap drink or a cheesy line.
He messaged her, his fingers clumsy with a sudden, unfamiliar anxiety to impress.
“Your pearls are lovely. But the woman wearing them must be exquisite.”
He hit send and immediately felt like an idiot. Too much? Not enough?
The reply came within minutes. A thrill shot through him.
“Thank you. A bold opening. Most men lead with ‘hey.’ Tell me, what does a gentleman do for pleasure on a Tuesday evening?”
And so it began.
For two weeks, the texts and app messages were his entire evening ritual. EleganceSeeker57, whose name was Eleanor, was a marvel. She was witty, sharply intelligent, and possessed a dry, commanding humor that kept him slightly off-balance. She asked probing questions about his life, his tastes, his secret desires, and parried his own with elegant deflections. She spoke of art galleries, classic films, the feel of good silk. And slowly, subtly, the conversation turned.
She’d describe the weight of a cashmere wrap on her shoulders, and then ask if he liked the feel of fine things against his skin. She’d mention a sculpture’s smooth lines, and muse how a man’s body could be a sculpture too, with the right… guidance.
It was electric. Marcus was hard more often than not, his own hand a poor substitute for the voice he’d now heard on the phone—low, smoky, and laced with a quiet authority that made his stomach clench.
“You have a very pleasing voice, Marcus,” Eleanor purred during their first late-night call. “It’s quite… obedient.”
He’d laughed, a nervous flutter in his chest. “Obedient? I’m not sure about that.”
“Aren’t you?” The silence that followed was heavy, charged. “When I asked you yesterday what color underwear you were wearing, you told me. Immediately. Gray boxer-briefs. You didn’t even hesitate.”
He hadn’t. He’d been at his desk, and the question had appeared on his screen. His face had burned, but a jolt of something hot and shameful had gone straight to his groin. He’d typed it out.
“I was just being honest,” he managed.
“Honesty is a form of obedience, darling. A surrender of pretense. I find it… very attractive.”
The night she suggested meeting, his heart hammered against his ribs. She named a hotel downtown, the kind with a discreet, ivy-covered entrance and a legendary bar. “Suite 804. Nine o’clock. Wear your gray suit. The one with the subtle stripe. And nothing else underneath. Consider it a test of your refinement.”
The command was so direct, so utterly assured of his compliance, that all the blood in his body seemed to rush south at once. The protest—that’s crazy, I can’t walk into a hotel with no underwear—died before it formed. The dominant part of his brain, the part that balanced spreadsheets and argued in meetings, was offline. The part that had been stroking himself to thoughts of her voice for weeks was in total control.
It’s just underwear. A test. A game.
He stood in front of his closet, the commanded suit in his hands. He showered, shaved with extra care, and then, with trembling fingers, he folded his usual boxer-briefs and placed them in the drawer. The feeling of the suit trousers’ lining against his bare skin was shocking, a constant, illicit whisper with every step. The wool of the jacket felt rougher, more present. He was hyper-aware of his own body, a secret thrill humming under his skin.
The hotel was everything he’d imagined. Plush, quiet, smelling of old money and polish. The elevator ride to the eighth floor was agonizingly slow, his reflection in the brass doors showing a man who looked composed, while inside he was a riot of anticipation and fear.
He knocked on the door to 804.
It opened not on the elegant, mature brunette he’d pictured, but on a woman who stole the breath from his lungs. She was older, yes, perhaps in her late sixties, but stunning. Silver hair was swept up in an elegant chignon. She wore a tailored, emerald-green silk dressing gown that clung to a slender, graceful frame. Her face was a map of fine lines around eyes that were a piercing, cool blue, currently appraising him with an intensity that felt like an x-ray.
“Marcus.” Her voice was the one from the phone, but richer, more potent in person. “You’re on time. Good. Come in.”
He stepped past her, into a suite of muted opulence. Another woman stood by the window, turning as he entered. She was slightly shorter, with a cap of chic, snowy-white hair and a softer, fuller figure wrapped in a burgundy velvet robe. Her eyes, a warm brown, held a different kind of intelligence—observant, amused, deeply knowing.
“This is Clara,” Eleanor said, closing the door with a definitive click. “My wife.”
The world tilted. Wife. The word echoed in the sudden silence of his mind. Two women. Both older, both beautiful, both looking at him with expressions that were not the welcoming smile of a date, but the assessing gaze of collectors examining a new acquisition.
“I… I didn’t…” Marcus stammered, taking an involuntary step back. The back of his knees hit a low velvet ottoman.
“You didn’t ask,” Eleanor finished, gliding further into the room. “And we didn’t offer. The profile was real, Marcus. I am a discerning woman seeking a gentleman. The specifics were merely… flexible.” She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could smell her perfume—jasmine and something dark, like oud. “You passed the preliminary tests beautifully. Your eagerness to please. Your willingness to follow instructions.” Her eyes flicked down the front of his suit. “Tell me. Did you obey my last instruction?”
His mouth was desert-dry. He could only nod.
“Verbal responses, please. It’s basic manners.”
“Yes,” he croaked. “Yes, I did.”
Clara moved then, a soft smile playing on her lips. She came to stand beside Eleanor, creating a wall of formidable, experienced femininity. “Let’s verify, shall we?” Clara’s voice was softer, mellower, but it carried the same unshakable authority.
Before he could process the request, Eleanor’s hands were on his suit jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. It fell to the floor with a soft whump. Her fingers went to the buttons of his waistcoat, then his shirt, working with a swift, clinical efficiency that brooked no resistance. He stood, paralyzed, as she undressed him. His belt buckle clinked. The zipper of his trousers hissed down.
Clara’s hands joined hers. Together, they pushed the trousers and shirt down his body. He stepped out of them, guided by their touch, until he stood in the middle of the lavish suite, completely naked except for his socks. The cool air of the room washed over his skin, raising goosebumps. He was fully, painfully erect, his cock standing thick and eager against his stomach—a blatant, traitorous signal of his arousal despite his confusion and shock.
“Ah,” Clara murmured, her warm brown eyes tracing the length of him. “Very good. The body is promising. And so… responsive.”
Eleanor’s sharp blue eyes held his. “You’re aroused.”
It wasn’t a question. He nodded again, then remembered. “Yes.”
“Confused. A little frightened, perhaps. But aroused.” She reached out a single, manicured finger and ran it from the base of his shaft to the tip. The touch was feather-light, electric. He jerked, a gasp escaping him. “The body doesn’t lie, Marcus. It knows what it wants, even when the mind is stubborn.”
Clara circled him now, her velvety robe whispering against the carpet. Her hand came to rest on the small of his back, then slid down to cup one buttock, squeezing firmly. He flinched at the intimacy, the ownership of the gesture. “Such tension here,” she mused. “All that nervous energy. We’ll help you with that.”
“Sit,” Eleanor commanded, nodding toward the ottoman he’d stumbled against.
He sat. The velvet was cool and strange against his bare skin. The two women looked down at him. He felt incredibly small, exposed, and yet a fierce, shameful heat was building in his core.
Eleanor untied the sash of her emerald robe. It slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. She wore nothing underneath. Her body was slender, her skin pale and finely wrinkled like ancient parchment. Her breasts were small, her nipples dark and taut. A neat, silver triangle of hair graced the juncture of her thighs. She was utterly unselfconscious, a statue of confident, aged sensuality.
Clara let her burgundy robe fall next. Her body was richer, fuller, with heavy, beautiful breasts and soft curves. Her skin was warmer in tone, and she was completely, luxuriously bare between her thighs.
Marcus’s mouth went even drier. He had never seen women like this. They were nothing like the airbrushed girls in magazines or the taut, young profiles on the app. They were real, powerful, magnificent. His cock pulsed, a bead of moisture welling at the tip.
“You see?” Eleanor said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “This is what experience looks like. This is what knows how to give pleasure… and how to command it.” She stepped forward, placing a knee on the ottoman on one side of his hips. Clara did the same on the other side, so he was caged between their thighs. The scent of them—jasmine, oud, clean skin, and a faint, musky sweetness—engulfed him.
“The first lesson,” Eleanor said, her hand curling around his jaw, tilting his face up to hers. “Is attentiveness.” She leaned down and kissed him. It was not a gentle kiss. It was deep, probing, dominant. Her tongue claimed his mouth, and he yielded to it, a soft moan vibrating in his throat. She tasted of gin and mint.
As Eleanor kissed him, Clara’s hands began to roam his body. Her touch was everywhere—kneading the tight muscles of his shoulders, skimming down his sides, tracing the sensitive lines of his hips. Her fingers threaded through the hair on his chest, tweaking a nipple until he gasped into Eleanor’s mouth.
Eleanor broke the kiss, a string of saliva connecting their lips for a second. “Watch,” she instructed him, turning his head toward Clara.
Clara smiled, her eyes locked on Marcus’s. Slowly, deliberately, she leaned over him, bringing one of her full, heavy breasts to his mouthThe screen of his laptop glowed, a solitary beacon in the dim, cluttered bachelor apartment. Marcus, 32, scrolled with a practiced, weary flick of his thumb. Another profile. Another smile that didn’t reach the eyes. Another bio about “adventures” and “good vibes.” He was about to close the tab, to surrender to another night of takeout and streaming, when her profile photo stopped him.
Her.
The username was “VelvetVixen69.” The picture was artfully shadowed, showing a woman from the neck down, draped in what looked like black silk. The curves were… substantial. A mature fullness that spoke of confidence, not gym routines. The cleavage hinted at was deep and soft. Her bio was a masterclass in implication: “Seeking a gentleman who appreciates a woman who knows what she wants. Discretion and an open mind are paramount. Tired of boys. Show me a man.”
It was the kind of profile that screamed “catfish” or “premium snap,” but something in the phrasing, the sheer audacity of it, hooked him. His thumb hovered. He was a straight, single guy with a decent job and a life that felt increasingly beige. This was a splash of crimson. He clicked ‘Like.’
The response was instantaneous. A direct message notification chimed before he could even lean back.
VelvetVixen69: I see you. I’ve been watching your profile for a bit, Marcus. You look… interesting. Lonely?
His heart thumped against his ribs. How did she know his name? He’d used a pseudonym. He typed, fingers clumsy. StraightShooter88: How do you know my name?
VelvetVixen69: A woman has her ways. Don’t be alarmed. I find a little mystery exciting. Do you?
The conversation flowed like warm honey. She was direct, witty, and unapologetically sexual. She asked about his fantasies, his frustrations. She teased him, called him a “good boy” when he admitted he found older women attractive. The power dynamic was established in minutes, and Marcus, starved for attention, lapped it up. She requested a picture, a specific one: him in his boxers, from behind, looking over his shoulder. He felt a flush of embarrassment, a thrill of transgression, as he took it in his dim bathroom mirror. He sent it.
VelvetVixen69: Mmm. Lovely. So obedient. I have a proposal. A game. My partner and I would like to meet you.
Marcus stared. Partner?
VelvetVixen69: Don’t worry. She’s even more beautiful than I am. We’ve been together for forty years. We’re looking for a… project. A special boy to appreciate. We think you might be him. Are you brave enough, Marcus?
Forty years. Two women. The math made his head spin. The proposition was insane. Dangerous. The most exciting thing he’d ever been offered. His cock, which had been half-hard through the entire exchange, pulsed insistently. He typed before his rational mind could veto.
StraightShooter88: Where?
The address was for a stately, secluded home in the older, moneyed part of the city. The instructions were precise: come alone, ring the bell once, enter without knocking. Wear something nice. Slacks and a button-down. No jeans.
Two hours later, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his sternum, Marcus stood on the flagstone porch. The house was imposing, all dark wood and ivy. He rang the bell. A soft chime echoed inside. He turned the heavy brass knob. The door swung open silently.
The foyer was vast, lit by the low glow of crystal sconces. The air smelled of sandalwood, expensive perfume, and something else… something musky and feminine. Before he could take another step, a voice, low and smooth as aged whiskey, washed over him from the shadows of a grand archway.
“There he is. Our good boy.”
She stepped into the light. She was… magnificent. In her late sixties, perhaps, but time had been kind, adding authority rather than diminishing beauty. Her hair was a sleek silver bob. She wore a tailored black pantsuit that hugged generous hips and a formidable bust. Her eyes, a piercing blue, held him pinned. This was VelvetVixen. The presence in the room doubled, tripled.
“I am Eleanor,” she said, not offering a hand. Her gaze traveled down his body, assessing, owning. “You followed instructions. Good.”
From another doorway, a second woman appeared. She was slighter, with a cap of soft white curls and eyes that sparkled with a mischievous, predatory light. She wore a deep emerald green silk robe, tied loosely. It gaped open as she moved, revealing the creamy slope of one breast and a flash of silver pubic hair. Marcus’s mouth went dry.
“And I am Margaret,” the second woman said, her voice a lighter, melodic contrast. “But you may call me Maggie. Come in, dear. Don’t just stand there gawking.”
He was herded, wordlessly, into a lavish sitting room. Plush velvet couches, dark wood, shelves lined with books and intriguing artifacts. A fire crackled in the hearth. The atmosphere was thick, charged.
“Sit,” Eleanor commanded, pointing to a low, backless ottoman in the center of the room. He sat, feeling exposed, like a specimen. The two women circled him, a pair of elegant sharks.
“You’re nervous,” Maggie observed, stopping in front of him. She let her robe fall open completely. Her body was softer, paler than Eleanor’s, her breasts full and heavy with large, dark areolas. She made no move to cover herself. “That’s alright. We like that. It shows respect.”
Eleanor came to stand behind him. He felt her hands, strong and cool, settle on his shoulders. “You came because you were curious. Because you’re bored. Because a part of you wants to be told what to do.” Her fingers began to knead his tense muscles. “Am I wrong?”
“N-no,” Marcus stammered.
“Look at her,” Eleanor ordered, her voice dropping to a whisper by his ear. “Look at my wife. Do you find her beautiful?”
Marcus’s eyes were dragged to Maggie’s naked form. He’d never seen a woman her age like this, so openly, so confidently sexual. A heat that had nothing to do with the fire pooled in his gut. “Yes,” he breathed.
“Good.” Eleanor’s hands left his shoulders. He heard the rustle of fabric, the click of a buckle. He didn’t dare turn. Maggie’s smile widened. She stepped closer, until her bare thighs were almost brushing his knees. The scent of her, floral and deeply intimate, enveloped him.
“Stand up, Marcus,” Eleanor said. He obeyed, his legs shaky. He turned. Eleanor had removed her jacket and blouse. She stood in a black lace bustier that pushed her impressive breasts up into glorious, ripe mounds. Her skin was like polished marble. In her hand, she held a simple black silk scarf.
“This is not a negotiation,” Eleanor stated, her eyes locking with his. “This is an audition. You will do as you are told, and you will find pleasure in your obedience. If at any point you wish to leave, say the word ‘mercy.’ Do you understand?”
The word stuck in his throat. He nodded.
“Verbal acknowledgment, boy,” Maggie purred, her hand coming up to cup his cheek. Her touch was startlingly gentle.
“I understand,” Marcus whispered.
“Good boy,” they said in unison, and the phrase, which had seemed like flirty banter online, now felt like a brand.
Eleanor stepped forward. “Close your eyes.”
He did. The world vanished into darkness, amplifying every other sense. He felt the whisper-soft silk of the scarf as she tied it firmly, but not painfully, over his eyes. A blindfold. A shiver of pure, undiluted anticipation raced down his spine.
“The first lesson,” Eleanor murmured, her voice now coming from his right. “Is to experience without sight. To feel.”
He felt hands—he couldn’t tell whose—unbutton his shirt. Cool air kissed his chest. Fingers traced his collarbone, his pectorals, tweaking a nipple until he gasped. The shirt was pulled from his shoulders. Then the belt buckle was undone, the zipper lowered. His slacks and boxers were pushed down his hips in one efficient motion. He stood naked and blindfolded in the middle of the room, his erection standing stiff and eager against his belly.
A low, appreciative hum came from Maggie. “Oh, he’s pretty, Eleanor. Such a lovely, responsive tool.”
He felt a breath, warm and moist, against the head of his cock. He jerked. A soft laugh.
“Shhh,” Eleanor soothed. “Be still.”
Then a tongue, broad and wet, licked a slow, deliberate stripe from the base of his shaft all the way to the tip. It was Maggie. The sensation was electric, so different from the tentative fumbles of his past. This was expert, confident, consuming. She took him into her mouth without preamble, swallowing him deep. The heat was incredible, the suction perfect. Her tongue swirled around the crown, her lips created a tight seal. He groaned, his hands clenching at his sides.
“Hands behind your back,” Eleanor commanded. He complied instantly, interlocking his fingers. The surrender made the sensation of Maggie’s mouth even more intense. He was completely at their mercy.
He heard a wet, rhythmic sound, felt the pull and pressure of her mouth, the occasional scrape of teeth that made him whimper. Just as he was beginning to lose himself, to thrust mindlessly into that heavenly heat, she pulled off with a soft pop.
He whined in protest.
“Patience,” Eleanor chided. He felt her move behind him again. Her bustier-clad body pressed against his back, her large, soft breasts a cushion against his shoulder blades. Her arms came around his front. In one hand, she held something cool and smooth. A vibrator. She traced it over his chest, down his abdomen, avoiding his throbbing cock. Maggie’s hands were on his hips, her thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of his pelvic bone.
“Lesson two,” Eleanor whispered, her lips against his ear. “Pleasure is not a race. It’s a landscape to be explored.”
The vibrator hummed to life, a low, insistent buzz. She pressed it against a nipple. The vibration zinged through him, a sharp, almost painful pleasure that made his knees buckle. Maggie held him upright. Eleanor moved the device to his other nipple, then down, tracing the line of his hip, the inside of his thigh. Every touch was calculated, driving him mad with need.
“Please,” he begged, the word torn from him.
“Please what, dear boy?” Maggie asked, her voice laced with amusement. She was kneeling before him again. He felt her breath on his balls.
“Please… I need…”
“You need to come?” Eleanor finished for him. “No. Not yet. You need to learn what your body is truly capable of.”
The vibrator moved again, this time lower, tracing the sensitive skin behind his balls. He cried out, a gargling sound. And then it pressed, gently but insistently, against his perineum. The new, shocking sensation made him jolt. Maggie’s mouth returned to his cock, taking him deep, her hand working the base in tandem with the relentless buzz against that secret, forbidden place.
It was too much. The dual assault, the blindness, the sheer overwhelming novelty of it all, broke the dam. Pleasure, sharper and more complex than any he’d ever known, detonated at the base of his spine and rocketed through him. He shouted, a raw, guttural sound, as he came in violent pulses down Maggie’s throat. She swallowed every drop, her hum of approval vibrating through his oversensitive flesh.
He sagged, boneless, held up only by Eleanor’s strong body behind him and Maggie’s hands on his hips. The vibrator clicked off. For a long moment, there was only the sound of his ragged breathing and the crackle of the fire.
Slowly, Eleanor guided him back to the ottoman. He sat, his body trembling with aftershocks. The blindfold was untied. The light, though low, felt blinding. He blinked up at the two women.
Eleanor looked down at him, a satisfied, possessive smile on her lips. Maggie wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes gleaming.
“You did very well for a first session,” Eleanor said, her voice back to its business-like tone. “You’re eager to please. That’s valuable.”
Maggie picked up his discarded clothes. She held up his boxers, a simple grey cotton pair. She tutted. “These won’t do at all, my dear. Not for what we have in mind.”
She walked to a sideboard, opened a drawer, and pulled something out. She returned and held it up. It was a pair of women’s panties. Black lace, sheer, obviously delicate. “These,” Maggie said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “are more suitable. Put them on.”
Marcus stared, the post-orgasmic haze evaporating into a new, confusing tension. Wear… women’s underwear? The request was a line he hadn’t seen coming, a door to a room he’d never considered entering. He looked from the lace in Maggie’s hand to Eleanor’s imperious gaze. The word ‘mercy’ hovered on his tongue. But beneath the shock, a new, tiny ember of curiosity glowed. What would it feel like? What would they do next?
He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and took the scrap of black lace from her fingers. |
