Rosie
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Rosie free porn video
Rosie
Part 1
Rosie was my daughter's best friend from the age of six.
They shared a birthday, and given her particular family circumstances,
she came round to our house a great deal.
She was always different.
Elfin, very pretty, she had more energy than anyone I have ever known.
She was funny, hyperactive and extremely intelligent.
She loved gymnastics and riding her pony.
When she cycled round to our house in her jodhpurs on her way back from
the stables, which was next door (the Georgian estate had been split in
two after the war- we had the house, Helene delaCroix had the stables and
land), everything seemed to light up.
And she was a terrible tease. She loved practical jokes, and when one of
us was caught by her japes, her laugh was unstoppable.
Her bad relationship with her bullying father meant that we developed a
close relationship, she would hug me and sit on my lap, chattering
excitedly about her day, and what she and her girlfriends had been up to
at the stables. She liked to pretend that I was half-witted, and used a
special voice when talking to me, like a mother talking to a child. "Keep
up, Unka Dwoo" she used say (Unka or Nunka being her "slow voice" version
of "Uncle Drew"). While this sometimes irritated me, I couldn't help
being swept away by her energy, vivacity and beauty.
She had an insatiable appetite, though she remained tiny, and was stick
thin (a high metabolism, constant riding, and ballet and gymnastics meant
she was super fit). She would often tease me about the contrast; me
usually overweight and unable to resist food. "Maybe I should take charge
of your diet," she would say, laughing, "you could be skinny, like me."
She laughed, the whole house lit up, and everyone laughed with her.
Sometimes, she would stay with us for longer periods after an argument
with her father, and she would arrive in a different mood. Surly and
withdrawn, she would only talk to my wife and daughter, quite
deliberately ignoring me. Passionate, even at a young age, about fairness
and justice, she would talk about how men were responsible for the
world's problems. When I demurred, she would smile at me wistfully, and
say "oh you don't count, Nunka Dwoo." Visibly cheering up, she would make
her favourite joke. "But you probably CAN'T count!"
And she would then return to her normal self, telling rambling and
hilarious stories about Arabella's enormous bottom being the same as her
pony's, or how Justine had friction burns on her "special place" from her
nylon tutu. Miss Helene or "Madame" featured prominently in Rosie's
discourse, as she ran the riding school and gave ballet lessons in her
Orangery.
Rosie managed to persuade a very swanky girls boarding school to give her
a full scholarship, so we saw less of her as a teenager, although she and
my daughter stayed in touch. She would sometimes pop in for tea after a
visit to the stables, and would entertain us with stories of her progress
at school, her gymnastics prizes, her dressage (which she loved, but had
to give up because her father couldn't or wouldn't pay), her complex
battles and victories over "the bitches" at school.
Ultimately she became Head Girl, a huge achievement for a scholarship
kid, and it was clear she had single-mindedly converted her teachers and
classmates into a huge Rosie Fan Club.
The day after leaving school she visited us to tell us about her upcoming
University course, and some other family news.
At eighteen, she had matured into a stunning beauty. Her elfin face, as
beautiful as ever but a child's no longer, was still framed by unruly
brown hair piled high on her head; her lovely brown eyes, still
sparkling, somehow appeared knowing, worldly wise; and her body, tiny and
taut, was augmented by exceptional curves.
As my wife made tea in the kitchen, Rosie snuggled into my lap, in an
echo of our easy earlier relationship. But, to my extreme embarrassment,
the combination of her scent, the soft womanly feel of her bottom in my
lap, and the curve of her large breast pressed against my arm caused my
blood to surge, and I found myself with an erection. Rosie's reaction was
unusual. She turned to look me full in the face, a mischievous smile on
her lips, a sardonic raised eyebrow and a sparkle in her eyes.
"What's up, Unka Dwoo?" she asked. Torn between excitement and deep
shame, I was unable to speak. As my wife came in bearing the tea tray,
Rosie turned back round to face her, snuggling up in my lap, for all the
world as if she was an innocent child once more.
But she knew what she was doing. Every time I thought I was regaining
some semblance of self control, she would imperceptibly shift in my lap,
or push a breast a little more firmly against me, immediately sending a
fresh surge of blood downwards, reducing me once more to incoherence.
Ostensibly, she was talking about her upcoming course at our nearby
University; modules of the newly formed Law and Gender Studies faculty.
My wife struggled to take in her descriptions of matriarchal law;
alternative relationships and societal rebalancing; political and legal
structures to enable and encourage alternative relationships; using
social media to undermine the patriarchy; the use of role reversal in
creating a new male iconography and other such rubbish. "That's nice,
dear" said my wife, clearly meaning the opposite (my wife was very
straight laced).
Every now and then Rosie would include me in the conversation by making
double entendres and piling on my discomfort. "Is it hard, Nunka?" she
smirked, when at one point I confessed to not understanding what she was
talking about. Of course it was! I lapsed back into a chaotic point half
way between terror and ecstasy.
My wife was putting up with the usual Rosie flow of excitement, jokes,
stories and political discourse (and blissfully unaware of my distress)
because she wanted to know about Rosie's family news. Her parents were
divorcing. When asked why, Rosie stood up abruptly, her expression
changed. "All men are brutes!" she exclaimed. Waiting for her traditional
coda, "Not you Unky," I was disappointed. She looked straight at me,
hard, and repeated herself. "All men are brutes. But they can be tamed."
The years went by. I sold my accountancy business, and looked forward to
a cosy, conventional if rather unexciting retirement. Rosie became a
successful lawyer, constantly in the press for a number of high profile
cases, covering human rights, conditions in women's prisons, eye watering
divorce settlements and a host of other issues. She was kind enough to
let my daughter stay in her house while completing her PhD in fine art,
although we rarely saw her.
Then tragedy struck.
My wife and daughter were getting on badly. My wife longed for a
grandchild, and my daughter seemed in no hurry. She brought home a
succession of wispy young men, but no relationship seemed to endure.
After a noisy row on the telephone my wife stormed out of the house,
muttering something about ingratitude. I never saw her or my daughter
again.
A car smash on the M3. The driver and passenger, engaged in a heated
discussion, were crushed by a lorry. Death was instantaneous for both.
I went to pieces. I couldn't focus, felt unable to take decisions about
the funeral or anything else. So Rosie stepped up. She had grown up with
us. She was my daughter's best friend.
She knew us.
In the two weeks before the funeral, Rosie was amazing. She moved into my
daughter's old bedroom (hers too, when she was staying with us ), and
took charge of everything.
And she gradually nudged me into some action. She started each day with a
visit to the stables, her old hunting ground. And even though I had no
appetite, she persuaded me to make her breakfast. Every morning I would
cook her a full breakfast, and she would emerge in full riding kit,
jodhpurs, boots and immaculate make up and eat with gusto whatever I
served her.
"You must eat too, Nunky," she would say, and although I wasn't hungry,
she would fork scrambled egg and smoked salmon into my mouth, saying "eat
up, Nunky Dwoo. You must do what Rosie tells you." And then she would
leave me in a delirious state, with her scent all around me, and her
sheer presence displacing the ghosts of my former family.
So for a week I found some purpose. Shopping for food, cooking and
washing up, keeping the house as spick and span as my wife used to. In
the evenings we would discuss funeral arrangements, and then settled into
a facsimile of domesticity, she working on her legal brief, me pottering
about the house or fetching her tea. We would haltingly talk about my
daughter, although I found it very painful. Rosie's self control amazed
me. Although also distressed, she held it together much better than I
could.
She regained much of her former enjoyment of life at the stables, with
endless gossip about the girls and their horses. While her conversation
was indiscreet and hilarious, mixing innuendo, speculation, physical
descriptions and stories, she maintained a marked physical reserve from
me. There was no curling up in my lap. On the rare occasion that we
touched, it was always at her instigation; her little game of feeding me,
or gently laying a hand on my shoulder. Every time it was like being
shocked by a bolt of lightning.
After riding one day, Rosie had to go to London for work. In contrast to
her immaculate turn out at all times, she was quite untidy, so I cleared
up the various items she had left around the house. It was my wife's
custom to change sheets every week (I love clean sheets) so steeling
myself, I went into Rosie's room to change hers.
It was a shock. Clothes were strewn everywhere. Her worn underwear lay on
the floor and the bed, and her shoes were unlaced or unzipped and not
cleaned or polished.
I set to.
I sorted and cleaned her boots and shoes, marvelling at the tiny size of
her feet and the extreme height of her heeIs. Even her riding boots had
heels. I think she felt she needed heels to compensate for her diminutive
stature, although I always thought her personality did an excellent job
of that. I washed, dried and ironed her shirts and other machine washable
items and folded them into the empty drawers that we always kept for her.
My heart pounding and, feeling more than a little sick, I went to hand
wash her delicates. It was impossible to avoid the scent that emanated as
I gingerly carried them to the laundry room. The scent of her soap and
perfume mingled with her unmistakeable fragrance. The essence of Rosie!
With a wrenching sense of guilt I held a pair of her briefs to my nose.
Sick. Pervert.
She's only a girl. Your daughters friend. How could you? Overcome with a
complex tangle of emotions, I did the washing, replacing her hand pressed
laundry in her chest of drawers. Keeping aside just one pair of silken
panties, I went to my bedroom, and wearing them over my head, the heavily
scented gusset pressed against my face, I masturbated.
Oh God, oh God. What am I doing? I cleared up the mess, deeply ashamed of
myself. Tucking the panties under my pillow, I showered, tried to pull
myself together and awaited Rosie's return, a large glass of whisky in
hand.
When she returned, late, I was drunk. She was in one of her black moods.
The judge had been patronising, and clearly favoured the other side in
his summing up. As she always had when in that frame of mind, she ranted
about how men were ruining the world. Feeling paralysed by my earlier
actions, I could only feebly agree, offering her anything I could to help
calm her down. A cup of tea? A bowl of soup? A whisky? A foot rub? A
bath?
She opted for the latter. Nearly an hour later, she reappeared, seemingly
refreshed. She was wearing a dark silk kimono, her make up was perfect,
her hair was piled up and held by chopsticks. She looked like a Japanese
cartoon. She smiled at me, the twinkle back her eye. "Unky Dwoo, you've
tidied my room for me. How kind. How embarrassing. I am a messy girl."
She didn't look embarrassed. She certainly didn't look messy. I, on the
other hand, could only mumble.
"I'll take that whisky and foot rub now."
For the next hour, I knelt on the carpet, kneading her diminutive feet.
At first in silence, and then as she plowed through my whisky, she
relaxed and began to talk. About the law, how she hated the way the
system was created by men, for men, and how she was frustrated at every
turn in her attempts to change it. How she was thinking about changing
career. How she wanted to work with young women, to teach them to take
power, to flood the system with so many strong empowered women that the
system could be changed. She went further, developing the view that
equality was no longer the aim, and the world would ultimately be a
better place if women were to take charge.
She started to talk about the ancient matriarchies of Mesopotamia, where
goddesses were worshipped, and cunnilingus was a sacred rite. From my
position on the floor, I could sense that Rosie was becoming excited. I
stopped massaging her feet, and looked up at her. Her legs were apart,
and her hands were inside her kimono, and she was gently playing with
herself.
She looked down at me through heavy lidded eyes. "Unky Dwoo. Would you
like to worship me?"
Utterly bewitched, I moved my face between her thighs, gently kissing her
silk panties. She gripped the back of my head with both her hands,
rubbing herself against my nose and lips. The movements became more
frenzied, the gentle moans became louder, until she reached an orgasm.
After a pause, she spoke. Quite steadily.
"That's enough Nunky, I would like that soup now please. And pass me a
cigarette, if you would."
On later reflection, I realised that she didn't touch the soup. But my
time in the kitchen gave her time to regroup. By the time I returned, she
had regained her poise: calm, relaxed, and smoking a cigarette held in a
very elegant jade cigarette holder.
She immediately regained the upper hand. "Thank you, Nunky," she said,
somewhat dismissively, "for the foot rub." And then adopting her "slow"
voice, she dropped the bombshell. "Now I want you to talk to me about my
underwear."
Somehow, I managed to stumble through some (entirely bogus) explanation
of how I had always hand washed my wife's underwear, and it felt natural
to do hers, especially as I liked a tidy house. I don't know how, but I
managed to avoid confessing to my theft of her one pair of panties and my
self abuse. With a little smile, she looked deep into my eyes. "Well I
think that's very sweet, Nunky. You can do it again sometime, if you
really want to. But I think you ask me first, don't you?"
Over the next few days, I never regained the initiative. In the run up to
the funeral, I found that I had plenty to do. While never exactly issuing
commands, I found that Rosie began to take it for granted that she took
all the decisions, and my role was to follow instructions. She had
decided that four of her favourite girls at the stables should be serving
girls at the wake, and they were constantly in and out of the house as
the preparations reached fever pitch.
They all clearly adored Rosie, and I was bemused to find that they all
followed her lead in addressing me as Unky Dwoo in their attempts at her
"slow voice." I don't know what she had said to them, but every day one
or more of them would say to me that Miss Rosie had some laundry that
needed doing, and I soon learned that I then had to ask Rosie if I could
do her laundry.
She would make sure that one of the girls was in earshot, and ask me, "Do
you mean that you would like to wash my panties?" To which the expected
answer was "yes, please Rosie, may I wash your panties?" If I tried a
less embarrassing formulation, she would stand silently, smiling at me
while gently tapping her shoe, an unspoken, "I'm waiting...."
Each night was torment. If I tried to sleep without masturbating, I
suffered erotic dreams all night. Needless to say all featured Rosie. If
I gave in to my weakness and did play with myself, I found myself
reaching for the hidden panties. I was racked with guilt and lust.
The night before the funeral, everything was ready. The girls had left
for the evening. The mood was somber. We started to talk about my wife
and daughter, our collective memories of trips to the beach, an art
gallery visit to London, a family holiday in Cornwall.
I noticed that Rosie was crying, something I had never seen before.
However dark her mood, she had always reached for anger, not sorrow. "I
loved her, you know. Really loved her. Her argument with her mother was
about me. I killed them. It was my fault."
I was struck dumb. It all made sense. "That's why I'm here. To look after
you. To make up for the guilt." Before I could say anything she pressed
on. "I'm sorry, and I know I have a funny way of showing it, but you are
very dear to me. You're her father." With that she curled up in my lap,
just as she used to.
I suppose I should have been angry. Maybe I should have thrown Rosie out
of the house there and then. My daughter had been having an affair with
Rosie. My wife knew and was furious. That had directly led to their
deaths.
Strangely that was not my response. I was actually cross that my wife
had kept it from me. She probably knew that I would be more accepting.
And of course I was utterly besotted with Rosie. My instinct was to
comfort her in her loss, rather than contemplate my own.
Deep down, I knew, of course, that Rosie was a world class manipulator,
and that she had engineered my emotional dependence on her. In just two
weeks. Although in truth, she had had me in the palm of her hand for 20
years.
I sat for an age with her curled up in my lap. At last, tears no longer
flowing, but glistening on her cheek, she looked up at me, her brown eyes
full of mischief. "So what do we do now?" she asked.
"You tell me," I replied.
Madison
- 23.06.2021
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