You Aint Gonna Believe What I Found on the Intrnet
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That Ain't No Way To Treat A Lady? free porn video
“A fucking lady? No way; how, why?” I babbled, shocked.
“Lady, darling; the word is always capitalised,” Cyn, my girlfriend of four months, clarified, “I’m Lady Cynthia Fortescue-Smythe, second daughter of Edward, the Earl of Battersea."
“And you are me telling this, why?” I asked, as we lay, post-orgasmic, in her Knightsbridge apartment wrapped in sheets which were, apparently, cut from Egyptian cotton of astronomical thread count.
“Royal Ascot silly; we are going tomorrow, and absolutely everyone who is anyone will be there, including pa, ma, and my sister Clarissa.”
“Yes, I know, so? I am sure everyone will love the outfits we bought yesterday,” I said, as my hand cupped her breast, signalling my desire for a second round of lovemaking.
“Pricilla,” she exclaimed, brushing my hand away, her voice suddenly an octave higher, “It isn’t just about our outfits; we have to keep up appearances darling. So, no faux pas in front of the nobility of old England, not to mention those parvenu Windsors.”
“I’m not too worried to be honest. I’m Australian and can get away with it.”
“That's what they want you to think, darling, but I'm so not having you laughed at.”
Any chance of debating that was derailed by Cyn launching into an extensive list of do's and don'ts, with the latter outnumbering the former.
“And,” Cyn added, having, I hoped, reached the end of her sermon on etiquette, “Please don’t refer to your pa as a fishmonger.”
“Why ever not? Dad likes calling himself that.”
“Pricilla! Your pa is owner and managing director of one of Australia’s biggest food companies. It is true he specialises in seafood, but for goodness sake, calling him a fishmonger conjures up images of some oik selling sea shells by the sea shore."
“Who cares? Dad would think that funny,” I replied with a disinterested shrug off my shoulders, more absorbed by my finger tracing slow circles on her nipple, which hardened delightfully.
She whimpered with my familiar touch, but was clear, “Pa cares, Pricilla,” her tone now that of a primary school teacher explaining the obvious to a rather dim student, “No one is going to be frightfully fussed that you don’t have a title, we know our Australian cousins don't go in for that sort of thing, but I can’t bear you sounding as though you come from trade.”
As Lady Cynthia pronounced that last word, it sounded like a cherry stone was expelled from her perfectly-formed lips.
“Yes, your ladyship,” I said, sliding off the bed and executing an exaggerated curtsey.
The Brits usually did irony and Cyn could see the funny side of things, but not this time, this class stuff didn’t seem subject to the normal rules. She smiled indulgently, relieved I had accepted the wisdom of her remarks. Which wasn’t quite right, I was actually contemplating the option of calling dad a costermonger at Ascot the next day.
Thinking she had succeeded in instructing her Antipodean girlfriend in the etiquette of Cyn, she spread her legs, her pussy dewy with arousal and whispered, “Cummies time, darling.”
We both giggled knowingly. From the moment we met we had felt an attraction. And after our first night together we had fallen into a sexual rhythm that was completely satisfying.
I crawled cat like up the bed, whispering, “Who has a wet pussy then?”
“Darling don’t be vulgar."
“Vulgar? If I really wanted to be vulgar, I would have said cunt.”
An odd shiver of disgust rippled through Cyn’s body. Odd? Well, in the sense that while she was as shocked as a Lady should be, she blushed seemingly a little excited by the unladylike word.
"Call it the Nymph's bower my darling, or, if you must, pussy or gina, but never that word."
There was that look again. I held her gaze.
"What word was that your ladyship?"
"You can't expect me to use that awful vulgar word, no Lady would!"
"Well, Cyn, if you want me to lick your Nymph's bower, you're going to have to say it."
Her blush deepened, and I swore her breathing became shallower.
"Oh, golly Pricilla, not fair!"
"My lady protests too much methinks," I joked, moving away from her.
"Oh Pricilla, please ...."
"Please do what, your ladyship?"
"Gosh, Pricilla, please, please eat my, my, oh golly, my cunt."
I needed no second invitation, applying my skilled tongue to her dripping Nymph’s bower. I'd not known her that wet that quickly, and I licked faster. I edged her, waiting for her moans to grow louder.
Then, on a whim, I stopped and changed tack, "Cyn, my cunt needs your aristocratic tongue on it."
Horny beyond measure, I grabbed her hair and pushed her face into my pussy, so turned on that I forgot everything except my need. She made noises which sounded as though she was enjoying it too. I could not stop. I felt myself build, and, thrusting my wetness in her face, I came, squirting on her.
And, to my amazement, Cyn came too, my wetness muffling her moans.
As the aftershocks faded, I pulled her up to me. Her face was wet and red; she was breathless.
"Fuck Cyn, did you actually cum too? Were you rubbing yourself you bad girl?"
I was teasing, but she answered straight, "No, Pricilla, I was so edging that you cumming pushed me over."
"You are amazing darling," I said, hugging her to me. And we slept, snuggled up, so looking forward to Ascot the next day.
When she'd informed me that we were going to Royal Ascot, I'd been delighted. I loved horses, had ridden a little, and as a teenager had desperately wanted one. But daddy’s indulgences didn’t extend to fillies and on that subject, he had totally resisted his daughter's wiles.
But the idea of a day with horses, fashion and Royals, filled me with excitement. I had done Royal Randwick of course, but this was a class above Sydney, for one thing there were actually Royals.
Cyn had bought me a floral print bodycon dress with a pencil skirt; in emphasised my assets, tits, arse and long legs, without in any way being slutty. Lady Cynthia was delighted with how I looked. Along with my fascinator, it was, she said, "perfect."
She was wearing a blue textured, satin-effect wrap front ruffle dress. I resisted the urge to unwrap her, when she emerged from our bedroom but she smiled; she knew what I wanted to do.
If I'd any doubts that we looked hot, the reaction from the guys as we walked from the taxi along the concourse at Waterloo Station would have stilled them. Lady Cynthia accused me of deliberately wiggling my derriere, which may have been true, but those five-inch white heels had that effect.
We boarded a train full of race-goers. The guys were all in morning suits, but we girls, well, we were hotness personified. I could see why Cynthia had taken such care. We shaped up more that competitively. Her smaller boobs were hidden by the ruffles, while my rack stood out in the bodyform dress.
Her ladyship's special tickets got us entrance to the Royal Enclosure, and no sooner had we collected our complimentary Dom Perignon than Cynthia squealed. That obviously meant ma and pa.
The Earl was politeness itself, as was the Countess. Cynthia introduced me as her girlfriend, and neither of them batted an eyelid. I got some sense of the reason for the family dynamic when Cyn's sister, Clarissa, arrived. The Earl looked at her in the way only Earls without sons could look at their eldest daughter; expectantly.
It was clear where they thought the future lay when they welcomed her fiancé, the original chinless wonder. I gave Cyn my raised eyebrow, "where did she find that?" look.
Cyn simply responded, "He is the second son of the Duke of Bridgewater, darling, and will inherit land in Scotland, she has done frightfully well you know."
"What about diversity and all that, look at Megan?"
Lady Cyn gave me an odd look, before whispering, “Darling that is royalty, and so we don’t say out loud what we obviously think. Look uncle has arrived, he has a filly, one of many knowing his history,” her snort suddenly seemed toffee-nosed to this girl’s Antipodean ear.
"Uncle Freddie! Darling, how ARE you?"
Silver Fox or what, I thought. Uncle Freddie would have won a Hugh Grant lookalike competition. Tall, slim, immaculately dressed in a morning suit with a white waistcoat, he was the very image of the Upper-Class gent at the races. His smile at me told me what I could already sense, he was a ladies' man.
"Why Cyn, darling, who is this ravishing creature?"
With that, he took my hand and kissed it, holding it just a second too long. I have seen hungry dingos look less ravenous.
"This is my Australian friend Pricilla, Uncle Freddie. Pricilla, it is Uncle Freddie's horse we've come to watch."
"One of your special friends Cyn, or does she bat for both sides?"
As Cyn blushed, I couldn’t resist taking over. "Well Freddie, you're one to bowl a maiden over, that's for sure. And as it happens, I bat for both sides."
At that he brightened up and kissed my hand again.
"Even more delighted to meet you, and if I may make so bold, you look a real corker in that dress."
"Why sir," I teased, "that's so kind, I'm just a simple Aussie girl, always happy to be shown the ropes."
Oh, I'd hit the jackpot! The leer, and there was no other word for it, was palpable.
"I'd be delighted on another occasion," he murmured suddenly backtracking out of the conversation.
The reason for that was a vision in a gold, off-the-shoulder lace-embroidered mini-dress. Her tits preceded her arrival, and as she embraced Lady Cynthia, the latter vanished between them.
As Cyn emerged, embarrassed, Uncle Freddie did the honours.
"Pricilla, meet Ruby. Ruby, Pricilla is Cyn's friend."
"Hiya babe, wow that's some outfit!"
And so saying, she patted my arse.
Not to be outdone, I embraced her and squeezed her arse.
We looked at each other; there was a recognition of something in common. We were women who were not in thrall to the English inability to be open about fun and flirting.
I could see Cyn was on the verge of pouting as Ruby and I traded jokes and even the odd bit of flirting. I was observing Cyn's reaction with interest. I had thought her jealous, but the more Ruby and I giggled, the more malleable Cyn became, even going to the tent for petits fours when Ruby asked her to do so. I, however, could have done without the “Pricilla, queen of the dessert," comment from Freddie.
Ruby winked and said, "She makes a good maid!"
I was puzzled by Ruby. She was not Freddie's partner, that was clear, but it was equally obvious there was more than a friendship. When his horse, "Brexit Girl," finished second, Ruby hugged him, and then, hugged me and squeezed my ass.
Ruby then whispered, "Look at your girlfriend."
Cyn was standing there, biting her thumb.
"You and I have put her in a world of her own," Ruby added, "Let me try this."
She hugged me tight, and looked at Lady Cynthia.
"My new friend and I need more champers, be a good little thing and get us two glasses. Now, rather than later," she added sharply as Cyn blushed and hesitated.
To my surprise, Cyn did as she was told.
"What the fuck?" I asked Ruby.
She laughed.
"Like Uncle like niece. I think you girls should visit my place, here's my card." Her business card was white with an embossed image of a riding crop. It read, ‘Ruby's dungeon: discretion assured.’
I looked at her quizzically.
"Yes, darling, I run the only establishment in London which caters for the specialised kinks of the English upper class. I think you will find it will appeal to your girlfriend. Freddie says her birthday is coming up, bring her as a present. I know just the girl for her."
So consequently, a few days later Cyn and I made our way to Ruby's place. My expectations about what was downstairs reflected the fact the word dungeon conjured up a utilitarian room of whips, chains, cages, racks and stocks.
Ruby shattered that illusion when she said, as she held open a dungeon door, “Nowadays no one expects the Spanish Inquisition.”
Forewarned, Lady Cynthia and I entered the English Home magazine version of a dungeon, all leather and silk and as tasteful as any Knightsbridge apartment. That is not to say it didn’t incorporate certain furnishings that weren’t as synonymous with designer chic.
I looked around and spotted a number of discreetly positioned paddles and a spanking bench. And in the chest of drawers, beside an upmarket cage, were dildos, strap-ons, anal plugs, spreader bars and handcuffs.
I nervously teased Cyn about the size of some of the toys as we waited for the hostess Ruby had selected for us. And when the door swung open, gobsmacked didn’t even get close. The woman who entered was clad in an exiguous leather thong and bra, complete with a prominent strap on; a tattooed busty blonde with a five hundred watt painted on smile.
And, when I smelt the cheap perfume she was wearing, I panicked a bit. Tattoos and cheap perfume were two of the things that topped the list that Cyn called, "disgustingly common."
Our hostess strutted up to Cyn, whose shocked look made me fear we had made a grievous mistake, and with a Scouse accent that had the screech of an out of tune violin, she caught her eye and snapped, “Cat got your tongue, my posh little cunt?"
Cyn looked at me, like a deer caught in the headlights, her haunted look betraying a need, but also a fear of that need.
“Slut, you crave a taste of Candii, don't you? What will your girlfriend think of you?” our hostess said with a derisive sneer.
The fear in Cyn’s eyes intensified and I got that I was one of the things making her scared. She feared my rejection. And despite her unusual but obvious longing for Candii’s offering, she was holding back, seeking, indeed needing, my permission.
This was unexpected, but I quickly processed it. In her own way Cyn had come to love me. And so she was setting aside a lifetime’s sense of entitlement and giving me a veto over potentially, for her, the most interesting sexual experience London had to offer.
I fixed her with a quizzical but now knowing gaze.
"Do you want this, Lady Cynthia?"
At my use of the word Lady, she shivered and nodded definitely. But there was a bashfulness in her reaction, as if my use of the word Lady unlocked the door to her secret fantasy.
And while I didn’t yet understand what lay behind that door, Candii certainly did.
"Get your kit off luv, right now!"
To my amazement, Lady Cyn did as she was told. Her eyes began to glaze over.
Off came her smart polka dot dress, and she stood clad in only her designer knickers. I could see from her hard, crinkled nipples how aroused she was; the smell of her arousal confirmed it.
Candii looked sternly at her. Without further ado, the aristocratic knickers descended, leaving her ladyship as naked as the day she was born.
"Not much in the tit department, luv. Pricilla, could you get those nipple clamps from the dresser?"
Cyn did not move as Candii took the clamps and applied them firmly to her nipples. Cyn squealed.
"I see you are a little piggy, squealing. On all fours now, Lady Piggy!"
Watching how turned on my aristocratic girlfriend was as she got on her hands and knees for this common working girl, her pussy glistening, made me wet.
"Pricilla, do you think that a tail would suit the posh slut?"
Candii's Scouse accent contrasted perfectly with Cyn's cut-glass vowels as she replied,
“A tail? But Ladies don’t wear tails.”
"Really? Ok luv, arse up. Pricilla, pour that lube onto her arsehole, we don't want to wreck it, after all, her aristocratic shit smells better than ours."
Cyn was positively whimpering. She moaned as I squirted the lube straight onto her quivering arsehole.
With no further ado, Candii thrust the butt-plug with the tail up her vulnerable arse. Cyn groaned. With her tits clamped and a tail, she was now a pet girl.
"Finger your cunt you fucking slut!"
Cyn's fingers could not reach her cunt quickly enough, grunting, she thrust two fingers into herself at Candii's command, and was soon moaning.
“Please. May I cum, Miss?”
“You are a whore; you exist to serve your betters. What the fuck have you ever done to deserve the privilege of orgasm?”
“Yes Miss,” Cyn said with a deflated whimper.
“Listen good, slut,” Candii said with an eye watering tug of the chain attached to Cyn’s nipple clamps, “If you please Miss Pricilla, I may let you come. Now be a good bitch, crawl over and see if you can earn the right to orgasm by satisfying your betters.”
Lady Cynthia crawled over to where I sat, her clamped breasts and tail swaying, totally absorbed by being the classless bitch Candii demanded her to be. I hardly noticed the lead attached to Cyn’s collar which hung loosely in Candii’s hand, my attention on the strap-on that jutted obscenely from Candii’s crotch, and swung from side to side as she took my girlfriend walkies.
Reaching where I sat, Cyn spread my legs at Candii’s command.
“Bitches sniff, don’t they slag?” Candii ordered with a hard slap of the crop on her ladyship’s rump.
Cyn sniffed my cunt, her eyes totally glazed. She was deep in subspace and her tongue began working my cunt in a way no one ever had. She licked down to my arsehole, then lapped upwards, before massaging my clit and sucking it.
She squealed when Candii mounted her. As the strappy pounded her, pushing her into my wetness, I could hear her cunt squelch.
With her forearms pressing down on my thighs, her hair pulled back by Candii, she locked eyes with mine. Her mascara was a runny mess and her eyes were haunted by fear, her fear of my disgust at seeing her so debased.
And yet, as she gazed into my eyes, her body repeatedly jerked forward by the strap-on which mercilessly pounded her cunt, it was that glimmer of her vulnerability that touched my heart.
I reached out and gently ran my fingers over her cheek, still wet and sticky with my juices, and whispered, “You really are a common fucking slag who doesn’t deserve to cum. But you are MY slag.”
“Yes, Miss,” she whimpered, her edging now painful from the continual denial.
“If only Clarissa and ma and pa could see her Ladyship now, the slut of a common whore.”
She gulped deep breaths, the tension of her potential disgrace causing her body to seemingly sob with frustration. Her eyes never left mine, but they fair glowed as her humiliation was completed with her girlfriend’s reference to her father, an Earl of the realm.
“Yes Miss,” she again, robotically, whimpered.
I released the nipple clamps, and she gasped into my cunt.
“Just as well I love you then. Now be a proper bitch, make me cum and then you can cum for me.”
Her eyes totally lit up, as she embraced the dawn of our recalibrated relationship which she had, maybe unknowingly, totally craved. She licked and sucked my clit with an unparalleled intensity, and an orgasm raced through me.
Candii then gripped her hair, snapped her head back and slammed the strap-on deeper than I thought possible. Lady Cynthia’s eyes rolled back, drool crept from the side of her mouth, she accepted the agony and ecstasy of deep penetration, and embraced my gift of her total humiliation.
Her muscles contorted with wave like motions as she rode the strap-on and her scream was primeval as her orgasm crashed over her with breathtaking intensity. She sobbed and her cunt gushed, dribbling on her and Candii, as the orgasm, the ferocity of which I had never ever seen before, continually wracked her body.
With aftershocks almost as intense as her original spasm of joy she was left breathless by continual waves of pleasure, finally having to rest her head on my lap gasping for breath.
Mistress Candii winked at me, slipped her strap-on out of my girlfriend’s cunt with a satisfying pop, and, always the professional, took her leave.
Lady Cynthia’s dirty slutty face looked up at me. I held her gaze and something flowed like a laser between us. And the name of that connection was trust. Her Ladyship had revealed what she craved and I had loved her enough to deliver.
I smiled and said, “Now go and clean up. If you leave here looking like that, the whole world will know you really are a common whore.”
She smirked and went and bathed, taking her time to wash away the stains of her visit to Cheapside.
I showered and met up with Ruby and Candii in the reception area. Ruby had a gift for me, a maid’s outfit that I guessed would fit Lady Cynthia perfectly, except that it was a tad short.
I couldn’t resist asking Candii, “You seemed to like your work?”
“A thousand years of serfdom coded into my DNA. I can almost hear the joyous chants of my ancestors every time I take posh cunt.”
“Educated?”
“Yeah, despite my accent, I took a double first at Cambridge. I do this for money but one day you will know my name.”
I smiled, “You know my dad would love your ambition.”
“I bet, I know his type. Self-made guys respect ambition, almost as much as toffs like the Earl of Battersea dismiss it. I dare say you both have your own pressures to conform to.”
“Yeah, it hasn’t occurred to Cyn that dad might see her as unsuitable given she hasn’t done a day’s proper work in her life.”
That conversation went no further as my girlfriend re-emerged dressed and made up, now the quintessential card-carrying Lady. Lady Cynthia swept past Ruby and Candii without giving them the time of day. I picked up Ruby’s gift and followed her up the stairs from the dungeon.
And as we emerged into the dappled light of an English summer, Lady Cynthia’s airs and graces returned as if they naturally flowed from the sun itself. She glanced at the maid’s outfit, getting that she would be wearing it when she served me later, and then caught my eye.
Cyn deliberately lowered her eyes, her action acknowledging her acceptance of herself; she had done the previously unthinkable and surrendered the entitlement that was her birthright to me, someone her upbringing told her was beneath her.
“Don’t you dare think you are going to top from the bottom,” I firmly whispered.
“Of course not, darling,” she replied, her shiver of anticipation reflecting her understanding that I had just closed off her last avenue for control.
My hand landed with a sting on her arse, and I whispered, “You are my slut now.”
“Not here, darling, someone might see,” she said, gazing around furtively.
“Wait till I get you home then.”
Her ladyship smiled serenely, knowing that I now accepted her kinkiest secret.
And so, certain in the knowledge that I loved her, she intertwined her fingers with mine; both of us, now we were outside, the epitome of the prim and proper loving girlfriends Lady Cynthia expected us to be.
Both knowing that would last until we got past our front door, and she would then transform into the maid Cyn needed to be.
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