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These Anti-Tenting Trousers are rubbish! I met the new maid in the long gallery today. I was squeezing by the rows of packing cases put there during the work on the house and she was wriggling towards me in the opposite direction. She paused, then smiled demurely, and pressed herself up against a tall crate to make room for me to pass behind her. I assumed that there would be enough room to get through but it would appear that my judgement was impaired by all the black satin and fluffy white petticoats that she wore. They concealed a surprisingly pert derriere. Although quite a slim young woman, she was surprisingly well-endowed and could only lean up against the packing crate so far, it being a case of one large chest against another. I might add that I am very easily visually stimulated and, although I habitually wear a pair of Professor Trubshaw’s Anti-Tenting Trousers, there is something about shiny black satin, white petticoats and a well-filled bodice that can still cause a disconcerting tumescence should the occasion arise. I think she must have glimpsed this for herself because her eyes widened as I approached and her lips parted and she gave a little gasp. “Please sir!” she said and pressed herself even more tightly against the huge crate. “Excuse me sir!” and she turned her head away, inviting me to do what I felt I had to. I placed my hands around her waist and told her, “That’s quite alright, my dear, leave everything to me!” and wedged myself into the little gap she’d made. Straightaway, I realised I had misjudged the situation entirely and expressed surprise at how tight it was and she, dear girl, immediately apologised for the tightness and assured me this was the biggest opening she could create. “No, no, no, it’s my mistake entirely,” I told her. “I mis-read how full your skirts were.” Mentally noting to later check the warranty on my pair of Professor Trubshaw’s Anti-Tenting Trousers, I concentrated on the job in hand and slowly but surely eased myself into the gap she had so gamely offered to me. Slowly but surely, I began to squeeze around the soft curve of her right buttock. “If only we’d known this was going to be so hard, sir,” she softly murmured, which – to be perfectly frank – I found less than helpful. By wiggling my hips and guiding hers with both hands in a reciprocating manner, I managed to gently progress, inch by precious inch, into the gap presented to me. “It’s a good job you are wearing satin, my dear,” I laughed between pelvic grinds, “for any less slippery material would surely have mitigated against my progress so far.” This made her giggle and then catch her breath, which in turn – I am happy to say – briefly facilitated my entry and with an almost audible pop I slid neatly into the cleft she offered me. However, I soon found that far from my progress becoming easier, things had become much harder. I was now wedged in between the satin clad cheeks of her behind and, despite the sleekness of her dress and re-arranging of her petticoats, it was clear that neither of us were going anywhere fast. The blood rush to my nether regions was by now of prodigious proportions and may have begun to weaken my thought processes as my brain became starved of oxygen. I tried to go back the way I’d come but withdrawal was impossible. It wasn’t merely her curves but also how much I was bulging for, in all the squirming and adjustment of my hand positions to get a better grip of her waist and hips, I had inadvertently stroked her side boob. A prompt resolution to our problems was unlikely. “It seems we are stuck,” I said, at length, after much fruitless wriggling. “Oh, sir!” she exclaimed, turning to look at me in helpless submission to the reality that had befallen her. “Is there anything I can do to help?” The way she looked at me told me she would happily acquiesce to any of my compromising suggestions. “Let me see,” I muttered, trying to muster and apply my considerable intellect to the problem in hand but the phrase only served to remind me of my own visual stimulation. And in that dress and position with that look on her face, she was – unfortunately – extremely visually stimulating. That is to say nothing about the additional sensation of her stocking-clad thighs against mine and curiously soft yet firm flesh of her bottom grinding in my groin. I know she only did it to help but it was having the reverse effect. However, it seemed churlish to ask her to stop. I concentrated on keeping my hands around her waist, which seemed the least provocative place for them to be but I could not ignore our pelvic contact or the knowledge that above her waistline were – as I believe Shakespeare would have put it – “two ivory worlds tinged with blue that know no hand save their master’s.” “There must be something we can do,” I muttered. “But what?” she asked and, turning slightly from side to side, she brought first her right breast and then her left breast to run against my hands. Her breasts were covered of course but in the white satin that contrasted with the black of the rest of her uniform. The material here was very thin and the way it strained and rippled as she wriggled and squirmed was singularly unhelpful. Suddenly, I had some inspiration. “There is a smaller packing case over there,” I told her. “Perhaps if we can wriggle over to it, you could lean forward enough for me to get through.” So we slowly inched our way along with our thighs rubbing against each other and her side boobs palpitating gently with every awkward step. Once or twice I accidentally brushed her nipples and the way they stiffened made me wonder of I would ever be flaccid again. At last we reached the smaller packing case. “Bend over my dear,” I told her – with a curious *frisson* of excitement – and she obliged but instead of making her bottom smaller it inexplicably seemed to have the opposite effect. Not only that but now I could glimpse her stocking tops and I wondered how long my breeches could survive without being burst asunder. “Perhaps if I slide down a bit,” I suggested but our knees just got in the way and there simply wasn’t enough room and climbing up onto the smaller case was also out of the question. I stood up again and her skirts and petticoats rose up around her waist to reveal naked thighs and suspenders, black gentle swoops plunging up and down against her soft flesh. So there we were, me, with an enormous bulge in my trousers that were anti-tenting in name only, wedged against the new maid who was bent over before me with her black satin uniform and white petticoats in a great ruffle above her hips, long stocking clad legs pressing their upper flesh against my thighs and my hands perilously close to finding her bust again beneath the thinness of the white flash of bodice. “Oh sir!” she said, as something occurring to her, “supposing someone was to come!” “Brilliant!” I burst out. “I wish I’d thought of that!” “Beg pardon, sir?” “Of course!” I ejaculated. “It’s so obvious now!” “What do you mean, sir?” “I will have me inside you – and us out of here – in no time!” She gave a little shriek as she felt what had hitherto been my clothed bulge slap nakedly into the flesh of her inner thighs. “But, but, but…” “No, no, no! No more buts. You are hardly in a position to argue.” “What *are* you doing, sir?” “Why, merely pulling down your knickers, my dear!” “Please sir, I meant…oooo!” “You’re such a clever girl,” I assured her. “Oh no, sir!” “Oh yes! And you should learn to take compliments from your betters when they are deserved. And I shall begin by giving you one now! If I undo myself here…” She gasped. “And undo you here…” She sighed. “But, sir, but this isn’t…” “Now look here,” I said, sternly, “you did ask if there was anything you could do to help.” “I know but…” “And this was your idea!” “Well, I don’t really know about that, sir!” “Modesty will get you nowhere,” I told her, pulling up her skirts and petticoats and riffling around beneath them. “Aha!” I said. “Black knickers! Everything will be just fine! I remember Wicked Uncle Jasper telling me that in the language of underwear black means surrender!” and to her mild and ineffectual protests I pulled her most intimate apparel down over her suspenders. “But what I meant, sir, was…ooooohhhh!” “Precisely! Now then! I must open you, by rubbing you gently here,” I said, and I caressed her nipples, which made her squeal and wriggle. “In fact, let’s just have them out, shall we?” and before she could answer I teased her breasts free and began tweaking her tightening teats. “Once you are sufficiently opened I shall endeavour to squeeze myself into you and I shall thrust away until – as you so sensibly suggested – I come. And then once I am flaccid again we shall be released!” She did not appear entirely convinced of the efficacy of this course of action. I thought this was strange since she was the one who had suggested it. I decided to ignore her politely flustered alternative suggestions and carried on regardless. With another hand, I found her clitoris and began massaging that and the effect it had on her wriggling and squirming was most gratifying. “I can only assume,” I told her, “that your denials and protests and struggles only add spice to your situation.” I reached down and stroked her between her thighs. “Goodness! You are a lubricious young woman!” “Er, thank you sir…” So, I entered her gently and she hung her head and stamped her feet and with each shake of her hips I slid in a little further. I was very hard and it took some time for her to take me in but once firmly home I twitched inside her and made her jump. “Now all you have to do,” I told her, “is humour me by letting me pleasure you. Do you understand?” “Ooo. Yes, sir.” I began to take my fill of her. It was tricky in that confined space but I found that with careful pelvic positioning I could withdraw and then slide back inside her and I set up a steady rhythm of shorter more urgent thrusts. The sound of her arse slapping into me soon filled the corridor and she began to make quite a few gasps. I dare say I did, too. Normally, I like to prolong the sensations in a situation like this but there was an appalling urgency and need to our position as evidenced by the chorus of “Oooos!” and Aaahhhs!” she was muttering. So, I indulged myself without any self-teasing and I let myself come without holding back. Sweating and panting, we rested for a while but then something occurred to me. “That’s odd!” I said. “What? What is it sir?” “Can you feel that?” Without a word she tensed slightly and move backwards and forward a little. Then, exploring the sensation further, she thrust her bottom deep into my groin. “But you are as hard as ever, sir!” “By Jove!” I remarked. “I can only assume that your obliging acquiescence has brought out the animal in me and that the multiple male orgasm might be true!” “But what *are* we to do sir?” “The same again, I suppose,” I replied and started doing it right away. And, as she turned her head and took up the most efficacious position she could offer me, I caught a little smile as she wondered at the effect she was having upon her lord and master. |
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Potential underlings should be aware of any compromising positions
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