Caresse's Apprentice

Caresse's Apprentice

By Brewt.Blacklist

June 2010

"PLEASE, COME in, my lord."

"Thank you, Peter. My god, what a hovel. Do you really live here?"

"Yes, my lord. Apologies, my lord."

"I don't know why you would apologize to me. Seems I should apologize to you."

"I don't know anything about that, my lord."

"Enough chit-chat. Do you have it?"

"Yes, my lord."

I waited, as is my station.

"And?"

"Pardons, my lord. A moment's indulgence, please. Maureen!"

There wasn't any answer. Bitch.

"Maureen! Come here!"

There was some scrabbling in the other room, and Maureen rollicked in: disheveled, clumsy, in need of a bath, finally stilling herself into attention.

"My god, man, why do you show me that . . . thing?"

"She's . . . wearing it, my lord."

He looked incredulous. "I don't believe you."

"Maureen. Show Master Hirsch what you've been wearing today."

She looked confused, and then turned around.

"No, no. What I made. Go on."

Her face fell, and looked like she was pleading, which I knew she was. "Now, Maureen." She froze for a split second, and then brought her hands up to the buttons on her blouse, and then dropped them. She dropped her head, obviously embarrassed, and she acted like she was torn between the obedience she knew she owed, and what little quaint sense of modesty her mother left her with, and her secret that got her here. I stormed across the room.

"Maureen. Look at me," I hoarsed at her. She raised her eyes without raising her head. She opened her mouth slightly, and the stress was becoming obvious. "Master Hirsch has every right to know what you've been doing today, doesn't he." She hesitantly nodded. "If he wants to watch you defecate on the governor's lawn, you will hold your need until he happens to pass. If he wants to read about in the newspapers, you will do it until the reporters cover it. You. Owe. Him. Everything. So what little he asks should not be met with the slightest hesitation. Do I make myself clear?" Again, a nod. "And what are you waiting for? Show him."

I stepped back and begged. "Please, forgive the ignorant slut, my lord. She sometimes seems to believe that her handicap should grant her allowances. She shall be punished most severely."

Maureen's earlier sloth was now replaced with urgency, because hearing was not her problem. Her hands flew across the buttons on her blouse, and she ripped it away. She was panting as it hovered its way to the floor. Once the buttons finished their minor clatter, it was silent, except for the exchange of air of the room's occupants' lungs. Maureen's breath was hottest, but Hirsch's was rapidly catching up.

"IS THAT really it?"

"Yes, my lord."

"It's beautiful."

"Thank you, my lord. I hope it will serve."

"Was it much trouble?"

"A fair amount, but nothing to concern yourself with."

"And they are really in there, right now."

"Indeed."

"Her demeanor doesn't indicate them."

"Maureen is a tough girl, my lord, but I assure you that your request is quite effective, even on her."

"I hesitate to ask, but I would like to see a demonstration of their effect. May I?"

"Please, feel free."

Hirsch reached over toward Maureen's chest, and the brassiere that was still being worn, but pulled his hand back after a moment's consideration. "She is such a loathsome creature. I don't know that I can bring myself near her. Why would you keep such an, inelaborate lass . . .”

"She has her advantages, my lord. The first is that her body completely matches your daughter, perfectly."

"How dare you!"

"Apologies, my lord, but I observe this for your profit, not mine. How else can I get a good fit, as is required for such a thing? I could hardly ask for your daughter to model."

"I suppose not."

"Homely as she is, she compensates by being, shall we say, entertaining."

"I almost wish for a bag to put on her head. Oh. How ungentlemanly of me. I am so sorry, my dear." Only now did he seem to realize she could hear him. Maureen slightly smiled, then thought better of it.

I spoke up. "No need to be concerned, my lord. Maureen knows herself, and has often worn the bag in question, to mollify her, and I hesitate to say it, clients."

Hirsch looked at me over his nose. "Please sit, my lord. A demonstration of your request is what we should be concerning ourselves with."

He sat on the rough hewn chair, in command. No one could take a seat like V.P. Hirsch.

I reached into my pocket and produced a small denomination, and held it up between Maureen and Hirsch, and let it flutter to the floor. That was her cue.

SHE GLANCES over to me with one hand rising up behind her back. I shake my head slightly; she drops her hand back to her side.

Maureen's demeanor transforms from demure maid to her true nature: wanton whore. The change didn't improve on her beauty, it simply altered her from an generally ugly young woman worth looking away from to a fascinating seductive horror. The cat was out, and I wondered where I left her bag.

She began slowly, as she always does, half-lidded, lips slightly parted and quivering toward her prey, her hips swaying almost imperceptibly. Once her target blinks, she pulls the bottom of her ribcage slowly to the left 3 inches, then to the right, and begins inching toward the mark.

As his attention draws toward the motions of her body, she brings both hands up her sides; her fingers flit across her breasts as they continue upwards toward the back of her neck, where she laces them into her hair and, bringing her elbows apart, she looks up and thrusts her breasts forward.

She'd forgotten the bra; she gasps, but it doesn't slow her down a beat. She draws her hands through her hair out and turns her head down and her right. The expression on her face should normally be obvious lustful pleasure, but it is tinged with twitches of an unexpected set of pains. Maureen is a good girl, and continues to try to overcome her discomfort with the goal of the seduction of her lord and master overriding most of her concerns.

Once her hands are free of her hair, her aim lowers toward the obvious effect she is having on Hirsch. It never takes her long to achieve this with most men, and this morning is no exception. She starts to lean down, and begins moving her hands toward his pants. Slowly, while now in a full writhe, once her head is below his, she rolls her eyes up to his, and smiles the knowing smile of a woman who is about to get fucked.

Without him even realizing she was even touching him, she opens the hindrances to her ambition and releases his cock. As she kneels further down, never taking her eyes from his, her face's minor tremblings escalate to full blown shudders of ache; her breasts, through the bra, are pressed against his knees as she nudges them apart. When that pressure is relieved, the deliverance that crosses her face draws a gasp from Hirsch.

She takes that as her permission to continue, and she glances down for a twinkling to insure her aim, and gazes steadily back up at him as she lowers her lips onto his sex. His eyes cramp, and she descends.

Once she has completely engulfed him, the real show begins. Maureen never moves her head once she has a cock fully in her mouth and into her throat. One of her many gifts from her father's tutelage. She instead massages it with her tongue, alternating high pressure with wet feathery touches, nipping at the base with her teeth, and constricting her throat around the tip until her client comes directly down her throat. It never takes long, and her reputation will remain intact today.

But I notice that her breathing is erratic. Usually, she has absolute control, and accelerates her motions to match her clients ever increasing needs. Then I observe that her eyes are wet. She starts making panicky movements with her body, and when Hirsch snaps open at her, he sees copious tears flowing down her face, wetting his pants. He explodes, throwing his head back, groaning hard. She continues sucking and crying after he finishes, and after he calms down, he lifts her off. As she pulls her mouth away, it drops open in what should have been a scream. It was then I could see that her breasts, in the bra, were mashed up tight against his calves. When she pulls away, she falls to the floor, clutching her breasts with her eyes rolled up in her head. She is breathing as though in labor.

"How does she do that?"

"As I said, my lord, she has certain advantages. Her overall sexual skills are exemplary."

"No, I mean 'how does she not scream'."

"Oh, that. She's a mute."

"Really?"

"Yes, her father, after suffering through her prattle for the first decade of her life, decided that mankind would be better served without having to listen to her. He cut her vocal cords, and decided that he liked the effect so much, he silenced his entire household. Maureen!"

Maureen wrenched her face up at me, in enormous distress.

"Stand up. I'm sure Master Hirsch would like to better inspect my craftsmanship. Now."

He was re-assembling his clothing by the time she finished struggling with her latest task. She was breathing erratically, her face almost but not quite blank.

"Assure him it's alright."

She reached over, and gently brought his hand up to her breast, and after she drops her hand away, she looked up as though in prayer, and pushes the bra forward into his hand, hard. Another silent scream.

Hirsch exclaimed "My god!" but doesn't move his hand – after a second, he closes it. Maureen winces, and the tears begin flowing again. Hirsch is fascinated and Maureen is losing composure and control. She is crying hard and shuddering violently by the time he releases her. "Outstanding!"

Maureen collapses, again.

"I have to agree, she has her uses." He is in awe.

"Yes, Sir Stephen involved her for one of his early experiments in observing a woman's facial expressions, something about how they were indistinguishable between agony and ecstasy, but for the noise."

Hirsch stared up at me, making it obvious I was talking too much. "Have her take it off."

I came back into the moment. "Maureen. Do as he says. Maureen!"

She rouses, and once the command sets in, she can't get the bra off fast enough. She sits on the floor, holding the bra out, shaking. When Hirsch takes it from her, her mother's lessons try to assert themselves, but she lacks the strength to preserve any dignity, and her hands fall into her lap. Her head hangs.

Hirsch rolls the bra around in his hands, running his fingers across the spikes that line the cups. "These really are very sharp. Why isn't she bleeding?"

"If we leave it on long enough, and had pushed on it hard enough, she would be. But it's lined with absorbent material, and she won't bleed enough to bleed through her clothing. So aside from her increasingly obvious discomfiture, no one would ever know anything was wrong by just looking at her."

"Wonderful. This is going to be used today. Tonight. You've done right by me, Peter, and you shall be rewarded. I need a chauffeur tonight; Ernie is not well. Are you busy?"

"I'm at your disposal, my lord."

"Bring the Rolls around at seven. We'll be going to Waterview. Take this, get cleaned up." He dropped a small leather bag on the table. There's only one thing that makes the clinks that it did, and I smiled knowing what was in it. "There will be more later," he said, gazing on and fingering his new toy with delight as he left, whispering french love poems as he let the door fall behind him.

I leaned down after the crunching of the rocks outside faded, and pet Maureen on the head like a dog. "You did very very well. Good girl." She leaned over, and started kissing my shoes with relief washing over her. I reached into the bag and handed her some of the gold pieces. "Go get a decent dress. You're working tonight."

The joy on her face as she left the room, blouse and money in hand, reminded me that I was going to have to beat her after we got back tonight.

I WATCHED Sarah Hirsch get out of the car at the foot of the steps of the country club, aided by her father, knowing that under her green gown, she was wearing the monstrosity I had constructed. I smiled as her gold hair ruffled about, because I knew what was causing her to move her head a bit more animatedly than usual.

"Thank you, Peter. We will be leaving about midnight, I expect."

"Yes sir." I got back into the car and pulled it out and headed toward parking.

After I had situated the Silver Shadow a safe distance from all the other cars, I opened the trunk. "Let's go."

Maureen clambered out and except for a couple negligible wrinkles, looked as fabulous as a homely woman can. We headed off to the copse of trees we knew all the help the rich folk had brought with them but wouldn't let in to Waterview would be milling about. I was going to make a killing tonight.

We approached the first grouping. "Who's up for a little excitement?"

"Do you mean with that? No way. No even with a bag over her head."

I turned to Maureen. She knew what to expect; she closed her eyes. I drew my hand back and slapped her across her face as hard as I could. She reeled, straightened up, and did her biblical duty: she turned the other cheek. Which I also struck, this time getting her to the ground. She didn't make a sound, but then, these assholes didn't know she couldn't.

While Maureen was busy uprighting herself, I leered back over toward the first jerk who insulted her. "Wanna have a go?" By the time he realized exactly what I was offering, his eyes widened to the point I thought they might come out. I snapped my fingers twice and held out my open hand. He emptied his wallet into it, never taking his eyes off her. He drew his hand back like he had seen me do, and before the echoes of the next vicious slap had died out, everybody, and I do mean everybody was neatly in line, straining to look around each other to see what was happening with the next guy. Or the next girl, whatever the case was.

My whore played her part as she should over the next three-and-a-half hours, seducing everyone there in a perverted game of Last Man Standing. She always wins. Every cock in the woods found it's way into every orifice she had, and her tongue found its way into every pussy and asshole and mouth presented, and she was black and blue from all the slapping and hitting and punching, and her face and hair was drenched with sperm and spit and piss, and I took money until I was having trouble keeping it all in because Ernie Tate didn't tell me about pocket limitations in chauffeur's outfits. Bastard.

At 11:00, people started drifting away, and by 11:30 I decided I was going to need a little relief myself. Maureen was a mess, but a happy mess. I bent her over and without any warning, plunged my cock directly into her ass. There was no resistance, and it was sloshy inside. She wiggled around and clenched herself as hard as she could, but then the old girl showed she still had some tricks up her sleeve she hadn't tried on me. She reached down between her legs, and with a minimum of effort succeeded in getting her entire hand into her pussy. This ratcheted up the pressure in her ass, and when I realized I could feel her opening and closing her fist inside of herself, I came, and I came hard, shouting for the both of us. When she grinned back at me in triumph, I reconsidered her upcoming beating and decided to decide later whether to make it harder on her or ignore it altogether.

The time suddenly dawned on me, and I yanked my pants up, spilling some of the money. Maureen scrambled down to start picking it up. "We have to go. Now!" and we ran back to the car, leaving some bills for someone else to find. Count one point toward increased beatings. I popped the trunk, and Maureen stuffed herself in, her dress in shambles from her adventures in the forest.

THE HIRSCH'S were out of the gate and half way down the steps when I got the car pulled up. I hopped around the car, hoping I had re-assembled myself at least to the point that suspicions would not be aroused. As I was helping Sarah into the car, I noticed she, too, was a wreck; there was sperm in her hair. Her chin and cheeks glistened, and I was lost in thought as to how could that have happened. Hirsch was speaking and I didn't hear anything until I heard the words "---and perform fellatio on Peter when he drives." I blinked and then blanked out for a moment, considering I had no chance to get cleaned up from Maureen's ass, only checking in long enough to hear "Drive slowly, Peter."

"Yes, SIR."

I dazed my way back into the car after doing my duty with my superior's doors.

"I was quite pleased with how your efforts worked tonight, Peter. We shall have to put together some more ideas I have. Oh, do hurry up, Sarah."

I looked over at Sarah to catch the horror on her face being replaced with resignation. I had to move my seat back to make room for her; lovely, haughty Sarah Hirsch, leaning over to find her way into my just recently re-done-up pants. The smell of Maureen's ass and all its gifts assaulted her, and she retched.

"Don't mind her. Her mother taught her well, but, I daresay, she's not as good as Maureen, not by far," chimed in Hirsch from the back seat. Sarah succeeded in getting herself under enough control to get my cock in her mouth. I was still rather useless after Maureen, but that was going to be changing soon, knowing what I did that her father didn't about what his daughter was facing. I started a smile that lasted the rest of the trip.

"Do you think we could arrange for Maureen to give her some lessons?" Sarah was weeping; she had positioned herself on her stomach, and she was flattening her breasts within the bra with the spikes, with her arms behind her.

"Maureen is much more available than you know, my lord." And he was right; Sarah could learn a few things from her. The lessons began that very night, with a beating for both of them. After I took the long way home.

Caresse Crosby (1891-1970) held the first patent for modern bra design. She was a patron of the arts, a publisher, a poet, and a peace activist. She helped Henry Miller by taking over the writing pornography for a Texas (Oklahoma?) oil baron, and was friends with Anais Nin. Her own publishing house, Black Sun Press, introduced writers such as D.H. Lawrence, Ernest Hemingway, James Joyce, T.S. Eliot, and Ezra Pound.

Thanks to V.P. Viddler for inspiration and concepts, and special thanks to pamela for inspiration, encouragement, and permission to use characters from her own "The Wonderful Brassiere".