I've decided I was born in the wrong century. I've always been fascinated with the early 18th century. Women wearing tight corsets and huge dresses, often with no underwear, just layers and layers of petticoats. Cursteying before the Lady of the manor, servants scurrying around, trying to serve in a discrete manner. The formal, stiff manners that are expected to be followed, but can be done with such grace. The grooming...finishing schools, dancing lessons, music lessons....ohh...it would be such wonderful torture.
My body type is such that would fit quite nicely into this time period. I'm rather short and voluptuous and have a slight hourglass figure that would be accented by a corset. I just get a quivver imagining a full white ball-gown, lace ruffles at the bottom. My hair, up high on my head with a few ringlets artfully arranged to cascade down the sides. I stumble during a dancing lesson, scuffing my friend's white silk slipper. She cries in outrage and scolds me mightily for being so clumsily.
The governess, hearing the noise, comes to investigate. Noticing my friend's distress and hearing what occurred, she orders me to keel across a horsehair ottoman. Weeping, I kneel before the ottoman, my chest pressed into the prickly horsehair, my bottom raised in the air. The governess tosses my skirts over my shoulders, the white ruffles cascading down on either side of me. With a cane, she delivers 6 evenly spaced strikes in rapid succession on my thighs and bottom. My friend watches all this with great glee. When the governess is done, she runs her hands over the welts, pinching my bottom with strong fingers. She tells me that this will serve as a reminder for me to not be so clumsy in the future.
As soon as the governess has left the room, my friend runs over to me and helps me to stand. I gasp as the lace on my petticoats scrape against the fresh welts. She kisses my tears from my cheeks and promises me she never meant for me to get beaten. She embraces me, our breasts, pushed upwards by the corset, crush against each other. She pulls away and looks at me, her lips red like strawberry jam. With a slight hesitation, she kisses me on the lips and fire runs through my body. I pull away from her quickly, surprised and ashamed by my desire. She takes my hands and places them around her tiny waist and with a small smile, pulls me down to the floor with her. Kneeling, we face each other. The white of my skirt, mingling with the peach of hers. With a careful hand, I explore the softness of her skin, tracing along her collarbone, just to the swell of her breasts. She breathes in with a shudder and leans towards me again.
©copyright crave 1996
