Ritorna, vincitor. (Erotica)
Mrs. Murdoch is in a fine and festive mood. The holiday party has gone well; she’s had a bit of a flirt, and is full of high good spirits. She leaves the party singing to herself and tripping the light fantastic. The night is full of stars, the moon is shining, and all is right with the world on this crisply clear evening. Mrs. Murdoch, usually a very sober and restrained type, has really let herself go at the firm’s annual New Year’s Eve soiree. Yes, Mrs. Murdoch is in fine form tonight and eager to keep the celebrations going.
Making her way down to the tube, she begins humming a happy tune to herself. She is happy, happier than she has been in days, and this is the beginning of a wonderful night. It’s New Year’s Eve and on this night Mrs. Murdoch always enjoys herself tremendously. She hums a happy tune as the train winds throughout the secret chambers of the underground. Oh yes, Mrs. Murdoch is happy; fit to bursting with happiness as a matter of fact.
Alighting from the train, she stops first at the chemist for a few sundries. With a firm step she turns towards home. At her door she extracts her house keys from the pocket of her sensible wool coat. Inserting the door key into the lock, she enters her domicile. Still humming, she hangs up her coat and brings her parcels into the kitchen. She enters the living room briefly to turn on a lamp and to toss her handbag on the sofa. Re-entering the kitchen, she washes her hands before neatly laying out the little boxes from the chemist on the counter. She puts the plastic bag away. It’s about three hours before the New Year arrives but Mrs. Murdoch firmly believes in being prepared.
Going up to the bedroom, she goes to her cupboard. Selecting soft satin and chiffon, a corset, garters and stockings, she repairs to the shower, spending a good long time in preparing herself. Emerging an hour later, she stands before the mirror looking approvingly at the transformation into a goddess: having used the curling iron to best effect, she now has a sleek silver-coloured chignon adorned with Grecian curls at the sides and the nape of her neck. She has tied herself tightly into her favourite silver and lilac Butterfly Corset; black stockings, silver garters and lilac Jimmy Choo thigh high boots complete her ensemble. Her eyes are dark with eyeliner and thick mascara; her lips are painted black. She smiles, revealing perfectly white, sharp little teeth. The transformation is almost complete. Mrs. Murdoch is quite happy.
Two hours before the New Year. Mrs. Murdoch repairs to the kitchen. She goes to a cabinet and pulls out a bowl. Opening several of the packets from the chemist, she pours the contents into the bowl and begins to mix them together. She sets the kettle to boil. From the refrigerator she pulls two root-like pieces of vegetation. Carefully, she begins shaving the outer layers off of the roots. The kettle whistles and carefully she adds some of the boiling water to the mixture in the bowl. Stirring briskly, she stops to add more of this, a tad of that. Finally nodding her head in satisfaction, she sets the bowl aside to finish peeling the vegetables. Finishing with that task as well, she sets about carefully carving the vegetation until she is satisfied with her progress. Washing up everything, she places the bowl and the vegetables on a serving tray and brings the tray to the table. In the refrigerator, she sets the Champagne and one glass to chill within an elaborately engraved ice bucket.
An hour to go until the official arrival of the New Year. Mrs. Murdoch begins humming again, one of her favourite arias this time. She shuts off the lights in the kitchen and goes about lighting a series of candles that have been placed around and about the counters and ledges. With one last check to ensure that all is in readiness, she leaves the kitchen, heading out to the back garden. She stops to pull on the worn outdoor coat she keeps by the back door then exits the house, leaving the door slightly ajar with a brick serving as doorstopper. She walks beneath the branches of a large, old tree, into a shadowed corner containing a small shed.
Here she uses the skeleton key from the secondary key ring in her coat pocket to unlock the door to the shed. “Here, boy,” she calls in a soft but piercing whisper. From the coat pocket she now produces a leather leash. A low keening and panting comes in response. A dark shape huddles along the ground with an uneven gait. “Good boy” she says as she secures the lead to the collar and returns to the house with the shadow in tow.
Removing her coat and hanging it up, she tugs on the leash, indicating that she be obeyed. A happy scampering comes in response. She and the creature enter the kitchen. With a whistle, she and the happy scamperer walk up the stairs to the bathroom. She secures the leash to the outside of the bathroom door. “Stay” she says in a no-nonsense tone. The happy scamperer puts its head down with a small whimper. Going inside the bathroom itself, she fills the bathtub with medium warm water and fragrant peppermint soap. Removing her satin robe, she gets a flannel and a scrub brush. Opening the closet door, she removes towels, clothes and lavender oil. Laying all the items out, she then goes to the hallway and releases the leash from the doorknob. “Mind me, now. Bath time.” With a tug, she enters the bathroom, followed by the shape, dark with crusted mud and dirt. “In you go” she says, and removes the leash from the collar while the happy scamperer oozes into the bathtub, and leans back.
“Well, Mr. Murdoch, here we are again at the cusp of a New Year. Let’s get you all lovely and cleaned up then, shall we?” Mrs. Murdoch is quite jovial as she pours water over the top of the creature’s head and begins to vigorously rub the peppermint soap into the long, dark hair, flecked with grey. Layer upon layer of dirt and grime and muck fall away under her tenacious yet gentle touch with scrub brush and flannel, to reveal the emergence of not a strange unknown creature, nor of a scruffy woodland faun, but of Mr. Murdoch himself, bright as a new copper penny and shining clean as an altar boy.
“There, all better now love, eh” she says as she rinses him off thoroughly, letting out the now dirty water from the tub. “You look just like a new man” she says approvingly to the beaming Mr. Murdoch. He raises his hands, moving his long, sturdy fingers rapidly. “Oh, yes, Mr. Murdoch. It is indeed New Year’s Eve and we always spend this night together. So excited to be here with you, you old sausage.” This last came with a touch on the bearded cheek and a twinkle on the nose. Mr. Murdoch’s eyes shine in response and he smiles even more broadly than he has before.
“Stand up now. Last scrub before we get you nice and clean for the New Year.” Mrs. Murdoch says briskly. Taking the tub of Dark Angels scrub from beneath the sink, she begins rubbing the obsidian exfoliator into his skin, beginning with his face, then moving down to his neck, his back, his stomach. With a wicked grin, she piles extra onto his genitals, slowly and expertly stroking his penis, elongating it with deliberate, firm strokes; at the same time, she reaches in between his thighs, massaging and clasping his testicles within the soapy warmth of her hands. Mr. Murdoch moans while arching his back; closing his eyes and putting his head back he spreads his legs as widely as he can in the bathtub. He thoroughly enjoys the whole process, and submits with utter devotion to his wife’s dedicated and loving ministrations.
With a smile on her own face, Mrs. Murdoch pinches the tip of her husband’s cock shut while rapidly stroking him. When she sees him begin to tremble with delight, she changes the stroke to hand-over-hand, pulling his dick and balls towards her. Mr. Murdoch, eyes still closed, begins rocking his hips and moving in rhythm to her strokes. The missus watches his face with sharp attention, and when his eyes, nictitating behind his eyelids, begin to flutter, she releases the tip and begins quickly massaging it with a rolling motion of her thumbs. Mr. Murdoch shudders and gives another message with his fingers. She nods and slides three free fingers to his rear, lifting and separating the buttocks slowly while lifting his testicles in front. With a sharp exclamation he goes rigid, releasing all his pent-up energies all over the tile in front of him. Mrs. Murdoch springs upon him to give him an open-mouthed kiss, her tongue filling his mouth with eager and tender passion. He hugs her tightly, oblivious to the running water, her carefully done hair, her lovely corset; he nuzzles her neck before they separate. “On with the rinse then, Mr. Murdoch,” she says, eyes sparkling, face aglow. She carefully and quickly rinses him off. His body is still very much that of a fighter’s body, with the tight musculature and deep conditioning that age has dimmed but a little.
Drying him off briskly, she then rubs the lavender oil into his skin, enjoying the way the oil smells against the warmth of his skin, the way it makes his body glisten, how it brings out the tone and definition of his muscles, hardened from years of pugilism and the heavy lifting of bar work. She rubs some of the oil in between her hands and smooths it into his long hair, brushing it in lovingly.
He dresses carefully in the clothes that she has brought him to wear for this festive occasion: a tuxedo shirt and tie, along with a silver bikini tie-thong, black stockings and silver and grey garters. She removes his black leather collar, the one he wears every day, replacing it with a customized one crafted of silver and diamonds. She attaches a new lead of braided silver chain to his collar and turns him to the mirror. “Do you like it, my dear? I think you look positively divine” she whispers while giving his bum a hard pinch. Mr. Murdoch looks at her reflection in the mirror and gives her a wink and a confident smile. He raises his fingers to the glass and signs to her. She smiles and nestles on his shoulder for a moment. Then she straightens up. Giving the chain a tug she leads him forward from the bathroom to the sitting room. She indicates a chair which he sits in it gratefully. She loops the end of chain around the arm of a chair before giving him a pat on the head.
She bustles into the kitchen and takes out the ice bucket containing the bottle of Champagne and a glass. Fifteen minutes to midnight. She brings the bottle and the glass into the living room, setting them on the table by the telly right next to the gleaming sterling silver dog bowl adorned with diamantes and Swarovski crystals. Prancing into the kitchen once more, she retrieves the serving tray and brings it into the parlour. “Now, Mr. Murdoch, with a few minutes to spare, let’s get on with our holiday tradition, shall we?” she sings out gaily. He gives her an enthusiastic thumbs-up signal, before standing to undo the bikini bottom which he lets drop to the floor. She smiles and blows him a kiss. He kneels on the floor before the telly, bottom in the air. She turns on the television, tuning into BBC 4. “Almost time for the chimes, my love” she coos while lubing his anus generously with a courtesan’s touch of loving kindness.
Taking hold of one of the roots, she dips it into the mixture, saturating it fully before carefully inserting it into him. With long practice and patience, she takes her time, easing it in, working with his breathing and the lubrication to let his anus loosen, waiting as he relaxes the muscles to the point of accepting the insertion without clenching. He makes soft utterances as she does this, and begins to rock back and forth. She follows his lead until only the withdrawal ribbon is visible.
Retrieving her spool of bondage tape from her nearby handbag, she carefully and expertly wraps the tape around his body three times, creating a cross lattice suspender belt that not only lifts his genitals but which also binds his buttocks together tightly, thus increasing the sensations produced by the root’s insertion. His body’s heat creates a warm, moist cocoon for it, allowing it to release its own potency while enhancing his at the same time.
Of course, she is careful to avoid blocking the ribbon. No trips to hospital this New Year for them; that’s a protocol reserved strictly for amateurs. She beams at the figure on the floor, head down, hips swaying and rotating as the mixture seeps into his anal cavity and stimulates his sexual response. “We are old pros at these amusements, am I right Mr. Murdoch?” she says while giving a playful swat to his bound bum. He waggles his backside at her playfully in response; he is beginning to enter the iridescent corridor of subspace.
Two minutes to go. She steps into her harness and fastens on the extra-wide dildo. “Brought out Big Bess to celebrate our big night, darling” she laughs. Using a small painter’s brush, she coats the dildo with Nutella on one side and rich dark chocolate paste on the other. Turning one of the chairs to face the television set, she sits down on the edge of the chair and spreads her legs wide. She takes the pillow from behind her back and tosses it onto the floor in front of her. Now she unloops the chain from the chair arm opposite and pulls it to let him know that she is ready. He reverses position so that he is on his knees, facing her.
He kneels on the pillow, back straight, thighs together, cock beginning to swell with desire. They smile together in the uncomplicated way that couples do when they are at long ease with one another. The voice on the telly begins to speak; neither of them pays much attention. Mr. Murdoch, staring at Mrs. Murdoch’s face intently with his dark eyes, delicately moves his fingers in silent communication. This sets Mrs. Murdoch to giggling helplessly while an attractively deep blush colours her cheeks. She nods to Mr. Murdoch regally, as a monarch is wont to do with an underling.
Dipping his own head, with exquisite slowness he extends his tongue until the very tip licks the end of the dildo. After a minute, he repeats the action on the sides of the thick cylinder, taking care to use the longest strokes possible with his tongue. Mrs. Murdoch puts her hand on his head, urging him forward as she herself leans back so he can really be free to set to work. The chimes of Big Ben begin at this moment, signalling the New Year. With each chime, Mr. Murdoch engulfs more and more of the dildo in his throat until at the very last stroke he has the entirety of it within his mouth. He is mastering his penis at the same time.
Any free fingers are inserted into Mrs. Murdoch to the hilt, easing in and out of her delighted flesh while she calls his name, opening herself wider to him, allowing him total access to her. The fireworks on the screen are absolutely insignificant compared to what is happening between these two in this London living room, engrossed in their mutual admiration society activities. When the climax comes for each of them the room rings forth with their lusty, full-throated cries.
Afterwards, all is calm and put to rights as he lays sprawled out on the carpet lapping Champagne from his silver dog bowl, the clinking of his chain leash softly audible. Mrs. Murdoch has carefully removed the root from deep within him in the bathroom and given him a thorough clean to boot. The good Mrs. Murdoch is currently reclining on the sofa sipping from her own chilled glass of Champagne, the end of his chain leash hooked onto her wristlet. They rest together, the pair of them, listening to the music coming from the television now, basking in the twin glows of lust satisfied and durable love while the sounds of Leontyne Price singing the “Ritorna, vincitor” aria fills the air.
Mrs. Murdoch, drowsing now, is supremely happy.