I’m sitting in front of my bedroom mirror, the beautiful nineteen twenties one with the age-spotted gilt curlicues. Although it’s November I’m naked but for a pair of red velvet gloves. My skin, bathed by the softness of candlelight, is very white. I concentrate on the gloves, crossing my arms over my breasts in an elegant retro pose. They belonged to my great aunt Sylvia, who was an actress on the stage. The velvet has a musty, dusty quality. I couldn’t bear to have the gloves cleaned. It would be like exorcism, sweeping away the lingering ghosts of faded perfume and a long-lost glamour. Opera gloves. Clothing the arm from fingertip to above the elbow, they are an erotic accessory. When I ease them on, insinuate myself into them, they reward me with their sensual caress. I shiver in response, my nipples firming in the cool air of the room, as if a phantom lover has stroked my arms from wrist to shoulder with smooth, arousing hands. The gloves are lined with silk.
Sometimes I sleep in my gloves and the dreams that call on me are wild. I time travel to another place and era, Victorian, Edwardian or just before the second world war. Arch gentlemen in fine evening dress stand over me, their whiskers bristling, poised to loosen my corset stays and have their wicked way with me, a lady of the night. I always acquiesce, allow them to unlace, unhook and cup my large soft breasts in their kid-gloved hands. The place between my thighs is very warm and very wet, slick with the honey of desire. The men are like bees, unerringly drawn to me. I am the hive.
Girls too, I dream of girls. Chorus girls, naughty girls, escapees from finishing schools, all moist pussied and plump breasted as pheasants. They lick me with their small pink tongues and I writhe, opening my honey pot wide, dipping my fingers in and moaning “taste me”. Cherry lips, some rouged some natural fruit, kiss and nibble at my pert pink nipples. Satin cushioned mouths press all over my sweet ivory skin. Kiss, lick. Kiss, lick. I writhe, writhe, writhe…
Men and girls together. The fine gentlemen with their brandy breath and their cigar scent take me on their broadcloth laps and unhook me for the girls’ pleasure. “Lick her honey” they command and smile knowingly as a bevy of buxom beauties surround me, their mouths fixed on my ankles, my calves, my knees, my thighs. The men expose my breasts, my wicked dripping cunt and the girls dive in, exclamations of glee, all flowers and lace and ribbons and sweet, hot tongues. I shriek in ecstasy as they squabble over my clit, taking turns to capture my bursting bud. Warm, moist lips, kiss, lick, kiss, lick. Writhing, lashing tongues like little snakes, freshly spawned from the garden of Eden. I’m coming. Oh please, I’m coming…
In my dreams, I’m on the stage, powdered and perfumed and tight-laced and high-heeled. Powerful in my restraint, I sing, high and sweet, my fat sweet breasts oozing like whipped cream from an éclair above the tiny bodice of my gown. The men are entranced. I watch their mesmerized faces in the jaundiced glow of the gas lights. Their whiskers bristle with lust. I sway my beribboned hips and smile, a sweet cherry rouged pout. I’m keeping myself for the chorus girls. Kiss, lick, cheap scent and giggling mouths hovering over my swollen tits. Lick me, Lily and Rose, leave luscious snail trails of saliva all over my white, smooth flesh. Seek out my secret passage, velvety, musky, edged in sable girl-fur, beneath the chaos of frothing petticoats. Push your tongues in, right in, to the hilt. Both of you, both of you. My gloved hands on your busy, bobbing heads and I’m coming… I’m coming…
More, more, more. The gloves are magic gloves, bringing men and girls to me, men to worship and unhook and watch, gasping, swallowing, amazed, girls to lick and kiss. Kiss, lick. Sticky, honey pot mouths. More. I’m greedy as a cuckoo in a blackbird’s nest. My thighs are always open, a wet, perfumed tunnel. Burrow into me, I invite. I lie back on rich brocade cushions and the men take my neatly booted ankles and whisk them up, up, up, over my head. I’m as open as I can be. Not just my pussy but my little pink rosebud, the taboo place, open and exposed, vulnerable to the swarming girls. What will they do. My face is awash with lace from my surging sea of petticoats. I feel the mouths gather like little fish, nibbling on my coral. Their velvety lips surround my clit then retreat. I hear them whisper. “Lick her top and bottom” instruct the men, maintaining a steady hold on my feet. I feel like a piece of game, strung up from the kill. A white fox.
Kiss, lick. The unseen faces press into my cunt, sucking. Sensation swirls in my vulva like a whirlpool of pleasure. I’m being drawn in and down and around. I feel wisps of curled hair, bobbing ribbons and feathers, chorus girl trappings tickling and teasing my tormented flesh. I want to come. Like a tide, they advance and retreat. “Get her worked up” state the men, still holding me up like a helpless creature. I adore the suspense. The girls do as they wish, ignoring the men. They lick, they kiss. Sometimes, I sense that they pause from their sweet musky meal and suck each other’s tongues, tasting my juice by proxy, exchanging my flavor back and forth. Back and forth, in and out, kiss, lick, suck. Tongues plunge in my pussy then retreat to dance about my rosebud anus. I am wet from clit to ass. Open and wet. I belong to the girls as I’m held by the men. I love it. I am their sweet, ripe supper and I come, I come, I come…
The gloves shimmer softly in the gentle light from the flickering candle. I gaze at my reflection in my great aunt’s mirror. My nipples are hard and my pussy is slick. In my glove-bewitched dreams, I am a honey pot for girls and worshipped by men in a time long since past, far away, intriguing yet elusive as the faded wraith of perfume on crimson velvet.
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