“It will be splendid to have a fine, strong young man about the house,
Mr. Brandywine,” said Mrs. Dalrymple, as she took Corky’s hands in
hers.

There was something unnerving about the half-smile that darted across
her face as she looked at him sidelong. Corky didn’t quite remember
the moment when he had agreed to become a boarder at Mrs. Dalrymple’s
house, but the landlady certainly appeared to consider it a done
deal. And indeed he could think of no reasonable objections. The
room she was offering was large and well-appointed, the address
fashionable, the rent surprisingly low. Mrs. Dalrymple herself was a
fine woman, a widow of some means, with a bright, vivacious manner. In
the firelight, her pale skin took on a rosy glow. Stray
strands of crinkly russet fell from her loose bun to run along the
delicate skin of her neck.

Mrs. Dalrymple stepped still closer. At this angle, her decolete gown
revealed the rotundities of her sizable and well-separated
bosom. Corky bit his lip with the effort of maintaining eye contact.

“Are you quite well, Mr. Brandywine?” the widow inquired with a
concerned look. “You look terribly flushed!”

“Oh, quite <cough, cough!> quite all right,” Corky assured her
hastily. “Just a little warm. Nothing, really.”

“Well, at any rate,” she said, “it will be good for the girls to have
a man about the house.”

“The… girls?”

“Oh, my two daughters,” she explained. “Beatrice and
Maggie. Delightful children. I’m sure you shall get on quite famously
with them.” She leaned out the door of the room. “Maggie, Beatrice!”
she called, “Come and meet our new boarder!”

She returned to Corky’s side and confided, “They’re dear, good-hearted
girls, but with no one but an old woman to keep an eye on them,” (it
took Corky a moment to realize she was referring to herself) “they do
tend to become a trifle wild and willful at times. It will be ever so
much better to have a firm, masculine hand available when they stray.”

With nary a sound of warning, two young ladies burst into the room,
grabbing the door frame to check their momentum as they skidded
around the corner.

“Girls, decorum, please,” Mrs. Dalrymple said without rancour, as her
daughters patted their hair down, panting slightly.

“Sorry, mother,” grinned the shorter of the two, her eyes never
leaving Corky. She looked more like a sister than a daughter; her
cheeks were freckled where her mother’s were pale, and her figure had
not yet fully ripened into the lush curves of the elder Dalrymple, but
otherwise she might be the mistress of the house herself, displaced by
two decades of age.

The taller sister kept silent, her straight dark hair a striking
contrast to her sister’s reddish curls, her great dark eyes downcast,
save for quick shy glances at the new tenant. Her ivory skin was
lightly flushed from the exertion of her recent sprint and from the
presence of the young male stranger.

Corky gazed at the girls with dismay. The notion that he might be
called upon to fulfill a role as disciplinarian for these spirited
females, his juniors by a bare handful of years, struck him as
impossibly absurd.

“Mr. Brandywine, allow me to present my daughters,” the widow said
formally, “Margaret and Beatrice. Girls, this is Mr. William
Brandywine, an art student who is going to be staying with us this
year.”

The dark haired girl–Beatrice–curtsied prettily, and mumbled
indistinct greetings.

Her sister opened her green eyes wide and stepped forward. “An artist!
You’re really an artist, Mr. Brandywine?”

“Well,” stammered poor Corky, “not really…or, or, or rather not
*yet*…”

“That’s a terribly romantic occupation,” the girl exclaimed
eagerly. “Do you think you should like to paint me? I’m sure it would
be great fun.”

“Oh, no it isn’t!” Corky assured her hastily, “I’m afraid posing for
studies is terribly dull work. You must be perfectly still for an hour
or more, no matter how sore or cold you get.”

“La, wouldn’t it be a sight to have Maggie standing still for *five
minutes*,” said Beatrice, and giggled.

“I can stand still for just as long as I choose,” exclaimed her sister
indignantly. “But why should I get cold?” she asked Corky.

“Well…” he answered, “for figure studies, it’s traditional…that
is, in a classroom setting it’s really not terribly…that is to say
for, for, for purposes of artistic reference, the model will
generally…”

“You pose NAKED!” stage whispered Beatrice.

“Nude, dear,” her mother corrected her firmly.

Maggie blushed a little, but didn’t look as displeased as she
might. “Oh, my!” she exclaimed. “Is that really quite proper?”

“Now Maggie,” answered Mrs. Dalrymple, with an indulgent smile, “I’m
sure Mr. Brandywine has enjoyed the sight of dozens of nude young
ladies over the years, many nearly as pretty as yourself; and is none
the worse for the experience.”

“Mrs. Dalrymple!” Corky exclaimed, “I have only been at art school a
single week!”

“Ah, but I’m sure your social life has not been without the charms of
many an unclad young temptress,” answered the widow coolly.

Corky was indignant. “It certainly has not! If you must know, my
exposure to the fairer sex has been … *limited* up to this time, but
I assure you that, even were that not the case, I would treat the
ladies of my acquaintance with the respect and modesty due to a
gentlewoman!”

Did the woman truly mutter “What a pity?” So soft was her tone that
Corky wasn’t certain. A moment later, though, she spoke more clearly.

“Mr. Brandywine, you must forgive my rash words.” She seated herself
on the duvet, and drew Corky down beside her, turning her slender
shoulders toward him, and passing her arms about his neck. “Do my
manners seem extraordinarily free to you, William?” she asked.

“No, no, not at all, Mrs. Dalrymple!” he lied desperately, feeling a
bead of perspiration run down his temple. He was ashamed of his recent
outburst, and painfully aware of the uncomfortable prominence in his
trousers. The two daughter seated themselves in flanking chairs,
Maggie watching the conversation with an expression of barely
suppressed glee, Beatrice with rapt concentration.

“I spoke imprudently, and I hope you did not take offense,” the widow
continued as her nails tickled at the base of his scalp, sending
chills up his spine. “I was simply overcome by my delight at finding
such a fine, well-bred, and handsome boarder to fill out a household
that has been too-long given over entirely to the weaker sex. You see,
a woman becomes used to the presence of a man about the house, to
perform the necessary masculine duties.”

Corky’s spine stiffened and his face blanched. He wasn’t certain
exactly what she meant by this, and he hesitated to speculate.

“Why, only last Sunday, I was forced to carve the roast myself! ”

Corky relaxed a little.

“I’m so glad you understand,” she said, kissing his cheek
repeatedly. So distracted was Corky by the thrilling sensation of her
warm lips upon his face that he failed to notice her hand creeping
along his trousers, until she reached their distended apex.

“Oh, you poor man!” she exclaimed, grasping his rigid member.

“Madam!” Corky exclaimed, and attempted to spring from the divan, but
found himself hindered by the widow’s hands at his shoulder and his
inflamed groin.

“You must be in terrible discomfort,” she cooed, massaging his shaft
through the fabric. “Here, let me relieve the pressure a little.”

And with those words, she pressed her new tenant back onto the
cushions, and began to undo his trouser buttons.

Attempting to shield himself, Corky cried, “Mrs Dalrymple! This is
entirely indecent!” He leapt from the divan, and made for the door. “I
think this interview is at an end,” he exclaimed, his voice trembling
with agitation. “Good evening, madam. I shall seek lodging–” The
doorknob was failing to turn. “I shall seek–” It appeared to be
firmly stuck. “I shall seek lodging else–”

Turning, he saw that Maggie Dalrymple–the daughter who had expressed
such enthusiasm for the prospect of posing–was smiling triumphantly
with a key in her hand. Without her eyes leaving his, she slid the key
down the front of her dress.

“–where.”

“Girls,” the widow said, “Mr. Brandywine seems to be terribly
agitated. Do help him to relax.

The two daughters sprang at him, and in a moment, despite his
struggles, he found himself deposited once again on the divan,
Beatrice grasping his desperately kicking ankles and Maggie holding
his straining wrists above his head.

“Now, William,” said his hostess, kneeling beside him, “as I said,
there some household duties to which the man of the house is best
suited; but there are others where a woman certainly knows best. You
are clearly in some suffering, and I would be a cruel woman indeed not
to do what I can to ease your pain.”

She opened his flies, and withdrew his straining prick. Corky watched
with wide eyes as she drew her delicate little fist up and down upon
it. “It’s terribly hard and hot,” she murmured, her voice dripping
with lasciviousness. She accelerated her stroking, and he groaned. She
felt his shaft pulse in her hand, and a drop of clear fluid appeared
on the enpurpled tip.

As she bowed her head, he suddenly realized the monstrous debauchery
she was about to perform, and renewed his struggles against the
unnatural daughters who restrained him. But it was to no avail–the
widow’s pink little tongue darted out, and sampled the liquid from the
apex of his prick, before she lowered her hot mouth onto his tool, and
began to exert suction.

The sensation was intolerably exquisite. His hips bucked
uncontrollably, his groans rose to a drawn-out wail as he spent in the
older woman’s eagerly sucking mouth, then collapsed to the couch,
panting.

After a few moments, Mrs. Dalrymple ceased her gentle suckling and
lifted her head, a few drops of fluid adorning her chin like a
courtesan’s mole.

“Mother?” came Beatrice’s voice in a low, tremulous tone. Corky looked
down at the girl still gripping his ankles. Her face was flushed, and
her brow knit with emotion.

“Of course you may, Dear,” said her mother.

Beatrice sprang from the foot of the divan and seized her mother’s
face in both hands. Corky watched transfixed as the dark-haired
daughter carefully licked every iota of spend from Mrs. Dalrymple’s
face, before sealing her lips to her mother’s in a long and probing
kiss. At the sight, Corky was dismayed to find his pego already
surging to renewed life.

When the women parted, Beatrice was gasping, but the widow remained
serene. “Do unfasten me please, darling,” she said, standing and
turning about. The slender girl wasted no time in unlacing the back of
her mother’s gown. “Now hold Mr. Brandywine a little longer, Dear,”
she said, “I don’t think he’s fully reconciled to our treatment
methods yet.

Corky tried to struggle, but his will had failed him, and with
his trousers about his knees they soon had him fully under their
control again. Their mother walked over to the fire, and turned to
face the divan. Silently, she drew her gown off of her shoulders, and
let it fall about her waist, exposing the pale form of her massive
bosom and her broad dark, nipples. Then she turned about, and worked
the material off of her hips, so that it fell to a puddle about her
ankles.

“Dear lord!” he cried in alarm, “You’re wearing no undergarments.”

The widow grinned over her shoulder at him, as he resumed his struggle
against the hold of the two treacherous girls. She leaned over
slightly, so that the broad cheeks of her rump parted slightly,
allowing a hint of glossy hair and glistening vermilion flesh to pass
through. “My goodness, you’re right,” she purred. “You’d best avert
your eyes, Mr. Brandywine.”

Corky found to his shock that his gaze no longer obeyed his will. In
his mind, the swaying bottom before him suddenly resembled the
menacing display of the hooded cobra, her plump bestockinged legs the
powerful neck of the deadly creature, and himself the helpless rabbit,
frozen in place, a doomed victim of its terrible mesmeric power.

Mrs. Dalrymple was clad now only in her stays and stockings. She
turned
in place, revealing a broad expanse of chestnut curls at the bottom of
her pale belly. She stroked them pensively a moment, and then strode
towards the art student, with a whorish sway of her rounded hips.

With renewed strength, Corky struggled against the girls’ hold, as his
traitorous member bobbed rigidly, eager for more of the devil’s
work. Even as he desperately bucked, he found he could not tear his
eyes from the furred intersection of his captor’s shapely limbs.

She ran a cool little hand over his rejuvenated cock, watching her
struggling victim with distant amusement. “Well, I’ve done something
nice for you, William,” she said, placing one stockinged food on his
heaving chest. This action revealed the rosy folds of the debauched
woman’s cunt to Corky’s still-uncontrollable eyes. A sharp,
intoxicating smell reached the young man’s gasping nostrils, and he
found his mouth watering as his rigid member somehow increased its
desperate engorgement.

“Now you can do something nice for me,” she continued, as she
straddled Corky’s head, so that the exuberant tropical garden of her
nether regions was mere inches from our desperate hero’s face.

Barely giving the young man an instant to adjust to this unaccustomed
(to say the least) situation, she gripped his hair in her hands and
pressed her moist and redolent flesh against his unprepared face.