Monday morning. Taxi crunches gravel at massive iron gates. Suitcase thuds beside me. Heart hammers—this tutoring gig’s my pitstop, anonymous estate in nowhere-ville. No one knows the real me. Door swings open. Soubrette in crisp black skirt, white blouse straining over full tits. Hips sway as she leads through marble hall. Echoing heels. I wait, cock stirring already.
Mrs. Hill glides in, fifties elegance masking killer curves. Rings sparkle on manicured hand. Slacks hug round ass, pinch at thighs. Chatty as fuck, climbs stairs to guest wing. Brushes past—scent of leather, perfume. Magnetic key beeps for my room. Unpack fast: shirts, pants, that lingering ache from Barnier’s office caning. Window overlooks gardens, distant stables like runway lights at dusk. Dinner call.
The Stopover
Evening. Descend to dining room. Florence: short plaid skirt rides up teen thighs, ponytail bounces. Brat eyes dare me. Mr. Hill: silver fox, mid-fifties swagger. But the maid—switched to frilly uniform. Tight bodice plunges deep, lace apron frames bronzed cleavage. Serves roast, bends low. Tits nearly spill. My dick hardens. Mr. Hill shifts, bulge tents pants, eyes glued to plate. Mrs. Hill’s gaze lingers too, lips parting.
Next day. Florence’s room. She sprawls, legs splayed, skirt flashing panties. Teases: ‘Strict much?’ Provokes nonstop. Cock throbs, memories of Barnier’s badine flood. Assign heavy homework, bolt. Hallway ambush: Mrs. Hill in riding gear. Jodhpurs mold every curve—ass like perfection, thighs thick. Boots thud. Corset cinches waist, breasts heave. ‘Indisciplined house needs firmness,’ she purrs. Knows about Barnier call—me naked, cropped, phone ringing. Grabs riding crop from console. Taps palm. ‘Horse can’t get enough. Join me at stables post-lesson? Instructive.’ Winks. Turns, ass flexing down stairs.
The Transit
Stable rush. Hay dust, horse snorts, leather whiff. She’s waiting, crop flexing. Door bangs shut. ‘Show me that discipline Barnier praised.’ Circles me. Eyes devour. Anonymity fuels it—I’m gone tomorrow, all bets off. ‘Pants down.’ Hesitate. Crop snaps air. Drop ’em. Ass bare. She grins. ‘Good boy.’ First lash stings cheeks. Gasp. Second bites. Cock springs rigid. Circles nipple, pinches hard. Groan. Against stall wall, she grinds. Jodhpurs unzip. Wet pussy lips part. Fingers dig ass welts. ‘Fuck me firm.’ Guides cock in—tight, soaked heat grips. Thrusts savage. Tits freed, suck nipples stiff. Legs hook waist. Crop taps back, urging deeper. Grunts echo. Sweat slicks skin. She claws shoulders. ‘Harder, tutor!’ Balls tighten. Explode inside, her walls pulse, milking every drop. Collapse panting.
The Departure. Quick dress. She smooths jodhpurs, smirks. ‘Discipline restored.’ Back to room. Corridors whisper—maid’s footsteps? Pack suitcase zip. Morning light. Soubrette escorts to door, cleavage taunt. Hand over keycard. Taxi hums. Gates recede. Ass still throbs, pussy scent clings. Perfect parenthesis. Road calls, next anonymous thrill.