Note: Renamed the series from The Parlor to The Estate.
[Part One](https://www.reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/goy94e/the_parlor_fmm/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=ios_app&utm_name=iossmf)
[Part Two](https://www.reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/gp42hi/the_parlor_part_ii_interlude/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=ios_app&utm_name=iossmf)
We were three martinis in by the time Katarina finished explaining her plan and persuading me to go along with it. Her intuition was sharp. She accurately perceived the guilt I felt for taking things too far the other evening.
I had allowed myself to get lost in the pleasure of two strangers, while my husband had been entirely deprived. Katarina’s plan was cunning in that it allowed me to unload the weight of my guilt while not forgetting that it was my husband who stepped out first. We conspired to throw him a bone without letting him off the hook entirely.
Katarina’s plan would not manifest for another two weeks. In the present, however, the three martinis left me in no condition to drive home. Katarina suggested a proper tour was in order and arranged for her driver to take us back to the estate.
In the daylight, I viewed the mansion with a new perspective. The Gatsby-esque intrigue I felt on the night of the ball was replaced with admiration for its peaceful beauty. Entering the grand hall, it was strange to see that natural light had overcome the dim incandescent atmosphere I was familiar with.
Nonetheless, as we traced the hall into the parlor, my heartbeat quickened and my body grew ever-increasingly flush as my id stirred with memories of the week prior. When Katarina opened the door to the parlor, I swear I felt my vagina contract as I glimpsed the executive desk where I found unbridled freedom.
Katarina and I toured the parts of the estate I failed to explore the night of the ball. Apparently, that night, there had been a lavish dance in the other wing which housed the mansion’s ballroom. Katarina remarked that my “previously innocent soul barely made it beyond the sitting room.” She was right. There was so much of her world I had yet to uncover.
Chapter Two
Despite the three martinis, Katarina remained coy about her personal life. The entirety of the walk she spoke about her guests and the events she entertained. Don’t be mistaken, Katarina was not a puppeteer.
“I fancy myself a curator.” She explained. “I simply gather those who I suspect to be most interesting and I create an atmosphere for them to express their inner beauty … I leave all the fucking and mischief to them.”
My assumptions of this place were flat wrong. Even after experiencing it myself, I believed the whole charade to be a playground for elitist pigs. Before I met Katarina, I presumed the production was a cliche run by some chauvinist.
As we walked the gardens, I learned that while Katarina did lean heavily on the traditional elite, she invited all walks of life. Her parties were attended not just by lawyers and bankers, but by artists, musicians, dancers, and from time to time, the seemingly ordinary. Katarina took pride in finding intrigue were one would least expect it.
I intended to turn the conversation toward her but just as I mustered the courage to pry, the row of hedges gave way to an iron gate that opened into the guest house courtyard.
It was a quaint and rustic two-story cottage. Its stone face was adorned with patches of ivy and it’s narrow windows were flanked by Prussian blue shutters. Two chimneys protruded past the shingled roof, though the dwelling could only have had three or four rooms.
“Here is where we will play” Katarina said as she opened the front door. It creaked opened into a small lightly furnished living room. The only remarkable feature was the room’s large stone fireplace. A tiny kitchen could be seen to the rear and a small table was placed beneath a paned window with a picturesque view of the garden.
Katarina took my hand and led me up the stairs. The second flight opened into a single room that occupied the entire second floor. The room was painted a cream white that contrasted beautifully against wooden rafters which had been left exposed for style not necessity. A second, simpler fire place occupied the wall directly across from a king bed. The bed was plush, its soft white comforter contrasted with the walnut head and footboards.
I sat on the edge of the bed and ran my hand across the fine linen. Katarina walked up to me. With two hands she gently pushed me onto my back.
“Wai…t” I muttered as she sprang up and straddled me.
Chapter 3
My stomach quickly felt hollow and started to fill with butterflies as I felt Katarina’s feminine weight pressing down. Goosebumps became evident on my bare arms as Katarina extended them up to the headboard.
“Here are the anchor points” Katarina said. The butterflies folded their wings.
“Pay attention to how I tie this.” Katarina recovered 1/4 inch black nylon rope which was anchored to the corner of the headboard. She carefully bound my left wrist with what she called an “inline single column tie.” Katarina repeated the knotting process several times before she said “now your turn.”
We switched positions. I was now straddling my instructor. I felt her slim toned abdomen between my thighs. For the first time, I noticed her small breasts. In all, she had the body of a dancer.
Katarina was incredibly patient laying beneath me. She must have coached me through forty attempts before we switched to her right arm.
“Ok I think you got it.” “Do you feel comfortable?”
I replied “yes” and shifted my weight off her chest and onto my butt.
“Take this home to practice.” Katarina took a pair of scissors from the end table and snipped a length of rope. “Don’t worry.” “I will replace it before you get here.”
Katarina and I walked back through the garden to the main house. My hands fiddled with the rope as my mind replayed the image of her softly rising and falling chest. I mused on how little I knew about her.
“So I’ll see you Wednesday?” Katarina confirmed as I broke from my daydream.
“Oh … oh yes.” I bashfully caught up with the conversation. Katarina had offered to take me to her favorite seamstress. She applauded my home crafted mask but knew my anonymity required something more secure.
Between the drive to my car and the ride home, it was late before I entered my kitchen.
“ I thought you said lunch,” my husband teased as he acknowledged my absence.
“Well, you know… we had a few drinks and I guess we just got lost in the moment.” I replied. I had once appreciated my husband’s autonomy. After all, that slight jest was the extent of his chastisement for my being MIA through dinnertime. But now, I couldn’t help but question the motive behind his independence. Did he harbor some longing to be free? Certainly his presence at the Ball was indicative of this.
With this on my mind, I walked upstairs and placed the nylon rope in the box hidden beneath my bed. I tried to fall asleep knowing it would be another hour or so before my husband finally snuck into bed. I couldn’t. My heart-rate rose as if energized by the box beneath me. I reached down, pulled out the rope and practiced on a rolled t-shirt until I had the knot mastered.
Chapter Four
Wednesday morning, I met Katirina in her driveway. She insisted that we be driven. She was eager to discuss the outfit I had envisioned and described to her. She also wanted to fill me in on her half of the ploy.
Over the last few days, Katarina had contacted my husband with an invitation for a special lunch at the estate. He was given a set of specific instructions and told that his future admittance depended on him following every command to a T.
When we arrived at the boutique, Katarina greeted the seamstress in French. After a few sentences, she walked to the back room and reappeared with a garment bag.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I had Celia get started on the dress you described.” Katarina unzipped the bag and pulled out a knee length black satin dress. It was nearly identical to what I had envisioned. The front of the dress was cut in a sweetheart style, though thin lace lace brought the illusion neckline to my collarbone. The dress was sleeveless. More lace exposed the sides and back.
Celia helped me into the dress in front of angled mirrors. It fit well but not perfect. The seamstress took just a few measurements for refinement.
From my waist to the hem, Katerina ran the skirt of the dress through her fingers. She reached back into the bag and handed me two velvet elbow length evening gloves. “My touch” she winked.
Celia returned and helped me unzip the dress. For longer than I would have liked, I stood on the platform in just my simple bra and panties. Celia handed me my jeans and gestured me over to a chair.
As I stepped shirtless into the jeans, Katarina removed the mask from my bag and handed it to Celia for inspection. For the next half-hour, I sat cold, shirtless, and still as Celia carefully crafted a mold of my face.
The following Wednesday, I returned to Celia’s alone for the final fitting of my dress. Katarina was otherwise engaged. If the fit of the dress was any indication of Celia’s crafting skill, I was confident the mask would rest effortlessly on my face. To my dismay, it wasn’t yet ready.
Friday came, and I received a message from Katarina. “Is your husband home?”
“Not anymore.” I responded. True to his routine. My husband told me he was flying out early to prepare for the weekend’s out-of-state meeting. He ran a successful accounting consultancy firm, so I’m sure his lie was not too far off course. If only he knew I was no longer the oblivious housewife he presumed.
“Good. I’m sending a courier.” Katarina replied. With one day until showtime, this could only mean the custom mask was finally ready.
Chapter Five
Katarina’s instructions to the Roman were simple. “Arrive at 10:00 am. Follow the valet to the guest house where brunch was spread out for your sole nourishment. Feast and hydrate until 11:00. Follow the prescribed stretch/conditioning routine from 11:00 – 11:20. Use the restroom at least once between 11:20 and 11:30. Leave the front door ajar. Remove your clothes, leaving on only your briefs. Don your mask at 11:30 and head up the stairs. Take the blindfold off the bed and wrap it securely around your mask. Lay on your back and rest until woken. NEVER speak while you are in the house. “
I waited for Katarina in the garden at 11:45. I was wearing the black dress and gloves. My brunette hair was once again styled in a tight elegant bun. The new velvet cheetah print mask adhered effortlessly to the contours or my face; concealing more with less. To ensure anonymity a thick band provided added security. At katarina’s suggestion, I wore stilettos.
My stomach churned with anticipation. Small electric impulses radiated from my core to the point of near-pain. After a few minutes, the tension broke when Katarina appeared at the iron gate. She was wearing slip-on flats, a scarlet sheath cut dress that hugged her figure, and an awe inspiring silver laced mask that emulated the peaks of a crown. While regal, the points were cut in such a way that suggested ungodly wickedness.
I followed Katarina’s hips as they led me inside. The Roman appeared to follow Katarina’s instructions with soldierly discipline. The door was ajar allowing silent entry. A navy blazer hung from the wall above his folded pants and white collared shirt. The spread of meats and bread was half consumed and the yoga mat had been disturbed from its original storage place. Katarina slipped off her flats and allowed me to take the lead up the stairs.
While the two of us entered the second floor, the only sound that could be heard was the encroaching clack of my heels on the hardwood. My chest felt flush and the butterflies unfurled their wings in my stomach. A sensation I’ve felt more times this month than in my entire life.
The Roman lifted his upper body and faced the direction of my steps. Half his bodyweight supported by cut arms, I marveled at the definition in his shoulders. Around the house this man was nearly invisible. Here, he sat like a god.
I made my way closer to the bed. Katarina quietly took a seat in an armchair. I climbed onto the linen stage from the direction of footboard. With my heels still on, I crawled closer to the Roman. When I nearly reached his groin… I stopped. His blindfolded head cocked inquisitively. I pushed the Roman onto his back, straddled him, and extended his arms toward the headboard just as Katarina had done to me.
I reached down to my right and grabbed the 1/4in. nylon rope. The Roman seized his arm momentarily as the end touched his forearm. Realizing the folly in this action, the Roman returned his arm and submitted to my control.
I tied the first knot easily. I reached for the second rope, only now remembering that it had been cut. I reached a little further and found that the replacement was there. It was silly for me to think that the curator would deliver anything less than perfection. I tied the second knot. I practiced less on the left and it had taken me a moment or two longer than the first. A slight imperceptible to the Roman but pronounced enough to catch the keen eye of my instructor.
I placed both hands down on the Roman’s pectoral muscles. His chest was hairier than I remembered but then again it had been a while since were intimate. As I was taking this moment in, Katarina silently passed on my left. She inspected the second knot, first visually, then with her hand tightening a loose loop. The Roman’s head turned abruptly towards the previously undetected spectator.
I forcefully slapped his face back to center. I understood that Katarina’s presence was never intended to be known. My less than perfect performance prompted her introduction, and it was an impurity that I alone could sanitize.
Satisfied, Katarina returned to her chair. With the Roman firmly secure, I removed his briefs and exposed his hard cock. It was nothing special, and certainly nothing I hadn’t seen before. If his cock left anything to desire, he made up for it with his chiseled physique.
For roughly twenty-five minutes straight, I unloaded the guilt I carried from the night of the Ball by giving the Roman a slow, methodical, and uninterrupted blowjob. After a few velvet strokes, I removed my gloves so that I could use both my hands and mouth. I kept his dick sufficiently lubricated with spit as I twisted my hand up his shaft while simultaneously working my lips down from the head.
I couldn’t really use both hands but I feigned the ability to do so. On the other hand, I could easily deep throat him and did so with pleasure. I glanced up at Katarina who nodded with approval and with few tight strokes, I permitted the Roman to cum pathetically onto his stomach.
I hopped off the bed without cleaning him up. Im sure he heard the clack of my heals fade down the stairs as Katarina and I took our first break. If only I could tell him that that was the last orgasm he would experience today.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/gpls57/the_estate_part_iii_the_cottage_mfff