The furnishings in my room are typical of the mansion: old, dark, heavy wood smelling of polish and mothballs. The walls are a drab mushroom shade with a murky oil painting of a long forgotten duchess gazing disapprovingly down at the ornate four poster bed. The room is well appointed but oppressive and shadowy even in daylight.
It is night now. I have the heavy green velvet drapes pulled wide and cold moonlight illuminates the room almost as well as the weak winter sun of the day. My rooms are high up and I have no fear of being spied on.
Neither sun nor moonlight warms the room much. The mansion is always cold. I have extra blankets folded neatly over my bed.
I stand in front of the full length mirror on the wardrobe door. I am tall, full busted and pale. I have dark hair which I maintain in a short neat bob parted at the centre. My cheekbones are sharp and my eyes a dark hazel though concealed behind wire framed spectacles.
Although it is late I am fully dressed in a crisp white blouse and charcoal pleated skirt that falls to my stockinged knees. The stockings are black, opaque and held in place with a suspender belt beneath my skirt. My shoes are gloss black court pumps with a low heel.
I rest the book carefully on top of my head. It is a pocket atlas the size of a novel, hard backed with a dark blue cloth cover that has a rough pebbled texture and indented silver script showing the title.
I stand for a moment ensuring the book is balanced. I look at my reflection in the moonlight. I look calm belying the excitement I feel.
I begin by unbuttoning my blouse. I do it slowly not wishing to make any sudden movements which may dislodge the book resting on my head.
Cold air touches my pale skin around the cream lace trimmed brassiere I wear beneath my blouse. I keep my neck rigid as I shrug out of my blouse and turn slightly to place it on the bed behind me. I keep my gaze fixed on the mirror.
Reaching back to unhook my brassiere is easy but as I pull the straps down my arms I lean forwards and the book shifts slightly. I quickly resume my upright posture. My brassiere joins my blouse on the bed. My naked breasts hang heavily on my pale chest. My dark nipples look almost purple in the moonlight. They feel tight and hard. An obvious point of punishment should I fail in the exercise. I think of the harsh lacquered steel document clips taken from the study and now resting on my bedside.
I suppress a shudder which I confess is partly born of desire.
My skirt is easy to unfasten and I am careful not to lean over as I let it drop down my long black clad legs. I use one foot to lift it up off the ground so I may place it on the bed. In doing so I kick off my shoes and push them neatly together.
I unfasten the suspenders from my stocking tops by touch. The next part is difficult and I do it slowly. I raise my leg against the wardrobe door and begin to roll my stocking down. Then I stop realising what the view would be should I remove my underwear first.
My lace edged black panties are high waisted but pulled tight against the cleft of my mound. The silky fabric is warm and damp to the touch. I roll them slowly downward shimmying my hips and buttocks carefully. Even so the book moves fractionally on my head. I freeze scarcely breathing.
It is a trial removing my panties. They come away wetly. Strands of my excitement stretch glutinously from my agitated sex and snap as my underwear reaches my thighs. I use my feet inelegantly to push my panties to the ground then hook them with one foot and place them alongside my clothes. Not on top, I do not wish the wetness to mark my other garments.
I reach back, the lacy suspender belt unclips, falls lightly down and can be hooked on to the bed with one foot.
I stand in front of the mirror and very carefully lift one leg. The motion pulls and spreads my sex exposing the wet lips. My cunt unfurls glistening like a razor slit peach. My breath shudders in the still air. I can smell my own excitement over the rooms scents of wood polish and old linens.
I roll each stocking to my knees then use my foot to push and pull it off. It is a slow surprisingly tiring process. The motions of my hips pull at my cunt adding to the sensation of need.
The heavy blue covered book remains atop my head.
I am naked now facing my reflection. I caress the prominent contours of my breasts trembling as my fingers find my stiffly erect nipples. I marvel at their rigid rubber texture and the raised dimpled flesh of my broad sensitive areolae.
I watch myself in the mirror, pale slender hands on my breasts stroking and petting myself.
I let my hands move lower. Between my thighs. I ease my fingers down between my swollen lips, sliding across the fleshy hood of my clitoris. I squeeze myself between two fingers.
I misjudge my own arousal and I bow over with a groan. My fingers against my clitoris are too much. I forget myself and as I lean forwards the book slips from my head and hits the floor. The impact sounds loud in my quiet room and it startles me.
My hand moves away from my aching sex and I draw back from my peak shaking with frustration. I am annoyed at myself. The denial of my orgasm is the least I deserve.
I place the book on the bed and pick up the harsh metal clips from my bedside. I hesitate. The pain may send me over my limit to release and I have not earned an orgasm yet.
I take the two steel document clamps to the small old fashioned en suite bathroom. I soak a wash cloth in icy water from the basin and then sit on the edge of the clawfoot bathtub and drape the freezing washcloth over the hot twitching flesh of my cunt.
The sensation is close to pain and I gasp as sensual warmth turns to burning cold. After a long shivering moment I press the clips to my nipples and let them close on me.
The sharp crushing pain draws a deeper cry from me. I toy with the clips twisting and pulling until I feel I have been punished enough.
I return to my place in front of the mirror and watch myself remove the clips from my chastised and indented nipples. I allow myself to rub some life back into my abused teats. The clips go back on the bedside.
I dress again and place the book carefully on my head once more. This time I am determined to teach myself the control needed to maintain the proper posture even as I reach my orgasm.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/yzyni4/deportment_bdsmfemale_solo
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Very well written