[ *takes place in a somewhat-battered Victorian-style hotel long after the Victorians have gone out of style. The woman speaking can be understood in a drawn-out transatlantic accent where each syllable is more familiar as a landscape unto itself rather than an individual part of a word. In her room it is possible to the point of probable that somewhere on a faux-silver tray is an abandoned cup of tea, a vial of expensive honey, and a polished brass spoon so small it could almost be useless.The top to the vial (whether it was a cork, a stopper, or a twist-on cap) is inexplicably missing ]*
The grand suite looked over the West End where the street drove on through the small hills and valleys with the carts and horses upon it and so continued past the vendors, beggars, soapbox preachers, and gutter-trash until it ultimately ran out to the port where the ships would roll in from and out to a sea that could be infinite if not for the goddamn cartographers’ work ruining all sense of wonder through establishing a known, finite, mapped world as did those loathsome swine. I sat at the window. On a velvet ottoman I undid the sash to my robe and opened my legs knowing I would not touch myself yet. I looked out over the street and over the sad, quiet men going by and thought what they would think of me above them, hidden behind my window in the dark, wearing all but nothing on the seat of an ottoman where it was touching all of me deep into the late night. There can be nothing wholesome about this hour or these men or where they’re going, and there lies the piece of string wrapped around my finger and all of theirs in unity of endeavor: if they all appeared in my room at once I would know what they hid in their hearts under their thick overcoats and what secrets grew beneath their pinstriped trousers and they would see the fabric turning dark underneath where I sat on the ottoman and between all of us would be an understanding.
And so a knock — I tightened the sash on my robe and rose from the ottoman to greet the door but thought twice. I stood in the center of the room and waited for the second knock, then returned to the ottoman. I loosened the sash.
“Yes darling, do come in” I called just loud enough to be heard through the barrier.
“Madame, you rang?”
“Yes, I did ring in as much as I called for you and now I’m calling for you to come in if you would, thank you.”
The latch turned as if afraid to be heard. The bellhop stuck his neck in about halfway still looking at the floor.
“Madame, I must ask — ”
“I must ask again for you to come in, won’t you please Mr. Bellhop or what you would be called, and I fear having to ask again would cause me a trauma, and isn’t that a blight on your conscious you won’t have in bed with you if you were to sleep at all, tonight, is it?
“I mean no trauma for you, but I must ask what I may be of help for — ”
“There is only one way you can help me at the current moment which would be what your job entails, to help me, and so you should come in fully and close the door behind you or would you say you’re unwilling to work? But that’s no concern, there is no harm, I can tell you it’s quite alright if you would and so would you now?
With caution the bellhop slid around the halfway-opened door, his back to me, and, turning around in a swivel, closed the door. He kept his eyes on the floor but once inside looked around the room. He saw the bed askew, a silver tray somewhere with untouched tea and honey, the tripod and camera set up facing a chair toward the far end of the room, and myself beyond all of it seated where I remained at the ottoman. He returned his eyes to the floor and spoke.
“Madame…”
“That’s quite enough, Mr. Bellhop.”
“I’m a Porter, madame.”
A new confidence: I stammered for a moment though he didn’t notice. He looked at my robe, the sash loose as if it were a wonder it held together at all, my porcelain legs, my lively bust rising out where the two sides of the robe met at the center of my chest, and looked away.
“It’s quite alright, Mr. Porter.”
He looked back up at me again. I liked it. He said nothing. I continued.
“I need a favor of you, a small kindness is all Mr. Porter.”
He gestured toward the far end of the room.
“That’s a camera?”
“Yes. I know they’re new, don’t be ashamed.”
“That’s the modern way to make paintings?”
“In a way it is. The only difficulty is the operation. Let’s say I wanted to make a painting of myself. I would need to pose but at the same time need to press a small button on the camera to make it work. But from where I’d be sitting I won’t be able to reach the button myself, which is the problem.”
“And that’s the help you need?”
“Yes, so would you press the button for me? I’m going to sit on that chair and I want you to stand behind the camera and look through the lens and, when I tell you, press the button. Is that too much Mr. Porter?”
“Clarence.”
“So that’s alright is it Clarence?”
He nodded, lifted his eyes once more to look at me, and moved behind the camera. I rose from the ottoman and moved over to the chair across the room. The sash, from one long-end’s own weight, slipped through its loops and fell in a straight line along the floor as I walked over. In what remained of my robe I sat down with my legs crossed and then uncrossed them.
“Madame, this may be better suited for someone more familiar to you.”
“Clarence do you not like what you see of me?”
“It’s not that, Madame…”
“Your word is bound to mine. After it’s finished it would have never happened is the story of mine, do you understand?”
“Yes, I do.”
“So we can continue?”
“Yes, Madame.”
Clarence moved his head toward the viewfinder and put his hand on the camera body, fumbling.
“Not yet, Clarence. I’ll tell you when. The button is small, difficult to find. I’ll help you. Stay where you are.”
I rose from the chair and moved close behind Clarence, grasping his right hand. I took my index finger and started at the base of his index finger down near the knuckle by his palm. I moved my finger up from the bottom of his toward the tip to guide the pad of his finger onto the shutter release. I repeated the same motion twice more, each cycle pressing his finger a bit harder until I whispered into his ear.
“Here, and you’ll need to press firm all the way down.”
He remained at the ready. I moved back to the chair.
“I’ll take my robe off now, Clarence. Is that okay?”
“Why would you do that?”
“This is the kind of painting I want to make of myself, Clarence, would you be so kind to understand?
“What are you doing to do with that kind of painting?”
“I haven’t yet decided — can we not continue?”
He nodded and I undid my robe, letting it fall behind my arched back and then sliding it sideways onto the floor. I could not see but imagined his eye through the lens looking at me.
“This is okay, Clarence?”
“Yes.”
“So I’ll tell you when.”
And so I presented myself. I opened and closed my legs, crossed them and uncrossed them. I drew my hand from behind the back of my head and over my shoulder-blades, underneath and around my hard, taught breasts and pointed nipples, down further between where the bells of my ribcage meet above my bellybutton, and kept my hand moving further down to feel how I was wet. Dripping, it was easy to slid my middle finger inside and quietly move it back and forth, in and out, involuntarily rotating my hips with the movement of my wrist, all the while Clarence watched through the camera lens. After a moment I returned my finger back to my mouth, staring back at Clarence, and slid it down toward the back of my tongue to taste myself. I then placed both arms down to the side of my waist and sat up in the straight-backed chair. I tilted my head to my left shoulder and looked up toward the ceiling, beyond the ceiling, hoping anyone else above with a larger camera that could see through walls and roofs were watching me as well, hoping everybody and anybody camera or not could see me and my tight, wet, naked body drawn up in portraiture. I held this pose and spoke to Clarence.
“Press the button, Clarence.”
Click, flash.
I remained seated and looked down between my thighs to see the fabric had grown damp and dark. I’d now ruined two places to sit. Clarence stood behind the camera, not looking through the lens anymore but unfiltered through his own eyes. I motioned him over and he came to me. Standing over me, I motioned him down to his knees and brought his head to rest on the inside of my left thigh. I returned my middle finger inside myself and slid back and forth, rotating my hips, feeling the extra weight of his head on my leg. I removed my finger but this time brought it to his mouth. He opened his lips with caution but showed none once my finger came to rest upon his tongue. He closed his mouth and sucked until I removed my finger and placed it underneath his chin on the soft part of his neck, just above his Adam’s apple. I motioned him to stand over me once more, and so reached to undo his belt and trousers once he had risen. Clarence was not wearing anything beneath his pants, and I saw him immediately. He was large, but not too large, and was thick all the way down to his head.
“I want you to please yourself, Clarence. On me.”
He spoke through pursed lips: yes. He brought his right palm and fingers to wrap around himself. I slid further down the chair and toward him, wrapping my legs around his, so that he was direct over my stomach and chest. Clarence began stroking himself, back and forth, and I returned my middle finger inside myself to work with him in unison. He went back and forth and I went in and out. While my hips rotated in a circle, his moved toward and away from me. We continued like this until my legs began to shake and I felt a warmth coming out from inside of me, traveling in infinite loops and shapes and directions and motions throughout my body. The feeling grew more intense the longer we went, and so I found myself grabbing Clarence’s right arm and pulling and pushing it toward and away from me faster than he had been.
“Fuck yourself, Clarence. Fuck yourself in front of me.”
On the edge, Clarence retook control and moved faster than I had. He leaned toward me, put a hand on the small curve just above my right hip, and let out a slight moan. I moved my hand faster still, adding a second finger inside. I looked at Clarence and spoke.
“Please.”
It was only another moment before Clarence came to my wishes. In an instant, the speed of his motion vanished and was replaced by a calm, still power. His legs stiffened while his pleasure rang out over my stomach, breasts, chest, and neck. I felt the warmth and the weight of him on my body as if somebody had dripped hot, thick molasses from a jar above. I continued touching myself, rubbing in circles, any and all directions, in and out, all the while Clarence hung over me between my legs watching. I watched him, and I looked at him and how he was thick and how his chest was heaving, and I watched him watching me still until my own warmth fell off the edge and echoed back and forth throughout my body. I finished with Clarence painted over my chest and, with his strong hand still on my hip, I could not help but crying out and pulling him on top of me where our skin stuck together in our own mixture of sweat and fluid. We lay for a while or longer regaining our breath until, on the verge of sleep, I spoke.
“That will be all Clarence, you’ve been quite kind.”
“It was a pleasure, Madame.”
“That much I hope, yes.”
And so Clarence left, and I sunk further into the chair in front of the camera, sleeping until the morning light crawled through the windows and the sad, unknowing men beneath in the street emerged from wherever they came to travel wherever they were going.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticstories/comments/6r47qr/c_l_a_r_e_n_c_e_fstr_xpost_reroticliterature