Birdie – [Ff][slow][seduction]

The first time we met, I thought you hated me. Perhaps you do.

Ryan had warned me about you as we drove from Oxford. It was shortly after exam season had finished and we had decided to take a week together in the countryside, at your “ancestral home” as he put it, to unwind. Although we’d been dating for six months, I didn’t know anything about his family, except that you were “loaded” – his term, not mine – and that his father had died when he was a toddler. This was my chance to meet you, and Ryan had made plans to leave me alone at your house for the weekend while he visited a friend. The idea of being alone with his parent was intimidating, to say the least.

“It’ll be fine,” he said, “Honestly, the place is massive, and you can go out in the gardens, or just read or whatever. Far too much space for things to be awkward.”

“What is she like?” I asked, “Your mum.”

He sucked his teeth and thought. “She can be a little cold,” he said finally. “It’s nothing personal, she just doesn’t have much time for other humans.” He thought for a moment longer, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “She likes to mind-fuck people.”

“Okay! Well this should be fun. Like how?”

He grimaced, “You’ll see. She can be a bit strange. If you find yourself wondering whether she’s playing you, the answer is probably ‘yes’.”

I couldn’t think how to respond to that, and so I contented myself watching the landscape roll by. The sky was bright and clear that day, and the Shropshire hillsides were alive with the vibrant colours of late spring. When we reached the long driveway of the house, I gasped out loud. “My God, it’s enormous”.

He smirked. “I hear that a lot”.

“Is it old? When was it built?”

“Uh… late Victorian, I think. The family made a enormous pile of money under mysterious circumstances. Opium, I’ve always imagined.”

The house – more of a country hall really – was an imposing red brick building set in four or five acres of gardens. The gravelled driveway crunched under the wheels of the car as we pulled up.

I was childishly excited to see that you had an old-fashioned bell-pull which, when I tugged it, caused bells to distantly jangle inside the house. After a minute, the door opened to reveal you in your elegantly tailored dress, with your hair up, and an understated diamond choker around your neck. It glittered fabulously in the afternoon sun. I couldn’t imagine how much it must have cost, and I felt suddenly underdressed in my black jeans and hoodie.

“Oh,” you said, “it’s you, darling.” You leaned forward for Ryan to kiss your cheek then looked at me appraisingly, “and what have you brought home with you this time?”

Ryan laughed, “Mum, this is Chloe – I told you about her on the phone.” I flashed you a nervous grin, and a half-hearted little wave.

You tossed your head dismissively, “Well, she’s not as pretty as you made her out to be. Rather plump.” You frowned at me, “I suppose you had better come in, hadn’t you?” You walked back inside, calling “Tea?” over your shoulder.

You must have seen my shocked expression, but you didn’t show it, instead leading us through the hallway and into a wood-panelled sitting room. There I found a seat in a large tartan armchair by the fire. I was red-faced, and mute with embarrassment. Once you left the room to make the tea, I turned to Ryan. “That wasn’t cool,” I hissed, “what the actual fuck? Is she always like that?”

He snorted. “Don’t be wet. I told you, she’s fucking with you. Just ignore her. She’s actually lovely. She just likes to wind people up.”

I folded my arms and pouted sulkily, casting my eyes around the room. The armchair in which I sat was directly facing a large picture window, and the view outside was stunning. The house was elevated slightly over its grounds so that one could see all the way to the bottom of the immaculately sculpted gardens. Long sloping lawns gave way to flower beds and fruit trees, which surrounded an unusual hedge maze. I was puzzling over the maze, tracing my way to the central pavilion when you re-entered with the tea tray. You set it down on a low table (“Yes, it is lovely, isn’t it? Baobab tree stump, actually, varnished and sealed – Ryan’s father worked in Kenya for a time”) and curled yourself on the chaise-longue. You regarded me with ill-concealed amusement.

“So tell me, darlings – how did you meet?”

“I told you, mum, we met at uni. In the union.”

“Oh, of course you did. Are you in the same college, then?”

I found my voice. “No, actually, Mrs Jacobs, I’m at Balliol, and Ryan’s at Corpus – ”

You laughed gaily. You are beautiful when you laugh. “Please, Chloe, call me Birdie – all my friends do.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you. Birdie.”

You sipped from your tea, then frowned for a moment and looked at Ryan. “Remind me, dear, what are you studying again?”

“Materials Science, mum. Same as last time.”

“Yes, of course. I knew it was something terribly brainy. And what about you, Chloe?”

“I’m studying English, actually. I’m focusing on – uh – early feminist writers. Sand, mostly.”

You pulled a mischievous face, “Oh dear.” you said. You shook your head sadly and took another sip. “We shall have to train that out of you,” and you raised one eyebrow. I bit my tongue.

Over the next few days I spent as much time outside as possible. I’m not usually the country type, I’m more a raver than a rambler, but the hills and woodland surrounding the house were beautiful. In any case it was a relief to escape you for a few hours. You seemed to take a malicious delight in needling me.

You clearly didn’t approve of Ryan dating a gothy little blonde girl and took any opportunity to make that plain. One morning at breakfast, I bit inelegantly into a bacon sandwich and managed to get ketchup on my shirt and all over the table. “Oh God, I’m so sorry!” I said, dabbing mortified at the mess with a napkin.

“Don’t worry, dear” you said, eyeing me, “it’s rather an improvement. At least it’s a splash of colour.”

The following day, out in the garden, I was playing suck up. “- but you look so young!” I gushed, “Your skin is just perfect. I have such problems,” I said, “my complexion is a complete nightmare.”

Your reply deflated me: “Perhaps you should try wearing less make-up, dear?”

I took to avoiding you as much as I could. Thankfully, Ryan was right: the place *was* huge and I could get safely lost without encountering you for hours at a time. I spent a lot of time in the sitting room, curled up in the big tartan armchair, reading my book. As the week passed, though, I became increasingly nervous about being along with you. At last, on the Friday morning, Ryan kissed me goodbye. I begged him not to leave me. “She fucking hates me, dude. Please don’t go?”

He sighed. His mother’s low-level war on me had stopped being interesting after the first day. “She does not hate you. She thinks you’re lovely. I’m sure.”

“Just take me with you?”

“I can’t! For the last time, it’s just me and Jack. We’re going to go camping, get hammered and fall asleep in a field somewhere. No girls allowed. It’s like … tradition.”

“I’m not sure I can stand being here on my own with her.”

He stroked my cheek, and looked me in the eyes. “Chlo, sweetheart, it’ll be fine. Just don’t let her fuck with you. She loves to be in control. I’ll be gone for a couple of days, that’s all, and then we’ll get back home.”

I watched him drive away, down the long sweeping drive, with a chill in the pit of my stomach. After he had disappeared from view, rather than face you alone, I opted to hide in my room. Engrossed in a novel, and feeling unsociable, I skipped lunch and so it wasn’t until that afternoon that I crept into the sitting room, clutching my book. I hadn’t counted on your being there, curled like a cat on the chaise. As soon as I entered, your eyes locked onto mine and you smiled warmly. “Oh, there you are,” you purred. “Do come in, child. Sit down.”

“Oh.” I said, “I was just looking for somewhere to read. I can go somewhere else if you’d like.”

“Nonsense!” You replied, “it’s just us girls now. Do come and curl and we’ll have a chat, hmmm?”

Reluctantly I walked over and sat in the armchair, expecting you to make conversation. Instead, you watched me in silence for a long minute. I simply sat, nervously. It seemed impolite to start reading after you’d asked me to talk with you, but I wasn’t sure why we were waiting. You looked me over, as though inspecting me for purchase, occasionally raising an eyebrow. As the seconds dragged by, I grew increasingly edgy and began chewing the corner of my lip. At length you said “I don’t suppose, dear – ” you waved the thought away ” – no, forget it.”

Grateful for the broken silence I said “No, what is it, Birdie?”

“It’s just… ” you stretched out your long, slender legs on the chaise, “my feet. They’re so dreadfully tired. I don’t suppose you’d be a good girl and rub them for me?”

I looked at you in stunned disbelief. “You want me to rub your feet?”

Your smiled at me and flexed your toes. “I would love that, yes, pet.”

“Oh.” I said, “Um. I’m not sure that – ”

“Only they get so sore. I would be _ever_ so appreciative.”

I simply didn’t know how to refuse you. I was, after all a guest in your house, and you were my boyfriend’s mother. I thought for a second, but there didn’t seem to be any way to say “no” without being rude, and so I walked over to the chaise, knelt by your feet and began to massage the arch of your right foot with my thumbs.

“Like this?” I asked.

You closed your eyes and writhed against the cushions in sensuous bliss. “Mmmm… Oh, my child, that is just divine. Thank you.” You reopened your eyes and watched me in silence while I worked. Once I’d massaged your right foot to your satisfaction, you stroked my hands with the toes of your left. I took the hint and swapped feet. I felt strangely violated. I’d never given a foot rub to anyone before. While I rubbed, you never took your eyes from me, and your close attention made me feel too nervous to look at you. After a few minutes of our mutual silence, you suddenly said “A-ha!”

I looked up at you startled.

“It’s your make-up, dear. That’s what’s different about you.”

“Oh!” I said, and I patted my cheek with one hand, “Yes. I thought I’d try something different.” Truthfully, I was tired of your barbs, and so I had dropped the dramatic mascara and the plum lipstick. Instead I wore a nude pink lip stain, and the faintest touch of eye-shadow.

You smiled glowingly, “Simply beautiful, little one. So fresh faced, like a little flower.”

I blushed visibly, “Thank you, Birdie.” I said.

You looked at me slyly, “Actually, I think I’ve changed my mind,” you said, “I think I’d rather you called me Mistress Jacobs.” You withdrew your left foot again, and nudged me to rub your right. “Only, I hardly know you, you see. It’s inappropriate for us to be on first name terms. I can’t imagine what I was thinking.”

I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing. “Oh, um. I’m ever so sorry, Mrs Jac -”

“No,” you corrected, “Mr Jacobs has long passed. Mistress, if you will.”

I felt as though I were caught in some strange current. Things were moving in a peculiar direction, but I couldn’t tell where, nor exactly how to stop it. “Oh, yes,” I floundered, “um – of course Mistress Jacobs.”

Your face lit up, “Such an obedient pet. I quite underestimated you.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say to this, and so I busied myself by massaging the ball of your right foot. I could feel my scalp prickling with the heat of my embarrassment. Eventually, for want of something to say, I remarked “These stockings are lovely, Mistress Jacobs. Are they real silk?”

You sighed, “Yes, and a nuisance to find they are too. Worth it though, don’t you think? So much more luxurious than nylon.”

I nodded, “Yes, they feel lovely.”

You smiled at this, then tilted your head to one side and slowly raised your left foot to my cheek. Watching me intently, you stroked my face with your toes. “Yes, ” you remarked, “just lovely.”

I froze, astonished, feeling ice suddenly in my veins. I started to speak, “I – um – ” but you placed your toes on my lips to silence me.

“Shhhh, pet, it’s quite alright”, you said. “Don’t they feel heavenly?” I simply sat, immobile, unable to respond. Nothing in my life had prepared me for this situation. I had the queerest urge to kiss your foot, and I wondered how you would respond. The idea gave me the faintest tingle between my legs. Instead, I carefully put your right foot down on the chaise, and pushed your left away from my mouth. You gazed into my eyes, as though searching for something. Your scrutiny made me feel hot and prickly all over my skin, so I blushed again, and you smiled.

I made some babbling excuse and stood up to leave. As I walked from the room I heard you say, “You really are ever so pretty, child,” and, despite myself, I felt a pleasurable glow.

As soon as I reached my room, I tried to call Ryan, but his phone had went straight to voicemail. I didn’t quite know how to describe my circumstances, so I just sent a text: “Babe, how are you? your mum is being so weird. x.” and then collapsed on the bed. I was still tingling all over with an indescribable mixture of humiliation, guilt, and something else. What had just happened? I thought back to the moment, summoned it in my mind’s eye: I am kneeling in front of you while you sit comfortably on the chaise longue. You stroke my face with the tips of your toes and the ball of your foot. This excites me and I kiss your ankle, rubbing my face against your foot like a cat. The silky feel of your stockings against my skin makes me tingle and so I don’t mind at all when your foot draws lazy waves down my face and my torso to slide between my legs and – I broke my train of thought. Too weird.

I took a long bath, read my book and shaved my legs, still puzzling over you. Some strange Summer urge took me, and I decided to make an effort to dress for dinner. I had brought a couple of dresses with me, in case Ryan and I had gone out together. After my bath, I chose one of these, a chiffon mini-dress in dusky pink, and touched up my make-up while I waited for my hair to dry. I looked at myself in the mirror with a wry amusement. Ryan would laugh if he could see me now – his gothic weirdo girlfriend, all pinkly feminine frills – and for what? I avoided answering that question.

You were busy in the kitchen when I came downstairs, and so I went and stood for a while in the conservatory at the back of the house. The late afternoon sun was slanting through the glass roof, and the room was drowsily warm. A trapped bee bumbled confusedly in one corner, unable to find the exit and I watched it sympathetically until my eye was again drawn by the hedge maze. Most mazes I had seen were either circular labyrinths, or the kind of square puzzle you might find on the back of a cereal box, This one, though, was composed of small interlocking curves and whorls, like a finger print or the patterns of soap suds. It was ingenious and beautiful, and I was struck by how confusing it must seem from the inside. I was so engrossed that I didn’t hear you enter, but I saw a flicker of reflected movement in the window glass and spun around.

You were stood looking at me with your hands clasped behind your back, smiling sweetly.

“I see you changed for dinner.”

I nodded, “Yes, I thought it might be nice to make a bit of an effort. I don’t get to play dress-up very often.”

“It’s lovely,” you replied, “very much an improvement. Young girls shouldn’t dress in black all the time. There’s time enough for widowhood and funerals.”

I shrugged. “I just like wearing black. It’s easy, it goes with everything.”

Your lips pursed. “But look at yourself now, sweetheart. All pink and flush with the bloom of youth. That’s precious, don’t waste it. You’re very beautiful, you know.”

I’ve never been very good at receiving compliments, and your attention made me feel nervous. I cast my eyes down to the ground and sketched a little circle on the floor with my foot, answering “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.” We stood in silence so that I could hear the droning and desperate battering of the bee against the glass. A distant clock measured out the seconds, tick, tick, tick, tick. My eyes were still downcast when you started to walk slowly toward me, stockinged feet gliding across the floor. I looked back up at you. You had one eyebrow raised, and wore a slanted little smile as though enjoying a private joke. I realised suddenly that you were between me and the door. As absurd as it seemed, I felt trapped. You moved so deliberately. One foot forward, then a pause, then the other, like a tiger stalking its prey. “I mean it,” you said, “let me take a closer look at you.”

A strange sense of panic came over me as you advanced and I froze. When you were only inches away from me, you reached out with both hands and placed them on my waist. “Yes,” you said, “that’s much more flattering. You’re quite the belle, little one.”

I raised my arms up as though to ward you off, and opened my mouth to complain, “Um, Birdie, I – ”

You glowered. “I thought I asked you not to call me that?”

You spoke with such absolute authority and I felt, suddenly, as though I were a little girl and you my headmistress. I just blushed, “I’m sorry, Mistress, I forgot.”

Your face softened and you purred with pleasure, “Very good, my angel”. Your hands slid from my waist: up my sides and into my hair, then back down my shoulders and along my spine to touch my buttocks. “This material is rather lovely, isn’t it? So … ” you paused with your hands on my backside – ” so soft”.

I stammered. “I y – yes, Mistress Jacobs. I got it in the sale.”

You laughed at me, clearly enjoying my discomfiture. You were stood toe-to-toe with me, so close that my breasts pressed against yours. Slowly, as I stared at you in horror, you leaned forward. Your face lowered itself toward mine and I knew that you were about to kiss me. My heart pitter-pattered as though some tiny creature were trying to escape my chest. “Mistress, ” I managed, “I … I don’t think …”

You pressed your finger to my lips to silence me. I didn’t know what else to do, so I just closed my eyes. I had fantasised, in the past, about being seduced by a beautiful older woman and those fantasies treacherously played themselves back in my mind’s eye. I saw clearly how you would dip your tongue into my mouth, how you would roughly pull my hair, how I would writhe and moan and arch. I felt hot tears of embarrassment start at the corners of my eyes, and I held my breath to keep from crying. I felt paralysed by the strangeness of the situation. If you had been some beer-reeking old man in a pub, I’d have laughed at you, or screamed, but I felt – bizarrely – as though I would be wrong to resist you. You lifted your finger from my lip and I felt your breath, hot beside my ear; I felt you breathe in, and out, in, and out. Your lips gently brushed the outer edge of my ear. With my eyes closed, every tiny sensation was exaggerated, and your voice seemed huge when you whispered to me “Clever girl. This suits you ever so well, you know.” Your hands slipped back down to my buttocks, to caress and squeeze me. I was terrified of how I might react if you touched between my legs; would I slap you, or simply melt?

I shivered, feeling utterly helpless. “It was half price,” I said, feebly, “from Missguided.” You giggled at me, and I felt your hand cup my face. You lifted my chin up and commanded “Open your eyes”.

I looked up at you, trembling. Your eyes were so very blue. You looked at me tenderly, then placed a kiss on my forehead, said “I have to see to dinner. Won’t be long now,” and stalked away, back into the house. I collapsed onto the chair. My heart was racing and I was out of breath. “Oh my god” I whispered, “Oh my god, oh my god.” I had held my breath for so long that my nerves were buzzing all over my skin, and my vision darkened as though I were about to faint but, more disturbingly, I was suddenly aware that I was wet. I squeezed my thighs together and felt the slight dampness on the tips of my labia. I peered into the house to make sure that nobody was watching, then touched the crotch of my panties under the skirt. I was damp and sticky and my fingers felt electric where I touched myself.

Confused, but horribly aroused, I crept back upstairs to my room, slid under the crisp cotton sheets and brought myself to a rapid, quivering orgasm.

Dinner passed without incident, although your bare foot stroked my ankle several times. I was too ashamed to meet your eyes. As soon as my orgasm had passed, I had suffered an immediate wave of guilt. What was I doing? Why was I masturbating over my boyfriend’s mother? I was still unclear of your intentions. You were a lunatic, that much was clear, but I couldn’t decide whether you were genuinely attracted to me, or just “fucking with” me, as Ryan had put it. Ryan still wasn’t answering my calls, and my messages had gone unread.

Perhaps because I felt so ashamed of myself, I drank more than I would normally. I offered to wash the dishes after dinner, and I spent a peaceful half hour listening to the radio with my arms in hot water and suds. I was feeling relaxed, then, when I picked up my book from my room and went to sit in the tartan armchair. You were sat, of course, on the chaise longue. I hesitated before entering the room, I was frightened of what might happen, but something urged me on, and I realised that part of me had been hoping to find you. You raised your eyes to watch as I walked in, but returned to your magazine, and I settled comfortably into the big armchair. I found my place in my book and within moments I was completely absorbed. For a few minutes we sat in absolute peace, with only the sound of the clock and the occasional turned page to disturb the stillness. After some time I became aware that you were staring at me.

My eyes flickered upward to meet yours, and you smiled at me, like a cat smiles at a mouse. My pulse skipped a beat. I licked my lips, and pretended to continue reading.

“Is that your natural colour” you enquired.

I looked up and ran my fingers through my long blonde hair, “Yes,” I replied, and then something came over me, “Do you like it?”

Your eyes flashed with sudden amusement, “It’s lovely, child. Do you ever wear it up?”

I shrugged, feigning disinterest, “Not often, no.”

You sat up on the chaise, “Why don’t you come sit with me, and I’ll brush it for you?”

Again, my pulse skipped. “That’s okay, Mistress Jacobs” I said, as easily as I could, “I can brush my hair by myself.”

Your looked crestfallen. “Oh, but we’ve been getting on so well, child.” You patted the side of the chaise longue, “Do come sit at my feet, it would please me so to groom you,” You simpered and fluttered your eyelashes, “Just like a little kitten.”

I chewed the corner of my lip, “Well, just for a minute,” I said, although I didn’t believe it myself.

I stood up from my chair and walked uncertainly to your side, where I knelt again at your feet. Your hand smoothed my hair and ran down the side of my neck. The nerve endings in my scalp were extraordinarily sensitive, and I closed my eyes to concentrate on the feeling. Your fingernails scratched lightly underneath my hair, up and down my neck, and the feeling made me shiver. I didn’t resist at all when you shushed me, and pressed my head down to lie in your lap. In fact, it felt wonderful to rest there and I felt all of my worries floating away. After a couple of minutes, you picked up the hairbrush and began to brush my hair. Nobody had tended to me in this way since I was a child and I felt a deep sense of safety and peace.

When you began to stroke my cheek, I only tilted my head and sighed happily, as though I were a kitten being stroked under the chin. Your fingers coiled and circled in the hollow of my throat, and stroked the length of my shoulders back and forth, swooping in circles and lazy figures of eight. The sensitive skin of my back was tingling pleasurably and I was so relaxed that I barely flinched when your hand slid into my dress and cupped my breast. I shook my head gently, “Please, Mistress. Please don’t do this to me.” but you only shushed me again, and scratched the underside of my breasts with your elegant fingernails. I shivered for you and moaned slightly under my breath. “It’s wrong,” I complained, “we mustn’t,” but you only rolled my nipple between your fingers and pulled it gently. This felt so pleasurable that I leaned my head back into your lap and kissed your thigh over the heavy fabric of your skirt. I watched myself behave this way as though from above.

“Good girl,” you whispered, and slid my dress from my shoulders, freeing both breasts. Gently, you began to stroke my chest. Your hands cupped and teased and massaged. You slid your hands upward, to rub the muscles in my neck and scratch the electric nerve endings of my scalp, then returned to my breasts. Each time you touched my nipples, the pleasure grew more intense, and my kisses in your lap grew more urgent. Gradually you moved your legs apart, and eased your skirt upward until I was kissing the bare skin of your thigh, just above the silk of your stocking. I was aware, as I kissed your warm, soft flesh, that your groin was only centimetres from my nose and mouth. My mouth sucked hungrily at your skin as I kissed and bit my way upward. When I was tonguing the dark hollow of your thigh, my nose was pressing into your soft heat and I felt myself grow wet. I played with you, my nose rubbing at your slit. I pressed the thin material of your panties into your wetness and I felt you shudder. Your hands stopped playing with my hair and my hard nipples, and slid along my right shoulder. You lifted my arm and ushered my own hand gently into my lap. I didn’t need any further encouragement: my hand slipped under my skirt and into my underwear. My wetness was shocking to me and I groaned into your mound, kissing the wet material of your panties. I sucked tenderly at you, feeling the swell of your labia underneath the wet cotton. Your honey was thick and savoury on my tongue and I wanted to taste more of you.

I turned to face you, on my knees, and your hands tangled in my hair. With my right hand I teased the entrance to my vagina, and with my left I pulled your panties to one side. I pushed my tongue into you and your heated flavour made my head reel. I felt you lift yourself from the chaise, pushing your sex against my mouth. You pulled my hair, grinding yourself against my mouth. My tongue delved deeper, swirling around inside you. I rubbed my own swollen clit as I gorged on your rich juices, lapping and sucking, and I was so excited that I came with minutes, screaming my pleasure into your wet folds.

As soon as I had cum, remorse flooded me again. I sat back on my heels and looked up at you, my dress around my waist, my mouth still wet with your orgasm. I wanted to tell you that I had made a terrible mistake, that I didn’t want you to touch me ever again. I wanted to stand up and walk away, I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. “Mistress,” I began, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” but you just wrapped your fingers in my hair and pulled me back between your legs, still murmuring my objections as my lips met your mound, still wanting to run away as my tongue slipped inside you, still hating myself as I drank gratefully of your nectar, still full of guilt as I came for you, again and again and again.

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I’m Robin Goodfellow, I like words and I like filth. My hobby is writing esoteric erotica for people on Reddit. I genuinely don’t know why. If this titillated or troubled, appalled, amused, or aroused you then drop me a line. Orange envelopes are to me as manna from heaven.

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/7p12yq/birdie_ffslowseduction