Join the Dots… You’ve Been Framed

From Blushes 41. The model has a passing resemblance to Elizabeth Taylor.

A plain, almost empty room, brightly lit by a central electric light suspended from the ceiling, the light reflected and emphasised by the pale decor of the room; the walls light grey up to the height of a man’s chest and above this pale cream; the carpet an unpatterned pastel beige. Almost empty but not quite: a simple off-white table is against one wall and opposite it is an unusual object. It resembles the metal frame of a bed, without legs or any covering, standing up on its end. A bare metal frame and its contained tautly-stretched steel springing. This object resembles the frame of a bed and indeed it may be one, or at least originally one but now presumably given over to some other function which requires it to be standing up in this matter against the wall.

This is the extent of the furnishing, if it can be so called, but the room is also furnished at this moment with a human occupant. Female, of apparently late teens to 20 years of age one would imagine and a most attractive specimen. Lightly clad in pale yellow top and brief white shorts, her long bare legs ending in white ankle-socks and black high-heeled ankle-strapped shoes. These first two items of dress would indeed appear to be all — apart from the described footwear. That is, there would seem to be no underwear, not under the yellow top which clearly contains unsupported breasts, firm and well-developed, with unconstrained nipples, and the equally thin white shorts also evidently contain nothing except unencumbered flesh beneath. Slim long legs, big-titted and full in the hips, slim-waisted, her face of a full-mouthed; large-eyed brightness set off by a thick mass of chestnut hair. This solitary occupant of the room is looking (apprehensively?) at the metal frame. Wondering perhaps what it is for? Or it could be that she knows. It could well be connected with her presence here. She has been sent here for a purpose which is connected with this unusual item.

She suddenly turns, to look at the door. It is closed. Locked? She is perhaps expecting someone. To come in and do something? To her? She chews that full red lower lip. An indication of anxiety, nervousness. She turns away from the door. If she had thought there was someone outside it seems she was mistaken. There is no one. Her apprehensive eyes return to the frame against the wall.

Without warning the door does open. Suddenly, with no warning sound of feet outside. A click of the lock and… she gives a little yelp, turning again. A man. In a dark suit, grey-haired and balding, with glasses. Fiftyish perhaps. Closing the door carefully behind him. He moves forward, towards the girl. In his hand is a pad which he consults.

‘Number 27!’ he asks. ‘Susan?’

‘Yes,’ she answers. ‘Yes, Mr Milvane.’

‘Good.’ He puts the pad down on the table. ‘You’ve been sent here before, have you, Susan? For an appointment?’

‘No… Mr Milvane.’ Her voice is nervous. Standing before him in the middle of the room this girl called Susan shifts her weight from one high-heeled shoe to the other.

He steps forward, up close. Susan looks as if she would like to retreat but doesn’t. ‘No?’ he queries. ‘I don’t have the record book here. But I presume you would know, wouldn’t you?’ A little mirthless laugh, as if this is a good joke. ‘You would remember, eh Susan?’

‘Yes, Mr Milvane.’ If there is a joke Susan evidently does not share it. Mr Milvane is standing very close and his hands come up and take hold of her two boobs: full, firm, ripe fruit under the thin T-shirt. ‘Nothing underneath, Miss? Mrs Parson told you that? But I can feel there’s nothing, can’t I.’ He is sensuously squeezing her good-sized tits. ‘You’re a lovely girl, Susan. Yes. Well I’m certainly glad you’ve finally been sent. How long have you been with us?’

‘Thr… three weeks,’ she stammers.

‘Three weeks! My word. Every girl should have an appointment in here before three weeks. Someone is slipping up. Well, we shall just have to see it’s done really properly, shan’t we?’

He gives that funny little laugh again. The hands let go of her tits. The girl shivers. A feeling of relief that the hands have left but there is no real relief because it is not over, what has to take place has not even started. The hands of Mr Milvane have anyway not yet finished. One of them slides in to her groin. Cupping her pussy through the crisp white shorts.

‘And what about the shorts, Susan. Anything under?’

‘No!’ she yelps.

Mr Milvane grunts — as he enjoys a good, groping feel. The hand finally comes away. And is Mr Milvane ready to start whatever has to be done? It would seem so. The quivering Susan is told to stand up against the frame. She is told to pull up her top, to expose those splendid tits. And then raise her arms to grip the top of the frame.

Susan, shaking, does what she is told. She has a pretty good idea of what happens in this room. Other girls have been in here, there are very few who haven’t and all will have to. The good-looking ones can indeed be sent for a number of visits, and being undeniably one of the better-looking ones herself it has, as Mr Milvane has said, been some sort of oversight which has not sent her here before. Susan has known that and each succeeding day has been expecting with bated breath… finally today.

She gives a little gasp as Mr Milvane takes hold of her now nude tits, thrust out high and firm by her raised-arm posture. His hands cupping them, rubbing and teasing the nipples. Which inevitably are responding. Sticking blatantly, erectly out.

She bites that full lip, feeling little pin-pricks of perspiration tingling all over her. But what Mr Milvane is doing, greedily at her tits, is of course only the beginning.