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From: "E. Z. Riter" <ezriter@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} {EZ}The Phantom (MF Rom MC)
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Date: Sat, 01 Apr 2006 06:10:06 -0500
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This is fiction intended for legal adults readers. If it is not legal, DO
NOT read.  This is a copyrighted work.  Reposting or any other use strictly
prohibited without the express, written permission of the copyright holder,
except may be posted as part of a review or posted to my pre-approved
archives.

Copyright 2005, 2006 by E. Z. Riter

E mail address: ezriter@hotmail.com

Please!        Give me your comments!

The works of E.Z. Riter are archived at www.storiesonline.net and at
www.asstr.org (ftp://ftp.asstr.org/pub/Authors/E.Z.Riter) And at
www.ruthiesclub.com

This story originally appeared in 2005 at Ruthie's Club
(www.ruthiesclub.com) where it included a beautiful illustration.


THE PHANTOM

by E. Z. Riter

Theme: A story suggested by or based on a song, written for a collection of
such stories at Ruthie's Club. Thanks to Nat for editing.


Song:
The Phantom of the Opera
Music by Andrew Lloyd Webber
Lyrics by Charles Hart and Richard Stilgoe.
(c)The Really Useful Group
(Used without permission)

Christine:
In sleep he sang to me
In dreams he came
That voice which calls to me
And speaks my name
And do I dream again?
For now I find
The phantom of the opera is there,
Inside my mind

Phantom:
Sing once again with me
Our strange duet
My power over you
Grows stronger yet
And though you turn from me
to glance behind
The phantom of the opera is there
Inside your mind


It was early summer. The days were warm and the flowers were blooming. I had
just graduated from the private preparatory school I attended and Mother had
graciously given me a sabbatical from my voice, dance, and other
extracurricular lessons. I felt as free as a bird.

Mother and I spent a three-day weekend on Long Island at Aunt Peggy and
Uncle Mort's house. My Aunt Olive and Uncle Simon were there, too. And my
cousins, eight in all, although James, Mandy, Patti and I were the about the
same age and hung out together. We laid in the sun or swam in their pool. We
laughed and teased and giggled. James even tried to teach me tennis.

Mother and I took the train back into Manhattan, and arrived at our
apartment about six on Sunday evening. We ate a light supper and then got
ready for bed. I put on one the nightgowns Mother bought for me for my
birthday last year, the one with the pink cami-top and matching harem pants.

I sat on the padded bench facing the oval mirror attached to the back of the
dressing table. Mother stood behind me, brushing my golden waist-length hair
with the silver handled brush that had been my grandmother's. Mother groomed
it with long, slow strokes.

I closed my eyes. My melody wafting faintly inside my head made me tingle
before it was gone. I opened my eyes to see Mother smiling knowingly at me.

"We adults heard giggles coming from the teenager's bedroom last night. What
were you doing?" Mother asked.

"Talking about sex."

"Oh?" Mother said in a tone of voice Mother's use to garner more
information. "Do you know a lot about that?"

"More than you think I do," I replied mischievously.

"I didn't know you were even interested in boys?"

"I never have been, have I? But, lately... well, it seems all I think about
is sex."

"I've noticed," Mother said. "Have you even kissed a boy?" she asked.

"Just one," I admitted. "But the girls at school talk and I listen." Mother
didn't need to ask who the one was. His name was Sean McLaren and I was
fourteen at the time.

"So, what did you four talk about?" Mother asked.

"Mandy told us how she lost her virginity to her boyfriend at their prom
last month."

"And?"

"She taught Patti how to masturbate a boy."

"Using James as a model, I suppose," Mother said.

"Of course. He certainly didn't object."

"Did you join in the fun?"

"Mother! You know I wouldn't. I couldn't! I could never be untrue to him!"

"To your phantom?" Mother asked.

"Yes, to him," I said.

"He's not real, Christine."

"He's very real to me, even if he's only in my dreams," I said.

"It's a strange dream, Christine. A melody you can't repeat. A man you've
never seen but only heard his voice."

I can't tell you when my dream first came to me. Maybe three years ago.
Maybe four. It seems so long ago. At first, it was the few bars of a simple,
haunting melody playing in my mind as I slept. Strange at it seems, I could
not remember the melody or reproduce it to let others hear, but each time I
heard it, I knew it was mine. I don't remember when the few bars became
eight or eight became sixteen. Nor could I tell you when the tune was
complete and the solitary organ became an orchestra.

Then he came into the dream. The disembodied voice of a pure, lyric tenor
calling my name. "Christine." Only my name. "Christine."

I called back to him, "I'm here. Who are you?" He couldn't hear me, or,
maybe, wouldn't answer me. How could I tell which it was? So I listened to
the melody and him calling me.

I can tell you the night he first sang to me. It was night I turned
seventeen. I wore one of the nightgowns Mother gave me for my birthday. It
was the transparent silk black one that came only to the top of my thighs,
and had matching bikini panties. He sang words of love written for the
melody I'd heard all along.

Later, he sang other love songs or read to me. He began with poems of love,
poems I'd heard before when we studied them in school, but from his lips
they were so sweet and pure it was as if I were hearing them for the first
time. In a month, he began reading other things-plays, short stories. He
would sing and read before silently slipping away.

Then, in April, just about six weeks ago, he began reading me other
stories-romance stories, erotic stories. Stories of men and women, of
warriors and their maidens. Of worlds where women were slaves to men.
Stories of love and lust like those I'd found on the Internet.

I had so much I wanted to ask him, so much about him I needed to know. But I
was silent, always silent, trapped in the dream's helpless state. And that
state kept me from expressing my love for him. I couldn't tell him, or hold
him, or open my gown and call him to my bed.

Yes, it was he whom I wanted. Sometimes, I would daydream of him for in
those dreams I could have him do what I wished. He would come to me,
sometimes softly to kiss my neck and make me whisper for him to hurry,
sometimes roughly to throw me down, lift my skirt and have me as his.

And in those dark times in my room at night, I would open my gown to caress
my breasts until my legs parted. My hand would find my sex hot and wet in my
need, and I would come as I thought of him and the melody played in my head.

Just a few weeks ago, I was determined to contact him. I wrote a note to my
phantom, saying "Don't sing to me or read to me. Take me. Possess me.
Command me. Fuck me. Make me yours forever." I pinned the note to a throw
pillow and put it where he could not miss it.

I wore nothing, not even my panties, when I got in bed. I covered myself
with one thin sheet. I touched my breasts slowly, listening to music in my
head. And the music climaxed, so did I. I prayed he'd come to me.

In the depths of my rest, the melody played again.

"Christine, I am here," I heard him say. "O, Christine, my lovely Christine.
I do possess you. You are mine and mine alone, my precious jewel."

I felt hands on my breasts, felt them explore and caress me. Hard fingers
brushed my sex. No one but I myself had touched me there. No one had touched
me like that making me burst with need.

"I will fuck you, Christine, and more. I will pleasure you and you will
bring me pleasure in any way I ask. But not tonight. Sleep, my beauty,
sleep."

I was suddenly aware Mother had stopped brushing and put her hands on my
shoulders. Her eyes were soft and loving as she always is with me, but there
was a hint of concern around the corners.

"Thinking of your dream?" she asked.

"Yes, mother," I replied.

"Let's talk about real men. Mr. McLaren has invited us to spend the weekend
at his house in the Hamptons."

Archibald McLaren was a wealthy and powerful man. Mother was his mistress,
yet so much more. She told me he was her king and her master, holding her in
thrall. Yes, those were her exact words. "King and master." "Holding her in
thrall." I had to look up "thrall" in the dictionary. It means "enslaved,
held in bondage." So I asked her.

"Are you his slave, Mother?" I had asked.

"Not as people usually think of it, but, emotionally, yes, honey, I am. I
enjoy being his," had been her reply.

"Why?" I had asked.

"Don't you dream of your phantom possessing you?" she had replied.

Oh, did I ever.

"Mr. McLaren has never invited me to the Hamptons," I said. "He's never
invited me any place."

"That's not true, Christine. We spent four days at his beach house when you
were fourteen. That's when you met Sean. He'll be there this weekend, too."

"He will?" I asked, my excitement evident.

"Yes, he will."

Then a thought came to me. I don't know why I had it. It wasn't like me to
attribute ulterior motives to people. Maybe it was my recent preoccupation
with sex, or my crush on Sean. Maybe it was the way Mr. McLaren had looked
at me the last time I saw him, or my own dark desires to have him ravish me.

"Why was I invited?" I asked.

"You're eighteen now and you'll be going off to college in two months. They
wanted to celebrate with you."

"And that's all?" I asked.

"We'll go shopping tomorrow for some new clothes for you. You need to look
your best."

"Don't ignore my question, Mother. Is that the only reason I was invited?"

I turned and stood to face my mother, who was only eighteen years older than
I am. Except for the age difference, we might be two peas from the same pod
we look so much alike. I took her hands in mine and said, "Answer me,
Mother."

"You might not remember Sean. It's been four years since you saw him."

"I remember him, but I don't like him. He's a spoiled brat," I said.

"You only think he's a brat because he didn't reply to all the letters you
sent him. I remember you mooning around the house and begging me to arrange
for us all to get together again."

"I was fourteen," I replied.

"Why is the picture of you and Sean together still on your wall?"

"I don't have another picture to replace it," I said. It was a terrible lie
and Mother knew it was.

"He was eighteen then. Now he's twenty-two and a Harvard graduate. He starts
their MBA program in the fall, just as you'll start as an undergraduate.
He'll inherit the McLaren fortune someday."

"I want more than a rich man when I marry," I said.

Mother laughed, a happy, melodic sound sprinkling joy around her. Someone
told me once my laugh sounded like hers and I was truly honored. "We're
going for the weekend, not to plan a wedding. Now sit down and let me finish
your hair."

I love my mother with all my heart. She has been so good and loving to me.
But I know her very well. I watched my mother as her long, smooth strokes of
the brush tugged my hair. It was a pleasing and soothing sensation. Yet
tonight, it didn't still my questions.

"I'm sorry, but since you never answered my question, I need to ask another.
What is expected of me this weekend?"

"I don't understand what you mean," Mother said, but she understood only too
well.

"Am I being given to Sean?" I asked.

"Given?" she asked.

"Will Sean have sex with me? Or will Mr. McLaren?" I asked.

"Would you like that?" Mother asked.

Would I like it?

I am sure I was the only eighteen-year-old virgin at my school except those
either planning on becoming nuns or who preferred girls to boys. Mother said
I was a late bloomer, but, for whatever reason, I hadn't needed boys. I had
my studies and my music and my phantom, but lately, that wasn't enough.

Certainly, Sean was handsome, the most handsome man I'd ever seen. I
remembered him as being tall, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, black-haired,
with beautiful blue eyes and a great smile. He was smart with a quick wit.
I'll bet he has all the girls he wants. Still, Mother was right. I had a
horrible crush on him that started the moment I met him. It might even be
love. I knew this. My braces were gone and the skinny girl he'd seen had
blossomed into a lush and attractive woman. I wouldn't get the same reaction
from Sean this time.

And Mr. McLaren? He intrigued me with his powerful blue eyes and expression
that could be bend me to his will like the wind bends a blade of grass. I
had seen him many times, usually when he picked up Mother for they held
their assignations elsewhere other than the elegant and expensive brownstone
he provided for us. He provided well for us, including my tuition at the
best private school on the island and my other lessons. We spent Mother's
earnings as assistant curator of a small museum as we wished because he paid
for all the rest.

The last time I saw him was only three weeks ago. He was coming to our house
at six-thirty for a drink before they went to the opera. I just happened to
be trying on the new beach clothes we had bought that day when I heard the
doorbell. I ran to the door to answer it.

"Good evening, Christine," he said pleasantly when I let him in.

"Hi, Mr. McLaren," I replied. "Mother will be right down. Come have a seat
in the living room."

He followed me to the living room and thanked me when I brought him a drink.
His eyes had never left me. I know how to avoid sexual body language around
boys my own age, but I wanted to please him, to entice him. I don't know why
but I couldn't help myself when he looked at me that way.

"This is one of the outfits we bought today," I said. I let the cover-up I
was wearing slip to the floor, revealing my body in a bikini. "Do you think
my suit is too small?" I asked innocently as I slowly pirouetted on the
balls of my feet.

I felt strangely different than I ever had. Never had I been overly
displayed for a man's pleasure. Never has I experienced the raw, sexual need
of a man so blatantly directed at me, not even when the boys in school came
on to me as they often did. I felt helpless. I knew if he wished to have me
then and there, he would, and there would be nothing I could do about it.
And deep inside, I wanted him to do just that, to have me, to command me to
please him.

Yet, I felt powerful, too. I saw him adjust his erection, and the nearly
uncontrollable hunger in his eyes. I had done this to him. I was a woman and
he ached for me.

"Good evening, Archie," Mother said as she came into the room.

His expression changed. He was in control again. "You are a stunningly
beautiful woman, Christine. The man who has you will be fortunate indeed,"
he said. "Now, go to your room."

As soon as I left the living room, I heard him say to my Mother, "Lay down."

I stayed out of sight by the door to listen.

She laughed and said, "Are you going to think of Christine while you fuck
me, Archie?"

"Yes," he replied. I heard a zipper being pulled.

"Oh, please don't, Mr. McLaren. I'm still a virgin and you're so big,"
Mother said in a little girl voice.

There was the rustling of people moving and clothes being removed. Mr.
McLaren groaned.

"Oh, Mr. McLaren, I never knew sex was so wonderful," Mother said in the
same voice.

I listened to their noises and words-heard his grunts and demands, heard
Mother's encouragements and singing his praises. Then I went to my room and
pleasured myself while the melody from my dream played in my head.

It was obvious to me Mr. McLaren wanted me, and he was the kind of man who
always got what he wanted. Mother would do nothing to stop him. She had told
me once she would never deny him anything. I didn't ask if they discussed,
or maybe planned, his taking of me. Why should I distress her? The truth was
Mr. McLaren and I both wanted it, and he would not be denied.

"There. All finished," Mother said, straightening my hair with her hands.
She pulled loose hairs from the brush's bristles, balled them up, and tossed
them in the trash. "Give me a hug," she said, pulling me into her arms to
say goodnight.

I stood in the door of my room on the top floor of the brownstone to take it
all in. It seemed different somehow as I examined each little aspect of all
that was mine. I realized then the difference was within me. The
anticipation of the weekend to come. The knowledge I would become a woman.

I wanted my dream that night. I wanted my phantom to come to me. But I knew
my dream didn't come every night and all my wishes could not make it so.
That Sunday night it failed to find me and I slept pitifully.

Mother and I shopped on Monday, plowing through the clothes at Saks,
Bergdorf-Goodman, and a few exclusive salons. It was clear I was being
clothed as I had never been before-as a woman to attract and please a man.

Mother selected a floor-length cocktail dress so tight it would have hobbled
me but for the slit up my left leg. It was backless. Any man's finger inside
the dress no more than an inch would feel the divide between my butt-cheeks.
The top tied around my neck and there was no strap around my back. Hands
could easily slide inside to caress my breasts, or pull the string to leave
me topless. My first thong, self-supporting stockings, and black open-toed
pumps were all I'd wear with it.

I must admit I felt deliciously sexy and more feminine than I could remember
as I tried it all on. The looks I received from the sales staff and male
customers would make any woman proud.

Mother didn't stop there. A new blouse and skirt, a tennis outfit all in
white, a leather vest and miniskirt, a jersey top exposing my shoulders and
ending under my breasts with a matching, form-fitting, floor-length skirt,
shoes, boots, bathing suits and more, and almost as many things for Mother,
were to be delivered by the stores to our brownstone. We ate out that night,
Chinese, in a smaller restaurant.

I asked Mother the question I'd wondered all day. "Mother, why did you buy
these clothes for me?"

"So you would be pretty and sexy for our weekend," she replied. Something in
the way she said, maybe her glance downward, told me she wasn't telling me
all I needed to know.

"Did you select what you bought for me?" I asked.

"Some," she said. She sighed, "Archie selected most of them," she admitted.

I realized the first clothes I owned that were overtly sexual were the
collection of nightgowns Mother gave me for my seventeenth birthday. "Did he
select my nightgowns, too?"

"Yes, honey, he did."

"So, Mr. McLaren will be my first lover?"

"Only you can answer than question," she said.

Again, I crawled naked into bed and pleasured myself as my melody filled my
mind, but my phantom man didn't come to me. He didn't come Tuesday or
Wednesday. On Thursday, even my melody failed me. I masturbated and couldn't
orgasm, leaving me frustrated and restless.

Friday afternoon as Mother and I waited for Mr. McLaren's limousine to pick
us up for The Hamptons, I tried to remember how long it had been since I'd
endured a week without my dream. Was it last month? Three months ago? Or
more?

"The car's here, Christine," Mother said to me.

The driver opened the door for us. I sat on the plush rear seat next to
Mother. She tried to engage me in conversation on our drive, but I demurred,
looking out my window as I wondered why my phantom hadn't come to me.
Mostly, I thought about Sean McLaren and his father, Archie. I wondered what
they were like in bed, and which one would take my virginity, and if both of
them would have me.

We arrived at the McLaren mansion about six. As the driver slowed the car
opposite the high white columns in front, the front door opened and a woman
I'd never met came out to greet us.

"Hello, Angelina," she said to Mother when she opened our door. "And you
must be Christine. My, but you're as beautiful as your mother."

"Christine, this is Gabrielle," Mother said. "She's my dear friend."

I had heard Mother talking on the phone to a woman named Gabrielle but I had
never met her. I wondered why.

"Let's get you two ready for dinner," Gabrielle said, taking my arm to lead
me into the house.

Gabrielle was stunning, with long coal-black hair and black eyes flashing
from olive skin. She was Italian I later learned, and twenty-eight years
old. I noticed immediately that she wore a leather vest, skirt, and matching
boots, identical to the ones Mother bought for herself and me. And the gold
ring on her right thumb matched the one Mother wore.

"So that's it," I thought. "Mr. McLaren is going to add me to his harem. Why
else would he dress us identically?"

A thousand thoughts flitted through my mind. How big was his harem? Could I
go to college? Would he keep me in a brownstone as he did Mother? How could
he manage to please us all? That caused a particularly disturbing thought.
Maybe we pleased each other. I had been approached by some of the lesbians
at school. I even let one kiss me, kiss me as Sean had done with hands
holding me tightly and a tongue in my mouth. But with Gabrielle? With
Mother? Oh, God!

Gabrielle led us upstairs while the butler and two maids brought our
suitcases. Gabrielle said, "This is my room for the weekend," tapping a door
as we passed it.

She opened the next door to reveal a lovely, good-sized bedroom exquisitely
decorated in antiques. She said, "Angelina, this is your room. Why don't you
start getting ready? I'll help Christine."

"All right," Mother said. "Christine, do what Gabrielle tells you."

"Yes, Mother," I replied as Gabrielle led me to the next closed door.

As she led me down the hall, she said, "You get the Mirror Room, Christine.
It's the bedroom for the guest of honor." She opened the door and my
reflection stared back at me. She gently pushed me into a room three times
as large as the bedroom Mother had.

The walls and ceiling were all mirrored. It was disorienting. Gabrielle
turned me toward one wall and said, "That's the window." It was a large
plate glass window with a magnificent view of the ocean. She turned me in
the opposite direction, saying "And that is a reflection of what's outside
the window."

The butler arrived with my bags. He unpacked them, opening a glass panel to
reveal a closet, and, to my great surprise, pulling open a drawer in a
bureau I had not seen because it's mirrored surface in a mirrored room made
it almost invisible.

"Here's the bathroom," Gabrielle said.

"It doesn't have any walls," I said. And it didn't. It was an area of this
giant room differentiated only by the floor covering, which was a tile
rather than the plush, eggshell-colored carpet in the rest of the room.
There were four fixtures: sink, commode, bidet, and a giant, Jacuzzi tub.

"No, there aren't. Your lover can be anywhere in the room and watch you
bathe," she said.

My eyes were accustomed now to the optical illusions the mirrors created. I
could see three chairs and a king-sized bed. The frame of the bed was steel
with four corner columns extending ten feet high. There were rings embedded
in the bed frame-dozens of small, round rings.

Gabrielle was behind me and I felt her body against mine as she whispered in
my ear, "Have you ever been bound by a man?"

"No," I said, my voice barely audible.

"You'll love it, won't you?" she whispered.

"Yes," I said.

"Me, too." I heard the door shut as the butler left the room. "Let's get you
ready," Gabrielle said. "Take off everything."

I knew I would change before dinner. I didn't anticipate Gabrielle helping
me. It was a strange feeling having her there, looking at me with an
appraiser's eye.

"Wear these panties," she said, handing me a cherry red thong with lace all
around. "You're looking forward to tonight, aren't you?" Gabrielle teased,
pointing between my legs at my plumped pussy lips.

"I've been ready all day," I admitted.

When I slipped the panties over my hips, the back of the thong slid nicely
between the cheeks of my bottom and tickled a little, from the lace I
guessed. That's when I noticed what kind of panties they were.

"They're crotchless," I said.

"Yes, and this is the way you wear them," Gabrielle replied as she pulled my
lips through the open crotch. The elastic held them there.

I couldn't believe she had done it. Her fingers had been so smooth, her
touch light and quick, that I almost came from her touch. My pussy was
throbbing with every heartbeat. Gabrielle knew exactly how I felt.

"The panties make me..."

"Want to get fucked," Gabrielle said. I nodded. "I know. I'm wearing them,
too. A man enjoys his woman being ready for him. Now the stockings." She
handed them to me.

I put on the thigh-high stockings, wiggled the skirt over my hips, and
zipped it up. The leather was the best quality, soft and supple. It fitted
like a glove, but barely covered me. The stocking tops brushed the hem when
I stood. A strip of bare thigh would be visible when I sat.

My boots, like Mother's and Gabrielle's, were thigh-high, lace-front boots
with five-inch stiletto heels. I put them on, straightened my skirt, and
took the leather vest she handed me. I wore it as she did, with nothing
underneath-not even a bra-and with only the last of the four buttons
buttoned.

"You are magnificent, Christine. He'll eat you up," Gabrielle said.

I was, too, magnificent. I had never been so sinfully and deliciously
sexual. It was a heady drug, and I intended to enjoy it to the maximum.

Our boot heels clicked on the hardwood floor as we went down the hall and
down the long staircase toward the parlor. The lace of the thong tickled my
ass and the elastic tugged at my pussy. I wondered if I would orgasm just
from the raw sexual feelings within me. I heard Mother's laughter before we
entered. Her arms were around Mr. McLaren's neck and his hands stroked her
ass as they kissed. They separated when we entered and both reddened
lightly.

Mr. McLaren smiled at me with warm, soft eyes as he welcomed me to his home.
His expression confused me. I expected to have a dominant and demanding man
throw me on my back and take me at once, not to see a father figure.

"Christine," a man's voice said in that sweet, pure tenor I loved. I froze
as my melody burst in my head in a crashing crescendo. I couldn't move and
every sense I had wanted to hold him and love him.

"Christine," the voice said again.

"It's him, Mother. My phantom," I whispered.

Gabrielle looked nonplused, but Mother and Mr. McLaren looked like they knew
and understood.

A hand was on my arm. "Turn around, Christine. I want to see you," he said
in a tone I could not deny.

I turned and saw a magnificent hunk dressed in a tuxedo. His beautiful blue
eyes devoured me.

"Sean?" I said.

"Hello, Christine. I've missed you," he said in the voice that had read me a
thousand poems.

"It's so hot in here," I said. Then my world turned black.

Sean's face was the first thing I saw when I awakened. He looked concerned
as he sat on the edge of the couch holding a cool cloth to my head. Mother
was behind him. Mr. McLaren and Gabrielle sat in wing-backed chairs watching
us.

"Are you all right?" he asked solicitously.

"Yes. I'm sorry I fainted but..."

"Why? I almost fainted from the sheer beauty of you, but you beat me to it,"
he said.

Mr. McLaren cleared his throat to get our attention. "Well, now that
Christine's awake, we don't we have some dinner?"

"We'll be right there," Sean said.

I heard them leave, but all I saw was him.

"I'm sorry I never answered your letters, but Father insisted I not. He said
you were too young and impressionable, and far too precious to get involved
with a scoundrel like me. He was right as always. Now I can appreciate what
a remarkable woman you are."

"Kiss me," I said.

"No, because if I kiss you once, we'll end up in bed. I think we should eat
first," he said.

"I want bed first," I said.

"No."

"Please, Sean," I pouted.

"Uh-uh. None of that. No manipulation, my angel." He stood and extended his
hand. "Come on. Dinner is waiting."

The McLaren mansion had two dining rooms, or three, if you count the
breakfast nook. We used the small dining room where the table only sat ten
people. The butler and a maid served. I'm sure the food was wonderful, but I
didn't eat a bite. The conversation was scintillating and others were
raucous with laughter, but all I could think of was how much I wanted Sean.

Finally, he took pity on me.

"Father, ladies, please, excuse us," he said.

He took my hand and led me upstairs toward the mirrored room. I was giddy.
My love juices had been oozing from me until I felt it on my thighs and the
smell filled by nose. Shaun tossed his tux jacket and bow tie aside as we
topped the stairs. I undid the button on my vest and threw it where it
landed on his cummerbund.

Sean said reverently, "God, your tits are magnificent."

He stopped to stare at me. I seized my opportunity to unzip his trousers,
and yank them and his boxers down. I dropped to my knees and wrapped my arms
around his legs. His erection brushed my cheek and I sucked it into my
mouth, letting it hit the back of my throat. I knew the instant it passed my
lips I would love spending hours that way. I leaned back to stare up into
his eyes.

"Now, Sean. Fuck me. Here. Please," I pleaded.

I lay back and squirmed my skirt up over my hips. I pulled the panties off
and spread my legs.

"Please, Sean. Fuck me. Possess me. I need you in me now."

He dropped to his knees between my legs and I grabbed his cock to put him to
me. "Finally! This is it! I've waited so long," I thought.

"Sean! I love you!" I gasped when his cock head lodged in me. He slowly
pushed and my pussy spasmed around his girth. "Oh, God, Sean... I'm coming."

Sean chuckled at my ready and wanton response. "O, Christine, my lovely
Christine. I do possess you. You are mine and mine alone, my precious
jewel," he whispered in my ear.

I was in a sweet, soft, limp post-orgasmic daze as Sean pulled out of me.
Through hooded lids, I watched him finish undressing. He picked me up in his
arms and carried me into the mirrored room where he laid me on the bed. The
room was lit only by the moonlight flooding in through the plate-glass
window. He began untying my boots as I watched him.

Never had a woman so wanted a man. I was his ready and eager subject. He was
my phantom lover, my ideal, come to life.

He mounted me again. His cock felt so good in me, his weight so light on me,
his face so loving and masterful. I came until I could come no more before I
felt his cock expand within me and his hot seed bathe the walls of my womb.

I awakened alone in that big, steel bed. The sunlight coming through sheers
and reflecting off the mirrored walls lit the room. I stumbled out of bed to
pee. As I sat on the toilet, last night replayed in my mind. I realized Sean
had spoken the exact same words to me, with the exact same inflection, as my
phantom lover. I wondered what that meant.

As I walked back to the bed, I saw myself in the mirrors. It seemed I was so
much more beautiful than before, more sensual and womanly. I had what the
stories I read called that well-fucked look. The juices dry on my thighs had
something to do what that.

There was a silk robe on the bed with a note that read, "Join us
downstairs." I freshened up and wrapped my naked body in the robe before
walking barefoot down the hall. Our clothes were gone. There was no sign to
indicate where I'd lost my virginity. No trace of the passion we'd shared.

As I walked barefooted down the hall and padded down the stairs, I could see
myself here, in this house, twenty years from now and thirty and forty. See
my children running in the halls. See my grandchildren. See Sean and myself
as we aged. I didn't feel the heat of passion. I felt love for him, a
stronger and deeper love than I imagined last night when I first saw him
again.

Sean, Mr. McLaren, Gabrielle, and Mother were in the parlor with Mr. McLaren
sitting on the couch with Mother and Gabrielle on each side of him. Sean was
sitting opposite them in a comfortable leather chair.

"Good morning, Christine," Mother said, and the others echoed her.

"Good morning," I replied.

Sean stood and I rushed into his arms. We kissed and the passion bubbled in
me. He sat back down and pulled me into his lap. The three older ones
watched us with love and a hint of amusement.

"Christine," Sean said, holding up a gold ring. "Do you know what this ring
symbolizes?"

"That you possess me, own me, command me. That you hold me in thrall and I
am yours."

"Would you like that?"

"I am that, Sean, with or without the ring," I said. He slipped the ring
over my right thumb. It fitted me perfectly.

"And what does this ring symbolize?" he asked, holding up a diamond
solitaire on a golden mount.

I couldn't help it. I began to cry.

The End

Please give me your comments! ezriter@hotmail.com

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