No More Questions

"I'm not sure I can," Elsie whispered nervously.

She could, of course, in the simplest reading of the question. It was just a case of slipping buttons from their holes, hooks from their eyes, and pulling loose delicate strands of satin. She'd been acting as a lady's maid off and on for near on thirty years. Dressing and undressing was nothing to her, except when it was absolutely everything, a sacred act between man and wife.

Charles had never asked anything quite like it before, posed such a direct and risque question. Well, maybe once when he'd sat her down and proceeded to stutter and stumble his way through a painfully awkward attempt to discuss 'positions'. Not that he'd really asked anything, mostly it has been a monologue comprising a lot of cryptic 'you go there's' and 'I'll do that's' until at last he'd all but talked himself out of the very idea of attempting anything at all. Once she'd got the jist of what he was proposing, however, she'd not baulked at it, not entirely. Confusion had been her overriding sentiment followed by many silent wonderings of how anything different to what they had been doing would even work. Then, as now, her pragmatic side had dominated whereas what she'd really needed, she'd learnt in a highly embarrassing fashion, was a healthy dose of courage and self-belief.

"I've shocked you," he said, dipping his head in acknowledgement.

"No, no," she said, rushing to quietly reassure but did so with an excessive firmness in the hope it would hide her lie. It was a bit shocking and she was floundering for a response.

It wasn't that she didn't want to. It was very flattering to think that her husband wanted her, a wan of mature years, to undress for him, to put on a show to heighten his arousal. She felt hot and flustered just thinking about it, how he'd gaze at her skin as it gradually emerged as the layers were peeled away, how she'd know the effect she was having simply from the fullness of his pupils, the look of pure lust as the curves of her hips, of her breasts stood out proudly against the dark wallpaper of the room. And with these thoughts dancing through her mind she was almost ready to nod when he spoke again.

"In which case, can you just try?" he pleaded, "Please. For me."

"Why now?" her voice cracking, her nerves not as under control as she'd begun to hope.

Perhaps it was an odd question, she contemplated as she watched him struggle to reach for an answer. Their situation would have been amusing if it wasn't so tortured. Hats thrown aside as they'd rushed into their hotel room, shoes placed hurriedly in a semi-neat row under the bed, just as they did on an ordinary evening at home. The speed of their actions a result of a moment of passion that she'd instigated. It has been her lips, her tongue, her hands on his chest that had led them here, and now it was her hesitating, slowing the pace to a near stop.

"Your corsets, Mrs Hughes," he responded darkly. He only used that name in private when he had a definite and highly intimate point to make. "You've stopped wearing them."

She flinched but he continued. "You thought I hadn't noticed, but I did," adding, "I always do."

"And then yesterday," he shivered, "Your leg up on the chair as you dressed, the top of your stocking exposed," pausing before his voice deepened, "It was like a dream to see you that way. And now I want to see you again, all of you."

It was quite a statement, she'd give him that. And heaven to goodness, it worked. She was utterly persuaded. Her heart quickened at the prospect of what she was about to do next. In broad daylight, net curtains swept back from the window with only the waves and gulls as their witness.

From his position on the bed, resting back against the pillows and yet poised, as if ready to leap forward at the given signal, he stared at her with continued longing, a silent message to urge her on. She bit her lip, too hard she realised as she'd tasted the blood, and drew in a deep breath to steady herself. Her hands lifted and hovered over the top button of her blouse, just for a moment before she began. The thin mother of pearl disk slipped easily from its buttonhole, revealing far less than it signified. She heard his sharp intake of breath as he realised his request had been accepted. Elsie kept her eyes firmly fixed on his as her hands, quivering almost imperceptibly, moved down to the next and the next. The loose patterned fabric began to flap, a glimpse of what was underneath as the fourth and fifth buttons were released. The corselet that had evidently been the cause of all of this, with its pale pink silk curving delicately over her chest, was visible now. The lace edging accentuating the rise and fall of her bosom just above the tease of nipples hardening as he murmured his appreciation. A faint smile graced her lips as she felt the glorious tension between them rising and continued, emboldened that, whatever it was she was managing to do, appeared to be working.

Shrugging the blouse from her shoulders, its summer lightness causing it to drift effortlessly to the floor, she moved on to her skirts. The hook at the waistband was dealt with efficiently, the resulting soft swish of material falling to pool at her feet the only sound beyond the now heavy breathing from the bed. She had to turn away to find the clasps for her petticoats, they were always trickier somehow. Looking at them in this light, she saw how plain and purposeful they were and, in all honesty, best disposed of as quickly as possible. And as she stepped out of them, the slightest of kicks to push them out of her way, she stood before him, unveiled and exposed.

It was then she dared to look at him again, his gaze piercing as he took in the sight of her. It was thrilling to see his eyes drag themselves across her, the lingering look to the top of her stockings, the inadvertent lick of his lips as they moved to her breasts.

"Elsie," came the whispered reply to her silent call for reassurance, fighting the urge to cover up, to flee, despite her own pooling desire to continue.

The pause gave her time to think. She'd gone too far to turn back, she knew that and besides that's not what she wanted, far from it.

She stepped around the bed, moving to the side closest to where he lay and sat down, the creamy white of the skin across the top of her back facing him, lightly freckled despite the lack of sun it had seen. Reaching up to hair, she sought out a pin and pulled it free. It had little effect, but as she continued to search and one by one they collected in her hand, long strands began to tumble and fall across her shoulders. The ever increasing grey and silver streaks usually buried underneath out of sight were on show now but she didn't care. She was old, well older at least, but this shared moment above all others was surely proof that it was a barrier to nothing. As the final pin was released, the pins still grasped in her hand, she leant back to grant permission for him to touch. She could sense his twitching fingers against the bedcovers desperately wanting to unfurl the plaits that were all that was left of any structure. He did so and she sighed at his touch as his knuckles accidentally brushed against her, and his fingers deliberately sunk their way into her waves.

It wasn't long before she felt the loss of his hands, the mattress jolting beneath them as he shifted forward. She'd been so taken up with the feel of his hands on her scalp that she'd not thought about what might happen next. Charles had an idea, it seemed, as he came to sit behind her, a leg either side of hers, his chest pressed up against her back. Waiting with baited breath, she felt as he gathered her hair with one sweep of his hand and let fall across her shoulder, down onto her chest. She glanced back at him just in time to see his eyes glaze over with lust, mouth open slightly as a finger delved gently under the strap of her corset. He pushed it down her arm, a fingers drifting across her skin before it was replaced with the soft feel of his lips as they began to worship the warmth that they found there.

So taken up in his actions, revelling in a brief moment of submission, she was caught up sharply as she felt the slide of his hand across the bare skin above her stockings, a thumb dangerously close to pushing yet more cotton and satin aside to reach what she knew would be a growing pool of moisture.

"So soft," he moaned in her ear as he shifted a tiny bit closer, heightening her already inflamed senses.

She hummed at the feel of him, his attentions pressing decidedly into her back. This was it, that which had been building for longer perhaps than she'd realised. They were evenly matched, their lifetime's work a tribute to their comfort at being in control but their marriage a physical manifestation of relishing in the release of it to one another. Their argument of previous days had left a question unanswered in her mind. He'd assured her that he wanted her like this, free, unhindered, wanton even. But doubt remained. Did he truly want her to lead, to encourage him to do as she commanded? She believed he did. Even this, now, had been at his instruction, but there'd been hints, oh so subtle, desirous messages that spoke of his desperation to be taken to the edge and held there, not for long but held nonetheless.

She leant back into him, "So ready," she muttered, a sign to herself as much as to him.

She stood and took a step away from the bed before turning to greet his annoyance with a tantalising grin, and she'd never felt bolder.

"Your shirt, Charlie," she directed, enjoying how it took a second before he understood that she meant for him to remove it, his fingers fumbling as he rushed to respond.

The sight of the salt and pepper hair on his chest had her twitching to reach out, to feel it against her skin, but she resisted. Instead her eyes bobbed down to his trousers, the braces loose on the bed. He frowned.

"Come, Mr Carson," she teased, "Don't be shy."

By the time he was sitting in just his underpants, the rigid promise of him straining against the white cotton, she felt sure of the path in front of her. If she closed her eyes and merely thought of it, she was certain she'd achieve her release untouched such was her dripping anticipation of it.

Raising a foot and resting it on the bed in the space between his legs, and then, waiting until she was sure she had his full attention, reached down and began to slowly run her hands up from her ankle, over her knee until she reached mid-thigh where she came to the clips that kept her stocking tight. She worked her nimble fingers around her leg until they were all released before reversing the action, not taking her eyes off him as she rolled down the soft cotton. She had good legs, she was confident of that. Years of walking the Abbey's endless corridors, relentless journeys up and down steep flights of stairs had kept them shapely. As her toes were released, she taunted him by letting them brush against his now highly evident pleasure, causing him to jerk in response. God, he was hard, she thought, but retreated. The other leg was still covered and she wanted to draw this out, for both of their sakes.

She repeated the motion but went further, the sole of her foot resting fully against him, her boldness rewarded by a deep groan as his hips jerked forward again. And as the second stocking fell was ceremoniously added to the growing pile on the floor, she felt his hands tease at her ankle and she pulled her leg away.

"Oh no," she admonished. "You wanted to see me, and see me you shall."

The pout on his lips had her half reeling with joy, but she calmed herself before she stepped forward and whispered her order for him to look and not touch. As he nodded his consent, she turned her attention to the hidden row of hooks down her left side, the very thought of releasing them with an aching slowness had her breathless at her own rising desperation, aided by the darkening look of her husband. A silence filled the room, both holding their breath, as the panelled front began to slip away from its hold, the shift of her breasts as they were freed and became a softer, natural version of themselves.

And then it was just her, standing in front of him in all her glory, save for the satin knickers that she wasn't quite prepared to bare just yet. They were close enough for her to feel his laboured breath on her skin, the fine hairs on her arms tingling with excitement as her bravery was rewarded by a guttural growl that emanated from somewhere deep within his chest.