This story contains explicit smut.

THE VANISHING NIGHTDRESSES

Chapter Two

Master!

John felt a sensual tremor stir throughout every strand of his body. Hearing his wife refer to him by that title always sent a shiver up his spine and unleashed something ferocious and feral within. He was used to being revered in his daily life by his workers, fellow masters, and the inhabitants of his town. He had a commanding character, one that people conclusively respected. But his Margaret, well, she had always defied his highhanded ways, rebelling against his domineering nature, resisting his authority. God! – how he admired her for it! He could never be her master, he understood that as surely as he knew the sky was blue or the grass was green, for a lioness like her could never be tamed, nor should she be. So, when Margaret willingly called him by that name, it drove John mad, and he wanted her like no man had ever wanted a woman. John may have been the overbearing master to the outside world, but in the privacy of their bedroom, there was no denying who was in charge.

He gazed into her eyes, his own a flitting exchange between yearning and fear, for he desired her so desperately, but he would rather die than hurt her.

Margaret sat up straight, her chest pushing outwards, and with seductive leisureliness, she peeled off her robe and tossed it away. Fixing her husband with a confident stare, she allowed him to savour her nakedness. John let his eyes unapologetically drop onto her body so that he could look at her. Once, perhaps, he would have felt ashamed to survey her so openly, so longingly, but now, he was free to do so without embarrassment or guilt. It was not because she was his wife and he felt he was due a husband's right to access her body without restriction. Goodness, no! He was no such patriarchal pig! No, it was because she gladly and graciously welcomed his gaze, for it was by her grace, her bidding only, that he ever so much as tried to kiss her chastely on the cheek.

Taking his hand, Margaret bent his fingers and cupped them over her breast. John's eyes closed and he inhaled sharply, his pulse rising and then racing at the sensation of his wife's pert nipple under his thumb, which he began to massage with delicious unhurriedness. John adored her breasts, for they were moulded to utter perfection. He had not had the opportunity to play with them as often as he would have wished in the past year, due to someone far smaller and sweeter than him needing to suckle on them. John secretly admitted that he loved watching his wife feed their baby, not in an amorous way, of course, but because he found a strange, manly thrill in seeing her breasts being employed for their proper purpose.

He tried to sneak home as often as possible from the mill in order to be part of this routine, for the three of them had their own little ritual, one which he treasured. John would sit on the bed or in an armchair in the nursery, and Margaret would settle between his legs and shuffle back so that she was propped up against him. There, she would take Maria in her arms and feed her, while both parents watched over their babe, smiling contently, talking to her and revelling in the child's grins and giggles as she studied them with wide eyes full of wonder. There was something breathtakingly spiritual about seeing Margaret nourish his baby, their baby, the embodiment of their love nursing on her flawless teat.

Nevertheless, despite his worship of this divine woman, John was just a man, a man who was consumed by a desire to pluck this angel straight out of Heaven and corrupt her with his covetousness for her whole being and body, tits and all. Now that Maria had stopped getting her sustenance from her mother, John was free to enjoy that part of Margaret whenever she permitted, and it was an indulgence the red-blooded male in him craved constantly.

John felt himself stiffen as Margaret let out a breathy little moan when he pinched her beaded nipple. He started to shift in the bed, his other hand stealing up her leg, creeping higher until it reached that sacred spot between her thighs, his favourite place in the whole damned world.

Margaret knew what was coming, but still, no matter how many times he had done this, she could still not prepare herself for the sharp stab of plea─ 'OH!' she cried, her head falling back against the pillows as a familiar pang of pleasure darted through her, his fingers grazing across the tip of her sex.

Returning her gaze to him, she felt her heart slam against her ribs at the look on his face. She knew it well. At one time, it would have been unfamiliar to an unworldly maiden like her, but now, well, she was a thoroughly married woman, and that look thrilled her through and through. It was a smouldering fire of lust, want, need, fervour, intensity, and a sign that her husband was about to ─

Leaping up, John started to fumble with his sleeves and swiftly shredded his already ruined shirt, flinging it so far that it got entangled in the chandelier, which thankfully, was not lit. They both remained still for a moment, Margaret sitting up and John kneeling before her, their eyes greedily combing over each other's stark bareness.

Leaning forward, John carefully separated her legs and established himself between them, his breath rough and ragged. 'You will tell me, won't you? You will tell me, Meg, if I hurt you, even a bit?' he ensured, his voice pleading.

Lifting a hand to stroke his face, Margaret let her knuckles trace the outline of his temple. 'I promise,' she vowed. 'Now then, husband, make love to your wife,' she directed coyly, before lying down and letting her arms fall behind her head, her body laid exposed, an invitation for him to have his way with her.

With a frisky grin, John let his hand sink between her legs and with a teasing pace, his fingers crept closer and closer to his target. Margaret waited, holding her breath, and then, suddenly, she sensed that acute gratification gushing through her once more. With one finger, he inserted it into the cavern of her passage, and she felt herself burn with a heat that blazed deep in her core. Gradually, he pulled his finger out and then thrust it back in, his speed dawdling and deliberate. Then, after a while, he added another finger, then another, then another, until he had four fingers crammed inside her. Margaret lapsed further back into the cushions and gasped, her legs spreading instinctively, indecently wide, welcoming her husband's attention with shameless abandon.

John watched her vigilantly, hypnotised by the way she writhed under his ministrations. He could still not get over it, even after almost two years of marriage. She was unquestionably an enchantress, for she was so beautiful, so damned bewitching. With an animalistic grunt of satisfaction, John let his greedy eyes scour over her fine figure. He felt himself harden at the sight of her enormous tits, her plump nipples, her smooth skin, her rounded hips, and that patch of heaven that he was now petting. No, after all this time, he could still not believe that he was allowed to see her like this, that he could have her, that he could claim her as his wife. It was a privilege that he alone was permitted to enjoy, and a tiny part of him felt sorry for all the unlucky bastards who would be denied this honour. Still, it really was a very tiny part of him, for the rest of him was downright arrogant in the superior knowledge that she was his and his alone. Pride was sinful, he knew, but in this case, he felt sure God would understand, for after all, it was he who created the deity that was Margaret Hale, now Thornton. It was a miracle, a mistake surely, for this goddess must have been intended for someone more worthy than he.

Compelling his attention back to the present and the beguiling woman that now lay squirming beneath him, he decided that it was time to increase the intensity of her pleasure. Adorning a wicked grin, he raised his thumb and pressed it hard against her sex.

'Oh God!' Margaret screeched, her hands flying to her face and her back arching.

John persisted like this for quite some time, for he was in no hurry, his digit rubbing unyielding circles over her clitoris, his pressure precise and calculated. Margaret continued to thrash around, John's cock throbbing impatiently as he listened to her whimper and he saw her eyes roll back in appreciation. Gazing at her, John winked mischievously and then lowered his head, so that it rested between her legs. Margaret knew what was coming and flattened her feet against the mattress, grounding herself, getting ready so that she could hold firm when he began. Taking a deep breath, she threaded her fingers through his hair and steered him to the spot, preparing for him to feast on her. Licking his lips, John extended his tongue, but instead of using it, he let it hang in the air.

'John?' Margaret questioned, her eyes flickering open.

'Tell me what you want,' he stipulated, his tone devastatingly officious.

She felt a prickly flush tickle her nerves and she blushed. 'I want you.'

'And…what do you want me to do?' he taunted; the tip of his tongue painfully close to its mark.

Margaret wrenched at his hair and he groaned. 'You know what I want!'

'Say it!' he ordered, his voice growing brasher. 'Tell me what you want, you naughty minx!'

But Margret did not respond, instead, she grabbed the back of his neck and hauled his head into her crotch with urgency, the force of her heave a clear answer in itself.

John roared like a lion with lust and let his tongue swipe across Margaret's nib. He felt his body tense as she let out a sharp breath and flinched at the excitement of his contact. He did it again, and again, and again, until, finally, he opened his lips and placed a moist kiss against her, his mouth absorbing that lusciously hot haven.

'Oh, John!' Margaret squealed, her fingers grappling at his shoulders, her nails scratching his sides.

John went on, his fingers still thrusting inside her, his mouth gluttonously working that spicy oasis, lapping at the wetness he found there.

'John!' she cried, her heels slamming down against the bed.

'Say it!' he demanded gruffly. 'Say my name!'

'No!' she retorted, challenging him with daring obstinacy, for nobody flouted the master of Marlborough Mills.

'Oh hell!' he cussed. 'I love it when you disobey me!' he snarled. 'It makes me want you so bloody badly!'

However, he soon got his wish, for when he next lapped at her, she involuntarily called his name, her volume and eagerness both an enthusiastic appraisal of his efforts. John moaned, for his name exclaimed from her lips was like music to his ears, especially when it was laced with the opium of unadulterated hedonism.

'John!' she yelled.

'Again!' he commanded.

'John!' Margaret recited more loudly, for she was quickly losing control of her senses.

Propelling his fingers in deeper and harder, he crooked the tips, chuckling as she nearly jumped off the bed.

'I didn't hear you, louder!' he shouted, his tongue slurping at the collection of nerves before him, his free hand fondling her backside.

'John!' she whined, that familiar ball of bliss building in the pit of her stomach. 'Yes! Yes!'

'Louder!' he growled.

'John!' she repeated, her voice a whimper, the pleasure ballooning throughout her straining body.

'LOUDER!' he bellowed, before thrusting three of his fingers as far into her as he could manage, but curving the fourth one just inside her passage, so that it brushed that little bump behind the opening.

That did it.

Margaret hastily snatched a pillow and shoved it over her face, before letting out the most ear-splitting scream that room number 271 of the Royal Hotel, Manchester, had ever heard.

'JOHN!' she cried; her yell muffled by the cushion.

Quivering, she let the joyful feeling wash over her. It was prolonged, it was raucous, it was marvellous!

John laughed, stopping what he was doing and gazing affectionately at his wonderful wife while she gradually regained her poise. She was incredible. He gently removed his fingers, before licking each one clean. God! – he loved the tangy taste of her. He knew that not all men would, that they would find the idea of eating the juices of their wives' pussy to be disgusting, but for John, he relished it. He could never get enough of this glorious woman that he was lucky enough to be allowed to not only bask in the love of, but to also bed with all the raw passion that he possessed for her.

After giving his wife a minute to compose herself, just a minute mind, John braced himself and positioned himself so that he was prepared to penetrate her.

'Ready for round two?' he asked, his chin damp with her come.

'Oh, God!' Margaret gasped, her chest still heaving, John's eyes captivated by the rise and fall of those luscious mountains. 'You are a very bad man; do you know that?'

John chortled.

'Oh, I am, am I?' he mocked, his tone intoxicatingly immodest. 'Does that mean that your first instincts of me were correct, Miss Hale? You thought I was a very bad man back then,' he joked, his nose skimming her collarbone and tracking a path along her arm.

'I did, indeed,' Margaret agreed with a giggle. 'I thought you were an absolute ogre.' Then, placing both of her legs on top of his shoulders, she added: 'Thank goodness I was right,' a lustful look clouding her eyes.

'Does that mean you like me this way?' he verified, his nose circling one of her nipples. 'Tell me, wife, do you want me to be a good boy or a bad boy?' he checked, as he parted his lips and gathered her teat into his mouth before sucking on it, his mind made giddy by the soft and supple skin he caressed.

John thought yet again about how much he admired Margaret's breasts. It had mortified him, for he had noticed her pleasing shape the moment they had first been introduced. He had felt uncomfortable and disordered, for he was being berated as a brute, but still, his accuser was the most attractive woman he had ever met. Over the prevailing months, John had tried not to glance at her décolletage, but after that fateful dinner party and that cruelly appealing gown, she had made it damned hard for him not to let his imagination run wild.

Now that they were married, he found that his mind's eye had not done justice to the impressiveness of those pale peaks. What was more, when Margaret was pregnant, they seemed to swell to an even greater size, emboldening them to tease him day and night. They were also more sensitive, meaning that every slight touch caused her to flutter. He loved to have her on top of him, for he could submerge his face between them, and he adored the way she bowed forward and dangled them temptingly over his mouth. He would certainly be requesting that she rode him while they were here, as the idea of seeing those tits bouncing as she cantered on his cock, it was too satisfying to describe.

John suddenly let out a guttural groan as Margaret seized his penis and clutched it in a tight viper-like grip. Lifting her head so that it was mere inches from his own, she lacquered his lips, her tongue sliding across his with agonizing slowness. She gave him a hard tug, her fist gradually squeezing around him, causing him to whimper like a puppy.

Once upon a time, Margaret had found the sight and sensation of his manhood overwhelming in every sense. It was so unlike anything she had ever known. It could be rather intimidating. It had frightened and delighted her all at once, the thought that this rigid limb was such an important part of the man she loved, but it was something she had not been introduced to until their wedding night. It thrilled her to think that with this mysterious member, John would enter her, giving her the blissful joy of their marriage bed, but also, more symbolically still, it would impregnate her, gifting the couple with their own precious family.

However, she now knew it better than any part of her own body, she could outline every gradient of that rough-and-ready length with her eyes closed. It was extensive in its length, pleasingly thick, and curiously knobbly, its veins turning a brilliant blue when he pulsated. It was smooth to the touch, the skin tightening under her touch. She knew it, and it knew her, it submitted to her, for she could bend it to her will. It was funny, because when they lay together like this, she could take her hand away and move her finger around, and, as if by magic, it instinctively followed her movements, aching for her, begging for the contact of its mistress. John loved it when she touched him. She found the act fascinating, because much to her delight, the merest skim of her fingers against his stiffness made him fall to pieces. The strong, solid, severe master, a man who was renowned for his power, she could reduce him to a whining wretch with the most innocent of strokes.

He never entreated her to hold him or swallow him, because he felt it was too much for a husband to ask of his wife, but she did it readily and often. She recalled the time he had teased her relentlessly at a party and had joked about taking her the minute they got into the house. Pouting mischievously, she had done one better and during the carriage ride home, Margaret had lowered the blinds, unfastened his trousers, and sucked on him there and then until he erupted in her mouth. John had been speechless, his sighs of pleasure the only sound he made. He kept banging his fist on the side of the carriage, attempting to stifle his moans, but the coachman had thought they were wanting to stop, and Margaret had to keep calling to carry on. Yes, she loved the taste of him, she loved the feel of him sliding down her throat, she loved the hum of his husky groans, and she loved the tang of his salty spend.

Returning to the conversation, Margaret dug her nails into his biceps and grinned as he let out a fierce howl. 'I want you, John Thornton,' she said flirtatiously, her eyes never once leaving his, 'to be a very, very, very, VERY bad man!' Margaret whispered.

With that, John pushed her down and rammed himself in her, as deep, as fast, and as hard as he could.

'OH!' they both cried, their heads falling back. The feeling of euphoria that rushed through them from tip to toe was heavenly. Margaret was so tight and wet, for her muscles were always constricted when she climaxed, meaning that her channel was a snug glove for John to sink his well-endowed appendage into.

They paused for a moment on the brink of pure pleasure, mustering their strength and stamina.

'John,' Margaret said quietly.

'Yes, love?'

'I forgot, the maid is coming to bath me,' she noted, her voice tinted with worry, for she could not bear to be found in such a compromising position, nor, she admitted, could she endure to have this idyllic moment interrupted by something as dull as a bath.

But John did not bother and he merely grinned. 'Well then, darling, we had better get on with it,' he quipped. Then, dropping his mouth to her ear, he murmured: 'Full steam ahead,' before plunging into her with one powerful and purposeful lunge.

'OH!' Margaret cried.

John raised himself onto his forearms and securing her legs on his shoulders, he began to push in and pull out, his rhythm rapid and unrelenting.

'Oh fuck, yes!' John growled, his eyes bulging as he crashed into his wife, every inch of his cock filling her.

'John,' Margaret croaked, for she could hardly catch her breath. 'John, I'm going to come.'

'Then come!' he invited eagerly. 'Come all over me!'

At that point, there was a knock on the locked door and a jarring voice called out: 'Mrs Thornton? Mrs Thornton, your bath is ready.'

'Oh, John?' Margaret whined, unsure of what to do.

'Let her wait!' he snarled, his velocity accelerating still.

'But John,' Margaret gasped, 'She will surely hear us.'

'Let her!' he exclaimed, his brow dripping with perspiration, his muscles glistening with sweat, making them appear brawnier and burlier than ever. 'Let her hear us! I want all of Manchester to hear us!'

Margaret lifted one leg higher into the air and placed the other in the middle of his back, her heel pushing against him, anchoring him deeper into her. They both groaned and Margaret began to feel the pleasure in her expand, the tension mounting in her coccyx, before shooting through her veins, causing her toes to curl.

'John, I'm going to come,' she warned.

'Mrs Thornton?' sounded the voice again.

'Just a minute,' she replied, her voice trembling, making John laugh heartily. 'I ─ I'll be there ─oh !─I'll be there in a mo─mo─moment!'

John grunted as he felt his body tense, that sharp stab of pleasure building in the base of his cock, gradually sneaking to the tip.

'I'm close,' he announced hoarsely, as he allowed his thrusts to become wildly spirited, as if he were a stallion charging towards the finish line.

'Oh, God! John! John! Yes!' Margaret shrieked; her screams smothered by the hand that was over her mouth.

But he quickly batted her hand away with his chin. 'No! I want to hear you! God Margaret! – let me hear you!' he implored. 'I want to hear my wife moan!' he rumbled; his eyes screwing shut as he felt a pressure intensify all the way through his pounding penis. 'Oh fuck! I love you! I love you! Mar─Margaret, I love you!' he hollered.

Again, there was a knock at the door, which was luckily situated far away at the other end of the suite, meaning that the innocent maid was not being subjected to the noise of the Thornton's fervent tumble amongst the crisp linen bedsheets.

'I'm coming,' Margaret screeched once more. 'Just ─ oh my! ─ I'll just be a second!'

'Come for me, Meg!' John hissed in her ear. 'Come for your husband! Drench me, my darling!'

One thrust. Two thrusts. Three thrusts. Four.

'Mrs Tho ─'

Then, it happened. John lunged into her, and all at once, Margaret felt an explosion of pleasure sear through her, discharging to every corner of her quaking body.

'I'M COMING!' she screamed at the top of her lungs, her cries resounding around the room.

Margaret felt her pelvic muscles tense, and in that instant, John let out a guttural roar as he too came apart in her. She could feel him spurting his seed inside her, the warm, peppery fluid flooding her. John collapsed and he sighed, panting against her chest. There they lay together for several heartbeats, their bodies trembling with the potency of their climax.

At last, John lifted his head and placed a featherlight kiss on Margaret's lips, this being his final deed in this act of worship that they had just concluded.

'God, woman!' he muttered. 'I love you so damn much!' he rasped.

'Margaret ran her fingers through his hair and kissed his forehead. 'I love you too,' she smiled. 'Far from being a bad boy, you are a very good, good, good man, John Thornton!'

As they heard yet another impatient knock at the door, John clambered off his wife so that she could leave to take her bath, for she would certainly need it now. As she stumbled to her feet, her legs wobbly, her thighs covered in an unseemly mess, John chuckled.

'What is it?' she asked, reaching for her robe.

Flopping back against the bedsheets, John replied with a playful smirk, 'I was just thinking, when we get back to Milton, remind me to get rid of all your clothes.'

The End