Lady Jane

by Rod Stiffener

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© Copyright 2001 - Rod Stiffener - Used by permission

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(c) Copyright 1998 This work is copyrighted to the author, with all rights reserved. This work may be archived and displayed on non-commercial web sites without permission, but please do not remove the author name or address. Thank you

Part I of the Lady Jane Trilogy
(Because fantasies always seem to come in Trilogies).

I play bass in a jazz quartet, just for fun and we all have day jobs.  Music is a hobby, and if I had to do it for a living then it would start to become a chore.  We play at small clubs now and again, also weddings, friend’s birthdays, charity fundraisers, and so on.  We try to appear in public no more than about once every two or three weeks. Our sax player Mike lines up most of our gigs as he is a bit of a social animal with a wide circle of acquaintances.  He and the keyboard player are both in there forties and quite experienced musicians.  The drummer and I are mid-thirties and new to playing jazz.

Mike knew this lady called Jane, a divorcee, whose son was getting married.  The lad’s father had pots of money, and the bride was well connected, so it was going to be quite a society wedding.  Two days before the main event, there was to be a garden party at the bride’s parents place so that the two families could get to know each other.  Sort of the high-society equivalent of dogs circling and sniffing each other’s butts, I suppose.

I turned up on the day itself and helped set up the gear in one corner of the large landscaped garden under a small marquee.  The house was set further back behind some trees, and another marquee formed the bar and headquarters for the finger food.
Jane came over to talk to Mike about the evening’s programme and to ask us what we wanted to drink.  She was a tall, elegant woman with very straight and erect posture, in her mid-forties.  She had that rare combination of slim figure yet big boobs.  Almost Barbie-doll-like in proportions, though of course things were starting to sag a bit now and her breasts hung fairly low.  But they were still hooters of considerable substance.  She was immaculately turned out and extremely well manicured, with pageboy haircut.  Unfortunately she smokes, and the skin on her face was lined and a bit dry looking as a result.

She talked posh like a Sloane Ranger, but could swear like a trooper.  Being already a bit tipsy, her talk with Mike about arrangements was interspersed with the odd “Fookin’ ay!” and suchlike.  Mike is the “sex symbol” of the group, actually he is like a little leprechaun with a big pot belly but an outrageous flirt and he does it with such humour that he gets away with it. If I said half of the things he says to ladies, I would be continually drenched from having drinks thrown in my face.  But when he does it, chances are he will get lucky!

We were all set up, had done our soundcheck, and now people were arriving.  Old maiden aunts, doddery uncles, but also bridesmaids and friends of the young couple.  The bridesmaids (four of them!) were dressed in what I might term your “basic little black number,” in other words skimpy mini-dresses that showed a lot of leg and a lot of cleavage.  The bride was more demure, in long evening gown.

We started our set, playing more subdued “elevator” jazz to start off.  Swingtime and bossa, like “Sweet Georgia Brown” or “Girl from Ipanema”.  Not to my taste as I like to get really intense with more of the funk-fusion and Miles Davis stuff, but we weren’t there to scare the gentry and livestock. Of course everyone totally ignored us.  They were way too cool and sophisticated to acknowledge that a live band was there playing just for them.  And playing for free as a favour to the bride’s mother. But the catering staff were enjoying it, at least they were the only ones giving any positive feedback.  And Lady Jane, of course.  She was hovering around to make sure that wine was flowing in our direction, and we were starting to get a bit loose.

At the end of the second set, Jane asked Mike “Are you all getting enough to eat and drink?”
“Yes” said Mike, “But no one has offered us any sex yet.”
As ever the outrageous flirt, and Jane tittered.
Jane’s elder brother was within earshot.
“Go and grope one of the bridesmaids,” he suggested. “Surprising things might happen!”
“Yes, aren’t they lovely!”, says Mike, “but I prefer maturity and experience!”  He gallantly pecked Jane on her cheek, then made a point of peering very obviously into her deep cleavage before standing back again.
“Very bloody likely!” says Jane, but smiling all the same. 

For our third set we didn’t care whether people liked what we played or not, as we were now fairly pissed and so were the audience.  We were playing stuff like “Birdland” by Weather Report and funky R&B numbers like “Green Onions” and “Watermelon Man”.  The bar staff were grooving, meanwhile there were a few Hooray Henries and Henrietta’s stumbling and falling into the undergrowth, while at least one matriarch went down flat on her back by the fountain and had to be carried up to the house. Nothing like a bit of alcohol to bring out peoples’ true colours!

Time to pack up our gear, my favourite part of any gig.  We badly needed some groupies able to carry speaker cabinets as well as give blowjobs. But the few groupies we had were not inclined to do either, so nothing for it but to lug the stuff ourselves. Mike and I were winding up electrical leads, of which there were a lot, some about forty feet long.
Jane tottered up to us.  “Can I get you any more to drink?”
“No!” says Mike.  “And look out for my saxes!”
Too late, her leg had bumped the tenor, which bumped into the alto, which was about to bump the clarinet when Mike managed to grab them and get them back upright.
“Ooh, sorry!” says Jane.
“Bad girl!” says Mike.  “You should be severely disciplined!”
She giggled.  “You wouldn’t dare!”
Never say that to a bunch of inebriated musicians.

Mike grabbed her wrists and pinned them behind her back.  Playing along, I got a microphone lead and quickly wrapped it around her slim arms and tied it off against the pole of the marquee.  There, she wouldn’t knock over any more instruments now! I had expected her to struggle, or at least squeal a bit, but she didn’t.  She just went all limp and passive.  It had been so easy to bind her up, that hardly anyone had noticed.  It just looked like she was standing against the pole.  But I noticed that her breathing was now uneven, in fact a bit ragged.

Mike was a bit disappointed by the seeming lack of reaction, as we had been doing this to stir her up for a bit of humour.  So he tickled her, on the side of her ribs.  She couldn’t stop him, as she was unable to move her hands.  But the tickling made her squirm around in an effort to avoid his invading fingertips.  Her eyes were going round as saucers, and she let a high pitched moan escape from the back of her throat. 
I said “And now, your punishment!  You shall be spanked!”  I raised my hand as if to land a slap on her rump, and without hesitating she turned and stuck out her derriere at me to receive the slap!  Well, this was really getting into the spirit of it! 
We concluded that she was playing along just to deny us the satisfaction of upsetting her.  A bit like Brer Rabbit saying “Skin me alive, but pleeeaaze don’t throw me into the bramble bush!”  Well, that was no fun so I slackened the cord and she took her hands out.
“Really!” she slurred, bosom heaving, “You are too awful for words!”
“That’s what all the girls say!” riposted Mike, but Jane had turned on her heel and gone.

By the time all the gear was packed, I had sobered up.  Nothing like exercise in the cool night air to clear the head.  And just as well, because I had a vanload of gear to drive away.  Almost everybody had gone, just the caterers rounding up the last few stray glasses from the lawn and shrubbery. I was opening my driver’s door when I noticed Jane further down the drive, trying to get her keys into the door of her little car.  It was an MGB-GT, one of those classic sports-coupes with just enough room inside for two people, a packet of sandwiches, and a change of underwear.  She was not having much luck getting the door open, because it was dark and she was drunk.
I walked toward her.
“Everything alright?”
“Ah, its my attacker!” she hissed.
“Not a good idea to be driving” I said to her.
“How the fookin’ hell will I get home then?”
“I’ll take you.  Wait here while I park my van in the street.”

When I got back she had succeeded in unlocking and was now in the passenger seat of the MG.  I squeezed in behind the wheel and fired it up.  Like most British cars of the sixties it was pretty agricultural to drive and the suspension was as hard as rocks, but it had a satisfying rasp to the exhaust note as I pulled away from intersections.  She had the window rolled down and was breathing deeply of the night air. 

She didn’t have much to say, apart from giving me the address and occasional directions to get there, also a few words about how lovely we had played that night. We pulled up at her apartment block and parked in the basement garage.
“Thanks, you’ve been so kind.  Will you come up for a minute?”
No conversation in the lift, she just watched the floor numbers roll by and I looked at her reflected rear in the wall mirror.  A nice rear it was too.  The years had been good to her.  Either she exercised a lot, or she killed her appetite with regular ministrations of gin.  Probably the latter. Opening the apartment, she turned on a wall lamp and made for the liquor cabinet.
“Fancy a liqueur before you go?”
A Cointreau for me, and Drambuie for her.

She handed me my glass, then stood right in front of me as she sipped hers.  Behind her hung a fairly erotic painting, very tasteful and artistic but nevertheless depicting a buxom woman playing with herself.  She saw me glance at it. 
“You like?”
Yes I did, and I said so.
“Are you an art lover?”
“No, just a lover.”
“Well, there’s more in the other rooms, if you’re interested.”
She led the way to the dining room (a couple intimately entwined, though it was “artistic” rather than “graphic”) then a bedroom (two views of cunnilingus in progress, again very artistic).
“And here, in the master bedroom.”

She opened the door to what was clearly her own bedroom, being the largest and looking most lived in.  A large brass bedstead with railings at head and foot.  Various items of clothing laying about, also knickers, and a few silk scarves. 
The theme of these three paintings was Restraint.   A nude sitting up with feet tied at the ankles.  A nude wearing a blindfold.  And a nude standing with hands tied to a post behind her back. 
“What a coincidence!”
“Do you like that one?”
“More to the point, do you?”
“An impertinent question, but would I hang up pictures that I DON”T like?”

She stood looking at me.  And I looking at her.  She was studying me with the air of a chessplayer who has completed her move, and is waiting for me to make my move. I should say at this point that I am a pretty consensual sort of a guy.  I am into mutual pleasure, and I don’t get pleasure from another’s pain or humiliation.  But here the lines were getting blurred.  She had laid a trail for me from party to bedroom, and all the arrows said, “Tie me up!  I love it!”
But she wasn’t going to spell it out loud.  She wanted me to make the first move.
So I made it.
“Put down your glass.”
She placed it on the dresser.
“Hands behind your back.”
She turned away from me, and held her wrists together behind her.  I grabbed a couple of the silk scarves and lashed her wrists firmly.  She did nothing to resist.

There was a useful length of scarf left over, so I used the free ends to tie her wrists to the brass rail at the foot of her bed.  She was still standing, facing me, and unable to use her hands or move away.  Her shoulders were pulled well back by her bonds, so that her bosom stuck out at me even more prominently. I stood in front of her, looked into her greeny-blue eyes, studied her aristocratic features.  I touched her on the cheek with a fingertip.  The skin was soft, and lined from age and smoking.  She looked coolly back at me.  Almost taunting me, daring me to make her loose that cool.
“Now I can do any fucking thing to you that I like,” I told her, trying to rattle her and get into the spirit of what she seemed to turn her on.
“Like what?”
She was not easily rattled.
I put my hand on one of her large breasts, cupping it and feeling it through the fabric of her cocktail dress and bra.
“Like that!”
She gave me a look as if to say Oh puleez!  Is that the best you can think of?

Well, I like to take my time, no need to rush.  She wouldn’t be going anywhere.  Meanwhile I would let my fingers do some walking. I spent a while feeling her tits, squeezing them through the bra, taking their weight in my hands, rubbing my fingers over the place where I expected her nipples to be.  After a time I was able to positively locate the nipples, when they became erect and could be felt as two hard buttons through the bra cups.  Her breasts really were massive.  In her younger days she would have been the All-American dream, a tall skinny girl with big bust.  They hung lower now, but there was still a lot to hang.

She was still fully dressed, and I was just going to grope her through her clothes at first.  I put my hand on her crutch, lightly stroking her pubic mound through dress and underwear.  She was still regarding me coolly, and I wanted to make her lose that cool somehow.  What about a little finger-fuck?
“I am going to stick my finger up you,” I announced. “How do you feel about that?”
She sniffed.  “Please yourself.”
“Thanks, I will.”

I knelt and gathered up her skirts until they were bunched up around her waist.  This revealed her long tanned legs, and loose-fitting French knickers.  These were easily pulled aside to expose her sex, with its liberal thatch of brown curls.  Holding the gusset out of the way with one hand, I lightly inserted the index finger of the other into the start of her groove.  She looked down at me kneeling before her, my finger touching her softness in the most private place imaginable.  She was unable to do anything except scream, yet even then she chose to stay silent.

I pushed my finger in further between her legs, which were not that far apart but enough to gain access to the entrance of her vagina.  I could feel heat rising from there.  Things definitely got warmer as I neared her insides, and my finger easily slipped past her soft and swollen opening.  I changed the angle to push upward, deep as I could into the slick moistness of her passage.  This lady was wet!  Wet and very open.  Absolutely no need for additional lubrication, she was already well lubed!
Holding my finger deep in her, I rotated my hand in a twisting motion, and looked up at her.  By avoiding her clit, I was able to make sure that she would not be enjoying this too much yet.  But she still seemed to be enjoying it too much for my liking, having her eyes closed and a look of intense concentration on her face.  She started moving her groin against my finger in little slow fuck movements, trying to get it even deeper and get my knuckles bumping against her clit.  She was using my finger to fuck herself, like a mini-dildo.  Enough was enough.

I pulled very suddenly back out of her, and her eyes flew open with surprise.
“You’re liking this too much.  I will get nasty in a minute.” Again, that cool look. I reached to the vee neckline of her dress, and grasped it with one hand on either side.  Then I suddenly and violently tore the dress apart from bust to navel.
“Bastard!  This dress cost a fortune!”
“Well, it’s in the way,” I answered, continuing to tear the fabric until I reached the bottom hemline.  Her whole front was now exposed, showing French knickers and bra.  Seeing some fingernail scissors on her dresser, I grabbed them and snipped at the bra between the cups, until it swung away and her breasts hung free.  The French knickers were easier, I slid them down her long legs and she stepped out of them.  I could now see her nakedness in a full frontal, from large dangly breasts with pink circles on the ends, to extremely hairy brown bush. 

Time for me to get exposed.  Except I only removed my trousers and briefs, leaving my shirt on.  My cock was erect, and sprang up from under my shirt.  She looked at it with interest. I wondered whether I should make her suck it for me, but decided to save that for another time (assuming there would be one).  Right now, I just wanted to ravage her.  The thought of her being helpless to stop me made me feel like skipping all the usual preliminaries and just cutting right to the chase.  Lets fuck this lady!

I stood right up against her, my face only an inch from hers, my cock brushing her lower belly.  She could feel it coming at her.  I kissed her full on the lips.  She didn’t respond, but just passively relaxed her mouth so my invading tongue could snake its way between her lips and into her mouth.  I dry-humped my cock against her belly, just to make it a bit harder than it already was.
“Lady Jane, I’m going to fuck you now.”
“Well, I can’t stop you.”
“That’s right, you can’t,” I replied.

Normally screwing while standing is awkward, especially from the front.  But Jane was tall enough that I only had to bend my knees slightly to get my cockhead between her thighs and butting at her entrance.  I lined it up in the right direction, held her buttocks in my hands, then suddenly heaved while pulling her to me.  She gasped at the shock of being so completely filled with absolutely no warning, but she was so wet that my dick went up easily.  It was now encased in her hotness, not a deep penetration because her legs were not very far apart, but very pleasing because of the warmth and wetness of her.
I started thrusting, trying to get deeper up her.  This was taking her offbalance but her bonds kept her on her feet, plus I had her arse firmly gripped with both hands and was pulling her to me to meet each thrust.  I buried my face in the side of her neck and sucked firmly at the soft skin, to give her a massive lovebite.  Try explaining that to the other old biddies down at the tennis club! 

My thrusting was becoming very pleasant for me as my tempo increased, and the force of it was drawing all sorts of “ooofff!” and “Unnh!” noises from her. I felt myself starting to come.  It was not going to be a big orgasm, because I usually need a lot of foreplay and oral sex before I can have a reeeaaallly big orgasm, but I was going to enjoy this one by pumping as hard as I could. I started to shoot in her, and the thought crossed my mind that I should have found out if she were on the pill, or menopausal, or anything like that.  Too late now!  My jism was coming out in spurts, helped by huge thrusts that had her butt jammed up against the brass of the bedstead.  It was lovely!  The feeling of release after all that pent-up excitement, plus the extra turn-on of knowing that Lady Jane’s insides seem to melt at the very idea of her hole being all mine for the taking.

I pulled my wilting cock out of her and hugged her to me, sticky cockend pressed between our bellies.  She hadn’t come yet, but then I hadn’t wanted her to.  Time for that later.  First, I better go and get my van of gear, otherwise it might not be still there in the morning.
“Lets make you a bit more comfortable.”
I untied her from the bed (but not her wrists) and led her around so that she could lie down on it.  I retied her hands to the bed head, and tied her feet to the railing at the other end.  I checked everything to make sure she couldn’t get free.
“Are you having fun yet?” I asked her.
“Yes.  Carry on.  I badly need to come.”
“Sorry, gotta go,” I said, pulling my pants back on.
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours.  Don’t go away!”

On my way out I picked up her apartment keys and locked the door behind me.  Out on the street, I hailed a cab and told the driver where the van was parked. As we drove, I kept thinking about Lady Jane, tied helpless to her bed waiting for me to return, her cunt already sticky with my semen, wanting to come but unable to do it herself, and wondering what was going to happen next.
Be patient, dear reader.  I will tell you later.

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