The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

May I

Not for those under 18 (or whatever the legal age for this sort of stuff is in your area). If you’re not that old, Boo! Go away now. If you are offended by graphic descriptions of sexual activities, especially non-consensual ones, then don’t read this. All characters and situations are fictional.

Copyright © 2019

Archived on the Erotic Mind Control web site by permission of the author. This story may be downloaded for personal archiving as long as this notice is retained.

“May I stroke your thigh?”

Sally couldn’t believe what she was hearing. What a perv. She was going to tell him where to stick it. Quickly she turned to her fellow passenger, her mouth opening. “Excuse me?” she said.


The words weren’t the sharp retort she’d sworn was on the tip of her tongue. The delivery was nowhere near as loud as she’d intended. It was more of a pleasant enquiry. Simply asking for clarification of something she wasn’t sure she’d heard quite right.

“May I stroke your thigh?” the man repeated calmly. His delivery fitted the well-pressed suit that he was wearing. “It’s not as if you’re doing anything with it and it would make the trip much more pleasant for both of us.”

Sally simply gaped at the man. That, that. That was ridiculous. Repulsive. She wasn’t going to let some stranger just grope her. She wished she’d been able to find a seat by herself. Or one beside another woman. But the train carriage had been so packed. She’d had to take what she could get. So, somewhat reluctantly, she’d taken one of the few empty seats, the one beside a man who looked a good few years older than her twenty-three. She was wishing she’d taken one of the other possibilities.

But she hadn’t. And he’d said what he’d said. Twice. She was going to teach him. She was going to slap him. Or call out. Or. Or.

“You do have very nice thighs,” the man commented.

It was nice of him to say so. There was nothing wrong with getting a compliment.

Hell, what?

It wasn’t right. She shouldn’t be feeling gratitude towards the bastard. She wasn’t about to let some stranger feel her up. Even if he did ask first.

“Th-thank you,” she simpered.

Huh? That wasn’t what she’d meant to say. But maybe it was. He had asked nicely. And complimented her. It was only right that she say something nice in return.

“You’re welcome,” he smiled. “So, may I stroke your thigh?”

Sally thought about it. She looked at her right thigh, the one nearest to the man. Her skirt only reached a little over halfway to her knee. Her thigh did look very nice. She allowed that she did have good legs. It was partly why she wore skirts so often. And the man was right. Her thigh was just sitting there. She wasn’t doing anything with it. And having him stroke her might well feel nice. So why not agree?

That’s not. Sally frowned. Something about her thoughts didn’t make sense. Strangers didn’t just ask to stroke her thighs. And even if they did she shouldn’t agree.

“Of course you may,” she replied.

Why had she said that? She didn’t want that. It wasn’t right.


Pleasure sparked through the young woman as the man laid his hand on her thigh. Leapt higher as that hand made its way up, stroking her bare flesh. Then down. Then up again, gentle, slow, motions. So light that they burnt across her skin. A small moan escaped Sally’s lips. The man’s hand stroking her thigh did feel so good.

Down. Up. Down. Up.

So very good.

Sally’s eyelids fluttered. Someone stroking her thigh had never felt like this. Almost like a feather drawn across her bare skin. He was right. It was a much more pleasant way to spend her trip than just idly flicking through her phone or whatever else she did.

Right then she couldn’t remember.

“Hey,” she called. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The man’s hand had strayed to her other thigh.

“I’m stroking your thigh,” he replied, somewhat unnecessarily. “You did say that I could.”

And it did feel very nice. But that wasn’t the point. “I said you could stroke my thigh. Not thighs,” Sally declared firmly. What did he think she was? Some floozy he could do anything he wanted with? She wasn’t like that at all.

For a moment Sally thought that she wasn’t the sort of girl who would let just anyone stroke either of her thighs. But that thought was so hard to grasp.

“Oh,” the man replied. “That was terribly untoward of me. Please, accept my apologies. May I stroke your thighs?”

That was much better. He was asking. After apologising. And his stroking was very nice. Maybe arousing. There was a definite warmth spreading from her centre. But Sally wasn’t going to give any sign of that. Perhaps she should say no, even though he had asked nicely. He had taken a liberty with stroking both her thighs after only asking for permission to stroke one.

But what his hand was doing to her made her feel so good.

“Yes,” she declared primly. “You may.” She even spread her legs, just a little, so that he could easily access her inner thighs. Not too far though. That wouldn’t be proper.

“Thank you,” the man acknowledged, his hand stroking the length of her left thigh. “You are most kind.”

Sally wasn’t sure that she was the one who was being kind. Not with the pleasure radiating from the man’s touch. Her eyelids fluttered as the man’s fingertips glided over the soft flesh of her inner thigh. She had to struggle very hard not to squirm in her seat. It wouldn’t do for anyone to notice. She didn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea about her.

Even if the man’s stroking had her wanting to melt into her seat.

“May I caress your breast?” the man asked, pausing in his stroking.

Sally wished he hadn’t stopped. She opened her mouth. Then closed it. She’d been about to say ‘What?’. Or, more properly, ‘Excuse me?’ But there really wasn’t any point in that. She had heard the man quite clearly. But something didn’t seem right about his question. You didn’t just let some stranger grope your breasts. Did you? Sally thought she should know the answer to that question, even without thinking.

Right then thinking was so hard.

Maybe it was how good the man’s stroking of her thighs had been. Maybe if he caressed her breasts that would be just as good. Maybe even better.

She still wasn’t convinced, so she decided to try another track. “I’m sorry, but why?”

“Well,” the man began. “It’s not as if you are doing anything with them. They are just sitting there. Looking quite nice I must say. I am sure they are quite firm. Pert even, one might say. But even so, not doing anything. Wouldn’t it be so much better if someone gave them the attention they deserved? I’m sure you would much prefer it that way.”

Sally considered what he had said. He’d complimented her again. He’d said her breasts looked nice. He could have been more forthcoming in his praise. Mentioned their creamy colour, their rounded shape. But a gentleman shouldn’t be too fulsome. So perhaps he’d said all he needed to say. And the man did have a point. Her breasts weren’t doing anything at all, just sitting there on her chest. It would certainly feel much better if someone was touching them.

But there were limits.

“I don’t even know your name, sir.”

Sally wasn’t sure why she’d phrased her question like that. It sounded absurdly anachronistic.

“Oh, I must apologise again,” the man replied. “Mr. Harold Cunningham, at your service. And you are?”

“Miss Sally Powell,” Sally declared. Then she frowned again, just a little. ‘Miss’ was something for a young girl. She never referred to herself like that. Did she? But somehow it seemed the right thing to do.

“Good afternoon, Miss Powell,” the man declared, dipping his head. “Now, may I caress your breast?”

“Only one?” Sally asked. Now that they had been properly introduced a little flirting wasn’t out of the question. Nothing too serious though. That wouldn’t be proper.

It was Harold’s turn to frown. “Well, perhaps. Would you suggest one over the other?”

Sally had never thought of them like that. She was proud of them both. They weren’t overly large. She was only a B-Cup. But she did think they were nicely formed, round and perky. Pert, as the man had said. Her boyfriends had always seemed to appreciate them. “Ah, perhaps the right?” she offered. It was the one closest to him. No need to have him reaching across her.

“Why, thank you,” Harold smiled, his hand already heading for her chest. “You are most kind.”

Sally gasped as his hand closed around her breast, delightful sensations shooting up and down her spine as arousal spread from her centre. She gripped the armrest of her seat, her mouth forming an ‘O’ as she tried to keep her moans under control. She could feel his fingers sinking into her flesh, even through her blouse and bra.

“Per-perhaps,” Sally had to swallow before she trusted herself to continue. Harold’s thumb pushing in where her nipple lay wasn’t helping at all. “Perhaps you might like to try both of them?” she suggested hopefully. It was a little forward of her. It might have been better to wait until the gentleman asked. But his hand on her breast did feel so awfully delicious. Having him attend to both of her breasts would have to feel even better.

“That is terribly kind of you,” Harold replied. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Not,” Sally swallowed again. “Not at all. Please, feel free.”

“I certainly shall,” Harold declared, leaning across her so that he could reach her left breast as well as her right.

Sally angled her body towards him to make it easier for him to access for breasts. It was the least she could, considering how good his hands were making her feel.

She was sure she cried out as his hand made contact with her other breast. Desperately she looked around the carriage, worried that someone might see. But no-one seemed to be paying them any attention.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, delicious bolts shooting through her from the contact. “Oh my. That is, rather. Oh. Wonderful. But. If I may say so. That is. Oh, oh my. That is a little more than caressing.”

Harold was kneading at her breasts, openly groping and squeezing them. It felt wonderful. But he really should have asked first.

“Oh, I must apologise again,” he said sincerely, pausing for a moment in his attentions. “But they really are such a wonderful pair. So firm. Such a delight. And such a waste if they were just to sit there.”

With the pleasure she was experiencing from his attention Sally could only agree.

“So, I trust you do not mind if I am a little enthusiastic. Your breasts truly are something remarkable. So, if I may?”

When he was that polite, how could she say no?

“Please, be my guest.”

“As you wish,” Harold smiled, gripping her breasts tightly. Almost painfully. Almost. But even if it was, the pain was sheer pleasure, currents of bliss arcing from her breasts to her brain, to her centre. Harold’s fingers played an aria, a symphony, her breasts. Sally had to struggle to stifle her moans. Being too loud would be awfully rude. But a little noise, to show how much she appreciated his attentions. That was only being polite.

“If I might be so forward,” Harold ventured, as he roughly groped at where her nipples lay. “May I pat your behind?”

Sally thought that was indeed being forward. Her behind? She didn’t let just anyone pat it. What sort of girl did he think she was?

“I know it is asking rather a lot.” Teasingly, Harold ran his hands over the tops of Sally’s breasts where they lay under her blouse. Now that they were introduced it was allowable for him to tease. But Sally wanted more. The feelings from her centre demanded more. “But your breasts are truly marvellous. And I feel it would be remiss of me if I did not determine whether your behind is equally splendid. Now don’t answer just yet.” Sally couldn’t have, not with the way sparks were dancing in front of her eyes. “I know it’s not like your thighs or breasts. You weren’t using them. And I do think you much prefer it if they are given proper attention. Your rear though. You are sitting on it. But I would take it as a great favour if I could pat it.”

Sally didn’t hesitate. She quickly turned in her seat so that she was resting on her side, her back, and her rear, presented to her fellow passenger.

She pushed herself into his hands the moment she felt the contact.

“Oh, most excellent,” Harold exclaimed. “One does not often find a rear like this. Not small but not too large. And wonderfully formed. It perfectly complements your breasts.”

Sally blushed happily at the compliments. Or maybe that was just the wonderful feeling from Harold’s hands groping and stroking her buttocks. And if what he was doing was rather more than patting, she wasn’t going to object.

“Truly delightful. Your dressmaker must adore you.”

Sally frowned. She didn’t have a dressmaker. She bought off the rack. Did dressmakers even still exist?

“I do not have a dressmaker.”

“Oh but you should,” Harold declared, taking a firm grip of her behind. “I am quite certain that your body deserves nothing less. Here, let me show you.” Gently he guided Sally around so she was again sitting in her seat. One of his hands was poised over her chest. “May I?” he enquired politely.

“Of course,” Sally replied. She was anticipating the feel of his hands back on her breasts. She liked his hands on her arse. But she liked them better on her breasts.

Instead her started undoing the buttons of her blouse.

“Sir!” Sally protested. That really was too much.

“Is something the matter?” The man sounded genuinely confused. “I asked if I may, and you agreed. It was quite clear from how my hand was poised what I intended. You are not some sort of little tease are you?”

“Oh, oh my apologies Mr. Cunningham,” Sally offered quickly. She didn’t want to be a tease. That would be terrible. “Please, continue.”

“Thank you,” Harold acknowledged, undoing her buttons and pulling the sides of her blouse apart. “Hopefully we will have no more such misunderstandings. But yes, as I thought, you have a most delightful form. No unsightly fat, but still soft and feminine. Trim, but with curves to make any dressmaker think they had died and gone to heaven.”

Sally thought she might have gone to heaven, swooning at his compliments.

“And of course, like this it will feel even better if I.”

Harold didn’t finish his statement but Sally soon learned what he meant, his hands back on her breasts, only her bra interceding. Her chest heaved from the deep breaths she was taking.

That only made what he was doing feel even better.

“Yes, you should have a dressmaker. Your breasts would look delightful displayed in something with a curving neckline.”

For some reason Harold’s words brought to mind an antique dress. Something from a costume drama. Edwardian, sumptuously decorated. Floor length, but with a scooped neck. Something that showed her cleavage. How would her breasts look in that?

She wasn’t given long to think about that.

“Would it not feel even better if I removed your brassiere?”

Sally admitted to herself that it probably would. She swallowed at the thought of flesh on flesh. But she wasn’t sure that she should agree to what Harold was asking. Having him caress her breasts was one thing. Even with just her bra Brassiere! there was at least some protection between her and her companion. But allow him access to her naked breasts? A part of her protested that was going too far.

But he had asked so politely. And his hands on her felt so good. She wasn’t doing anything else with her breasts. They may as well give her even more of the delightful feelings she was experiencing.

Still, something seemed wrong about the idea.

“Are you quite sure?” she asked hesitantly.

“Why yes,” Harold beamed. “Why ever not? I’m sure it would feel so much better for both of us. We have established how much you adore attention being paid to your breasts. And I am certain there is much to admire about them.”

When he put it like that Sally didn’t see how she could say no. She did so like it when someone had their hands on her breasts. Didn’t she? Of course she did, didn’t everyone? She went to slip out of her bra. Brassiere! she corrected herself again.

“Oh, no!” Harold cried. “You must allow me.”

Sally simply nodded. He was such a gentleman. Why didn’t she meet more men like Harold? Most men just assumed, eating her up with their looks and leers.

She sat there, passively, as Harold slipped off first her blouse and then her brassiere. Like a gentleman helping her out of her coat.

“Oh, most impressive Miss Powell. You are indeed possessed of a fine pair of tits.”

Sally wasn’t sure that he should refer to her breasts like that. But with the way his fingers sank into them, groping and tweaking her nipples, she wasn’t sure she could have formed the words to object. Even if she’d wanted to.

“I do wonder though,” Harold mused as his thumbs flicked across her nipples, “what they would look like in a proper corset.”

Sally tried imagining that. Her breasts, pushed up and together, their swell emerging over the corset. It would go rather well with that dress she’d pictured earlier, the neckline showing them to perfection. Although Harold’s hands seemed to be suiting her quite well for now.

Sally lay back in her seat. She’d have been quite happy to spend the rest of her trip like that. However much longer it was. When exactly was her stop?

“May I finger your pussy?”

Sally blinked. That was. Was. Something in her wanted to object. He couldn’t be serious. Allowing him access to her breasts was one thing. They were often partly in view after all. Would be even more so if there were pushed up and displayed by a corset. So why not let him fondle them? For a moment Sally thought there was something wrong with that logic, but she couldn’t think what. But even if there was nothing wrong with letting a man that she had just met fondle and caress her breasts her womanhood was something entirely different. She shouldn’t allow just anyone access to it. Should she?

One of Harold’s hands had dropped back to her thigh. That was alright, she’d already agreed to that. And his hand did feel so good, stroking her flesh. Teasing. Caressing. Up her leg, until it was not so very far from her centre.

A centre that was definitely spilling arousal through her.

But still.

“We have only just met, Mr. Cunningham,” Sally protested, trying to ignore the heat that was burning through her. “I think we should be better acquainted before you ask for such liberties.”

Sally was impressed with herself for managing her little speech with the way sparks were going off in her brain, one of Harold’s hands on her breasts tits? the other stroking her thigh, reaching so close to her womanhood pussy?. No, those words were not for her. She was a proper young lady. A proper young lady would wear the fine clothes she’d been imagining.

“I do understand your reticence,” Harold agreed. “But perhaps I can persuade you. Do tell me if you want me to stop.”

As he was speaking Harold’s fingers drifted higher, traced the line where her thigh met her body. Sally gripped the arms of her chair in an effort to stop crying out, intense bolts of pleasure sparking from his touch. His fingers traced the edge of her panties. Her centre was crying out. She could tell him to stop. She should. It did feel so good, but there had to be limits? Didn’t there? Sally was sure that there were. But he hadn’t reached hers yet.

His fingers drifted over the surface of her panties, Sally’s eyes losing focus. That was definitely very forward of him. Perhaps now was when she should ask him to stop. She just wanted to revel in the feelings, her arousal spiking higher. And he hadn’t actually touched her pussy yet.

Although now that his fingers had slipped inside her panties she wondered how much longer it would be before he did.

“Just as with your thighs and breasts,” Harold explained, his fingers edging towards her lower lips, “your pussy is just sitting there. Unused. Empty. You much prefer it when your pussy is filled, do you not?”

That was true. It felt so much better when her pussy was full. Sally thought she’d been using some other word to refer to it. But she wasn’t sure what that other word was or when she’d stopped using it. Harold called it her pussy. It would only be polite if she did as well. She thought she should try the word. Pussy. It did seem right, But however much she wanted her pussy filled, however much her arousal was crying out for it, perhaps now was the time to tell him to stop.

Sally couldn’t form the words.

“And your pussy can give you so much more pleasure than your thighs or even your tits. It would be shame to leave it unattended.”

Sally wanted to agree. Wanted to say the words. Hadn’t she wanted to say something else? No, that couldn’t right. Not with how delicious it felt as Harold’s fingers grazed the edge of her lower lips. She could only nod.

“I’m so glad you agree,” Harold smiled.

Good! He had understood her message. Such a gentleman.

The way she had spread her legs even wider had probably helped to convey what she wanted. It was only polite that she assist in how wonderful he was making her feel.

Sally sucked in a shuddering breath as his fingers traced her length. It was so good.

But nothing like what it felt as two of his fingers plunged inside,

When had she become so wet?

So gentlemanly of him to wait until she was though.

“I am certain that you are thoroughly enjoying this,” Harold observed, working his fingers in and out of Sally’s sopping pussy. She arched her back, desperate for his fingers to probe deeper. He was filling her so delightfully. Was that a third finger? Sally wasn’t sure. She hoped it was.

“I can see that you are. Your cheeks are flushed so delightfully. And it is spreading down to your chest. Your nipples must be so hard.”

From the tightness in her breasts Sally was sure that he was correct.

“Why, I think that if I.” Harold didn’t say any more, but as he pressed down on her clit Sally’s world exploded.

“Definitely the sort of girl who likes having her pussy filled.”

She lay panting in her seat for a few minutes, Harold still fingering her. But so gently now. Such a gentleman, his attentions only adding to the delicious aftershocks.

“May I fuck you?” he asked.

Sally blinked. That wasn’t right. She wouldn’t do, that, with someone she’d just met. And his wording was so crude.

“I do not think we should just make love, sir. We have only just met.”

Acquaintances should meet at least a few times before that, shouldn’t they? Sally wasn’t sure. Something about this didn’t seem right. So being cautious was probably best. And anyway, she was very happy with Harold’s fingers between her legs.

“But is what we are doing not making our journey so much more pleasurable?” Harold pointed out, a brush of his thumb over her clit emphasising his point. “We have established that you prefer to have your pussy filled rather than empty. And would it not be an even better use for your pussy? Is it not what it is intended for?”

Sally had to admit that was correct. She was not ignorant of such things, like other young women. She had had lovers, though she was loathe to admit it. One did not say such things in polite company. So she knew very well what her pussy was intended for. And how much pleasure it gave her to put it to use. Having it filled. But she chose her lovers with care. She and Mr. Cunningham had only just met. It really didn’t seem right.

“And did I not just help you to your climax? Would it not be fair to allow me mine? Especially as you might achieve a second.”

Sally deflated. She hadn’t considered his situation at all. “Oh. Oh, I am so sorry Mr. Cunningham. I was being selfish. Here am I enjoying myself and you are getting nothing.”

“Miss Powell,” Harold protested. “Please, do not underestimate yourself. I have quite enjoyed our encounter. Your body is a delight, both to see and to touch.”

It was Sally’s turn to protest. “Oh, you are too kind Mr. Cunningham. Most certainly too kind. Of course we shall, as you say,”

As Sally stumbled over the words she was slipping her panties down her legs. Harold had very kindly removed his fingers. Although their loss did leave her feeling disappointed and empty she was sure that would soon be rectified.

“Fuck,” Harold said, completing the sentence for her.

“Is that not too harsh a word?” Sally protested. “Now, how would you like me?”

“Facing away from me, I think,” Harold replied after a moment’s consideration. “that way I can reach around and fondle your tits. You would appreciate that, would you not? And no, it is not too harsh a word. As we have only just met I think that fucking will accurately describe what we are about to do.”

Sally hiked her skirt up as she turned around.

“Oh yes,” he commented. “Most splendid.” Sally could just imagine him eying her rear. The thought sent a little thrill through her. “Thought you really should employ the services of a dressmaker. They would surely be able to create clothes to show your beauty to its best advantage.”

Sally thought sounded wonderful. Not just dresses as she imagined, but even short skirts, something to display her legs. Not ordinary things, but fashioned after proper styles. She remembered once or twice seeing other young women, in short skirts inspired by antique fashions. Such clothes would display her legs wonderfully. Although right then though she was more interested in ridding herself of her clothes than gaining new ones.

Behind her she could hear Harold undoing his belt and lowering his trousers. She could hardly wait. Need was pounding at her centre. It felt so dreadfully empty with his fingers no longer in residence. And soon, oh so very delightfully soon, she was going to be filled. She’d be using her pussy for its intended purpose.

Sally’s eyes sprung wide as Harold’s hands grabbed her hips, guiding her down.

Such a gentleman.

Coherent thought deserted her as she felt his manhood, firm and erect, at her opening. Sally couldn’t wait any longer, thrusting herself down, his length penetrating her, filling her up, pleasure exploding from her centre.

“Oh. Oh my. Yes!”

Sally’s words turned to moans as his hands found her tits.

“I do believe that you are thoroughly enjoying this,” Harold commented as Sally bounced on his lap. Given their position she had to. And it was only fair, with the way pleasure was shooting through her from their contact. None of her lovers had ever made her feel like this, bliss shooting down every nerve.

“Yes, I do believe you are,” Harold continued. “I believe that you are a girl who wants to be touched, to be fondled. That you are not happy unless someone is stroking your thigh, or fondling your tits or fingering your pussy. Or fucking you.”

With the erotic sensations riding her Sally wasn’t sure she could disagree. But that didn’t mean she was happy with it.

“Muh-muh Mr. C-C-Cunningham,” Sally protested. Oh God, his cock felt so good in her pussy. Fucking had never felt this good. But she still felt the need to object. “That is hardly what a gentleman should say to a lady.”

“A lady?” Harold scoffed, tweaking her nipples painfully. The pleasure arced through her brain. “Are you claiming to be a proper lady? I think not.”

“But sir!” Sally exclaimed, in between mind-numbing pulses. Whatever she said she wasn’t going to stop her bounces, each one sending exquisite sensations as he thrust in and out of her.

“A proper lady,” Harold continued, cutting her off, “would not have her tits hanging out while she was fondled and fucked in public. That describes some sort of slattern.”

Sally’s eyes went wide as she looked around the carriage. Bizarrely no-one seemed to be paying them any attention at all.

Her surprise didn’t stop her bouncing up and down on Harold’s delicious cock.

“I,” she attempted again.

“Yes,” Harold mused. “Some sort of slattern. A trollop. Even some sort of harlot, perhaps. One who quite must allow her body to be used. Would you not say so?” To emphasise his point Harold trailed hand up her thigh, across her centre, His fingers expertly massaged her clit, before pressing down on it.

Sally’s world exploded again.

“You want more.”

She didn’t stop. Of course she wanted more. And Harold hadn’t climaxed yet.

It was what her pussy was for.

“I will admit,” Harold allowed, “that you are quite good at playing the proper young lady. Very good indeed. But let us agree that someone who allows this.” He tweaked both her nipples painfully, the pleasure making her back arch. “Who enjoys it, is truly just a little trollop. Still, with your ability to play the proper lady I may have an idea. One which will allow you to be touched and fondled and fucked quite often.”

“Yes,” Sally breathed. “Yes.” She wasn’t sure if her agreement was to what he was talking about or what he was doing. She didn’t really care.

“I run.” He paused there, Sally rather proud of her pussy for causing the moan of pleasure that she heard. “I run an establishment at which a little harlot like you might find gainful employment.”

That gave Sally pause, her bouncing ceasing for the moment. At least his cock was still filling her pussy. But she knew where harlots worked. Sally turned her head to look at her fellow passenger. She was still rocking her hips back and forth though. She had to do something. It was just too delightful to be so wonderfully filled. “Do you mean a house of ill repute? I, I am not.”

“Oh, I think you are,” Harold declared. “A harlot. A prostitute. Or if not, it is what you desire to be. How else will you be fucked as much as you clearly want to be? And, as I said, you will be quite suited to my establishment. It is one that caters to particular tastes. Gentleman that fancy a young woman who can present as a lady from a bygone age. Or inspired by such. Can you not imagine yourself in an Edwardian gown? Such delightfully low cut necklines. The corset will do wonderful things to your tits. Or perhaps just such a corset and short skirt modelled from the fabrics of the times. Then they will be able to admire your legs.”

Sally could imagine it, had been imagining it, a thrill rushing through her excited body. They wouldn’t just be able to admire her legs and breasts tits!. They could touch them. Fondle them. Grope them. She was imaging offering her corseted chest for their attention.

And then they might fuck her, if they found her particularly appealing.

Like Harold was now.

“May I offer you employment?”

Sally swallowed. He wanted her to be a whore. That couldn’t be right, could it? She was a proper young lady. Wasn’t she? She thought she was. Or at least she had thought that. But as Harold had pointed out, proper young ladies didn’t present themselves half-naked in public while allowing someone to fondle and fuck them. That did sound more like a harlot.

“I am sure you will find quite regular engagement. Perhaps almost constantly fucked, a man’s hands on you. Is that not what you wish? So much better than having your thighs and tits and pussy sitting idle.”

Idleness was not a good thing. Sally knew that. Perhaps Harold had a point It was so hard to think, with his cock filling her up so delightfully and her arousal peaking again. She turned her head to the front, gripping the back of the chair in front of her as she resumed her bouncing.

“Oh God, yes,” she cried.

“May I take it that you agree to be a whore?”

Sally let the question sink over her.

“I do need you answer Miss Powell. Shall you work as a harlot in my establishment?”

Sally could imagine it. Wonderfully revealing clothes, drawing men’s eyes to her. But only as a prelude to what she wanted, needed. Their hands on her, her pussy filled. She had to answer.

It was only polite.

“Yes, yes,” Sally cried.

“You will be stroked and fondled and fingered and fucked by your clients?”

“Yes, oh God, yes.” Arousal was flooding her brain. She’d never felt so filled.

“Very well.”

Sally cried out as Harold came, her own orgasm arriving at the same moment, exploding in dizzying sparks, washing any doubts away. Doubts about what? She was going to be a whore. It was what she’d always wanted. Hadn’t she? For a moment Sally thought she’d had other dreams, but she couldn’t remember any. Being a whore was all she’d ever wanted. It was so kind of Mr. Cunningham to offer her the opportunity.

“Get off me and put your clothes back on,” Harold ordered.

“Yes sir,” Sally still felt shaky but she knew that she had to obey.

“Yes, you’ll make an excellent strumpet,” Harold observed, his eyes roaming over her body. The way he eating her up was almost as good as him fucking her.

“Thank you, sir,” Sally replied, bobbing her head. It was the proper thing to do. A whore did what she was told.

“I shall arrange an appointment with our dressmaker. But she is rather busy. And anyway I think a few good fuckings for you will break you in nicely.”

“Yes sir,” Sally replied. It was what she wanted. What she needed. “Of course sir.”

“Come along then. This is our stop,” Harold announced, Sally following along dutifully as he led her off the train.

Sally didn’t even both looking at what stop it was. She didn’t care. She knew where he was taking her. To her new place of employment. Where there would be men to stroke her. Finger her.

Fuck her.

She couldn’t wait.

(The End)