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Category: Erotica/BDSM Erotica
Description: Another erotic classic by the author of Young Adam and Thongs. White Thighs by Frances Lengel (Trocchi) is the tale of Saul, a dominant European who travels to the New World, enjoys a series of games with his deliciously cruel house cook Kirstin, and finally, against the the advice of the family executor, seeks boldy for a beautiful and lost childhood nurse.
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler, 2004
eBookwise Release Date: December 2004

5 Reader Ratings:

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Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [182 KB]
Words: 43544
Reading time: 124-174 min.

I went at once to the kitchen to tell Kirstin that I was expecting a guest for dinner. The kitchen was located in the basement next to the laundry. As I walked along the stone corridor, I heard a queer noise, which I took to be a girl's whimper. I hesitated and listened. The sound came again.

I walked quietly up to the kitchen door and knocked.

Inside, there was a scuffling movement and then, almost at once, the door opened and Kirstin, a strange smile on her broad Nordic features, looked out at me. When she saw me, she stepped back to allow me to enter.

Mona, the upstairs maid, left the kitchen by the back door as I entered. I was again struck by the exceeding whiteness of her skin under her rich, chestnut-red hair. Green eyes, I remembered--she was a pretty girl.

"Did you wish something, sir?" Kirstin's voice was obsequious, but at the same time amused. The sound of her voice aroused me from my own thoughts.

"Oh yes, Kirstin. I have a guest coming to dinner tonight, Mr. Lewis. That's all, really."

I hesitated, looking at her.

She was a big-boned woman with heavy flesh, and gave the impression, as I have remarked before, of being a masseuse. Her hair was pale blonde and her small, blue eyes were sunk in her dough-like face like buttons in soft wax. Her features were rather fine in spite of the roll of fat under her chin. She was about five feet seven inches tall, and in her high heels, which she wore all the time, she must have stood about five feet nine or ten--two inches, at the most, shorter than myself.

"Very good, Mr. Folsrom," she said, but the expression on her face did not fit the words somehow and I found myself gazing at her without quite knowing why.

Her small, blue eyes returned my stare almost impertinently, and then she suddenly turned and busied herself with the pots in which the lunch was being cooked.

"How's your shoulder, sir?" she said without turning around.

I looked at her back for a moment without replying. Her shoulders were broad and powerful, her buttocks heavily-muscled, her bare calves fat and smooth like codfish.

"Better, thanks, Kirstin. A bit stiff, that's all."

"Soon put that right," she said without looking at me. "A little massage is what you need, sir."

"Massage? You're not a masseuse by any chance, Kirstin?"

"I did a bit of it before I took up this work," she said. "If you like, I'll give you a rub sometime during the afternoon, Mr. Folsrom."

I hesitated.

Was it my own wayward imagination that divined suggestion in her words?

"That's very good of you, Kirstin. Come up around four o'clock if that suits you."

"Very good, sir."

"I think a brace of pigeons for tonight, Kirstin."

"Yes, Mr. Folsrom."

I left the kitchen.

All during the afternoon, the thought returned to me that there was something almost sinister about this big Swedish woman who was now the head of my household staff. What was it precisely? And why did I have a sense of strange expectation from her impending visit? And the whimper, which I had most certainly heard on the way to the kitchen, what did that mean? My curiosity was aroused. Following lunch, I spent two hours reflecting on it.

At exactly four o'clock, Kirstin knocked at the door.

"Come in!"

She entered, dressed as always in her white housecoat.

She took in the furniture of the library at a glance.

"There's a divan in your dressing room, sir. I think that would be more suitable."

I nodded.

"All right. Let's go up."

She paused at the foot of the stairs to allow me to go up first.

"After you, Kirstin," I said.

She went up first and I followed.

In the dressing room, she instructed me to remove my upper clothing. My wound was covered with sticking plaster and lint. She made me lay face down on the divan, and, sitting beside me, she laid her large hands on my back, her thumbs parallel with my spine. Slowly, and with firm pressure, she began to massage me. She had produced a bottle of oil from her housecoat pocket so that the friction would not irritate my skin.

In a few minutes I felt utterly relaxed. Her hands seemed to possess the power of magic, at once soothing and stimulating, caressing and threatening. I breathed heavily, partly because of the pressure she exerted, and partly because her strong hands, imparting something of their mystery, had given birth to a crude sexual excitement in me.

She had massaged my whole back, from my neck and shoulders to the small of my back. Her hands were now at the waistband of my trousers, her fingers slipping deftly beneath them.

"If you'll just push your trousers down a moment, sir, I'll finish you off properly," she said.

I assented without argument, doing as I was bid. And then her hands were at my buttocks and thighs, kneading the flesh like baker's dough and bringing relaxation to all the muscles of my legs. My sex grew hard beneath me, pressing into the hard surface of the table as if in battle with it. One would not give way to the other however, and I pushed down, my buttocks clenching, so that the urgent pressure of my sex to the table caused my body to deluge with warmth. Did Kirstin realize? I wondered. Probably. Her command of my body was such that she probably knew the exact rhythm of my breathing, the speed with which my blood flowed through my veins. Of course she knew! I pushed and pushed, bruising, perhaps, my flesh. But I did not care. My need was great and Kirstin's hands so expert and manipulative of my desire, that I would have rubbed myself against the rough bark of a tree, had that been my vehicle. Instead, it was the table, and, of course, Kirstin's hands kneading, twisting, remolding my flesh.

There is an obvious metaphor: I was like clay in her hands. I think she could have done anything she wished to me at that moment. I couldn't remember ever having been so entirely in another's power. Even as a child, when Anna used me, she had to be coaxed and encouraged to take control. But at the moment, I made the mental resolution that I should resist nothing. Kirstin left off massaging me, took a towel, and rubbed me briskly from head to foot.