The Fantom at Thorne Manor

 

 

 

 

 

 

Editor's note: this work contains scenes of rough, reluctant, dubiously consensual, consensually non-consensual (CNC), or non-consensual sex or scenarios.

This story is about a mysterious lover of women's feet. After encountering an unusual woman, he visits her manor home, but is unprepared for what he finds.

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Darkness. Silence. Remnants of death and destruction and fire, buried deep in the rubble. Forsaken by the world of light, it lies dark and forgotten. It is Underworld. Not a place of Lycan and Vampire, but one of feet - women's feet. It is my world.

Tonight, is the two-year anniversary of being sacked from my position as a purchasing agent here in London. I was let go when a new young woman took over for the boss who hired me three years prior. She was quite attractive, her hair and makeup always perfect, and she seemed to have an unlimited budget for clothing and shoes. One day she called me into her office and showed me security camera footage, taken in her office late at night. It revealed me entering, picking up two pairs of shoes she left under her desk, and holding them up to my nose as I smelled them. I had no defense, she had absolute proof, and I did indeed do it, so I admitted such. During a heated exchange, I yelled some things better left unsaid, after which she announced that my services were no longer required. She had security staff standing by, and I was escorted from the building. It feels odd to celebrate getting sacked, after all, I no longer have a steady income, and now live in a very tiny, very dingy, and very cheap, sub-basement flat. But now I have freedom to pursue my real passion, namely women's shoes. I have the perfect place to practice my craft, the Old Opera House in London. The Old Opera House, and indeed the whole neighborhood, has seen better times, but inside there are still signs of its opulent past, built at a time when craftsmen knew their craft.

A fortunate discovery, entirely by accident, happened after I pulled a loosened brick from the back wall of my sub-basement flat. You see, I live just down the street from the Old Opera House, and beneath many of today's buildings lay the former street level of London. Much of this area was badly damaged during the German Blitz of World War II, and rather than repair the bomb-damaged buildings, whole sections were buried and filled in with dirt and rubble. Later, new buildings rose in their place, or more often, on top of their place, often several meters higher than the prior street level. But not everything filled in evenly, there are gaps where the rubble and dirt settled, and some basements of former buildings remain almost intact within their rubble cocoon. Indeed, my own flat is affordable only because it rests within this sub-level, holding up a more modern building full of much more modern and expensive flats. After creating a larger opening in my back wall, I explored this underground area for several months and gave it the name Underworld. Walking, crawling, and digging, I eventually found my way under the Old Opera House, where I discovered a whole series of vents, doors and hidden passageways, some just below the main floor.

I cannot conceive of their intended use, but beneath every seat in the Opera House is a circular opening, about 30 centimeters across, with a cast iron grate. Scattered within the sub-basement of the Opera House are several old dust-covered octopus furnaces, their duct work likely stripped as scrap metal during the war. Today, they resemble large iron Venus de Milo statues. Perhaps the circular covers were an early attempt at central heating, and maybe there never was any duct work, but rather the coal-fired iron behemoths were gravity furnaces, relying on nothing more than heated air rising up through these floor vents. London was much colder in the time of Dickens, and both Oliver Twist and Ebenezer Scrooge were well acquainted with snow. For me, the opening is a perfect size for my head, and being directly beneath the seat, it is well shielded on three sides. The fourth side opens to the seat in the row behind, and in the darkness during a performance, my head is comfortably invisible. I have effectively found a box, surrounded by walls, into which women's feet are placed! And best of all, my head is inside the box!

After several months of doing little more than watching, one day I reached out and gently touched a bare foot which had freed itself from the confines of its shoe. It was a scary moment for me, as I risked discovery, but the foot did not pull back, so I began rubbing it. Holding the foot softly in my hand, I licked and sucked on it, running my tongue along the sole. The foot seemed to be enjoying itself, because it moved further forward towards me, so I rewarded its toes with a passion only a lover of women's feet can provide. As we approached intermission, I pulled out a silk handkerchief I had found in Underworld, and used it to caress and dry her foot. When finished, I left the handkerchief draped over her bare foot. Closing the wrought iron grate as I left, I was unprepared for what happened next.

The following day, I saw a post on social media showing a photo of my handkerchief, which featured a monogram of the letter "F". The text of the post described, in rather well written and quite sensual prose, how I worshiped her foot during the performance of the opera. The post went viral that same day, and others seized upon my obscurity and the single letter monogram, dubbing me the "Fantom of the Opera". A small handful of negative comments were overwhelmed by the volume of posts wanting the Fantom to repeat his performance on their feet. Ticket sales leaped, and the quiet opera house was soon sold out several weeks in advance. Before each performance, dozens of women now post their row and seat numbers hoping for a visit from the Fantom. Assuming the persona of The Fantom, I fashioned a mask from the insoles of a pair of women's shoes, cutting eyeholes in the ball of each foot, and every night take several monogrammed silk handkerchiefs with me from the large stash I found in the sub-basement of a former millinery.

*********************

Tonight, like most nights, there are too many requests for me to reach all of the women, so I choose only the ones that most interest me. As part of the selection process, I climb a long-forgotten staircase, now secretly hidden behind oak paneling, and accessible only from the sub-basement. I arrive at a peephole and watch the women take their seats. On my two-year anniversary, one post in particular has caught my attention, a woman claiming that she spends all of her time walking barefoot.

From high above the seating level, I sit watching and waiting for the Naturist to come in. She posted a facial photo on social media and mentioned she was very active in the Young British Naturists, or YBN. Then, at last, I see her. She is easy to spot with her long wavy blonde hair, topped by a crown of fresh flowers. She arrives in an off-white linen tunic style dress, trimmed with floral applique, and I can see a thin leather strap securing her sandals.

I descend to the sub-cellar and arrive at her seat, or rather, the row in front of her seat, and await the dimming of the house lights announcing the start of the opera. I quietly open the iron grate and raise my head, only to be greeted by a curious sight. Immediately in front of me are two bare feet, or rather, bare except for a thin strap wrapped around them. She has not come in regular sandals, but rather, she is wearing String Sandals! There is a brown braided loop around her second toe, running along the top of her foot back to her ankle, then wrapped around several times. Atop of her foot is a decorative cluster of beads or stones attached to this cord.

As I study her feet in the dim light reflected from the stage, I see small tufts of hair on top of her big toe and second toe. This is unusual, as most women have very light and thin hairs on these toes, hardly noticeable. Perhaps the lack of shoes prevents her hairs from being rubbed away. The naturist has painted her toenails white, but the lengths are trimmed unevenly, and perhaps she suffers damage from lack of protection. My gaze moves higher up her legs, and I pause, noting the fuzzy outline. I await a better lit scene on stage, and when it comes, I see her light-colored hair standing out in the semi-darkness. I doubt a razor has been introduced to these legs in quite a while. Lacking modesty, she is sitting forward on her chair with her knees spread apart, exposing another hairy place equally unexplored by a razor.

I am unsure where to begin, she may not be expecting me yet, but with little other choice, I extend my right hand toward her left foot. I begin by running my forefinger along the top of each toe, from base to tip, hoping this soft opening avoids any shocks. I instantly know she is aware of my presence because her knees come together, and she slides her left foot forward, towards me. I spend some time caressing the tops of her toes, then let my fingers follow the braided cord along the top of her foot and around behind her ankle. Focusing on the top of her foot, I give her a soft two-finger massage, using circular pressure. She flexes her toes higher, tilting them back, offering me the sole of her foot.

I have licked the feet of hundreds of women over the past two years, but a barefoot walker is new to me. If she indeed spends much of her time without shoes, how will the sole of her foot differ from a shoe-bound one?

Moving my head closer, I place my nose against the base of her toes and inhale deeply. The smell is unexpected, there is none! Perhaps there is a benefit to not be trapped inside shoes. I move my nose across the rest of her sole, using the sensitivity in the tip of my nose to explore the texture. The pads on the bottoms of her toes are quite rough, as are the balls of her foot and the heel, but the insole and arch are rather soft.

Grabbing her heel, I lift her foot slightly so I can get a full lick from heel to toe. My hand feels roughness on the back of her heel, but the base of her heel is hard and flat. I extend my tongue against the rougher surfaces, and find them to be not unlike the fine leather sole of a shoe, though not quite as uniform in shape or texture. As I press on them with my tongue, I can feel the callous-like skin and the matching inner bones of her foot. There is a slight taste of street grime, not unlike licking the sole of a shoe, but less grit than expected.

I lower her left foot, and switching hands, reach for her right foot with my left hand. On this foot, I want to concentrate on her toes. Again, grasping her heel, I steer her toes toward my mouth, and take in her big toe. The outer part of her big toe is soft! As I suck, I realize that while the bottom of her big toe is in direct contact with the ground, the outer part of her toe never rubs against the inside of a shoe and thus remains soft. Moving to her second toe, the spacing and angle is decidedly different from other feet. Walking barefoot must cause her toes to spread out more than they would be if confined within a shoe. After sucking on her second toe, I lick between each of her other toes, enjoying the extra space and the contrast between roughness and softness.

Maintaining the grasp with my left hand, I duck my head into the hatch, and send up my right hand. The hole is simply too small for more than two appendages at the same time. My right hand joins the left, and I work solely by touch. Starting at the heel, I rub simultaneously with my thumbs on the bottom of her foot, with my fingers on the top of her foot. I vary the pressure, using a combination of gentle stroking, rubbing, and massage, then linger on her toes, separating each, and rubbing between them with my fingers.

This has been a fascinating diversion, one I would love to explore further, but I have other feet to visit, and it is time to move on. I let her foot down gently, reach down for a monogramed handkerchief, and pop my head back up above the floor. Leaving the handkerchief folded, I slide it under the string sandal on her right foot. Preparing to duck down, I see a folded piece of paper drop down next to her foot. A message? Or a thank you? I grab the paper, slip it into my pocket, then close the iron grate.

********************

I awake thoroughly knackered, with my usual dry throat. Licking women's feet is thirsty work. It is Sunday, and there are no performances of the opera scheduled today, so the Fantom turns into an ordinary man and needs to do ordinary things, like laundry. I pick up the trousers I wore last night, and extract my mask. Within the same pocket I find a folded piece of paper. Opening it, I realize it is the note dropped by the Naturist last night.

It is an invitation to come to their compound, an old manor located on the sea coast. I remember her golden hair accented with fresh flowers, and especially her feet, so I quickly decide to accept her invitation. I grab a quick shave and shower, but there isn't much I can do with my long hair. It is cheaper to tie it up in a pony tail than pay a barber. Needing cash for the train, and likely having to purchase two meals while out, I go to one of the special bricks in my flat, behind which I stash my most valuable antiquities, and pull out a silver Denarius. It is part of a small hoard of Roman coins I found in Underworld, and though darkened by age, it is in excellent condition. Equally important, it dates back to the time of Emperor Claudius, and was likely brought to England sometime in the first century AD. I venture out and stop at my favorite coin dealer, a man willing to open his door to me any day of the week. Our usual terms apply of cash only and no questions asked, and in return, I am supplied with modern currency.

With a bit of a late start, I take an express train, and having no companion or other entertainment, I search out a seat from which I can discretely watch the feet of two women passengers, themselves deeply engaged in conversation. Having enjoyed an hour of their dangling shoes, I am almost sad when we arrive at our destination. I find a chippy and grab a takeaway order of fish and chips, nibbling on the go while I walk the seven kilometers to my destination. Coming to a whitewashed stone pillar, at the junction of four roads, I pause to consider my choices. I have no reservation, so I can easily turn around and return to London. But I am intrigued, and must pursue it. I turn to the right, observing the YBN mark on the pillar, and walk a narrow road flanked by large old trees. After a short way, I spy a rather large Tudor style house, with the traditional decorative timbering, a steeply pitched roof, and several pointed gables. I again debate whether to turn around, as this manor appears well beyond my class, but having come this far, I press forward.

On the front door is a large metal door knocker shaped like a lion, and I use it to announce my arrival. The door opens, and a middle-aged woman, possibly late 40's, opens the door. She has short brown hair just beginning to show some gray, but oddly, is barefoot and is wearing nothing but a burgundy robe.

"Am I interrupting?" I ask.

"No, No, don't let me startle you. I am a naturist. How may I help you?"

I pull out the note and hand it to her.

"So, you are The One," she says. "Welcome. My name is Jane Thorne. Please, do come in."

I follow her into the large house, stepping into what could easily pass as a movie set. We enter an ornate hall, with high doors all around, the walls heavily decorated with portraits and paintings of odd flowers and birds. Through one of the open doors, I spy a suit of armor, far down a long hallway. She escorts me into a sitting room, quite brilliant from the double illumination of sunlight passing through several large windows and then being reflected back by a number of decorative framed mirrors. I look at myself as I pass a full-length mirror, and even though Jane is wearing but a robe, I feel quite under-dressed. I send my image a half-smile, but the pasty white face looking back at me has suffered from too much time in darkness. Jane offers me a chair, which I accept, and something to drink, which I decline.

"From your accent, you sound as if you might be Irish," she says.

"Born and raised," I reply. "But the jobs are better in London, or they used to be."

"This is Thorne Manor, my home. I married young, to a man much older than I, and after my husband died, I turned our estate into a retreat for the Young British Naturists, known as YBN. My parents died when I was young, and I was sent to live with my aunt, but spent much of my youth in a rather strict boarding school. Now that I am older, and alone, I decided to create a place where young women could come and find safety and shelter, away from city life, and away from the pressures of work and relationships. We have about 30 permanent residents here, all between the ages of 18 and 35, and at any given time we may have another 10 drop-ins who stay only as long as they choose. In case you were wondering, there are no men living here. The young woman who gave you the note is one of my assistants, her name is Mia. We don't use last names here, and if you follow me, I will take you to her."

I question her, "From what you just described, I seem a bit out of place. Do you know why she invited me here?"

"I do know why, but it would be best if Mia tells you herself," Jane replies. "It is her idea."

Not sure of where we would go to meet Mia, I wondered if I would be required to disrobe, so I ask, "Why don't you call her on her cell phone and have her meet us here?"

Jane laughs and replies, "We don't allow cell phones here, and the only Internet connection is in my office. Thorne Manor is a retreat for women to enjoy their freedom, away from the pressures of text messages, Twitter, Facebook and other social media."

I tell her, "I also spend much of my time in a place without cell phones."

She then surprises me, "Yes, by coming here with this note, both Mia and I know who you are, but your secret is safe with us. We will be going out through these large glass doors. If you brought your cell phone with you, please leave it in the basket by the door."

I walk over to the small table and place my cell phone into the basket, then turn back towards the doors. Jane is standing by the open door, completely nude! Her burgundy robe hangs from a peg near the door. Except for a few wrinkles, and a slight sag in her small breasts, her tanned and fit body could pass for someone twenty years younger.

"Do not be alarmed," she says. "You will not have to remove your clothes today."

I ponder the meaning of her last word, "today", but remain silent as I step through the glass doors. I pause to take in the wonderful vista outside the house. The ocean, a small but well-tended flower garden, and a large expanse of lush green lawn. On the lawn are perhaps a dozen young women, all completely nude, some sitting, some walking, some playing yard games. Catching up to Jane, we proceed along a brick path, passing several cottages. Women are entering and leaving the cottages as we pass, all of them utterly starkers, and I am surprised that the intrusion of a fully-clothed male is wholly ignored.

We pass a stone wall, behind which are some vegetable gardens, then see numerous grape vines stretching over and around a small hill. Coming to a large white-washed building, we are greeted by a great flutter of wings, both dove and sparrow, ill pleased by our disturbance. We enter the building, and I look up toward an upper tier where I see the young lady from the Opera House. Oddly, she is walking around inside what appears to be a large wooden barrel. Jane and I take a small flight of stairs to the upper level, where we have a better view. There stands Mia, in all her naturist splendor, standing ankle deep in a thick layer of grapes! Her wavy blonde hair has been pulled up and is tightly wrapped, and I am in awe of her large shapely breasts, slim waist, and full bush.

Mia looks up at us as Jane calls out, "Mia, he is The One."

I look at Mia and see instant joy in her face, "Welcome. We are so glad you came."

Jane then says, "Please give him a tour of the grounds and when you are done, stop by the main house."

She turns and exits the building, leaving me alone with Mia. "Would you mind helping me out?" she asks.

"Sorry, but I don't really know anything about stomping grapes," I reply.

She smiles at me and laughs, "No, you silly! Give me your hand and help me out of this barrel."

Mia lifts her foot up to a small ledge inside the enormous barrel and reaches her hand up toward me. I take it and pull her up, our combined efforts freeing her from its wooden confines. She looks at me with her clear blue eyes and says, "Thank You", then walks gingerly over to a bench near the wall and sits down. Bending over and reaching for her feet, I watch as she pulls bits of stems and grape hulls from between her purple toes. She then stands up and goes to a rinse station, where she hoses off her feet.

Looking at me, she says, "I don't mind the purple color so much as those wretched stems. They do so scratch the bottoms of my feet."

I respond, "I know a little about feet. Do you mind if I take a look?"

Mia sits on the bench and I drop to my knees in front of her. Stretching out her left leg, I grasp her foot in my hands, and give it a gentle rub, the motion allowing me to feel the same toughened sole I encountered at the Opera House. But now, her whole foot is a deep purple color. Even so, it is a real treat for me to see and touch a woman's foot in the light of day. I am overwhelmed by fine details and subtle movements now visible, but which hide in the darkness beneath the chairs of the opera house.

"Does the color come off?" I ask.

"It does, but it takes a few days."

"Do your feet taste like grapes?" I ask.

She laughs again and says, "How should I know. I don't make a habit out of tasting my feet. But since you already did so at the Opera House, why don't you have a go."

I take her toes into my mouth and begin sucking, tasting the lingering essence of grapes. As I move between her toes, I am surprised that neither my licking or sucking have any effect on the purple tinge. It is simply not coming off. Lifting her foot slightly, I lick the soles, noticing a greater intensity of purple on the softer parts of her sole. Mia responds by waving her toes, wiggling and separating them, and I in turn, waggle my tongue playfully against them. As I lick, my sensitive tongue detects the unseen scratches and abrasions on her skin, caused by the stems of the grapes.

"That feels nice," she says.

"I really can taste the grapes," I respond.

Lowering her left foot, I scoop up her right, but as I lick her sole, she flexes her toes against my face, and lightly pinches my nose in between her big toe and the index toe.

"Well, do my toes smell like grapes?" she playfully asks.

"Why no," I reply. "Your toes have an aromatic bouquet, bold and brash, with strong earthy flavours, and subtle hints of black cherry and chocolate."

Mia cannot contain her laughter and gives my nose a light squeeze before releasing it. I re-position my mouth against the sole of her foot, attacking the purple with a sucking motion. As I tend her foot, she tells me more.

"The French name for pressing grapes with your feet is pigeage. Many vineyards have such events for the public, mostly for publicity, but due to sanitary reasons they throw away the juice. In most countries, you cannot sell a wine made with such grapes. But we have a benefactor who still believes as the ancient Romans did, that this first press, done by pigeage, is a nectar with special qualities. We take extra care with the cleanliness of our feet and with the handling of the juice, and the wine she makes from it is for her exclusive use. Every vineyard uses a press to extract the juice, but one of the advantages of pigeage is that our feet do not apply as much pressure to the grapes, so fewer tannins are released."

I continue to intently lick and suck on her right foot, until Mia says, "Not that I mind, but you might consider stopping soon so we can tour the manor, and besides, I don't think you are having much luck with the purple color."

I had totally lost track of time, and could not tell how long my mouth had joined to her foot, so I respond, "Oh, sorry."

I notice Mia has freed her hair, the wavy blonde strands now cascading loosely down below her shoulders. Mia gets up and leads me back to the grape vines, turning up a path leading deeper into the vineyard. Passing the heavily laden vines, I am told that the warm summer has allowed for an earlier harvest this year. As we walk, I am surrounded by the bounty of the Earth, and looking over at perfect female form of Mia, I feel like Adam, walking with Eve through the Garden of Eden. As we round the top of the hill, I see a solitary tree in the middle of the vineyard, its grey trunk and branches heavy with leaf.

I ask, "What's that tree? It looks out of place here, a bit like me."

Mia responds, "Just because something may look out of place does not mean it cannot be loved and cherished. It is a sweet chestnut tree, and according to Jane, Mr. Thorne proposed to her under that very tree almost 30 years ago, even before there was a vineyard here. It may look out of place, but it has a special place in her heart."

We continue walking, looping down a different path. On one side is a field, where several sheep nibble on the green grass. Behind a wall, are several vegetable gardens, being tended by a several nude young women. Mia tells me that they grow most of their own food here, including organic vegetables and herbs, and sell what they cannot use.

"What do you do in the winter?" I ask.

"We wear clothes when needed, and we do wear Wellies when working around our goats and sheep."

Mia leads me off the path and we head towards the ocean. She seems to have no trouble walking barefoot across the grass, and after topping a small hill, I am presented with a magnificent view of a great meadow of untamed grass and wildflowers, sloping down to a small cove on the shoreline.

"This is my favorite place on the manor," says Mia. "I come here at night and look at the stars, watch the moonrise over the sea, and hear the nightingales sing. In the main house is an old clock that displays the phases of the moon, and I watch for when there is a full moon. In fact, there will be one tonight. Some people associate a full moon with faeries or witchcraft, but to me, a full moon radiates mystery and magic and love. It can also signal that a change is about to take place, or announce the arrival of someone special, perhaps someone like yourself."

As we walk through the great meadow, I hear Mia shout, "Owww!" She pulls up her right foot, and holding it, starts hopping on her left foot, trying to maintain her balance. I go to her and put my arm across her bare back, offering her support.

"It feels like a thorn," she says.

"Hold your foot up and let me look," I reply.

I shift behind her, taking her left hand in mine, and drop to my knees. Immediately in front of my face are the twin orbs of her firm bum cheeks. Fighting my desire to stare, I use my right hand to grasp her right foot and pull it up, much like a farrier.

I tell her, "I still don't see anything Mia."

"Look near the front, right in the middle."

I press my thumb onto her sole in the spot she identified, and get a response, "Owww!"

"I see it now. It looks like a piece of thorn, but it's not sticking out. It might be under the skin."

"I can't hop on one leg all the way back to the main house, and it is too far for you to carry me. We need to think of something else."

I thought for a moment, and not wanting to disappoint Mia, I say, "Sit on me."

"What? Are you daft?" she replies.

"No, I will lay down on my back and put my knees up. Sit on my stomach and lean your back against my legs, as if I were a chair. That way, you can point your feet towards me and I will have both hands free to remove the thorn."

Mia laughs, "So you are going to be my human chair?"

"Exactly," I respond.

I leave her to balance herself, and lay down into position. Offering up my hands, she takes them, and now understanding my intentions, she gingerly steps over my torso, her bum then descending onto my lower stomach as her legs spread apart. She stretches her foot towards me while sliding back slightly, her bum cheeks resting upon and surrounding my still clothed cock. With both hands free, I hold her foot and do a thorough inspection. I see a thin dark line under the skin of her sole, only a tiny bit of thorn sticking out, as if snapped off at that point. My fingernails are wholly inadequate for the task, I possess no tweezers, and can say with absolute certainty that neither does Mia.

I inform Mia of the bad news, "The thorn looks like has broken off and is almost entirely under your skin. I don't think I can pull it out."

Mia looks down at me from between her legs and says, "You are the Fantom. Do what you do best. Use your mouth and suck the thorn out."

"You know me well," I reply. "I'll have a go."

I position my mouth over the site and begin to suck, my saliva slowly softening the skin on her sole. I continue sucking and rubbing my tongue against her sole until I finally feel a bit more thorn sticking out. I retract my lips, and bite the nub of the thorn with my front teeth, then pull my head back, and it is free! I push my tongue forward, carefully extracting the thorn from my mouth and onto my fingers.

"Got it," I exclaim, holding up my prize.

"How can something so small cause so much pain?" Mia asks.

Flicking the thorn away, the word small no longer can be applied to my cock, and with nothing between us except for the thin fabric of my trousers, I am sure Mia can feel it as well.

"It already feels better," she says.

I hope she is referring to her foot.

"Could you lick that spot a few times," she asks.

I let my tongue silently answer, pressing it against her sole and following up with teasing motions.

I glance up at her face, and listen as she says, "You have wonderful eyes, so dark and brilliant."

"Thank you," I respond, not used to receiving physical compliments.

With a free hand, I reach out and pluck a flower, breaking it off with just a short piece of stem, and slide the stem between her toes. I repeat three more times, until the gap between each toe is filled with a flower. I hold her foot against my face, inhaling the sweet combination of a natural foot, mixed with crushed grapes, grass and wildflowers.

I watch as she settles her head back, looking up at the sky. Laying here in the bright sunlight, this is so different than the darkness beneath the seats of the Old Opera House. Here, there is a beautiful young woman with windswept golden hair, totally nude, sitting atop my crotch with her unshaven legs spread wide apart, her purple foot pressing against my face, and together, we recline in a great meadow, surrounded by a carpet of fragrant wildflowers, beneath white puffy clouds floating in a deep blue sky.

Looking straight ahead, across my stomach, I notice Mia's hand gently touching her pussy. A sheen of moisture is already glistening on her labia. In turn, the sight makes my cock start to pulse and realize I cannot last much longer before cumming. Looking up at Mia, I cannot see her face, only her chin, framed by her two magnificent breasts, the nipples now standing erect.

I force myself to ask, "I hate to break the magical spell of your full moon, but why did you invite me here?"

Lowering her head to make eye contact, Mia responds, "We should go to the main house and speak with Jane, but first I have one more thing I need you to do."

As she prepares to stand up, she straightens her legs, placing them on either side of my head. She then bends her knees and pulls her feet back towards her. I raise my arms to offer my hands, which she accepts. Her next movement is to push back against my bent legs, causing her crotch to glide along the entire length of my trapped cock. My cock explodes inside my trousers, my own head goes back, and I utter, "Oh, Mia!", followed by a soft moan.

Mia rises to a standing position, still straddling my body, and asks, "Oh my, did I hurt you?"

Looking back towards my crotch, I see Mia glance at the same wet spot forming on my trousers. "I'm so sorry Mia, I couldn't help myself. This is such a wonderful place, and you are a very beautiful woman."

"I knew you were a special man," replies Mia. "The way you make love to a women's foot is proof of that". In one smooth motion, she drops to her knees, and as they land on both sides of my head, her pussy hovers just centimeters away from my face. "Is your tongue as talented on other parts of woman?" she asks.

I need no prompting, and begin to slowly lick her pussy, finding it already moist. I have much less experience at cunnilingus, but I figured the same mouth, tongue and hands I use on women's feet will also work here. But a key part of being the Fantom is to be attentive to the physical reactions a woman has while I worship her feet. Her subtle movements, the sounds she makes, and a wiggle or curl of a toe, all mean something. Now, in uncertain territory, I need to be especially attentive to Mia's verbal and physical clues as she reacts to my efforts. I do not want to bring her to a quick orgasm, instead, I want to extend her pleasure, and mine, for as long as possible.

When I lick the sole of a woman's foot, I like to start at one end and slowly run my flattened tongue all the way to the other end, then, without lifting my tongue, I reverse, using the underside of my tongue to retrace the same route. I begin with this on Mia's pussy and feel her body relax, so I repeat several more times. I watch closely for a reaction and can see her labial lips slowly begin to get puffy and with the increased blood flow, her crotch turns a darker pink color. I decide to stiffen my tongue and let it meander among the ridges and valleys, intentionally catching the soft puffy flesh and pulling it further apart. As her lips separate, they form the shape of a butterfly, and use my tongue to trace the outline of its wings.

"Enough teasing!" shouts Mia. "Extend your tongue!" She grabs the hair on the top of my head, pulls my face against her pussy, then begins rocking her hips back and forth. As she grinds against my nose and tongue, I feel as if my face is entering a deep crevasse. As Mia becomes wetter, that crevasse is being filled by a water.

My hands are free, so I reach up and grab Mia's breasts, seeking the nipples. Even though there is hardly any sagging, I find her twin orbs to be quite soft. The same firmness I use on feet will not work here, so instead I cup my hands and run my palms in gentle circular motions against her nipples. I am rewarded with warm cooing sounds.

I see the opening to her vagina revealed as it passes between my eyes, but to reach it, I need to halt her grinding. I drop my hands to her thighs to steady them, and position her vagina above my tongue. Continuing with the crevasse theme, I extend my tongue and allow it to follow the natural circular contour of the opening. The idea of a whirlpool crosses my mind. I begin very slowly with slow anti-clockwise circles at the edge of a whirlpool. Extending my tongue further inside, I increase my speed ever slightly. Around and around I go, swirling within the increasing wetness being provided by Mia herself. Plunging deeper, my speed increases to the point where I can no longer escape the whirlpool. I lose all control over the ever faster and ever tighter circles. It is purely physical flesh-on-flesh, and my mind is trapped deep inside Mia's whirlpool. Suddenly, a wave of warm frothy liquid emerges from the bottom of the whirlpool, gushing over my tongue into my mouth like a geyser. The salty sweet liquid is too precious to simply push aside with my tongue, so I stop all motion, leaving my tongue trapped deep inside the whirlpool, allowing the flavours to wash across it. As I linger there, I feel the contractions within Mia's vagina.

After several minutes, Mia's hand rubs against my nose as she drops it down to rub her clitoris, and I realize that I have ignored this special organ. I take the action of her hand as a sign that Mia is ready for more, so I pull her hand aside and surround her clit with my lips. Not wanting to move too fast, I pull my tongue back within my mouth to avoid contact. With a tight seal in place, I apply a small amount of suction, trying to pull her clit out. Using only my lips to stimulate her surrounding flesh, I use a guppy-like motion, avoiding her clit, and indeed, offering nothing but suction and release. Mia grabs the hair on the back of my head and pulls me tighter against her clit, and again borrowing from the Fantom, I decide to use a trick I sometimes perform on toes. I form my tongue into a curled shape and extend it forward, letting her clit slide into the curled pocket, as if it was a penis, and my tongue a vagina. I bob against her clit several times, then let Mia control the tempo with her hips. As her body rocks against my face, I hear several audible cries of, "Oh, God!"

Mia holds my head tightly against herself for a moment, then rolls off of me and onto her side, curling up into an almost fetal position. She is facing away from me, but I have no complaints with my view of her bum. Breathing heavily, she says, "I've never... felt... anything... like that... in my life. Thank you. Thank you."

I barely notice that my own cock has erupted again, and as I look down, a considerable wet spot has formed on my trousers. We remain like this for several minutes without words, under the warm sun, before Mia finally rolls over to face me.

"Oh, my!" she says, looking at the large wet spot on my trousers. "You can't let Jane see you like that."

Being polite, I point to her crotch and say, "And it looks like you're dripping."

"I know," says Mia. "But I have an idea. Take your clothes off. We can tell Jane that you wanted to try out being nude. She would like that."

I was unsure of her plan, but how could I refuse Mia after our tryst? I stand up and disrobe, exposing my own pasty white skin, which receives no sunlight in Underworld. Crawling on my stomach through the tight passages has rubbed away most of my chest hair and scoured the front of my legs bare. Owing to a poor diet, my frame has thinned out quite a bit over the past two years, and my long hair is pulled back in a pony tail, a cheaper alternative than paying a barber. I cannot help but notice the contrast between my own naked body and Mia's sun kissed athletic form.

"Hand me your shirt," says Mia.

"You can't wear it here," I respond.

"Just watch," says Mia.

I do as she asks and watch as she wipes down the inside of her thighs and then her pussy. Tossing the now dampened shirt back to me, I do the same to my own crotch.

"Pick up your clothes and follow me to the main house," orders Mia.

We begin walking back, but as much as I bravely accept the new sensations on the bottoms of my feet, I nonetheless walk quite gingerly, and am unable to keep up with Mia. As I drift a few steps behind, I use the opportunity to watch the movements of her nude female form, from her bum, to her legs, to her ankles, and to her feet. The way she walks is different from someone with shoes. Each step is shorter, her feet landing more forward towards her toes than on her heel, and she is slightly bending both knee and hip. It is fascinating to watch, especially since there are no clothes to conceal her musculature. 

We pass by several nude women, and in modesty, I hold the bundle of clothes in front of my crotch. Right as we near the manor house, two voices cry out from behind us, "Mia! Mia! Wait!"

I turn to see two young women running toward us, or rather, leaping toward us. Their running is not the classic heel-toe rocking motion, but instead is a series of small leaps. Each woman lands on the ball of her foot and then takes off immediately into the next leap. It reminds of the graceful elvish movements depicted in many movies. Both women are completely nude, and I cannot help but stare at their continually bouncing breasts. When reaching us, they exchange greetings with Mia, and I learn that both are permanent residents. One is a blue-eyed blonde named Cory, the other a green-eyed redhead named Caitlin. Both of them are extremely fit, with well-toned muscles, and no tan lines anywhere to be found. Like Mia, neither one is wearing makeup, and none of the three require it.

Cory looks at Mia and asks, "Is he The One?"

Mia nods her head, which produces an almost rock-star like squeal from the two young women. Caitlin looks at me and says, "We have been going to Jane's office to follow your adventures on social media almost every day. Some of the stuff you do sounds incredible. I would love to go to the opera and have you worship my feet."

Assuming they know I am the Fantom, I respond, "It would be my pleasure. I'll leave contact information with Mia so you can let me know when you come."

"Me too!" says Cory. "Maybe you could do both of us on the same night."

Being polite, and hoping she just means their feet, I reply, "I would like that."

Cory looks at my strategically placed bundle of clothes and says, "You don't have to hide your cock. We go to several YBN events throughout the year, and the men there are quite nude."

Standing next to the three athletic, very fit, and quite beautiful women, I still hide behind my shield of bundled clothes, not only worried about my cock, but also about the appearance of my body. As I gaze at the three, I am embarrassed by my complete lack of muscles and body tone. My life as The Fantom has turned my body into a likeness of its sobriquet. Indeed, my body looks quite ghostlike, and except for lack of breasts, more feminine than these three.

I tell them, "It is my pleasure meeting both of you, and I hope we can meet again in the future." Looking a Mia, I add, "Let's go see Jane."

Cory and Caitlin give me rather long hugs and unexpectedly passionate kisses, then head back onto the lawn. As I turn towards the house, I look up and see a specter more ominous than any Dickens could conjure. More fearful than the Ghost of Christmas Past, I see the Ghost of My Own Past! My former boss, Kathleen Annette, the one who fired me, is approaching. As with all of the women at Thorne Manor, she is completely nude! Leading the way, are her large, pointed and perfectly formed breasts, the best that money can buy. I am cheesed off to see her, but cannot deny that she is Dead Gorgeous, even without her high fashion clothes and designer shoes.

With a whisper, I inform Mia of our relationship, and Mia responds that Kathleen is only a part-time resident, someone unlikely to know who I am. My former boss walks up and reaches her hand behind my head, and pulling me closer, begins snogging me! She forces her tongue deep into my mouth, before finally releasing me, then gives me a big hug and squeeze, pressing her artificial breasts against my bare chest.

Kathleen says, "Hey, I get to welcome the new girl too."

What? My appearance must have changed so much over the last two years that she doesn't recognize me! And somehow, she thinks I'm a woman!

Kathleen continues, "I'm in cottage 23 if you would like to stop by. The other bed is empty and I would love a new roommate."

I realize that my former boss is a lesbian, and she may be trying to seduce me!

Fortunately, she walks away, heading for the row of cottages. Mia informs me that she has made several large contributions to help support the Manor, and that Jane considers her to be a good friend. Mia and I enter the main house and find that Jane has forsaken her robe. We go to the same sitting room, and trying to be modest, I sit down and place my clothes over my crotch.

"I trust the tour went well?" asks Jane.

I respond, "Mia is a wonderful guide, and you have magnificent grounds. I met several residents and Mia even suggested that I try being a naturist."

"Thank you for all three things," says Jane. "It is time for you to know why you were invited here. Mia, would you please start."

"Over the last few months, several women have left Thorne Manor. Jane and I were curious as to their reasons, and talking with them, they complained how sore their feet were from being barefoot. This is a common issue with our new arrivals, as it takes several weeks for their feet to adjust. We don't want to lose anyone else just because of their feet, but we would prefer not to allow sandals. If we did, it would mean their feet would never toughen up and adjust to walking barefoot, and they would forever be dependent on wearing sandals."

Jane continues, "We have a female doctor visit us one day each week, and she is quite capable of identifying and treating foot issues like cuts or stone bruises, but we want to add something special for the tired and sore feet of our women. We want someone who is willing to kiss, rub, and caress the feet of our young naturist women. But we wondered where could we find such a person."

Mia resumes, "Speaking for the other women here, we do not want a robot or someone who considers this to be their job. We want someone with a genuine love for women's feet, someone who is capable of doing so with style, and flair, and yes, a hint of romance. Perhaps our goal was too lofty, but we could not locate such a person, until one day, we saw a story in our local newspaper about The Fantom. Jane and I went onto social media to read about your exploits and thought that you might be The One. We had several women monitor your stories, and sent them to the Opera, hoping to attract you. Finally, I was successful."

Mia begins telling Jane the story of the meadow, and I glance back and forth between both women. When Mia reaches the part about me extracting the thorn, I notice Jane cross her legs, her nipples hinting at arousal. I was grateful to Mia for leaving out some of the more explicit parts.

Jane looks towards me and says, "It sounds like you already possess the qualities we seek. We would like you to come to Thorne Manor, and for want of a better word, make love to our feet. We want our young women to think of you as an adventure, a break from their daily routine. You are welcome to flirt with them, and vice versa. We want each woman look forward to their time with you, just as many hundreds of women look forward to meeting The Fantom. There is a small red fishing hut right on the ocean where you can meet the women. It is well appointed, but rather solitary, and is seldom used. Some of the women even think it is haunted. It can be a cold place, especially when there is a breeze off the ocean, but we want you to light it up with the flame of your passion for women's feet."

Mia then says, "We understand that the Opera is silent one day per week, and because of the travel time from London, we would like you to visit us on that day. You are welcome to spend the night here in the main house, as we have a guest room prepared for you, and you may return the next day so you will not miss a performance. No one at Thorne Manor receives a salary, but we can buy you a Brit Rail Pass, and we will provide you with meals. When you leave, you may take some vegetables and baked goods back with you."

Jane added a final thought, "Since you will no longer be a visitor, we expect you to be nude, just like everyone else here at Thorne Manor. And, of course, you must follow the rules of the manor. Now, we need you to decide. Will you accept our offer?"

It was hard for me to believe what I just heard, and much easier for me to believe that I am still back in my dark sub-cellar flat, dreaming of a magical place called Thorne Manor. I am over the moon with joy, but fear any response will suddenly snap me awake.

I decide to risk it all and announce, "I agree to those conditions, and shall accept your offer."

Jane looks at me, and then at Mia. "Excellent. I told you Mia. He is The One." Looking back at me, she adds, "You are welcome to spend tonight here in the manor house, the guest room is ready, and please be our guest for dinner."

"That sounds wonderful," I reply.

"Dinner will be at 7:00 PM sharp," says Jane. "You may go anywhere in the house or on the grounds with one exception. There is a old and quite steep wooden staircase on the top floor that leads to the attic. You are not to go there."

This made me curious as to what Jane was hiding in the attic, but it is more likely just her concern for my safety on the rickety staircase.

Mia comes up to me with a big smile on her face and says, "Thank you. I know you will like it here. And as long as Jane has accepted you, why don't you give me your clothes so I can wash them for you." With a wink, she adds, "Your clothes won't be ready until tomorrow morning, but you won't be needing them tonight."

After Mia leaves, I tour the manor house for a while, but decide to spend the rest of the time just sitting outside in the sunlight and watching the activity of the young women. The time passes quickly and the chimes of a grandfather clock announce it is time for dinner. I find my way to a long table with just a few places set. Mia points me to a chair, and I am pleased she will be seated opposite me. There will be seven diners tonight, I the only male, with Jane at the head of the table. Next to me are the two women I met earlier, Cory and Caitlin. I place the napkin in my lap, assigning it the additional task of concealing my cock.

The food is vegetarian, but excellent, and among other topics, conversation includes cleaning the red fishing hut, whether any changes were necessary, and how I should be scheduled. Mia suggests that we make the hut sexier, but everyone seems to have their own opinion as to what that means. I was finding the dinner to be quite sexy enough, with six pairs of well-formed breasts hanging above the dinner plates. As Mia describes her vision of sexy, I feel a foot press against my crotch, and realize it must be Mia. She rubs her toes along the length of my shaft, forcing me to adjust the napkin, trying to cover my now excited cock. I am grateful when Mia's foot leaves my cock, but to my horror, she pinches my napkin with her toes and pulls it to the floor!

There is enough commotion that Cory and Caitlin glance discretely at my crotch, in time to see Mia capture my cock between her first two toes and begin stroking it up and down. I need to pick up the napkin, so I announce, "I must have dropped my napkin. Pardon me, while I get it."

But Cory moves faster and says, "Allow me." She quickly pulls back her chair and drops to her knees right next to my chair, just as Mia retracts her foot. Cory lowers her head, opens her mouth, and takes my cock in. As conversation continues, I try to shield her, keeping both hands above the table. Cory pretends to have difficulty reaching for the napkin, allowing her head to bob up and down. Finally retrieving the napkin, she releases my cock, stands up, and hands me the errant cloth.

No sooner is the napkin in place then Mia once again pulls it to the floor. In turn, Caitlin announces that she has dropped her fork, and proceeds to pull her chair back. As she drops to her knees, she places her head in my lap. While reaching under the table with her left arm, Caitlin starts licking my shaft.

"How is it coming Caitlin?" asks Mia. I glance down and see pre-cum oozing from my cock.

"It will be coming soon," replies Caitlin.

Producing a fork, Caitlin slowly raises her head, licks the pre-cum off the head of my cock, and retakes her seat.

I feel the napkin press against my inner thigh and look down to see it pinched between Mia's toes. The three of them have been acting quite cheeky during dinner, and I cannot help but think they planned this. Taking the napkin and dabbing my lips, I feel both of Mia's feet reach out and grasp my cock, and rush to cover them. She begins stroking my cock and I give her a stern look, but all she does is look back and smile. Using her fork, she stabs a large piece of carrot and moves it toward her mouth, but pauses at her lips. Her tongue reaches out and begins sensually licking the length of the carrot. The oral image, combined with her foot action, makes my cock erupt.

Mia turns the conversation to weather, and announces that it should be a mostly clear night. Cory looks down at my discolored napkin and replies, "I'm glad, because it quite wet right now." The three of them exchange glances and laugh softly amongst themselves. Lacking further stimulation, my cock returns to a respectable size by the end of the meal, and I use the napkin to cleanse myself.

After dinner, Jane offers to escort me to my room while the others clean up. We climb a flight of stairs and go about midway down a long hall, before she opens a door. Holding it open, she motions me inside. The room is decorated in red, with matching curtains and bedding. She follows behind me, closing the door, and walks to the window, pulling open the curtains. There is a view of the ocean looking east, but I see darkness approaching as we near sunset. As Jane stands there, she was backlit by the fading light, which perfectly outlines her still fit body.

Pointing to a side door, she says, "This is one of the few rooms with its own WC. We recently replaced the tub with a modern shower, and I am told there is a complete stock of grooming items."

She moves away from the window, and walks over to me. Taking my hand and looking me in the eye, she says, "I am not blind to what went on at the dinner table. You have proven yourself incapable of resisting the charms of our young women. I'm not that old that I don't know where this will lead. Therefore, as the lady of this manor, I am claiming the right of Prima Nocte, better known as First Night."

I couldn't believe what I heard. "That's just a myth," I announce.

"It is not a myth here at this manor," she replies. "I am English and you are Irish. The decree of Edward I still stands here. You agreed to follow the rules of the manor, and I am the one who establishes those rules."

She reaches up and cups her hand behind my head, pulling me down so our lips meet. I am confused, and more than a little worried. Is this some kind of test? Will she throw me off the manor if I refuse? Or throw me off if I yield? Our lips meet and we kiss, the kind of slow, sensual kissing that a mature woman enjoys. Then, she puts her hands around my hips and walks me backwards to the bed, pushing me down onto it. Jane drops to her knees at the edge of the bed and grasps my cock. She begins rubbing her hand along the shaft, and a moment later leans forward and takes the head into her mouth. This is too much for me to understand.

Jane is talented, and brings me quickly to a full erection. She stands up and turns around, showing me her taut English arse. Lowering herself onto my glistening cock, she guides my erection into her wet pussy and begins humping up and down. I look at her back, still flawless and smooth, and watch her bum cheeks spread apart as they press against me, then snap back together as she rises.

Her left hand is hidden, though by the position of her arm, and her increasing moans, she must be rubbing her clitoris. It has been a while since my cock has seen the inside of a vagina, and Jane's is surprisingly tight. Her up and down tempo suddenly increases, and I cannot help but add my own moans to hers. I feel her vaginal muscles grasping at my cock, as if trying to pull it from me. As I climax, I reward their efforts with a large shot of cum. Uncertain if Jane can also feel me, it is but a moment later before her own orgasm hits. She pauses for a moment, then lays back against me, her head reaching my chin, and I let my cock slide slowly out of her.

"That was wonderful," I say softly, actually meaning it. I reach my arms down around her torso, no longer flesh colored, but rather and ashen grey. My hands grasp her well-formed mature breasts, and I slowly caress them in the near darkness. I do not want to spoil the moment, and hope she will appreciate just being held.

After several minutes, she stands up and looks down at me. Her facial features are obscured, except for dark, passionless eyes. "You will tell no one about this," she orders.

Not wishing to anger her, I consent, "My lips are sealed."

"I hope not," says Jane. "This is not some Gothic Romance novel written by the Bronte sisters. You will need to earn your keep while you are here. We have a lot of feet that will need your attention."

She enters the WC, and turns on the light, leaving the door open. She wipes her crotch with the only towel and then adjusts her hair. Without looking at me, she walks in a stately manner to the door, exits, and closes it behind her. Here in this English manor, I suddenly felt very Irish.

I hear the sound of an old lock being turned and rush to the door. Trying it, it cannot be opened. Jane must have locked the door from the outside! I am her prisoner. I sit down on the bed and wonder if this is the same room where the lord of the manor kept his mistress. That would explain the WC, a feature not common to old manor houses, the norm being a shared bath. It was needed because the mistress was never allowed to leave this room. I wonder if, and when, I will be allowed to leave, and whether Jane intends to return.

Now that the sun has gone down, I am hoping Mia will pay me a visit. But after two eruptions in the meadow, and sex with Jane, I want to take a shower. Going into the WC and opening a drawer, I find it nicely appointed, at least if I was a woman! There are several sanitary products, and both the body wash and shampoo are lavender scented. Seeing no alternatives, I use them. Lavender smell fills the WC and I actually find it somewhat refreshing, though I will certainly bring my own toiletries when I return. Drying myself with the same towel Jane used, I turn off the lights, climb into bed, and await the arrival of Mia.

With the sun long gone, I am surprised at how dark the room has gotten. There are no outside lights shining in the window, and the moon has not yet risen. At last, I hear the door open and close, and footsteps approach the bed. Mia has arrived! I stand up to meet her, and a groping hand reaches out to find me. Rather unexpectedly, the hand pushes me backwards onto the bed! I hear further movement in the room, and now laying across the bed, the hand must have crossed over to the other side of the room and finds my face. I wonder what Mia is up to, and decide to play along.

I feel a quick kiss upon my forehead, followed rapidly by others on my eyes, nose, and cheeks, before her long hair brushes against me. Warm breath washes across my face. A pair of lips meet mine, and offer a rather long, quite passionate, and entirely upside-down kiss on my lips. Finished, the pair of lips move down my torso, leaving a string of kisses on my neck, then along the length of my chest. Returning to one of my nipples, the lips begin sucking. At the same time, two dangling breasts start rubbing against my face.

In the darkness, I reach up to touch a shoulder, comforted by the fact that the lips and breasts are not from some disembodied spirit. A pair of soft hands begin caressing my nipples, and in turn, I locate one of the large breasts hovering over my face and begin sucking on it.

The nocturnal spirit takes a long, slow, and deep breath, then says, "I love the scent of lavender on you."

But the voice is not Mia's! It sounds like... No... It can't be... It's Kathleen... My former boss!

She locks her lips around one of my areolas and begins forcefully sucking. As repulsive as I find her presence, I cannot stop my nipple from poking up inside her mouth, where she teases it with her tongue.

Releasing it, she says, "I like a woman with small breasts. After all, anything more than a mouthful is just wasted."

As she attacks my other nipple, I ponder what I should do. She thinks I am a woman! Earlier, Mia mentioned that Jane considers Kathleen to be a good friend. If I suddenly announce I am not a woman, will she go to Jane and get me kicked off the manor?

Her hands tickle their way down my stomach, heading toward my crotch, and I grab my cock with both hands to shield it from discovery. The hands reach my pubic hair and begin playing with it, rubbing it and twirling the sensitive hairs with a fingernail. Our hands meet, and to my relief, Kathleen's hands retreat.

"Don't be shy," says my former boss. "We have plenty of time tonight. Why don't you start on me instead?"

I feel the edge of the bed move, and her knees suddenly press down on my arms, trapping them. She is facing towards my feet, and uses her thighs to lock my head into position. I decide to yell out for her to stop, but she lowers her vulva and sits down on my face! I squirm beneath her trying to free myself, but that only seems to excite her further. Maybe the best way to get this over with is to bring her to an orgasm. I extend my tongue and lap at her pussy, trying to separate her labial lips so I can reach her vagina and clitoris. She is already quite wet, and as I allow my tongue to trace the soft puffy lips, they separate quite easily. I had been in a similar position earlier today with Mia, and she seemed to enjoy my efforts, so I begin to repeat the same things on Kathleen.

I immediately notice a difference here, versus the Opera House. Kathleen is quite vocal, issuing an almost continual stream of moans, squeals, expletives, and instructions. No woman would dare make such sounds in the Opera House. I culminate by letting her clitoris slide in and out of the pocket formed by my curled tongue. She suddenly lifts herself up off me, and I hear a furious rubbing noise directly above me. Kathleen issues a loud moan, and a sticky glob of pussy juice falls into my open mouth. Lowering herself onto me again, I have no choice but to swallow.

"You are very good with your tongue and I love your enthusiasm," she says. "Your partner is very lucky. You should know that I make several substantial contributions each year to support this manor. Afterall, don't you agree that there should be a place for women to come and look at other naked women? Jane is a dear friend, and I'm sure I can get her to move you to the spare bed in my cottage."

Oh shit! My old boss thinks I am a lesbian like her, and if she finds out I'm not, Jane will have to choose between money and me. And money always wins that battle. Until Kathleen leaves my room, I have to pretend to be her lesbian lover, and not let her discover my cock!

I slide out from under her pussy and use a crab-like motion with my elbows and feet to scramble to the middle of the bed, but she is on me in an instant. I manage to slip both hands down to cover my cock, but that leaves the rest of my body exposed. She crawls over me from my left side, her left breast dangling against my chest, then finds my face. After rubbing her cheek gently against mine, she kisses me on the lips. Then it becomes a blur. Licking. Sucking. Rubbing. Kissing. Biting. Lips. Nose. Cheeks. Ears. Neck. Chin. Chest. Nipples. Arms. Hands. Over and back again, she returns frequently to drop kisses on my lips. Her movements barely last a minute in any one spot before she moves on to the next. In complete darkness, and with her in the dominant position, I cannot tell where she will move to next. I wonder if this is her personal preference, or if this is the norm for lesbians.

Thinking that she may be trying to bring me to an orgasm, I dare not speak, but try to mimic her moans and deep breaths from earlier. But instead, she only increases her intensity, adding her own sounds of pleasure. Several places on my body are beginning to respond to her efforts, and when she moves to them, I no longer need to fake my expressions of sexual satisfaction, they are real.

Her hand moves down my torso towards my crotch, but I use my hands to deflect it, only to feel it move down the front of my legs. Her long hair tickles my stomach, and when I realize where she is going, I roll away from her, ending up on my right side.

I feel her groping to find me, and once re-connected, she moves towards me. Her hand runs down the length of my back and onto my arse cheeks, her fingers playfully rubbing, teasing, and scratching. Her other hand joins in and the pair begin massaging my bum cheeks. It feels wonderful, but all I can think about is how to prevent her from reaching between my legs and finding my cock. I am relieved when her hands work their way up my back. She snuggles closer, draping her left arm over me. We are spooning! Warm kisses find my neck, then her tongue tickles my ear. Adding her teeth, she begins nibbling. The whole time, she is whispering how much she enjoys my body and telling me what she wants to do to it. I can't help myself, it is too erotic for me to resist, and my cock stiffens.

Her left hand strokes my still sensitive nipples, which immediately pop back out. Again, she rolls me over onto my back, then whispers, "I want my tongue between your legs."

With my right hand on my cock, I cannot prevent her, and realize it is only a matter of time before she discovers my cock. She swings her left leg over me and straddles my chest, then begins scooting her bum down my torso. I have to escape. I have to take control.

I grab her hips, and use them to quickly pull myself down the bed. Passing beneath her, and between her legs, I immediately turn over and get to my knees. The move surprises her, because she is slow to react, and as she tries to turn around, I am able to spin her onto her back. I press my hands firmly down onto her shoulders to keep her from getting up.

My hands slide down to her breasts, which gravity has flattened and spread out. They are so different when she is on her back, not nearly as intimidating. I begin rubbing my hands over body, hoping to gain time in which to think. Kathleen wants, or need, something else. I have to discover what that is.

"Are you giving me a massage?" she asks.

Summoning my best high-pitched voice, it is time for me to whisper, "Shhhhh!"

I have no intention of giving her a massage. I just want to pass my hands over her and prevent her from getting up. She is completely nude, but I see nothing in the darkness. I move around her on the bed, letting my hands pass over different parts of her body. Her face, her neck, her shoulders, her arms, then continuing down her torso. I feel her contours, places that are rough, others that are smooth, what is soft, and what is firm. In the light, I would not notice these things. I marvel at her softness. Softness is something you cannot see; it can only be felt. My hands pass this information to my brain, where it forms an intimate image of her female form. If a picture is indeed worth a thousand words, the image in my brain is so clear and detailed that it must be worth a thousand pictures. How is it possible that her nude body can be even sexier in complete darkness?

She seems to be enjoying this quiet interlude, her cooing and moans gentler, but I know it is only temporary. As she tries to get up, I am able to roll her onto her stomach. We both maneuver for position, and when she rises to her knees, I move behind her. Catching an inverted foot with my hand, I decide to do what I do best. I begin rubbing her foot with my hands, in a gentle massage, easily noticing how soft her feet are. I begin licking, teasing, and tickling with my hands and my tongue continues its work for several minutes. Picking up the scent of her foot cream, I flash back to that day in her office when I smelled this same odour on the shoes I found under her desk. That day in the office, I only imagined doing what I am doing, now it is real. I poke my tongue between her toes, then surround her big toe with my mouth, and start sucking.

"Being with you, I don't need batteries to play. You're unstoppable today," she says. "I would love to hide you under my desk at work, and let you spend the whole day kissing my feet." The thought is not unpleasant, but I have a better gig as the Fantom.

She adds, "I haven't had my feet worshipped like this since I was at the Opera three months ago. You're almost as good as the Fantom". I smile at the irony, and try to remember that night. Even if true, I am finding that her feet are quite ordinary, and would simply have blended into the hundreds I have worshiped as the Fantom.

She pulls her foot away from me, and I need to quickly think of something else. I decide to worship her bum as a lesbian would, or at least as Kathleen might do to another woman. I grab her hips, and lift them, positioning her arse in the air. I rub her tight bum cheeks, feeling the curves and picturing what they look like in my mind. I rub my face against her cheeks, and begin licking. I recall our confrontation on the day I was sacked, and remember the last two things Kathleen yelled at me. "You'll never get another job in this town!" Then, after my own rants, "Kiss My Ass!" It looks like both of her predictions are coming true.

I move my hands over her bum cheeks and pull them apart. Burying my face in her crack, I mix long slow licks with quick lapping ones, as if I were licking a melting lolly. Pulling out, I add a series of kisses and licks on her bum cheeks, and reach between her legs to caress her pussy. Just as Kathleen did, I do not pause for long in any one place. Bypassing her rosebud, my tongue seeks out her perineum, sucking, licking and kissing it. I release her bum cheeks and they clap together against my face, causing Kathleen to sharply draw in a deep breath. Firmly grabbing her cheeks, I move them sideways, back and forth, letting them clap against me face almost as if she were twerking. I remember Kathleen returning frequently to kiss me on the lips, and following her lesbian lead, I return often to her crack with long sloppy wet licks and kisses.

In a sultry voice, Kathleen says, "You naughty girl. Now, rim me."

I have never rimmed anyone before, nor has anyone done it to me, so I am on virgin ground. I tease her rosebud with my tongue, and as the rubbery opening loosens up, I push inside. She begins talking constantly, sometimes encouraging me, but most of the time issuing a stream of Oh Yeah's, OMG's, Right There's, and Do It's. I tense my tongue and plunge it further into the abyss, drawing several loud moans. She shifts slightly, and I resort to Mia's whirlpool. Slowly rotating anti-clockwise at first, then faster as my tongue penetrates deeper, I pick up rather unpleasant tastes scouring the inside of her chute. As the whirlpool spins faster, I reach between her legs and stroke her clit. Suddenly, she bucks forward and lifts her arse even higher, squirting a stream of pussy juice against my face, before she falls forward onto her stomach.

"I think I'm in love!" she says.

Not exactly words I want to hear. I would prefer if she would just sod off. Continuing to think like a lesbian, I lean forward, lapping at her still leaking vagina and chasing the tasty streams running down her inner thighs. Hoping she is either exhausted or satisfied, I am again disappointed. With cat-like quickness she turns and rolls me over onto my back. I barely have time to cover my cock with my hand.

Fearing she may try cunnilingus on me, I raise my left leg, trying to shield my crotch from her, only to hear her say, "Oh, so you like tribbing."

From what little I know of tribbing, it's where two lesbians rub their pussys together. The problem here is that there is only one pussy between us. Uncertain as to what I need to do to trib, I cover my cock with my right hand and wait for her to take the lead. She pushes my right leg aside, and straddles my raised left leg, pressing her crotch against the back of my thigh. She moves in closer and her right thigh drives into my crotch.

Feeling my hand, she says, "Give me your pussy!"

I successfully fend off her efforts to remove my hand, and giving up, she begins to grind her wet pussy against the back of my thigh, while at the same time grinding the front of her right thigh against my crotch. The feeling of power is amazing as she moves my entire crotch up and down with her thigh. Trying to sound like a lesbian, I raise the tone of my voice and offer my best to mimic her moans and coos. After fighting an erection all night, and holding back several orgasms, this is by far the hardest one to resist. Pre-cum leaks from the tip of my cock, but somehow, I manage to hold back. Kathleen continues tribbing, bringing herself to another orgasm before she finally stops. I feel her slick juices coat my thigh and slowly trickle downward. Leaving my hand in place, I relax, hoping she is finished for the night. But in the darkness, her hand slips beneath mine and grabs my cock!

"What the fuck is this?" she yells. Separating from me, she is unwilling to release my cock. I am found out. My time at Thorne Manor is doomed!

"Oh, wait, I know," Kathleen says. "When Jane gave me the key, she told me you are a special person. She must mean that you are transitioning from male to female."

The words, "NO FUCKING WAY!" fill my mind, but still unsure of the situation, they do not escape my lips.

So, is Jane keeping me, her Irish mistress, locked up, and handing out the key so her friends can use my body? I wonder how many Irish woman experienced the same thing during the many centuries of English rule? And who else will she give the key to?

"That explains your small breasts and why you kept trying to hide your pussy from me," she says. "Don't be afraid. You are making a good choice in transitioning, one that will change your life for the better. I would like to offer my help."

Still grasping my cock, she squeezes gently with her fingers and runs her thumb over the tip, smearing the pre-cum. She adds, "I know some great surgeons back in London who can cut this ugly thing off and give you a nice pair of B-cups. We can add hormone therapy to complete your transition. After what you did to me tonight, I will even pay for everything if you agree to be my lover during the transition. I can set you up in a lovely flat in London, and give you plenty of spending money."

And just how in the hell am I supposed to respond to this? She is offering to set me up as her mistress! I just want her out of my room, so I raise the tone of my voice several octaves and say in my best high pitched feminine voice, "That sounds great."

"I never did catch your name," she says.

I am stumped. I can't use my real name; she might recognize it. I have to invent a fake name quickly, so I decide to feminize "The Fantom" and say, "Fannie. You can call me Fannie."

She begins to rub my bum cheeks with her free hand and replies, "That's a nice name Fannie, and how appropriate. You know, you really shouldn't be denied the opportunity for sexual pleasure tonight, especially since you already made the commitment to be a woman. I would never let a man fuck me, but you're not really a man anymore, are you?"

I cringe at her words. I am still a man, but a confused one, and one being manipulated by two women. Still holding my cock, she climbs onto me, and straddles my crotch.

Facing me, she says, "Just for tonight, I will pretend you are wearing a strap-on dildo."

She shifts slightly, lowering her pussy onto my cock and begins humping me. After shielding my cock all night, and denying myself every opportunity for an orgasm, I am ready to cum. She reaches down and grabs my hands, pulling them up to her breasts, and as I rub them, she increases her tempo. Her delicious nude body is too much for me to resist, and as our mutual moans echo back and forth, we climax at the same time. Kathleen falls forward against me, and I wrap my arms around her, basking in the glow of sexual bliss. Because we are both breathing hard, her breasts rub gently against me, but I don't mind.

A few minutes later, Kathleen says, "Jane told me you will be here every weekend, and that's the same time as me. I'll make some calls this week about your transition and give you the details next weekend. You totally exhausted me tonight, and although I'd like to stay until the morning, I need to get back to my cottage to get some rest. I have an important meeting tomorrow morning in London, and need to catch the early train."

She runs her hands over my body and finds my mouth, her lips following with a soft kiss. She pulls away and says, "This one will have to hold you until next weekend." Locking her lips tightly onto mine, she gives me a final deep wet kiss, her tongue probing my mouth. I offer no resistance.

Finally, I feel her slide off the bed and listen as she walks to the door. Opening it, she pauses. Turning slightly, the light from the hallway offers me a stunning side profile of her perfect figure. I watch the unmistakable motion of her hand as it moves to her lips, then blows me a kiss. As she closes the door, I jump up too late to stop her from locking it.

I lay back down on the bed wondering what I had gotten myself into, and equally, how I was going to get out of whatever it is I had gotten myself into.

After a few minutes, the door is unlocked and it opens again. I see the form of a woman enter and close the door. Fearing that Kathleen has forgotten something, or wants still more sex, I call out, "Who's there?"

"Here I am," says Mia. "Do you want me to turn on the light."

As Mia walks into the room, her skin is suddenly bathed in a silvery blue light. "Look", she says, walking to the window. "The full moon is rising."

As she stands there in quiet stillness looking out at the moon, she is no longer human, rather, she has turned into a Greek statue, one carved in silvery marble to celebrate perfection of the female form. As she turns away from the window I sit up on the edge of the bed and watch her approach.

"Hold me, Mia, I think I've just made a terrible mistake."

She sits down next to me, wraps her arms around me, and nestles my head against her breasts.

"You're trembling," she says.

I replay the evening I spent with Kathleen, highlighting how my uncertainty led to sins of both commission and omission, and maybe even worse, I confess to enjoying the sex.

"I don't know what to do next weekend. My old boss seems to have a lot of influence over Jane. Maybe I shouldn't come back."

"No!" says Mia firmly. "We need you here. I need you here."

"I want to be here too," I reply. "As a man, not as a lesbian."

"Maybe you can be both," offers Mia. "You already leave your real identity behind when you assume the persona of The Fantom. When you are here loving our feet, be that man, the one all women dream of. We can set up a schedule so Kathleen won't be able to see you at all during the day. Then, at night, for a few hours, you become Kathleen's lesbian lover. It is a terrible curse you must endure, as you follow the sunrises and sunsets, moving between darkness and light, transforming from that which you wish to be, into that which you do not." 

 

"But what about us?" I ask. "Every weekend will seem like an eternity. We will always be together, yet as long as there is a night and a day, we will forever be apart".

"Kathleen is infatuated with you right now, but that will change. You just have to wait until she finds someone more interesting than you. She already tried unsuccessfully to seduce several of the women here," says Mia.

"You mean, I am the only one she had success with?"

"It's kind of funny, but yes, you are the only one I know of," laughs Mia.

I think about that for a moment, seeing the humor in the situation, then say, "I think I'm up for it. Let's give your idea a go. But until she tires of me, I'm going to miss you."

Mia stands up and takes my hand, pulling me up from the bed, and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I fear she is getting ready to say goodbye. She gives me a passionless hug, and I am now certain of it.

Opening the door to my room she says, "The nights are long here at Thorne Manor." Then, she playfully adds, "Follow me!"

I am up in an instant, and see Mia race down the stairs and out onto the lawn. Ahead of me, her skin glows under the moonlight, and I try to keep up with the bounding silver faery. Running into the meadow, she climbs a small hill, then turns and waits for me.

"What are you doing?" I ask. "Why did you bring me here?"

"Hush!" she says. "Close your eyes and let the moonlight awaken your senses."

Pausing, she asks, "What do you smell?"

"I smell the wildflowers."

"Too easy! Open up your mind. Abandon what is obvious. Let the other smells close in and surround you."

I turn my head both ways, trying to pick up more scents, "I smell the vegetable garden, ripe grapes, sheep manure, and once in a while a whiff of salty air from the ocean."

Mia asks, "Why didn't you notice them before?"

"I guess I was thinking about other things."

"The only way to lead your new life here at Thorne Manor is to turn your thoughts away from what you once knew. Now, tell me what you hear."

"I hear wind blowing the leaves on the trees, and crickets chirping."

Mia responds, "Nature is stirring the night air with its own music. Do not fight the sounds. Let the music come closer."

I tell her, "I hear the sound of waves splashing in the small cove, the hooting of an owl, the three-syllable whistle of a whippoorwill, the distant song of a nightingale, and a squeaky noise coming from somewhere behind me."

"Better," says Mia. "Now open your eyes. Let the moonlight show you all the things you've never seen before."

Looking around in all directions, I reply, "I see the full moon and a few clouds. I see the darkened manor house. I see the wind moving the entire meadow. As it shimmers in the moonlight it's almost like the meadow is alive."

"It is," says Mia.

I continue, "Out there, on the ocean, I see the splendid reflection of the moon rippling on the waters. I can see the branches of the trees bend in the breeze, over there a deer is quietly grazing, and I see that darn squeaky weather vane atop the barn".

"Did you miss something?" she asks.

"I see you," I reply.

"Let your senses guide you to where you want to be. Only by embracing them can you be with me."

She walks over to me, takes my hand, and our eyes meet, "Are you are ready to surrender yourself to the power of the full moon and allow it to bring light into your darkness?"

"I am ready," I reply.

"Then let your dream begin." Mia lays down in the meadow, pulling me down on top of her.

Reader, I made love with Mia that night, under the light of the full moon, smelling the fragrance of her golden hair, seeing the moon reflected in her brilliant eyes, tasting the sweetness of her lips, feeling the soft touch of her breasts pressing against me, and listening to the Music of the Night.