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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o  	This part of my collection offers a very wide variety of  o
o  stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the  o
o  world.  Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups). There is no    o
o  particular order other than offering them to you in  alpha-    o
o  betical directories.                                           o
o  	I don’t believe in categorizing things. "I don’t want to  o
o  be typed therefore I don’t type things myself." I think it’s   o
o  a lot more fun to browse around and find 'little' surprises    o
o  that you might not have even thought of looking for.           o
o   	Lest we forget!!!  This story was produced as adult en-   o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors.  Kristen Becker   o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

Bridal (MF, M-solo, historical)
by Caroline Ashbee (Caroline@ardgrain.wintermute.co.uk)

***

Now, finally, he is untying the tapes of her ankle socks, first the one,
then the other. They are both very excited. He is excited because he will
be seeing what hitherto he ought not to have seen. She is apprehensive
about letting be seen what hitherto has had to have been hidden.
Impetuosity and self-discipline contest within him as he slowly draws the
socks off revealing her perfect golden lotus feet.

On the bridal bed it is her duty to submit, so she lies back, and aware
that she should not feel it, in spite of herself, she feels exposed,
indecent, and ashamed; but she is also very excited. She remembers the
foot-binder coming when she was small, her mother stroking her brow and
clucking meaninglessly to comfort her in the atrocious pain as her four
smaller toes were folded and flattened under each sole, as the arch of each
foot was carefully broken, then folded from front to back, and bound
tightly, shortening her feet until even now her shoes are just four inches
long. The years of fading pain, the slow recovery, the shooting agony
endured while learning, a second time, to walk, the only possible way for a
lady to walk, the graceful, mincing totter, that makes the men excited and
amorous. She thinks of the old physician who explained to her the medical
and alchemical aspects of childbearing when she was contracted to be
married. He told her that beautiful children were conceived as the results
of pleasing couplings, and that the creation of lotus feet was not just for
beauty, but that it caused the lining of the vagina to wrinkle into folds,
enhancing pleasure and therefore producing beautiful children. She thinks
of her cousin, condemned now to crippled spinsterhood, who, through
over-zealous vanity, had bound her feet so tightly that the left one
completely mortified and had to be amputated. She thinks of all the
accidents and misfortunes and illnesses that might have befallen her and
prevented her from fulfilling her destiny, from marrying, from finding
herself on the bridal bed. She is surprised that she feels no sense of
triumph now. She thinks now, that before, if she had thought about it, she
would have expected to have had some sense of satisfaction: all the
physical preparations and her education had been devoted to the perfection
of a wife, and on her bridal bed she is beginning to consummate that
long-desired, long-awaited destiny.

He is gazing at the golden lotuses, his face close to the feet, savouring
the cheesy ammoniacal smell. His fingers probe the folds, and the tickling
and the wicked impropriety of it all makes her giggle. Then he does
something that she had never imagined anybody doing or wanting to do. He
sits up holding the foot in both hands, and then he pushes his thumbs into
the cleft where the arch was broken so long ago, and he begins to prise it
apart. The foot creaks, and the cleft opens a little; at first the feeling
is not unpleasant: it is almost nostalgic, the feeling of use being made of
a member left long unused and atrophied; but the healing process has reset
the bones and the cleft opens only a little despite his wrenching, and it
hurts. She sighs. He reaches across her and rolls her on her side. The
slightly opened foot is lying on the quilt. She watches, expectantly, as he
smears himself with the perfumed ointment. She knows what will happen next:
the pillow-book they have already looked at shows what happens next; but it
doesn't. He begins to thrust himself not where she expected him to but into
the newly opened cleft. At first it tickled when he touched the foot, and
she had to will herself to relax to resist it and lie still without
giggling -- she still feels the tickling: she just relaxes through the
response -- and then enlightened, illuminated, shining, she understands the
ecstasy of making love, and why it is that women's feet are bound.

Eventually she feels something warm, the stream of pearl, gush into her
foot. He rolls away, crawls up the bed, and whispers endearments, and
caresses her for a while. Then he crawls down to her feet again. This time,
raising her foot to his lips he slips the great toe into his mouth and
sucks, a child at nurse, tasting the salt of her sweat, the tiny foot
almost entirely contained within his mouth. Then slowly, carefully, but
totally inexorably he arranges her on her back, forcing one leg upwards so
that the anterior face of her thigh presses against belly and chest, the
foot extending beyond her shoulder, beside his face, as he enters her. The
muscles of her thighs strain and stretch. She knows a different kind of
pain, the kind that can be drawn within the belly and defeated. He rests
upon her belly now, in that simplest of postures, face-to-face, his left
hand reaching forward to cup the tiny foot and caress it, gently, slowly,
weed in the rippling water.

"It will take time to discover what you prefer." he murmurs.
"But perhaps that is not the point." she replies.

Copyright (c) Caroline Ashbee 1995
