TAMARA GOES TO A PARTY
Posted: Sun May 15, 2016 6:38 am
TAMARA GOES TO A PARTY
The cool evening air heralded the end of the summer and the leaves had already started to fall along the Bois de Boulogne. A large house, standing in its own grounds, blazed forth light from every window. A large number of visitors, dressed in an exotic range of costumes, filled the main ground floor room. A string orchestra was gently playing a range of classical pieces in the background. Three burly men stood talking at the top of a flight of steps leading to the main entrance. A young, strikingly attractive, woman dressed in the uniform of a meter maid, was ascending the steps. One of the men broke off the discussion about the performance of the national football team to approach the intruder.
“May I help you?” he demanded superciliously “Has someone parked on a yellow line?” he sneered.
Tamara fixed him with one of her penetrating stares which was guaranteed to emasculate a man at thirty yards. She also had a look which could melt a man at forty yards, but that was not to be employed tonight. Saying nothing, she reached inside her handbag and pulled out an expensively produced, embossed invitation card. Tamara held the card in front of the hulk.
“I suspect you will be able to read this: the writing is not joined up. If you have any difficulty, perhaps one of your colleagues could help you with the longer words.” Tamara retaliated, resisting an urge to say ‘fellow gorillas’ instead of ‘colleagues’.
Hulk bit his lip at the barbed insult, but let it wash over him, contenting himself with a close and lengthy study of Tamara’s bottom as she swept past into the ballroom. He then turned to the others and made the inevitable comment about what he would like to do to her.
“Tamara! How wonderful you could come. We are so pleased to see you again!” The Count exclaimed as Tamara walked into the ballroom. “You remember my wife, of course” exclaimed the Count, gently directing Tamara towards his wife, ensuring that his hand, which had been placed lightly upon Tamara’s waist to direct her, made a slow journey downwards, pausing to trace Tamara’s panty line and suspender belt before being rejected by a very discrete flick of Tamara’s hips.
“Yes, of course. I have fond memories of my previous visit” Tamara assured her hosts.
“How incredibly chic!” exclaimed the Countess looking Tamara up and down. “I shall never look at an Aubergine in the same light again. How on earth did you manage to acquire the uniform? It fits you perfectly”
“Oh, one has ones methods, you know!” responded Tamara, knowing the Countess’ fondness for Sherlock Holmes.
The Countess laughed. “Of course, how silly of me! Do come and meet some other guests…” and led Tamara into the ballroom.
The muzzle was now only an inch from Celine’s cleavage. She looked in horror at Tamara; clearly she was determined to carry out her threat if Celine did not immediately disrobe.
“I want your uniform. So take it off. Start with the skirt. I want to see what you are wearing underneath that so attracts the guys.” Tamara ordered, moving the muzzle a little closer.
Celine seemed too frozen to do anything.
“Would you like me to help you?” Tamara offered.
Celine shook her head.
“So get on with it. Strip.”
Tamara took another sip of coffee. She was sitting on the veranda outside a café in St-Germain-des-Pres watching the world go by. Across the street a couple of meter maids were examining the parked cars; a couple were having a lovers’ tiff on the corner; people were disappearing into the pavement down to the Metro station. Tamara was deep in thought: she had a lot on her mind. For a start, she was concerned about her future. Tamara had a well paid job as a PA to the director of a company in Lyon, but it was unfulfilling. It was unexciting. It didn’t satisfy that part of her which yearned to be tested, to be challenged, to be stimulated; to be fulfilled in some hitherto indefinable erotic sense which she did not yet fully understand, or was ever likely to. She wanted power: power over herself, over others, over her circumstances; she wanted to explore the dark side of herself. Her boss was pleasant enough but he was boring and seemed to devote too much time trying to peer up Tamara’s skirt in the hope of glimpsing her underwear. Had he been younger and more presentable, Tamara might have helped him look. No, she needed a challenge. Something like the challenges which Raffles had to face…
Then there was the party to which she had been invited tonight. It was to be a fancy dress party; but what should she wear? On past performance, the men would dress as Napoleon or Robespierre; many of the ladies would be dressed as Marie Antoinette or Madame Pompadour; a few ladies ‘of a certain age’ would dress pretentiously as Helen of Troy. Almost without exception they would have faces which would be incapable of launching a rubber dingy, let alone a thousand ships. Tamara wanted to be different; but what?
There was a squeal of brakes and the blast of a horn as a car narrowly missed colliding with the vehicle in front. Tamara smiled when she saw the cause of the near miss. One of the meter maids was attaching a penalty notice to the screen of a car. She was leaning across the bonnet of a DS with one foot poised slightly off the ground. Her stretched, tight skirt emphasized the line of her panties and left the casual viewer in no doubt that she was wearing a suspender belt and stockings. Clearly the driver had been distracted. A group of men had also lined the pavement to enjoy the performance and were nodding their heads and offering the traditional sotto voce comments out of the sides of their mouths. The meter maid, who knew perfectly well what she was doing, stood upright and walked back to the pavement with a satisfied smirk on her face.
“The minx!” smiled Tamara. She raised the coffee cup again but paused when it was halfway to her lips. The light was dawning. A plan was forming in her mind. Perhaps she could kill two birds with one stone…Tamara looked around for inspiration. Across the road there was a sports shop, selling items for the hunting season. Perhaps they could provide her with what she had in mind. She gestured to the waiter.
“Bill, please”
“Of course, madam”
Tamara settled her bill and made her way across the road to look in the window of the sports shop. There were firearms of all descriptions; knives; holdalls for the bodies of downed birds; gas guns; pellet guns; all sorts of ancillaries for enthusiasts determined to make the skies a quieter place. Tamara’s eyes scoured the window; then, spying what she wanted, she entered the shop to make her purchase.
She visited another few shops and then spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the streets of Paris looking for one particular meter maid. The evening was drawing in before eventually Tamara spied the one she was seeking just off the Rue Rivoli. The meter maid, who was Tamara’s height and build, rather pretty and in her late twenties, had just left a café and had turned the corner into a side street where Tamara pounced and pulled her victim into an enclosed courtyard.
Celine was still frozen to the spot. She was gazing in abject horror at the muzzle which had moved closer to her chest. Above the muzzle, two, rather appealing, red eyes gazed at her. Tamara had guessed correctly: Celine could not stand mice. Tamara knew some meters maids who, if threatened by a mouse, would have taken him home to have for tea – raw. But Celine had followed the traditional image of the hysterical female when confronted by a rodent – and almost freaked out.
Tamara held the mouse by his tail and poised him threateningly over Celine’s cleavage. “Now, is that skirt coming off, or…?”
Celine gulped.
“Mickey here is getting rather impatient. You know what mice are like: they seek out warm, hidden crevices: little holes to hide in; besides, Mickey is keen to build a nest for his mate so that they can…”
“His Mate?” Celine squeaked
Tamara put her free hand into her pocket and pulled out a duplicate of Mickey which she dangled alongside the first mouse poised over Celine’s cleavage.
“His Mate: meet Minny” she introduced.
The two rodents reached out with their little paws to support their bodies which were being swung by the tail. They clutched at Celine’s brassiere and hung on for dear life. Two pairs of red eyes peered excitedly down her cleavage at their promised home.
It was too much: Celine’s eyes rolled in her head; she turned deathly pale, and collapsed in a heap at Tamara’s feet.
“Ho, hum” muttered Tamara, giving a very Gallic shrug. “The two mice turned out to be a good investment after all.” She had bought the two mice in the pet section of the sports shop. They had looked rather cute and had inspired the plan which Tamara had just put into operation.
Tamara knelt down beside Celine, unzipped the skirt and pulled it off her legs. She continued by removing Celine’s complete uniform which she stuffed in a holdall purchased for the purpose. She then produced a pair of handcuffs which she had bought from a discreet shop located just off the main boulevard. A welcome discovery, the shop was full of exciting little gadgets for people with certain interests. Tamara had covered the subject at her very expensive Swiss finishing school, but even she was astonished by the range of accessories available. She ended up buying a pair of handcuffs finished with imitation red fur. The manager had complimented Tamara on her good taste and concluded the transaction by hoping Tamara ‘had an enjoyable weekend’. She clamped Celine’s hands and feet behind her back and noted that, in common with the French female practice, Celine had taken trouble with her underwear, as she was very well aware of the important part it played in courtship. She was wearing a very pretty, white, lacy mini slip with matching knickers. Stockings and a suspender belt completed the ensemble. It simply remained for Tamara to finish off her exhibit by applying the ingenious gag which she had also purchased that afternoon.
“I am sure Les Flics will be delighted when they find her.” thought Tamara, wondering where the mice had disappeared to.
The countess paused by a strikingly handsome young man. “You know my son, Pierre, of course? Pierre, you remember Tamara don’t you?”
Pierre turned and gazed at Tamara “Why, yes! But you have changed since I last saw you. At the Sorbonne, wasn’t it?”
Tamara realised that this was going to turn out to be a real ‘plus’ day.
THE END
The cool evening air heralded the end of the summer and the leaves had already started to fall along the Bois de Boulogne. A large house, standing in its own grounds, blazed forth light from every window. A large number of visitors, dressed in an exotic range of costumes, filled the main ground floor room. A string orchestra was gently playing a range of classical pieces in the background. Three burly men stood talking at the top of a flight of steps leading to the main entrance. A young, strikingly attractive, woman dressed in the uniform of a meter maid, was ascending the steps. One of the men broke off the discussion about the performance of the national football team to approach the intruder.
“May I help you?” he demanded superciliously “Has someone parked on a yellow line?” he sneered.
Tamara fixed him with one of her penetrating stares which was guaranteed to emasculate a man at thirty yards. She also had a look which could melt a man at forty yards, but that was not to be employed tonight. Saying nothing, she reached inside her handbag and pulled out an expensively produced, embossed invitation card. Tamara held the card in front of the hulk.
“I suspect you will be able to read this: the writing is not joined up. If you have any difficulty, perhaps one of your colleagues could help you with the longer words.” Tamara retaliated, resisting an urge to say ‘fellow gorillas’ instead of ‘colleagues’.
Hulk bit his lip at the barbed insult, but let it wash over him, contenting himself with a close and lengthy study of Tamara’s bottom as she swept past into the ballroom. He then turned to the others and made the inevitable comment about what he would like to do to her.
“Tamara! How wonderful you could come. We are so pleased to see you again!” The Count exclaimed as Tamara walked into the ballroom. “You remember my wife, of course” exclaimed the Count, gently directing Tamara towards his wife, ensuring that his hand, which had been placed lightly upon Tamara’s waist to direct her, made a slow journey downwards, pausing to trace Tamara’s panty line and suspender belt before being rejected by a very discrete flick of Tamara’s hips.
“Yes, of course. I have fond memories of my previous visit” Tamara assured her hosts.
“How incredibly chic!” exclaimed the Countess looking Tamara up and down. “I shall never look at an Aubergine in the same light again. How on earth did you manage to acquire the uniform? It fits you perfectly”
“Oh, one has ones methods, you know!” responded Tamara, knowing the Countess’ fondness for Sherlock Holmes.
The Countess laughed. “Of course, how silly of me! Do come and meet some other guests…” and led Tamara into the ballroom.
The muzzle was now only an inch from Celine’s cleavage. She looked in horror at Tamara; clearly she was determined to carry out her threat if Celine did not immediately disrobe.
“I want your uniform. So take it off. Start with the skirt. I want to see what you are wearing underneath that so attracts the guys.” Tamara ordered, moving the muzzle a little closer.
Celine seemed too frozen to do anything.
“Would you like me to help you?” Tamara offered.
Celine shook her head.
“So get on with it. Strip.”
Tamara took another sip of coffee. She was sitting on the veranda outside a café in St-Germain-des-Pres watching the world go by. Across the street a couple of meter maids were examining the parked cars; a couple were having a lovers’ tiff on the corner; people were disappearing into the pavement down to the Metro station. Tamara was deep in thought: she had a lot on her mind. For a start, she was concerned about her future. Tamara had a well paid job as a PA to the director of a company in Lyon, but it was unfulfilling. It was unexciting. It didn’t satisfy that part of her which yearned to be tested, to be challenged, to be stimulated; to be fulfilled in some hitherto indefinable erotic sense which she did not yet fully understand, or was ever likely to. She wanted power: power over herself, over others, over her circumstances; she wanted to explore the dark side of herself. Her boss was pleasant enough but he was boring and seemed to devote too much time trying to peer up Tamara’s skirt in the hope of glimpsing her underwear. Had he been younger and more presentable, Tamara might have helped him look. No, she needed a challenge. Something like the challenges which Raffles had to face…
Then there was the party to which she had been invited tonight. It was to be a fancy dress party; but what should she wear? On past performance, the men would dress as Napoleon or Robespierre; many of the ladies would be dressed as Marie Antoinette or Madame Pompadour; a few ladies ‘of a certain age’ would dress pretentiously as Helen of Troy. Almost without exception they would have faces which would be incapable of launching a rubber dingy, let alone a thousand ships. Tamara wanted to be different; but what?
There was a squeal of brakes and the blast of a horn as a car narrowly missed colliding with the vehicle in front. Tamara smiled when she saw the cause of the near miss. One of the meter maids was attaching a penalty notice to the screen of a car. She was leaning across the bonnet of a DS with one foot poised slightly off the ground. Her stretched, tight skirt emphasized the line of her panties and left the casual viewer in no doubt that she was wearing a suspender belt and stockings. Clearly the driver had been distracted. A group of men had also lined the pavement to enjoy the performance and were nodding their heads and offering the traditional sotto voce comments out of the sides of their mouths. The meter maid, who knew perfectly well what she was doing, stood upright and walked back to the pavement with a satisfied smirk on her face.
“The minx!” smiled Tamara. She raised the coffee cup again but paused when it was halfway to her lips. The light was dawning. A plan was forming in her mind. Perhaps she could kill two birds with one stone…Tamara looked around for inspiration. Across the road there was a sports shop, selling items for the hunting season. Perhaps they could provide her with what she had in mind. She gestured to the waiter.
“Bill, please”
“Of course, madam”
Tamara settled her bill and made her way across the road to look in the window of the sports shop. There were firearms of all descriptions; knives; holdalls for the bodies of downed birds; gas guns; pellet guns; all sorts of ancillaries for enthusiasts determined to make the skies a quieter place. Tamara’s eyes scoured the window; then, spying what she wanted, she entered the shop to make her purchase.
She visited another few shops and then spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the streets of Paris looking for one particular meter maid. The evening was drawing in before eventually Tamara spied the one she was seeking just off the Rue Rivoli. The meter maid, who was Tamara’s height and build, rather pretty and in her late twenties, had just left a café and had turned the corner into a side street where Tamara pounced and pulled her victim into an enclosed courtyard.
Celine was still frozen to the spot. She was gazing in abject horror at the muzzle which had moved closer to her chest. Above the muzzle, two, rather appealing, red eyes gazed at her. Tamara had guessed correctly: Celine could not stand mice. Tamara knew some meters maids who, if threatened by a mouse, would have taken him home to have for tea – raw. But Celine had followed the traditional image of the hysterical female when confronted by a rodent – and almost freaked out.
Tamara held the mouse by his tail and poised him threateningly over Celine’s cleavage. “Now, is that skirt coming off, or…?”
Celine gulped.
“Mickey here is getting rather impatient. You know what mice are like: they seek out warm, hidden crevices: little holes to hide in; besides, Mickey is keen to build a nest for his mate so that they can…”
“His Mate?” Celine squeaked
Tamara put her free hand into her pocket and pulled out a duplicate of Mickey which she dangled alongside the first mouse poised over Celine’s cleavage.
“His Mate: meet Minny” she introduced.
The two rodents reached out with their little paws to support their bodies which were being swung by the tail. They clutched at Celine’s brassiere and hung on for dear life. Two pairs of red eyes peered excitedly down her cleavage at their promised home.
It was too much: Celine’s eyes rolled in her head; she turned deathly pale, and collapsed in a heap at Tamara’s feet.
“Ho, hum” muttered Tamara, giving a very Gallic shrug. “The two mice turned out to be a good investment after all.” She had bought the two mice in the pet section of the sports shop. They had looked rather cute and had inspired the plan which Tamara had just put into operation.
Tamara knelt down beside Celine, unzipped the skirt and pulled it off her legs. She continued by removing Celine’s complete uniform which she stuffed in a holdall purchased for the purpose. She then produced a pair of handcuffs which she had bought from a discreet shop located just off the main boulevard. A welcome discovery, the shop was full of exciting little gadgets for people with certain interests. Tamara had covered the subject at her very expensive Swiss finishing school, but even she was astonished by the range of accessories available. She ended up buying a pair of handcuffs finished with imitation red fur. The manager had complimented Tamara on her good taste and concluded the transaction by hoping Tamara ‘had an enjoyable weekend’. She clamped Celine’s hands and feet behind her back and noted that, in common with the French female practice, Celine had taken trouble with her underwear, as she was very well aware of the important part it played in courtship. She was wearing a very pretty, white, lacy mini slip with matching knickers. Stockings and a suspender belt completed the ensemble. It simply remained for Tamara to finish off her exhibit by applying the ingenious gag which she had also purchased that afternoon.
“I am sure Les Flics will be delighted when they find her.” thought Tamara, wondering where the mice had disappeared to.
The countess paused by a strikingly handsome young man. “You know my son, Pierre, of course? Pierre, you remember Tamara don’t you?”
Pierre turned and gazed at Tamara “Why, yes! But you have changed since I last saw you. At the Sorbonne, wasn’t it?”
Tamara realised that this was going to turn out to be a real ‘plus’ day.
THE END