Lo, A Matron Blooming

Sweetheart of Summa Chi-5

The grandmother spoke in a whisper. “I’m so happy to see you again, Mary. It’s as if I’ve been waiting for this moment. With you here to share with me this day of days I could not be happier. I promise you one thing, Mary: you and I are going to spend more time together. I want to meet your husband and your children. Perhaps I could teach you a thing or two about domestic discipline.”

Mary drew in her breath. Was the matriarch Clara Wilson befriending her, inviting her into her inner circle? She sat unmoving, not daring to breathe for fear she’d break the spell. The curtain went up then, shushing the last of the sighs and giggles. The stage was bathed in a soft blue light. Nearly hidden behind a scrim, Mary could just make out the glint of orchestral brass and a chorus of women on risers behind the orchestra. The women’s gowns had a silvery caste in the faint light. Their knotted waist cords were nearly hidden by the overarching descent of their breasts. As her eyes adjusted, Mary could see the women’s brightly rouged cheeks, their glistening lips, and riotous cache of flowers woven into their hair. Their poise and beauty delighted Mary. The orchestra began to play Carmina Burana, a nascent dirge that traditionally accompanied the Sweetheart of Summa Chi Rite. The chorus swelled into a dissonant chant that hypnotized Mary and the other women in the audience.

“O Fortuna, velut Luna statu variabilis…”

Clara was mesmerized. No matter how many times she heard those harsh chords and lusty Latin lyrics, the piece never failed to thrill her. Carmina Burana epitomized the bold, straight-ahead feminine attitude that was Summa Chi. The thumping beat escalated, enthralling the audience.

As the music began to soften, a leggy young man with a dancer’s gait and glittering eyes strode confidently onto the stage. He walked lightly on the balls of his feet, perfectly capturing the pulsating rhythm of the music. His head was clad in leather tightly laced up the back of his head. Other than his head covering, he was completely naked. Clara felt her s*x quicken. “Mary, that’s Sam,” she whispered. “He is Edna Hallstrom’s current plaything. She is sending him to my home.” Mary gave her a quizzical glance. “I’ll explain later,” she whispered.

Clara could see Edna Hallstrom hadn’t lost her touch. She had oiled Sam’s body so that in the gauzy light his lithe body shone like polished Carreran marble. Even though he was proudly erect, his c**k wasn’t large, which endeared him to Clara even more. The boy, reminded her of her deceased husband. He too had a small c**k and she preferred that. Sam would be a delicious morsel, the centerpiece on her dining room table on the day of the gathering. What a delightful day it was going to be. Mary would be there, too. Her admittance and participation in inner circle made the future even sweeter.

Another young man had followed Sam onto the stage. He, too, was tight-laced into a taut leather helmet with eye cutouts to reveal his long-lashed eyes. Unlike Sam who was slender with pale alabaster skin, this one was ebony-skinned with broad shoulders, rippling back muscles, hardened thighs, and an impossibly small waist. His plump balls swayed heavily at the root of his huge and very stiff c**k. It waggled as he artfully pranced his way across the stage toward Sam who was standing motionless waiting for him at center stage.

As he approached, Sam artfully extended his hand and smiled. When the boys had joined hands, they rose onto their toes and bowed as grandly as gladiators to the audience. They held the pose to raucous applause, shrieks, and whistles. Behind them, Carmina Burana swelled into a majestic tsunami of rolling, thundering chords. It was a fitting backdrop for the boys’ offering to the women.

Mary turned to Clara. “Migod, my panties are wet.”

“Whatever am I going do with you?” Clara asked stifling a laugh and giving Mary’s hand a reassuring squeeze. Before Mary could react, Clara had kissed her on her mouth and tucked her hand between her breasts.

The boys were standing still as statues, waiting, holding their clasped hands high, their outer arms gracefully extended to the audience. Just as one strident verse abruptly died and a new more subdued verse began, a soft blue spot flooded the center of the stage. Caught in the azure light, the Sweetheart of Summa Chi slowly descended to the stage on an invisible cable. A flowing red silk drape concealed her nakedness.

Padded leather wrist cuffs held her in the air. Mary had no idea who the Sweetheart was, but Edna Hallstrom had briefed Clara ahead of Rite, telling her this year’s Sweetheart was Harriet White’s oldest daughter, Nyah. Clara had known Harriet and then lost touch with her. Seeing Nyah brought back poignant memories of her mother, Harriet. Beneath the silk fabric that draped Nyah, Clara could see Nyah had her mother’s voluptuous shape and same swollen set of t**s. The vision on stage was so compelling it made her even more determined to bed young mother Mary sitting next to her. Nyah did not look out at the audience. Her chin lay on her chest as if Ms. Hallstrom had just whipped her, which Clara thought might well be the case. It was how she liked to start the proceeding.

Mary’s gasp didn’t surprise Clara. She had witnessed more Summa Chi Sweetheart Rites than she cared to admit. In all those years, she could not recall a Rite where the chosen one had been more enticing than Nyah. Overcome with déjà vu, Clara recalled Nyah’s mother and her descent to the stage. Her daughter was even more sensuous, plump, and sweet with breasts like ripened fruit and long shapely legs. The orchestra and chorus paused for effect while Nyah swayed several feet above the stage. A hush had fallen over the auditorium.

Clara’s kiss, the cushiony warmth of her breasts, and the new Sweetheart made it difficult for Mary to stay focused. The girl, Nyah – Clara had whispered her name was perfection, young and scrumptious and her breasts were awesome. Mary hoped Clara would invite Nyah to her gathering. There would be time then to get to know her.

Sam was something else, a cute thing in a boy’s body. He had a delightfully small c**k. She imagined herself straddling his slender hips, hovering over him, trapping him between her thighs. She could almost feel his pert little mouth at her breasts, which were leaking now, aching for release. She let her eyelids droop and began to rhythmically clench her thighs. She was sure Clara knew what she was up to, but she didn’t care.

Sam kept his eyes focused on the audience as he slowly stepped back into the shadows. The dark-skinned boy glanced to stage left then approached Nyah. She came down gently until her feet rested on the floor. The boy extended his arms to the audience then soundlessly dropped to his knees. Without rippling the red silk drape, his head and shoulders slipped beneath the fabric. As he disappeared, the musicians launched into another verse of Carmina Burana.

Clara watched spellbound, aching for that young man’s tongue. She could imagine the boy’s actions beneath the silk. He would have Nyah by her hips with his face buried between her thighs. The simple voyeurism of the act sent shivers through her. Nyah seemed helpless, but was that really true? It was an intricately composed dance of lust, submission, and control. She wondered who was really in charge on that stage. She watched Nyah shudder; scream with delight as the half-hidden boy brought her to the threshold. Her shrieks increased, sailed above the music, merged with the sonorous chords, nearly bringing the audience to its feet. She writhed and moaned, desperately wanting to climax.

As the choral chant rose to a stunning climax, a tall slender young woman with a long blonde ponytail swept onto the stage. She wore a tight-laced black leather suit, elbow-length gloves, and stiletto boots. A mask covered the upper half of her face. She held a whip at her side. She moved so effortlessly she seemed to float across the stage. When she raised her arm and snapped her fingers, Sam and the dark-skinned boy scampered off the stage like a pair of frightened children. She went to Nyah and slowly drew away the silk drape. The diaphanous fabric floated in billowing waves to settle on the stage.

Nyah was wearing a waist cincher beneath the silk drape. It shrunk her waist and amplified the spread of her hips. In the soft blue light, Nyah’s coppery flesh shone tawny blue-green. Her eyes were darkened and shadowy, heavily outlined to accent the dark brown of her eyes. Her lashes were lightly swept, making them incredibly long. Her glossed ruby lips gleamed.

Her heavy breasts reminded Clara of the young mothers in the maternity ward where she still worked. Nyah was not pregnant, but her breasts made her look like she was. They were large and full and so firm her hardened n*****s pointed out to the audience rather than at the stage floor. She was flawless; she was a titillating vision. What her deceased husband, her sons, and little boys of all ages dreamt of while they were alone in their beds.

Clara recognized the young woman with the whip. She was Sarah, Nyah’s senior mentor. She was taller than Nyah with the toned body of an athlete and a high full bust line that jiggled prettily beneath her taut leather suit as she began to lash Nyah’s voluptuous bottom cheeks. She plied the whip’s tendrils with just enough force to leave faint crimson tracks. Clara could see Sarah wasn’t applying the whip to hurt Nyah but rather to focus Nyah’s attention on her and away from the audience. It was working.

Clara could see the sparks igniting between Sarah and Nyah. Sarah moved in front of Nyah and began to apply the whip to Nyah’s breasts and thighs. Driven by the teasing sting of the whip, Nyah spread her legs to admit the whip into her inner thighs and swell of her s*x. At the first thrust of her hips, Sarah insinuated the butt of her whip between Nyah’s legs then into the cleft of her s*x.

Nyah rode the whip eagerly, her mouth open, her tongue extended, begging for more, and Sarah’s kiss. Sarah refused, which drove Clara, Mary, and the audience wild with nascent desire. Nyah pleaded with her. She lifted her hips onto the whip, thrusting, quivering, and running her tongue over her glistening lips. She had forgotten the audience. All she knew was Sarah and her whip. Her eyes opened wide. She pleaded with her captor, urged her to whip her, f**k the daylights out of her.

Sarah glanced at the audience. She smiled broadly, extending her hands to the audience in the style of Pontius Pilate. The audience rose to their feet, clapping, stomping, and urging her on. Sarah nodded and withdrew the whip. Nyah moaned as the glistening butt emerged. Sarah gave Nyah a long sensuous kiss, and then began to lash Nyah hard across her buttocks, breasts, and thighs. She accelerated the whipping to the cheering accompaniment of the audience. Under the whip, Nyah’s mahogany skin glowed and slowly turned to rosewood. Clara grew hotter as the whip left visible marks. Nyah wanted this whipping, relished it as a prelude to Rite. She thrust her buttocks into the stinging lash and implored Sarah to be unmerciful. Her abrupt scream signaled an orgasm everyone knew she had never experienced before.

Clara glanced at Mary. The young mother’s eyes were clamped shut. She was coming fiercely while her damp hand continued to squeeze and release Clara’s hand. Clara envied her young friend’s ability to climax in a public place. It wasn’t that easy for her. Maybe this time, she prayed. Mary’s proximity and the sights and sounds emanating from the stage might finally do the trick.

She watched Sarah turn to the wings and nod. At her signal, Nyah rose again several feet into the air. Sam and the dark-skinned boy emerged from the wings carrying a small table. They placed the table directly beneath Nyah. When Sarah flicked her whip, Nyah descended until her feet rested on the table. Her s*x was inches from the boys’ faces.