The Fantom accidentally discovers an opening leading into the basement of an underground mansion of the uber rich, decorated in an Egyptian theme. Finding Trouble with the guards, he needs to Romance both a seductive mother and her beautiful daughter in order to escape.
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Over there! What’s that!
I am exploring in the Roman level of Underworld, well below the streets of London. In fact, it is even deeper than the basements and sub-basements of the Old Opera House. The walls here are mostly stone or simply compressed rubble and dirt. Some arches remain, silent sentinels, guarding the last vestiges of Rome from the inevitable crush pressing down from above. The passageways here are small, far from straight or level, and not unlike spelunking. Transiting them is more slithering than walking, and I have a real fear of being buried alive by a cave in.
But as I loosen a stone, and pull away some dirt, I see 20th century bricks! I am hoping that the bricks are part of a basement to one of the old shoppes that were destroyed during World War 2. I have only a few tools with me, but it should be enough. Scraping away at the weak mortar, the first brick slides out. Shining my torch into the void, I see what appears to be dust-covered bottles of wine. Even better, they are on wooden shelving. It could be a great find, but just as easily, it could be nothing but very old spoiled vinegar.
I loosen enough bricks to squeeze through and come out between the shelves. Picking up a bottle, I illuminate the label. 2016?? These are not old bottles. I must be someone’s wine cellar! Just then, I hear the whir of a compressor motor, and stepping around a corner, I see a large wine chiller filled with bottles of Champagne.
Behind me I hear a great crash and a blast of dusty air hits me. Quickly moving back to the opening, all I find is debris. It has collapsed. I cannot tell how far back the collapse goes, but that way is now blocked. Having no other choice, I might as well find out exactly where I am, and perhaps, a way back to the surface.
I open a solid steel door and peek out. It’s a giant swimming pool! This must be one of those luxury mansions that the uber rich are building in London. Unable to go sideways, they build down, sometimes several levels deep. The pool is decorated in an Egyptian motif, with ornate painted pillars supporting the roof above. The pool has an intricate shape with several curved nooks highlighted by underwater lighting. The walls are painted with scenes reminiscent of Egypt in the time of the pharaohs. And next to the pool are lounge chairs in an Egyptian revival style, not unlike those pulled from a pharaoh’s tomb. I smile at the irony, here is a modern attempt to recreate an Egyptian pool, yet not far from where I stand is a still useable 2000-year-old Roman bath!
Well, at least I know what to expect. I’ll just keep going higher, excuse myself to anyone I meet, locate the front door, and let myself out.
Continuing through another set of doors, I pass what appears to be a small garage. Looking at the vehicles, this is definitely the home of someone with money. Lots and lots of money. There is a ramp, which may lead up to street level, but the door is down and probably requires a code to open. I see a concrete stairwell leading up and walk towards it.
“STOP!” yells a heavily accented voice. I turn and see a man holding a gun, but I am closer to the stairwell, and make a dash for it. A second later, I hear a gunshot, followed by a ricochet off the wall behind me. Given such motivation, I throw open the stairwell door and leap up two steps at a time. Opening a more refined door at the top, I look around and find that I am in a kitchen at street level. Unfortunately, the door to freedom is opening and the gun hand of another guard appears.
I panic. They are shooting at me! I dash down a short hallway looking for a way out. But ahead of me I hear a frantic man’s voice and a set of replies that sound as if they are coming from a radio. Passing an elegant staircase, I ascend as quietly as possible, and find another hallway with several doors. For now, I need a place to hide, so I enter the first room and close the door behind me.
I listen at the door and hear a shout, “Check all these rooms!”
Looking around, I am in a very large and very well-appointed bedroom. There is a bed, but surely, they will check under there. To the right, I see a large walk-in closet with a dressing area, the door ajar. I would be trapped in there. There is another door further to my right. Hopefully it leads to safety. I head for it as the voices outside the door get closer. Opening it, I see an en suite bathroom, but I am not alone. Against the opaque glass door, I see the backlit shadow of a woman taking a shower!
Behind me, I hear the hallway door open, and quickly close the bathroom door. The voices have entered the bedroom. There is no place for me to hide. I have no choice. I carefully slide open the Escort Bayan door of the quite large shower and squat down to avoid being backlit. With me in the shower is a mature woman, possibly around 50 years old. Thankfully, she is facing away, letting the water from multiple shower heads run down her back. Unfortunately, two of those shower heads are pointing right at me!
She must have felt the cooler air when I opened the shower door, and turns to face me. I see her brace herself with her hands, then her right foot comes flying at me. As her foot makes contact with the left side of my face, I turn my head slightly to lessen the blow, and catch her foot with my left hand.
WAIT! What’s on her ankle? I see a gold bracelet, inset with a stunning royal blue stone. I have seen this before. French tips on her toenails? I smell her foot. Almonds! Before she screams, I whisper, “Row 2, Seat 4”.
Trying to keep her balance, she otherwise freezes. I reach into my back pocket and pull out a silk handkerchief with a monogram of the letter ‘F’, give it a shake, then drape it over her foot.
“The Fantom!” she says softly. “Shhhhh!”
I remember her now. I normally don’t visit any women in row 2 during a performance at the Old Opera House. It is too close to the stage and too well lit. But when I saw her walk in and take her seat, I had to. The way she walked. The way she carried herself. The way she commanded the aisles. She seduced every man, and turned every head, including mine. I went to the sub-basement of the Old Opera House, found row 1, seat 4, and opened the round iron grate beneath that seat. As I lifted my head through the opening, I was dazzled by her golden anklet. But her shoes and feet were equally impressive, and I thoroughly enjoyed caressing them during the performance for over 30 minutes.
As I release her foot, the door to the bathroom is flung open and excited voices are yelling in Arabic. The woman steps forward and pulls my head against her hairy crotch, then yells back even louder in the same language. I cannot understand Arabic, but I hear the whimper in their voices as they retreat and close the door.
“Stay quiet. They won’t be back,” says the woman as she releases my head, but she does not step back. I look up through the falling water and blink several times to clear my eyes. The woman before me is a timeless beauty in the mold of Sophia Loren. Not a woman who tries to look 20 years younger, but a woman who embraces her age, and yet, seemingly defies it. No longer thin, she carries her weight well, and if anything, it has softened her curves in a very flattering way. Her long black hair has but a whisp of grey, her brown eyes are still radiant, and somehow, for some reason, she is smiling at me.
“Do not move. I have a hair appointment this morning, and wish to wash my hair,” she says. Reaching into a side cubbie, she pulls out a bottle designer shampoo and applies it to her hair. As she raises her hands to massage her head, her magnificent breasts are uplifted, and I wonder if her intent is to show them off to me. Her nipples protrude from large, dark areolas, wrinkled just slightly. As her hands move across her hair, her breasts sway gently, and I follow them with my eyes. The water from the shower hits those breasts, some of it cascading down between them, the rest following her curves down to her nipples, from which two thin streams trickle down onto my face.
She turns away from me, her bum cheeks just centimeters away from my face. The water from the shower is purging the shampoo from her hair, and the white froth slides down her back, driven by the faster moving water. Both froth and water come together at the cleft above her rounded cheeks before continuing downward.
She uses her hands to fluff her hair, now there is only clear water flowing down her back. I lean forward, letting my tongue gently touch the cleft between her round cheeks, hoping she doesn’t feel me, and yet hoping that she does. The warm water is no longer flows smoothly, instead it gushes over my tongue and flares outward over her cheeks. Surely, she can feel the difference.
She flexes her bum slightly, perhaps wondering why water feels different, but more likely, she has already guessed. She leans ever so slightly forward, her bum rising, but in my squatting position, my tongue cannot follow, and instead slips lower down her crack. She must know it is me. Straightening herself, my tongue rises gently back up her crack. I try to redirect the water against her, so she does not feel me, but I doubt my success. She repeats the same two movements several times, no longer curious, now certain, enjoying the sensations of frothy warm water and a slippery tongue inside her crack.
Hasn’t all the shampoo has been rinsed out? Yet she remains, like a performer who doesn’t want to leave the stage. Finally, she turns, but I am too slow, and her left cheek brushes against mine.
“Sorry,” she says. But I Escort am sorry too, that the shower may be ending. She faces me, giving me one more look at the front of her magnificent body, then turns off the water.
Looking down at me, she says, “Those men work for the owner of this mansion. I am his mistress, and the mother of his child. Even though he is away, his men take security very seriously. Your clothes and shoes are wet. If you try to leave now, they will simply follow the drips and catch you. I suggest you take them off and hang them up. While they are drying, we can try to find a way for you to escape.”
She opens the sliding door to the shower and her nude form steps out past me. Leaving the shower door open, she picks up a towel, and starts drying herself off, but does so rather slowly, moving the towel over her body in a seductive manner. I cannot help but watch, and she knows it. Perhaps that is her intention.
She opens the outer bath door and says, “Use the other towel to dry yourself, then come out so we can talk.”
I stand up in the shower, and cannot feel any dry spots on either my body or my clothes. I take them off, wring them out, and hang them up, knowing that it will take several hours before they are dry. At least the moisture on my own body is being sucked up by the large Turkish towel.
After hanging up the towel, I realize I have no dry clothing, and that both towels are quite wet. The woman did not seem to mind me looking at her nude form, and seeing no other option, I must return the favor before I can ask her for something else to wear.
I step out of the bathroom and see her sitting at a rather large vanity. She is wearing a long red silk robe, but it is not tied. It hangs open, covering little more than her back and shoulders. She is applying face cream, rubbing it into her skin. I approach, and stand behind her, then realize she can see my naked body clearly in her mirror. I can see her face too, and watch her smile.
“Na’eeman, Mr. Fantom.”
“What does that mean?”
“It is Arabic. Blessings on your cleanliness and refreshment of health. My name is Rana, and this is my home.”
“I would appreciate if you just call me Fantom.”
“I understand, Fantom. You are a mysterious man. I don’t know how you got past the guards to get into my home, but I assure you they will not stop looking until they find you. How do you plan to get back out? You wouldn’t happen to have one of your secret mirrors in my bedroom so you can watch me undress, would you?”
I look into her vanity mirror, and see hunger in her alluring brown eyes as she stares at me, almost as if she hopes I will say YES!
“I came into your wine cellar through a tunnel, but it collapsed behind me. I found my way into your garage and one of the guards saw me. He was holding a gun, so I ran, and he fired.”
“You should have stopped, told the truth, and they would have released you. Now, they are alerted and will shoot you on sight. We will have to find some way to get you out, without being seen. How did you recognize me from the opera?”
She is my only ally in this dangerous place, so I decide to try some charm. “I saw your gold anklet, it as extraordinary and unforgettable as its wearer. Then I smelled the almond scent of your foot cream. A quick glance at your feet told me all I needed to know. I will never forget the curve of your heel, the arch of you foot, the softness of your sole, and the shape of your lovely toes. If you have any of your almond scented foot cream, may I have the honour of rubbing it onto your feet.”
“Fantom, your flattery is wasted. I am much older than you.”
“I care not about age; I care about beauty. Did I not pick you out from all the other women that night at the opera?”
“The seeds of your words are falling on fertile ground, Fantom. Be careful what you seek, because a tree begins with a seed. Here is my foot cream.”
I kneel next her bench and her left leg swings around so I can reach her foot. Opening the jar, I dip my fingers in and gently rub the cream between my fingers. It is quite luxurious, slippery by not oily, with a mild by easily identifiable almond fragrance.
As I go to pick up her left foot, I realize that her right leg has barely moved. Her legs are now spread wide apart, giving me an unhindered view of her hairy mound, now dry, allowing the fullness of her soft hairs to fluff outward. I look up at her, but she is paying me no mind, instead working on her makeup.
Picking up her foot, I apply a trail of small dabs atop her foot, then move both of my hands beneath them to apply the cream to her soles. I refrain from a massage, instead, using just light pressure to rub the cream into her skin. I do not want her to feel two thumbs pressing forcefully into her skin, I want to surround her foot with the warm sensations of my hands. I rotate my hands back and forth, up and down, side to side, and every way I can to apply the cream Bayan escort and gently caress her skin.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! The sound of the door opening signals the arrival of danger!
“Hurry! Get under here!”
I slip under her vanity table and position myself between her legs. She flings her robe over top, trying to shield me.
“Omm? Can I come in?” a young woman’s voice says.
“Certainly, Heba. I always have time for my daughter.”
“I’m having trouble with my boyfriend,” says Heba.
“Men and Trouble go together,” says Rana, squeezing my head between her knees.
“He tells me he doesn’t like my feet. I wear the most expensive footwear I can find, but it doesn’t help. He says my toes look funny and my feet aren’t very soft.”
“How is the rest of your relationship? Is he a loving man? Does he treat you well?”
“He is, and I know he cares for me, but he also says I am unskilled at sucking his cock.”
Heba begins describing the romantic activities of her and her boyfriend, and in rather intimate detail. She is using the kind of descriptive wording that only a mother and daughter can share. I am finding it quite erotic and my cock is beginning to swell. The mother must be excited as well, because she reaches under the table and grabs my head with her left hand, pulling my face against her vulva, and burying my nose into a forest of dark curly hair. I cannot think of any other reason for her to do this, so I extend my tongue.
Their conversation continues, and Rana vividly describes the many techniques she uses herself on men. My tongue finds her labia majora already swollen, likely due to her own words and the images floating in her mind. I use long strokes against her, my tongue gliding over the soft flesh, and being teased by her stray hairs. I probe her crack, her outer lips parting easily to reveal her labia minora, so thick and brown and fascinating. I slide my pointed tongue between them, but not to separate. Instead, I penetrate into the soft warm flesh hiding within, then pause, allowing those lips to close around my tongue.
Rana’s descriptions are so vivid, my own mind fills with the image of her working my cock. I pull my tongue back slightly, then drag the backside downward, searching for the opening to her vagina. I find it, already quite wet, and not from the shower. My tongue presses into the opening and I hold it there, hoping less is more, and that she will find the stillness even more erotic than frenzied licking.
Rana’s thighs press in and squeeze me tightly. The conversation becomes vague, as her inner thighs cover my ears. In the confined space, I breathe in her scent. It overwhelms me with a burning desire to smell and taste as much of her as I can. I start moving my tongue in each of the cardinal directions, wagging it side to side, up and down, teasing her scented opening. Still holding my head with her hand, she slides barely forward, positioning her clit against my mouth. I tickle her nub with my tongue, then surround it with my pursed lips, alternately sucking it in and then releasing.
She grabs my hair and spreads her legs, pulling me even tighter against her, and starts grinding my face against her vulva, my nose burrowing deep within her slit, as if I were some inanimate sex toy. She is lost in the passion of her own thoughts and words and can no longer control herself.
“Ahhhh! Ahhhhh! Uhhhhh!”
She pushes my head down and a blast of her cum splatters against my face. Rocking back up, she aligns my mouth with her vagina, and sprays a powerful blast deep down my throat. I gladly accept the gift of her warm salty-sweet nectar, swirling the viscous fluid around with my tongue, enjoying the flavour, before swallowing. It is suddenly much brighter, the red robe falling away, leaving me fully exposed.
“Omm! You have a lover,” says the Heba. “You never told me.”
I look over and sitting on the bed is a younger, more petite version of her mother. Perhaps 20 years old, with the same dark hair, she is wearing an aquamarine sun dress and stilettos. She is very pretty, and it is clear she has inherited her mother’s beauty. The only difference I notice is her eyes. Rather than brown, they are a dazzling green.
“A lady never discusses such things,” says Rana. “But for you dear, yes, this is my lover!”
What? I am dumbfounded. She is either ashamed that she just had a massive orgasm in front of her daughter, or perhaps, this is part of her escape plan, so I play along.
“But he is no ordinary lover, he is the famous Fantom from the Old Opera House.”
“Theeee Fantom! Theeee Fantom!” squeals Heba with delight, looking directly at me. “I’ve read so much about you on social media. All my friends want to go to the opera now, but we can’t get tickets. And here you are, right in my own home! Oh, Wow! Oh, Wow!”
Rana says, “You must not tell anyone Heba. What if your father learns of this? That would make trouble.”
“A wise woman once told me that Men and Trouble go together,” says Heba.
“Security is alerted, so I will need your help to get him out of the mansion.”
“Of course, Omm. This sounds like another exciting adventure for The Fantom. But once he escapes, can I post his story on social media?”