A Stately Home in England


In a small room in a large mansion a girl waits in trepidation, her predicament witnessed only by the pictures on the walls. This is the butler’s pantry, lair of the most senior of the servant class in the employ of Althorpe House, an English stately home.

Stretching to grasp the table’s furthest edge she nervously focuses on a black and white photograph. Its subject – wing collared, morning suited and inscrutable of expression – is Forbes the butler, responsible for the discipline of junior members of staff.

When involving such comely a figure as the one presented hardly an irksome task. High spirited and independent of mind, this girl has been here before. Knows to lift her skirt to the small of her back, but not to lower her full-cut French knickers, a job Forbes will shortly attend to with unseemly relish.

The unfortunate girl is to be birched on her bare bottom, here below stairs where she may protest and shout to no avail as her alabaster-white skin is turned to pink, then red, and finally blazing crimson. She’ll eat standing, and sleep face down tonight, the price to be paid for disobedience and youthful joie de vivre. And after he’s deemed her sufficiently beaten, what then? Will she be taken from behind with no choice but to lie there and think of England? It’s 1918, but this has happened before and will happen again…

Back in the present Jessica looks out of a lofty bay window towards the Elysian expanse of carefully sculpted gardens stretching down to a languidly flowing river and enquires:

“Perfect setting, glorious unspoilt Kentish countryside, a short drive from the M25; a well-preserved old house, is it economically viable, though?”

The owner, Simon, answers laconically. “The gardens were dad’s passion, and probably why the house has remained original; he never paid it much heed. Always outside, planting some new species brought back from his botanical travels. You’ve seen the business plan Ms Granger. I only want a small start-up grant from the Heritage Commission to help Althorpe become financially self-sufficient. Given the British passion for gawping at stately homes I’d say our chances are good.”

Jessica paces the room, deep in thought. A Liberty print dress swirls around shapely legs, her heels click on the Mendip stone floor. Simon remains slouched against the hearth, prudently silent. Jessica flicks back her fair hair and favours him with an ice-melting smile, “Trouble is there are so many country houses open to the public these days, and l’m afraid Althorpe isn’t well known.”

“On the plus side as long as it doesn’t entail actually picking up a rake the public love gardens and they’re by far Althorpe’s strongest point,” Simon counters.

“Which is why,” says Jessica, “I’d like just one more look around the house.”

Passing pieces of priceless antique furniture Jessica inspects each room, from time to time surreptitiously perusing this handsome young man. Beneath the faded lawn-cotton shirt and battered cords she discerns the outline of a body hardened by rugger and rowing. His manner characterised by the timeless charm and easy confidence that comes free with a public school education. Apparently rather successful in the City until the unexpectedly early death of his father brought him back to the family seat in a last-ditch attempt to save it from death duties.

“How many staff worked here in the old days?” Jessica asks. “About 20 during the house’s halcyon Victorian period,” Simon tells her. “Even when I was young there was a cook, butler, two chambermaids – cleaners really, but mother preferred the old-fashioned title – and a gardener.”

“Chambermaids,” muses Jessica. “Droit de seigneur, and all that.”

“No doubt about it before the last war,” says Simon, unembarrassed, “the social pecking order meant servants lived here or in nearby cottages owned by the Althorpe estate. They couldn’t refuse his lordship if they wanted to keep a roof over their head. Not my father though, he only had eyes for mother çekmeköy escort and his roses. But I’ve heard tell of past butler happy to exploit their power.”

“This must have been their domain, then,” Jessica observes, as they reach a room at the foot of the back stairs.

“That’s right, the butler’s pantry, from where they wielded complete power.”

“All the other servants had to obey him?” Jessica asks, entranced.

“Oh yes, below stairs the butler held total sway.

“Which would account for this?” Jessica asks as, heart pounding, she picks up a bundle of birch twigs from a bucket in one corner.

“Well, not those precise twigs. Cut from the arboretum last week, but a pretty good update of some originals we found.” Simon pushes the door shut. “There’s something about that little artefact that fascinates you, isn’t there, more than the marvellous interior of this unique house? I noticed as much on our earlier tour.”

Jessica feels herself flush. There seems little point in denying it. “Yes,” she agrees, meeting his forthright gaze, “the power and ritual involved send a shiver down my spine.”

“Not something you’ve ever encountered before, then? No personal experience, as it were?” Simon enquires delicately.

“Not a birch, no,” Jessica says evasively.

“But something not dissimilar?” Intuition tells Simon to push the point.

“Er, yes,” Jessica replies, pulse racing madly.

“Ever thought you might like to sample the effect of its application?” Simon presses persuasively. “As an experiment?”

“Asking someone if they’d like to be birched seems to me the perfect example of an oxymoron,” retorts Jessica, primly.

“I’m offering you the chance to indulge a personal fantasy. No strings, no obligations.”

“I don’t know, it’s…” Jessica is flustered, prized professional cool deserting her. Rationally she should leave at once; her contrary heart bids her proceed. He’s good-looking, the setting ideal, there’ll never be a better chance…

“Unprofessional?” Dam, his perception is uncanny. “Consider the proposition overnight; you’re due to visit tomorrow with a decision on the grant. If you wish to feel the birch across that splendid backside be here at 6pm. Otherwise we’ll meet in the library.

The following evening Jessica arrives at Althorpe five minutes early and feeling strangely at home. Enters through the kitchen door and follows the familiar corridors to the butler’s pantry wherein she waits, nervous and agitated. Tries to imagine being a servant in this room all those years ago; A helpless young maid about to be thrashed with more vigour and enthusiasm than some minor misdemeanour merits, knowing that afterwards her tormentor will have his wicked way.

Jessica discovers the birch in its customary place and examines it. Several previous beaus indulged her wickedly submissive fantasies but none took the role-plays as seriously as Jessica and the relationships ended.

“I think you’ll find it rather a superior example – extremely pliable.” Jessica turns with a start. Simon has soundlessly appeared and surprised her, as was his intention. “I see you’ve made your decision.”

He takes the birch from her, swishes it several times through the air.

“Two decisions, in fact,” Jessica replies, trying to keep proceedings on an equal footing. “Or don’t you want to know the result of the grant application?”

“I knew the outcome now it might prejudice what’s to follow, and that,” he retorts reasonably, “is just as important to me.”

Instinctively Jessica’s hands stroke her buttocks.

“I hope you’ve come appropriately dressed?” he continues.

Jessica looks down at her clothes. She’d spent ages getting ready, not consciously intending to emulate the style of a servant. Suddenly it seems so bloody obvious; her sub-conscious must have been working overtime. The plain white blouse and simple black skirt parody uniform attire, and like a housemaid her acquiescence is already cevizli escort a fait accompli.

“Jessica, you will do exactly as I instruct, any disobedience will earn you additional punishment,” commands Simon. “Move to the middle of the room, back straight, hands by your sides.” Despite Jessica having power over his financial future he blithely treats her like a naughty underling.

She stands five foot six in black high heels, fastened by a single strap; shapely legs and, he notes with a pleasant frisson of pleasure, a superbly rounded bottom. A faraway look glazes her hazel eyes; the weight of history hangs on her shoulders.

“You’ll receive a dozen strokes,” Simon says shortly. “Please touch your toes.” Jessica bends gracefully from her narrow waist and grasps her ankles. With tantalising slowness he inches her skirt up her taut thighs.

“Stockings,” he nods approvingly, make sure you always wear them from now on.’

Jessica waits, acutely conscious of the pose thrusting her bottom into prominence; grits her teeth and tenses, torn between wanting to get on with the ordeal yet dreading the first, fierce stroke. What, she wonders, does he mean by “in future”?

Simon takes a step backwards, draws the birch to shoulder height and holds it above his compliant victim “You may retain your knickers for the moment,” he tells her. Ready?”

“Yes,” she croaks, bracing for the first stroke. A swish of air, prickly discomfort then every inch of her buttocks abruptly feels as if the fires of hell have descended.

It’s all she can do to keep silent and maintain her balance. The second stroke is already on its way; a blazing swathe of agony permeates her bottom. Hips writhing and hands struggling to maintain their grip she performs a staccato jig, much to his amusement. Oh, this is much worse than she’d imagined, there’s no way Jessica can take a dozen! The third and fourth strokes strike tender skin unprotected by even the thin fabric of her skimpy knickers. Feet drumming Jessica performs an involuntary twist routine, her sex damp with desire despite this painful predicament.

“Good girl,” says Simon, impressed she’s stayed in position. “Now put your hands on your head. No rubbing.”

Her bum is agony; she aches to soothe the soreness but fears retribution. Jessica opens her mouth to explain she can’t possibly continue, that this has been a leap too far, but no words emerge.

“I think we’d better find you something to hang on to for the next four,” Simon continues. “Be so good as to pull your knickers down.”

Rotten sod, she thinks, determined to humiliate me. With as much dignity as possible she lowers the damp panties and awaits his next instruction. Simon places Jessica face down over the sturdy table, breasts flattened against the smooth, unyielding surface, just so. Pushes her knees apart, making her wince with discomfort as he lightly touches the red-flecked flesh of her stinging bottom. The next two strokes come at 30-second intervals.

Errant parts of the punitive branch scratch and score the soft flesh of her inner thighs, dig harshly into her bottom cleft and, worst of all, catch her pouting labia. Simon pauses, lets Jessica regain her composure and then continues her chastisement.

“Please…” she gasps after the eighth stroke, “give me a minute,”

“Of course,” Simon is ever the gentleman. “You look even more desirable dishabille,” he comments. “To which further end I want those knickers right off for the final four.”

Jessica groans, “Don’t you think your naughty servant has suffered enough?”

“Do you?”

She bites her bottom lip in a way he finds irresistible and frowns. “I’m waiting?” Simon persists, a warning note in his voice.

“No,” she said at last, voice barely louder than a whisper. “I think I deserve to have my wicked bottom soundly whipped.” “Then ask me nicely,” he demands, standing close. Wordlessly Jessica reaches to free the hope of future generations from the confines erenköy escort of his trousers. Sheer pleasure quite literally engulfs him. As her head bobs rhythmically he caresses her burning cheeks. Just when it seems Simon will reach the point of no return Jessica stops.

“Was that nicely enough?” she enquires seductively.

“An eloquent sufficiency,” he confirms, forcing her back across the table. ‘Spread your legs wide.”

“Oh sir, must I truly be punished more? Surely a poor girl has suffered enough?” Jessica’s voice has changed in tone, transmuted to a rustic accent, slipping deeper into her chosen role.

“Indeed you shall, you insolent young trollop,” replies Simon, also in character.

“Oh, but sir, the embarrassment you heap upon me is beyond all reason, exposing my most delicate and private parts, open and vulnerable to be gazed upon in such a shameful manner.”

“Cease your complaining, girl,” Simon snaps, in a voice sounding eerily like the butler Forbes. “I intend to become a good deal more familiar with this veritable peach of a bottom.

“You, young Miss Jessica,” he continues, “may count yourself lucky, I like your bright feisty spirit and have chosen you for preferment. From now on you’ll work under my strict tutelage. Who knows, if you learn how to dress and act to please me, we may make something of a lady of you.”

“Over the months to come your application must be great, your discipline rigorous. If you are to better yourself I must firmly correct the slightest fault or deviation. Before we’re done your pretty arse shall no doubt also taste my cane cruelly wrought across the full and naked expanse of those fine young orbs.”

“Oh mercy, sir, you do so vex and distress me.”

“Nonsense woman, your body betrays you even as you speak, See how your cunt becomes inundated with libidinous juices at the very mention of chastisements yet to come? “Why wench, already it is so well lubricated I’ll warrant I can slide two fingers within the honeyed portals.”

“Oh sir, no, I beg you, no man has ever before penetrated my pussy.”

“Do not pretend such modesty with me, you wet and wicked girl, I shall teach you to pleasure me as well as any adept and practised lover should and in return I’ll put all three of these tight little orifices to the cock. Now silence, brace yourself to endure the birch. “

Her chastiser deliverers the final four strokes before considerately passing a crisp white handkerchief to dry her eyes. He takes a small pot of ointment from the mantelpiece.

“Traditional Victorian cold cream,” Simon explains, normal voice restored, tentatively massaging it into her ravaged cheeks. “I’m planning to sell it in the gift shop.” Jessica squirms, this time more pleasurably, as he skilfully sooths her blazing buttocks.

Fleetingly Simon’s proficient fingers stray, caressing her sensitive clitoris and pressing urgently upon her warm, inviting pubic mound. She hears the loosening of clothes; strong hands seize her slender waist. Greedily she pushes her hips back, impaling herself on his eager cock. He stands haughtily, letting her do the work, sensing her desperation to quell her need, then just as Jessica thinks his teasing might drive her mad, thrusts forward. Sinks the full length of his cock past her silken opening and into her welcoming vagina, feeling her muscles tense to hold and squeeze his erection, creating almost unbearable sensations of pleasure.

Jessica, cries out, pleads for more of the same; shafted to the hilt she lifts her feet from the floor, clutches wildly at the table. Roughly he squeezes her lust-swollen breasts until triumphantly she orgasms.

Should you wonder, Simon got the grant money; Althorpe House is now open to the public. Why not visit one weekend and soak up the atmosphere? Admire the gardens and don’t forget to visit the authentic butler’s pantry. Treat yourself to a jar of cold cream – claimed to be very soothing – from the gift shop.

Perhaps the enterprise owes a large measure of its success to the skills of the business manager Simon had to appoint as a condition of the funding? Mind you, as an employee, Jessica is subject to a strict disciplinary code, and aristocratic gentlemen sometimes take advantage of female staff…

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