Story from Janus 13 by R.T. Mason
‘There she is,’ said Cynthia Trumper, taking a postcard-sized photograph from her handbag and passing it across the table. ‘I only hope she stays a bit longer than the last two.’ The photo was of a pretty girl, perhaps 17, with short blonde hair smiling rather nervously at the camera.
Cynthia’s companion in the tea shop, her long-time friend Amanda Mitchell-Smith, looked, pursed her lips, smiled: ‘Mmm. Looks like Toby’s type all right: pretty and perhaps a little bit shy. And if she’s got a nice plump bottom as well I would say she was exactly his type!’
They both laughed — a shared acceptance of the weakness of men, and more especially of husbands. The photo of the Trumpers’ new maid was put away.
‘Yes, she seems his type all right. Including the bottom,’ said Cynthia. ‘And it doesn’t particularly bother me, as you know. I mean if he’s got a little interest at home it does stop him wanting to make those trips into town all the time. I’ve met her at the agency but Toby hasn’t actually seen her yet.’ She laughed. ‘More to the point she hasn’t yet met Toby. I just hope he’s a bit more sensible this time. Well, you know that the two previous ones were handing in their notice within a matter of days.’
Cynthia lowered her voice, although there was no one particularly near them in the tea shop. ‘It’s that cane of course. He’s just a bit too enthusiastic with it at times and, well, girls nowadays aren’t keen on that kind of thing.’
Amanda laughed: ‘They never were. It’s just that in the good old days they had no choice. I mean it was domestic service or nothing and they had to take whatever treatment they got.’ She caught the waitress’ eye for the bill. ‘Well, good luck anyway. What’s her name by the way?’
‘Marjorie. Marjorie Simpkins. She’s starting in two weeks.’
Two weeks later, the last Saturday in July, the young lady in question was, in the early afternoon, on the train leading into the heart of the Suffolk countryside. The photograph had not lied: she was indeed a very pretty blonde, now in a flowery light summer dress, the front of which was pushed out by evidently firm and shapely tits and below whose rather short skirt were equally shapely legs, bare knees primly together.
Bare legs primly together because there was one other passenger in her compartment, a middle-aged man sitting opposite whose eyes, whenever he looked up from his book, frankly acknowledged Marjorie’s attractiveness. He had earlier suggested taking her to the buffet car for a drink but she had blushingly refused. He had not pressed her, merely inquiring where she was going. She was being met at Market Burton, she said.
Market Burton was the nearest station to her destination, Trumper Hall, and was only a minor stop, according to the letter from Sir Toby so she could half imagine herself missing it. If she happened to doze off for five minutes for instance, at the wrong time... Marjorie gave another anxious glance out of the window.
She anyway was feeling a little unsure of herself because this was her first trip of any distance from home by herself. She had had to make two changes of train to get finally onto this minor line and it was all just a little daunting. Still she should soon arrive now. If she didn’t miss that stop...
Not only was it her first trip alone, it would also be her first job and that naturally made anyone a bit nervous. With the recession of course there were very few jobs of any sort, and it was only after her mother had been recommended to that agency that anything positive came up. Among other things the agency handled staff for large houses and, well, ‘maid’ didn’t sound very grand but it was in the house of a real baronet, Sir Toby Trumper (and Lady Cynthia as well, of course). And really, as she told her friends, it wasn’t just maid but also ‘assistant’ to Sir Toby. What did that mean? Well, she didn’t really know but it certainly sounded better.
And anyway she had only just left school (albeit with 4 O Levels) and she couldn’t expect the earth in her first job, as her dad pointed out. Several of her friends hadn’t got a job at all. She had gone to the interview with Lady Cynthia and had been offered the post in spite of having no experience, and with quite good wages considering she wouldn’t have her keep to pay for. So she had taken her parents’ advice and accepted.
Lady Cynthia she had found nice but a little overpowering: a very attractive brunette in her 30’s, stylishly dressed and wearing a subtle perfume which Marjorie was sure was terribly expensive. She was charming and friendly but some of her questions, asked with a direct unwavering gaze, were a little disconcerting. Did Marjorie have a boyfriend? She knew she had blushed as she answered truthfully that, yes, she had. Then, without beating about the bush, was Marjorie a virgin? And Marjorie had of course blushed even more as she answered, again quite truthfully, that, yes, she was. Well, really!
Lady Cynthia had smiled and put her arm round Marjorie: ‘I hope you didn’t mind me asking, my dear, but one has to be careful these days as I’m sure you appreciate...’
Then after the interview, two days later, had come the letter from Sir Toby himself, saying he was so looking forward to seeing her, etc., etc., and asking her to send her measurements. For her uniform. It was all very detailed what he wanted: height, weight, bust, waist, hips; size of bra (and specify cup size). Even size of shoes and specify narrow, medium or wide fitting. Up until then she hadn’t really appreciated that she would be wearing a uniform. She had answered the letter by return as requested, wondering what the uniform would be like...
That had been two weeks ago as now she sat in the train anxiously glancing at intervals out of the window. Two weeks: would that mean he had the uniform ready? She wondered about this; about Sir Toby and what he was like; and also about Trumper Hall. It was all such a big adventure. In between the wondering and the glancing out of the window there were also her mother and dad and of course Ian, her boyfriend, to think about. She had promised to write to all of them this evening before going to bed.
Yes, there was really so much to think about. She gave another look out of the window, and then up at the luggage rack to assure herself that her case, and her hat, were still there. Noting the direction of the man opposite’s glance, she gave a little tug at the hem of her skirt...
Suddenly they were braking, slowing. She looked out. Fields, and then the beginning of a small town. They continued to slow. Then a station, the platform sign announcing Market Burton. The train jerked to a halt.
Nervously she got to her feet to reach up for her case. As she did so the man opposite got up as well, to stand close behind her. ‘Are you sure you can manage?’ he asked in a lecherous rasp.
He made no attempt to help her though: instead his hands came forward and firmly took hold of Marjorie’s bottom, cupping the cheeks.
As if stung, she let out a sharp ‘Ooooh!’ But with arms raised and struggling with her case which was in danger of falling, there was nothing she could immediately do except, well, let him do it. And he just held her bottom in his two hands, squeezing and feeling through her thin dress and knickers while she grappled with the case. It was only when she’d finally got it down on the seat that she could push him and his hands away. It was really awful...
There was still, of course, her hat up there on the rack and the train could start off again at any moment. Red-faced, she stammered, ‘Please... Pl...please don’t do that...’ Then half turning so that this time her bottom was away from him she warily reached up again and quickly snatched it down. Sweating, she took her case and hat, one in each hand.
Too late she realised that with her hands full she was once more unprotected. The awful man moved up close behind her again as she went out into the corridor. She felt his hands groping her again.
‘Ooooh!’ This time, cringing, she felt one hand lifting up her short skirt and the other quickly running up her bare thighs... to her tightly-knickered rear! She was shocked. She stumbled down off the train just as the hand was reaching in between her legs....
On the platform, breathless and confused, Marjorie looked bewilderedly around: the sudden shock of what had happened had made her quite forget the arrangements for meeting. Then a man in a tweed suit with a red face and a big moustache was introducing himself, saying something about her hat. Of course. Her wide-brimmed straw hat with its blue ribbon had been her identification.
Sir Toby took her case and his other hand took her arm, squeezing it as he walked her off the platform. Had she had a good trip? Still trembling she said, a bit doubtfully: ‘Yes. Yes thank you, Sir.’
Outside, waiting in the car park, was a big car, a Daimler, she saw, with an older man in a peaked cap standing by it. That would be George — Mr Briggs — the handyman-chauffeur, whose wife Gladys was housekeeper. She shook hands with him, then he put her case in the boot. Sir Toby held one of the rear doors open for her.
She stepped in, as she did so giving a sharp involuntary yelp. For as she bent forward to enter, a hand, obviously Sir Toby’s, was suddenly at her bottom, fondling her buttocks in very much the same way as that man on the train. She flushed scarlet, shaking all over in her emotional commotion.
They were soon on the road to Trumper Hall, Sir Toby sitting close up next to her, chatting in a friendly way. She tried to concentrate on what he was saying, and forget that man in the train — and also what Sir Toby himself had just done. But there was soon something else to think about because Sir Toby, in his friendly way, had almost at once put one arm round her, behind her head, his hand resting on her shoulder...
And as he talked, the hand, seeming quite independent of its owner, gradually moved down. Onto Marjorie’s boob. First sort of brushing over it and then quite definitely holding it. Holding, in its thin covering of summer dress and light bra, Marjorie’s left, medium-sized, firm, tip-tilted boob. Sir Toby continued talking. George continued driving. Marjorie tried not to squirm. The fingers squeezed, fondled... felt for her nipple which was soon, she realised hotly, becoming erect.
She did her best to ignore it and concentrate on what Sir Toby was saying. He was after all her employer... well, perhaps he was just absent-minded. And didn’t really realise he was doing it....
10.30 that evening and Marjorie knew she should be getting into bed, especially as tomorrow would be her first day of work, with her alarm set for 7 a.m.; but first she really wanted to finish this letter to Ian. There was obviously so much to tell him — though equally there were the bits she didn’t want to tell. That awful man on the train for one thing; and also, what she now unhappily realised after her first few hours at Trumper Hall, the very definite similar inclinations on Sir Toby’s part. If it was absent-mindedness he seemed to be absent minded an awful lot of the time. His hands just seemed to automatically reach out whenever she was within reaching distance and, well, she certainly didn’t like it but there wasn’t really a lot she could do. Still, there was plenty more she could write about.
She had met the rest of the staff: Mrs Briggs, the housekeeper, who had made her a cup of tea when she arrived, and a boy about her own age who helped with the garden. He didn’t live in but came over from the village. And of course there was Lady Cynthia, whom she’d already met.
After her tea Sir Toby had shown her her room which was quite nice and cosy, overlooking the garden. And there on her bed waiting for her had been her uniform. She was wearing it now as she sat at her desk writing her letter. Quite frankly she didn’t like the uniform: it was, well, rather sexy. But she supposed she would get used to it.
The dress itself was of black silky material with white collar and cuffs; quite tight, and buttoning down the front and with a tight short skirt. There were black seamed nylons to wear with the dress which was sufficiently short that when she was standing its hem just reached the tops of the nylons. When she was sitting there was inevitably, however much she tugged at the hem, a show of several inches of Marjorie’s bare thighs plus black suspenders.
To go with this were black patent leather pumps with 4-inch stiletto heels — which Marjorie, not being used to, had some difficulty walking on; and a small white lacy cap, rather like a nurse’s cap, to be pinned to her blonde head. Additionally there was a brief white pinafore to be worn at certain times. And underneath? Well, the undies had to match, said Sir Toby. With the black satin suspender belt were slinky black French knickers, and a matching silk and lace bra.
‘Do you like it?’ Sir Toby had asked. ‘Hopefully it will all fit nicely.’ Marjorie couldn’t help blushing when he held up the black French knickers, and mumbled that it all looked extremely sweet.
He added that she was probably hot and tired after her journey, so she should have a bath and then she could change into the uniform and report to his study. ‘Get changed into your dressing-gown in here,’ he said, ‘have your bath and then come back here and get dressed.’
After that, although it was quite bright in her room he went round turning on all the lights. ‘Always have plenty of lights on, my dear. That way you won’t strain your eyes.’
He had gone out and closed her door, after one more of those absent-minded feels at her behind. And she did as he suggested, going along to the bathroom in her dressing-gown and having a nice relaxing bath; and then coming back and putting on the uniform.
She had never worn nylons and a suspender belt before and then felt a bit strange. Everything fitted very well, though; except that the dress itself was quite tight. But Sir Toby, when she went down to his study, said that was how it was supposed to be. He told her she looked very nice indeed — and then, inevitably it seemed, squeezed her tits and fondled her bottom. Then he made her lift her skirt to show him the knickers and, blushing like a neon beam, she had no option but to comply. She had a bit of trouble pulling the tight skirt up....
‘Come closer, my dear. That’s it.’ His hand squeezed her bottom in the slinky knickers and then: ‘Turn round, please, to face me...’
And then the bit she would particularly like to forget — his hand reaching out to feel her... down there... the crotch of the French knickers, as he inquired: ‘Not too tight here, I hope?’ That, she thought hotly, would definitely not be going in her letter.
She turned her thoughts away to more pleasant aspects of her day: her tour round the house with Mrs Briggs, for instance, who told her that parts of it were 500 years old and it was supposed to have some secret passages. And outside, in the garden, which was really beautiful, and there was also a kitchen garden where they grew all their own vegetables. (Or more specifically Mr Briggs and the boy, Colin, grew them.)
She was just going on to say that he, Colin, seemed quite nice when there was a knock at the door. It was Sir Toby come to see, he said, that everything was all right. Come also to have a few feels, it seemed. Marjorie, backing away, tried to fend him off without giving offence. As the hands reached out for various parts of her he said it really was time she got to bed: she had a full day in front of her and would have to be up early.
‘Yes, you really should get to bed right away.’ And presumably intending to be helpful, Sir Toby’s fingers were at her dress, unfastening the top button. Marjorie gave a yelp of horror. Surely he wasn’t actually planning to....
‘Please... please! No, Sir! I will. I’ll... I’ll go to bed right away. But please... please go now, please Sir.’ Fending him off she said pleadingly, ‘Goodnight, Sir.’
Thankfully he took the hint. ‘All right then. Still a little bit shy, aren’t we?’ A final squeeze at her tits and then he let go.
As he went out he switched on the main light which was off. ‘Remember your eyes, my dear. Keep all the lights on until you’re in bed.’
Marjorie said, ‘Yes. Yes, I will,’ simply grateful that he was going. For a moment she had really thought he was intending to undress her...
She had better do as he said, and get to bed. It was sensible as she had that early start in the morning, and besides she had said she would and she liked to think she did what she said. She would probably have time to finish the letter in the morning for she had now written quite a lot. She started unbuttoning her dress — something which a few minutes earlier her employer had seemed so keen to do....
Sir Toby, eyes fixed and countenance a full two shades deeper than its normal ruddy due, was looking intently and in a state of some excitement. He was seated on a chair in a passage which ran behind Marjorie’s room, looking through a narrow opening produced by sliding back a small section of the wood panelling of her wall. Looking of course at Marjorie who now, in the brightly lit room, had just removed her dress and was in the process of unfastening her bra.
He was looking, of course, as he had been earlier when she had first undressed for her bath and then afterwards slipped off her dressing gown to put on the uniform.
His excitement, now, was not only evident from his bright pink face. For it must be said that in addition the front of his tweed trousers was open to display, in all its glory, a fully erect and eager-looking generative organ: the organ on which future generations of Trumpers depended for their very existence. Sadly Sir Toby at present had no thought for this, no thought of the fact that there was as yet no Trumper heir and that he should be inserting the aforesaid organ into Lady Cynthia for the purpose of producing one. No, sad to say, that organ was being used — urgently stroked — simply for Sir Toby’s own pleasure.
The next morning it was all go from the moment the alarm jangled Marjorie abruptly awake at seven. Get up and wash; then, still half asleep, struggle into her uniform and go down and make a cup of tea to be taken up to Mrs Briggs. Then, while Mrs B. made the breakfast, start on a round of hoovering, dusting and cleaning. ‘Just keep at it nice and steady,’ said Mrs Briggs. Marjorie, who had never done much of this at home, was soon feeling worn out.
Then after breakfast with the Briggs she had to go up to Lady Cynthia and Sir Toby. Lady Cynthia didn’t have breakfast, Marjorie just had to knock at her door and wake her, but Sir Toby did and she had to take it in to him. Apprehensively, into his room, carrying her tray, approaching his bed warily... And with good reason for as soon as she was within grabbing range he grabbed, running his hand up her short skirt.
She just managed to avoid tipping the whole lot — toast, bacon, coffee, everything — over the bed, and it would have served him right if it had gone all over him, she thought ruefully. She extricated herself from his clutches and put the tray down on his bedside table... and was immediately grabbed again and pulled across the bed. Another struggle, from which she finally escaped with several buttons of her dress undone and two of her suspenders unfastened....
After this little interlude there was more hoovering until at 10.30 she had to go along to Sir Toby’s study. Her first session of helping him. Understandably she was not looking forward to it.
It turned out that he was engaged in writing a history of the Trumpers and he wanted her — well, as a general dogsbody really. Fetching books from his shelves, copying out bits that he wanted to use, and that kind of thing; and if it hadn’t been for Sir Toby it might have been quite interesting. But....
For one thing it seemed that all the books he wanted were on the top shelves (he probably put them there specially, she thought). So this meant that Marjorie had to go up the library ladder to get them. Presenting Sir Toby, standing close below, with a clear, uninterrupted view up that short skirt of bare thighs and suspenders and black French knickers. And of course Sir Toby was not content with looking. His hand immediately followed her up, was at her thighs, her bottom, as she teetered on the high-heeled shoes.
It was awful but by now it was no more or less than she had come to expect from her employer, and there was nothing she could do about it — except cringe. Her unhappy cries of: ‘Please... please, Sir. I’ll fall if you keep doing that,’ were quite simply ignored.
On her fourth climb up the ladder she didn’t actually fall but came close to it as the hand up her skirt was suddenly more probing than ever. However, as she grabbed for the ladder rail to keep from falling, the two books she was holding did fall, crashing to the floor. Crestfallen, still with Sir Toby’s hand in attendance at her bottom, Marjorie descended.
One book was discovered to have a partly broken spine. ‘Utter carelessness!’ Sir Toby exclaimed grimly. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to see you in your room about this.’
It was now almost time for Marjorie to go and help Mrs B. with the lunch. ‘Right after lunch then,’ said Sir Toby. ‘You will go to your room and I’ll see you there.’
Biting her lip she went along to the kitchen. What was going to happen now?
The staff had their lunch in the kitchen but Marjorie, after what Sir Toby had said, suddenly didn’t feel hungry in the slightest.
‘Come on, dear, drink up your soup,’ said Mrs Briggs. ‘It’s real home-made, none of your packet muck.’
Marjorie had a mouthful but she just couldn’t take another. Then to make things worse Colin, who yesterday when she had met him seemed quite nice, now did not seem particularly nice at all. In between slurps of his own soup he loudly asked: ‘Well Marjorie, has Sir Toby taken your knickers down yet?’
The poor girl, completely taken aback, didn’t know what to say. She slowly flushed a deep crimson....
Mrs Briggs said sharply: ‘Now Colin, we’ll have none of that talk in this kitchen, if you please.’
Colin, innocent-sounding: ‘What did I say wrong?’
‘You know very well, young man.’
‘Look Mrs B., you know he’s going to take her knickers down — if he hasn’t done it already. George here knows it and I know it. And if she doesn’t know it yet then she soon will.’
‘I said, Colin, we will have none of that talk! I will not have a word said against the master in this house. If he needs to discipline a member of the staff then that’s his own business. Now get on with your lunch. Just remember I could say a few things about you, young man.’
She turned to Marjorie. ‘And you, Marjorie dear, come on, eat up. I don’t want your mother saying I starve you, now do I?’
But Marjorie felt more like bursting into tears than eating.
Sitting in her room, on tenterhooks, waiting. And there was longer to wait because she had gone up early, finally managing to finish her soup but that was all and then asking to be excused. Longer to wait but it came all too soon: the quick knock and then Sir Toby entering.
She stood apprehensively before him; and he lost no time in getting to the point. She had been extremely careless (that was his version of what had happened) and carelessness called for punishment.
‘And I don’t believe in messing about docking wages,’ said Sir Toby, with largesse. ‘As far as I’m concerned, in this house punishment for a maid is the good old-fashioned kind. Yes, my girl, a good spanking.’
After what had been said at lunch it was of course what she had been dreading, but nonetheless... she could scarcely believe it. She bit her lip. She looked scintillating to him.
‘Yes, Miss. And on your bare bottom of course. It needs to be something you’ll feel and remember.’
Marjorie blinked, afraid the tears would come. She half felt she might be dreaming. It was just not credible that she, 17 and left school, could actually be... could actually have her knickers taken down. And it was all so unfair — because it had clearly been Sir Toby’s fault, not hers. She thought hotly of the others — the Briggs and Colin. They obviously all knew this was going to happen... were probably laughingly discussing it....
‘Come on then.’ Sir Toby took the chair from her desk and put it in the middle of the room; then sat down heavily on it.
‘Come on. Over my lap.’
Abjectly she did as she was told. Sir Toby manipulating her into position, getting her bottom up over his lap, then dragging up the tight skirt. His hands at her knickers, pulling them down... then groping her bare bottom, on and on. A grunt of satisfaction. Another.
A slight pause and then it started — his hard open palm cracking down with a sharp resounding Smack! squarely across both buttocks. Marjorie gave an involuntary jerk, and yelped. The stinging pain was still seeping up into her as his hand came down in a second hard Smack! on top of the first. The pretty bottom jerked again. ‘Ooooh! Oh Please!’ Smack! And again... ‘Oooohhh!’
Holding the desperately wriggling Marjorie with his left arm firmly round her waist he continued to belabour her bare bottom and upper thighs, working his way systematically over every inch of the soft firm girlish flesh. The whole area felt like it was burning and in spite of herself she was soon in tears — from the stinging pain and also from the sheer humiliation of what was happening. It seemed it would never end, his hand tirelessly smacking down again and again on her poor captive rear...
Finally a pause, Sir Toby resting his hand on her glowing bottom. Breathing hard, he asked: ‘Have you learnt your lesson then, Marjorie?’
A gasping: ‘Yes... Yes Sir!’
‘Good then, in that case...’
Marjorie gave a sudden shocked ‘Oooohh!’, at the same time jerking her body so violently that this time she came right off his lap onto the floor. The cause of this — the hand which had been resting on her bottom suddenly becoming... very intimate.
Sir Toby spanked her again the next day and again the day after — each time, as on the first occasion, with her knickers down, and each time, also as before, for no real reason at all. After the third spanking she was taken along to his study where, opening a cupboard, he showed her a medium length whippy cane.
He flexed it. ‘You’ve had three spankings now, Marjorie, and the next time it will be this cane. I always hate to have to use it but I’m afraid that when a maid shows continuing carelessness as you are doing there is really no option. So please be warned.’
He swished the cane through the air and brought it down with a resounding Thwack! across the arm of his leather armchair. The sickening sound sent a shiver through Marjorie. For she was sure that, far from hating to use it, he had every intention of finding an excuse at the earliest opportunity. She blanched, imagining that stick cutting across her bottom...
It was at this point that she had her first really serious doubts about staying at Trumper Hall. She had so far done her best to accept all that business — the being constantly felt up by Sir Toby, and these awful spankings — because, well, it was a job and with good wages and she hated to disappoint her parents. But all of this side of things was something which before coming she had just not dreamt of. This latest development, though — this awful, frightful-looking cane — was just too much.
And besides, there had been something else earlier that day which had made her even more unhappy about this place, something which had quite shocked her. It hadn’t directly involved Marjorie, it had been Lady Cynthia and Colin but... well, if that sort of thing was going on....
She had been cleaning Lady Cynthia’s rooms and had been in the bedroom when she heard Lady Cynthia come into the adjoining sitting room. Shortly after, before Marjorie had time to make her presence known, there had been a knock at the sitting room door. It was Colin. Marjorie had remained where she was, not intending to spy, but turning round she realised she could see through the crack of the door.
Lady Cynthia, sitting at her desk, said: ‘Lock the door, Colin, and come over here.’
He stood close in front of her as she said softly: ‘Well, what do you think of our new addition?’
‘She’s all right.’
‘All right? Is that all? You’re not getting interested then?’
‘Why should I? I’ve seen 17-year-old girls before.’
‘Well, I hope so, Colin. You know Sir Toby wouldn’t like you messing about with her. And neither should I.’
Then before Marjorie’s unbelieving eyes Lady Cynthia reached out and cupped her hand over the front of his trousers. Over his... And started rubbing her hand over it and Marjorie could see... it was bulging... Like Ian’s did when they’d been smooching for a bit.
And then Lady Cynthia’s hand was going up to the belt of Colin’s trousers and, incredibly, was slipping his zip down... Her hand in, fumbling, and then... she had it out... a large thick stiff thing, with a purplish head, pointing up and out. Colin just stood there, his face red, as Lady Cynthia took hold of it and started stroking it up and down. Marjorie, her face also red, could hardly bear to look — but equally she could not take her eyes off this shocking scene. She had never seen one before, not in that erect state... Not even Ian’s, not to actually see it....
Lady Cynthia continued her rhythmic stroking while Colin got even redder in the face and was making groaning sounds. And then he was suddenly convulsively jerking his body and Lady Cynthia was pointing it away... And it was jerking, and spurting out....
Afterwards, Colin zipping up his trousers as Lady Cynthia said: ‘You had better go and see if George wants you.’
And then Lady Cynthia herself went out, leaving the cowering Marjorie undiscovered.
Marjorie’s caning came the very next day — at Sir Toby’s first excuse. She had been carrying a vase of flowers upstairs; Sir Toby coming up behind her had put his hand up her skirt between her legs. She had yelped, and had lost contact with the vase. It had not broken but nonetheless: ‘More sheer carelessness,’ said Sir Toby. ‘Come to my study right after lunch. This time it will be the cane, as I promised you. Six on your bare bottom.’
And that was what it was — six across the full flesh of Marjorie’s bare bottom as she was bent over the edge of his desk with her arms stretched out to grip the other side, and with her skirt unbuttoned to the waist and flipped up over her back and those French knickers pulled down to her knees. Six vicious breath-stopping cuts which had her writhing and jerking and crying out from the sheer awful unbelievable pain....
Afterwards, sobbing, she pulled up her knickers and buttoned up the skirt. Sir Toby, putting his cane away in the cupboard, said cheerfully: ‘There’ll be plenty more where that came from until we’ve got you properly trained, my girl. Now go along and report to Mrs Briggs.’
To make matters worse — in addition to a still viciously stinging bottom — it seemed that the others all knew what had happened. Had they been standing outside Sir Toby’s study listening to the swish-clack of the cane and her howls? Anyway Mrs Briggs, with a knowing look, asked kindly if she would like a nice cup of tea and said not to worry, it would soon feel better. And Colin, when Mrs Briggs went out of the room, laughed rather cruelly and slapped Marjorie’s bottom, saying: ‘Does it sting, dear?’
Poor Marjorie simply broke into tears again.
Two hours later, at about 4 o’clock, George — Mr Briggs — was saying the same thing: ‘Does it still sting then, young Marjorie?’
She was in the dining room cleaning the silver and the place seemed deserted: Lady Cynthia out, Mrs B. gone shopping in the village, Colin working in the garden. And of course at this time of day Sir Toby liked to take a nap. That left George though — who quietly entered the room and, suddenly coming up behind her, put his arm round her waist. He repeated: ‘Does your bottom still sting?’
She jumped with fright at his sudden presence. Mr Briggs was someone she had so far seen little of, except at mealtimes. It was the first time she’d been alone with him. Her bottom certainly did still sting but she wasn’t sure she wanted him inquiring about it. And she was certain of this when the hand came down and cupped one of her bottom cheeks as he said ‘Don’t you worry, my girl. A girl’s bottom is made to take a little punishment; and Sir Toby don’t mean no harm. You’ll soon get used to it.’
Marjorie in fact now had no intention of getting used to it, for after actually having that awful caning she had every intention of giving in her notice. (She planned to do it in the morning, if she could summon up the nerve to confront Sir Toby.) And she also did not want George’s hand on her bottom. She squirmed away:
‘Please Mr Briggs. Don’t... don’t do that.’ She had to take it from Sir Toby but....
‘Now young Marjorie, don’t be like that. I’ll tell you what. Mrs B’s got some nice soothing cream that I can fetch and rub on it. That’ll make you feel a lot better.’
‘No... No... thank you. I... I don’t need that.’ The thought of George doing what he’d suggested... She cringed....
‘Now don’t you come all hoity-toity, Miss. I’m only being friendly. And just remember, you wouldn’t like me going to Sir Toby and saying... well, saying I saw you sitting in here with your feet up on the table when you was supposed to be working. He’d very soon have that cane out again I can tell you.
She felt a dart of panic: ‘No, Mr Briggs... you wouldn’t. You just couldn’t...’
He moved closer and put his arms round her from behind. ‘Not if you’re nice and friendly I won’t. All right. We’ll forget about that cream. Just let old George have a feel of these pretty tits. I mean why should Sir Toby be the only one.’
His hands cupped her boobs through the tight dress. Then he was unfastening the buttons.
‘Mr Briggs! Please! Please don’t!’
George didn’t seem to hear. ‘Now just you remember what I said, Miss, and everything’ll be all right.’
His fingers clumsily unfastened the buttons until her dress was open to the waist. His hand shot in and round the back... to the clasp of her bra. Opening it, he pulled the bra up and off — ‘Ahh! Ain’t they a picture...’
Marjorie’s tits, high, firm, pink nipples standing out as a result of all this sudden action... Disappearing into two large work-roughened hands... ‘Ahh, my lovely...’ George was now grinding himself against her still-sore bottom... Squeezing the tits....
‘Arrrh!... That’s nice... that’s... really nice....’
10 o’clock and Marjorie was getting ready for bed — with all the lights on of course. She unbuttoned her dress and slipped it off. Then her knickers. The unseen watcher, in his regular vantage place, saw with satisfaction, and obvious excitement, that the six stripes were still clearly delineated across her rounded bottom.
Life here is just impossible, Marjorie thought, unfastening her suspenders. Really quite impossible, she told herself for the hundredth time. Well, it was bad enough to have Sir Toby constantly doing it, but now what hateful Mr Briggs had done... Not to mention that dreadful caning. She really felt very close to tears again. But one thing was certain: she would give in her notice in the morning. She switched off the light and got into bed...
She lay, half dozing, wondering vaguely what she would actually say to Sir Toby. She could always claim her mother needed her at home if she wasn’t brave enough to say anything else. Just so long as she could leave at the earliest opportunity. Her bottom still hurt... She thought of Ian....
Suddenly she was conscious that someone was at the side of her bed and was bending over her. She was abruptly awake, the most awful possibilities flashing across her mind. (Chiefly of course Rape! Mr Briggs had come to rape her. Or a burglar, after the family silver, was going to rape her first before he made off.) But then the intruder spoke — and the voice was that of Lady Cynthia.
Saying softly: ‘I’ve just come to see you’re all right, Marjorie dear.’ She stroked her face. ‘I mean, I heard you were caned today. So I thought you might like a little comforting....’
And in the dim light Marjorie could see Lady Cynthia unfastening the belt of her dressing gown. She took it off. Underneath she was nude. And she was pulling back the bed clothes and getting in....
Lady Cynthia’s firm nude body, hot, scented, nipples stiffly erect, pressed against Marjorie; Lady Cynthia sighed, ‘You poor dear,’ and then her wet mouth against Marjorie’s, her tongue forcing open Marjorie’s mouth and pushing in. And Lady Cynthia’s hand going down and lifting Marjorie’s nightie, to come up between her legs and take hold of the fur-covered mound. Her mouth disengaging, then at Marjorie’s ear, and breathing hotly: ‘You poor thing. Don’t worry, I know just the thing to make you forget. Open your legs, dear.’
A dazed Marjorie felt herself being boldly, firmly, handled. The lips of her sex being opened, the fingers entering, expertly manipulating, stroking; one finger firmly up into Marjorie’s tight tunnel....
Cynthia and Amanda were sitting at their favourite corner table in the tea shop.
‘Staff!’ said Cynthia. ‘What a problem!’
‘She didn’t stay long then. That little Marjorie.’
Cynthia grimaced: ‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘Toby and his cane?’
‘Yes. As you might guess, he couldn’t resist giving her a taste of it. After only a few days, I’m afraid.’ Cynthia laughed. ‘Still, I suppose you could say he had his money’s worth in the short time she was with us. She had to give a week’s notice of course and, well, he gave our little Miss a dose of it every day during that week.’
Amanda laughed, then gave her friend a knowing look: ‘And what about you, Cynthia?’
‘What about me?’
‘Now don’t be coy. You know you like these young and innocent ones yourself. Not the cane of course. But... well did you?’
Cynthia laughed again. ‘Really Amanda. Can’t I have any secrets?’
‘Darling, not from your best friend surely!’
‘Well all right. She was rather nice. And with Toby caning her like that I did feel I should... well, comfort her a little.’
‘Mmm. And really although she was a shy little thing, once Toby’d had that cane on her bottom a couple of times... well, I think it must have released some inhibitions.’
‘Cynthia dear, you are mean! You could at least have let me have a little go with her. And that reminds me: when are you going to send that young Colin over to my place!’
The principal subject of this conversation, young Marjorie Simpkins, was at this moment sitting in the manager’s office of Top Girls Employment Agency. Looking hesitantly at the manager across the other side of his desk, and then looking down at her skirt as she said: ‘Well, I’ll consider anything really. Anything except domestic service, that is.’
‘Not happy with that, eh?’ His eyes glanced keenly at Marjorie’s primly closed bare knees.
‘No, I... Well, I had a post but... well, it didn’t work out too well.’
Mr Aitken got up and came to sit beside her on the couch: ‘Some of these landed gentry can be pretty awful to work for.’
It was evidently the right thing to say. Marjorie’s eyes were raised again, a look of gratitude for such sentiments.
‘Oh, Mr Aitken, if only you knew. It really was. Well, I just had to leave and so therefore I haven’t any references.’
‘Don’t you worry, young lady. I’m quite sure we’ll find you something. Yes.’ His largish hand reached out and took hold of her knee. Or rather the thigh just above the knee.
Marjorie gave a look of surprise. But the hand squeezed reassuringly.
‘Yes I’m sure we can find you something.’
The hand relaxed. Then moved just slightly further up her thigh and squeezed again....
Once more she felt that tingle of apprehension. But she really needed another job, and if Mr Aitken had got something... She forced herself to sit still as she asked: ‘What... what do you have exactly?’
Well, just what could Mr Aitken provide? Apart that is from the hand insistently working its way up under Marjorie’s skirt? Part two of Marjorie Simpkins: A Maiden All Forlorn appears in next month’s Janus.
Except it didn't, just the statement: Part two of Marjorie Simpkins: A Maiden All Forlorn, promised for this issue, has had to be held out for legal reasons. We are therefore substituting another story by the same writer.