It is dusk on a pleasant September evening. It has been one of those lovely Indian summer days, hot and golden, which autumn sometimes brings to England’s shires and it is still warm now as the mellow stone of Hartgrove Manor nestles in its rolling acres against a darkening sky. Light shows from various of its many windows, some with drapes drawn and others not, as the house and its occupants go about their business. The business of dinner mostly at this hour, preparing it or preparing for it; activity, some bustling and other more leisurely, above stairs and below. Not all is action, though. There is also waiting. Anticipation. There is waiting for dinner which is of course generally pleasant anticipation. But there can also be waiting for other things.
From the stable block at the rear of the house a young man glances up at a window on the first floor. The lights are on but the drapes are closed so that nothing can be seen of the inside. And in any case from his angle he wouldn’t be able to see much beyond the immediate vicinity of the window itself even if the drapes were drawn back. But… he can nonetheless see something in his mind. A young woman standing there. Waiting. She will still be waiting at this moment. He glances at his watch. Yes. The master is a man of strict routine… Sir George Hartgrove.
The young man (he is 22) with the keenly watching eyes is called Arthur Tradwell. He is tall and pleasant-looking, clean-shaven, but his clothing — corduroys and a cheap cloth jacket — indicate that he is not a member of the family but one of the outside staff on the estate. He lives in the village with his parents and does not need to be here at this hour of the evening except… for that young woman he knows, or believes, to be at present in that room opposite on the first floor. She is close to being his fiancée; certainly they are walking out as the expression is. Her name is Jane Linnet. She is 19 and a parlourmaid at the Manor.
Arthur knows Jane is in that room because she has told him. Most days before dinner she has to go there. He has known this now for a week. Does anyone else know? Arthur has desperately asked himself this question ever since Jane told him. Not willingly but somehow, a week ago, when they were out for a walk… it had somehow come out, partly forced out of Jane once she had begun. The dark secret that came haltingly out… to leave him devastated. ‘I didn’t want to tell you,’ she said, blinking tears afterwards. He had wanted to tell her she must leave, but of course he knew she couldn’t do that. Sir George wouldn’t let her.
Perhaps no one else did know? But he knew that wasn’t likely. They would know, the other inside servants. Cook (Mrs Hagley). Mr Jermyn, the butler. Also the other maids? Did the other girls have to go and see Sir George in that room? ‘S…Sarah does,’ Jane had whispered. Sarah was the other parlourmaid, a pretty girl but not in Arthur’s eyes half as pretty as Jane. Sarah had to go at lunchtime Jane muttered.
‘Does he do it? To Sarah?’ Arthur had asked. Jane wouldn’t answer — but he knew the answer was yes. But Arthur wasn’t concerned about Sarah. It was Jane. Every evening before dinner. Or almost every evening. Almost, so there was a chance it wasn’t tonight. Arthur tried to tell himself that. Yesterday and tomorrow but maybe not right now. That would be something, that it wasn’t happening, or about to happen now. Arthur’s eyes are intent, straining… as if somehow they could pierce the drapes… and see that Jane wasn’t there. He looks again at his watch. 7.45…
7.45. That is what the clock on the mantelpiece shows when Jane gives it a quick glance. Then a glance at the door. It will open without warning because the carpet outside will deaden the sound of footsteps. Unconsciously she smooths a nervous hand over her white pinafore. She should perhaps be used to it now, and not bother, not get agitated. But she isn’t.
The room is mostly empty except for a brocaded chair and a full-length bevel mirror. Jane is standing away from the bay window with its closed drapes that looks out over the rear of the house. Standing in front of the mirror. Its reflection shows a very pretty girl, her russet-brown hair piled-high on her head with a little lace cap pinned on the top. She is tallish and evidently shapely in her long black high-heeled pumps. In front the dress is almost completely covered by a full-length white pinafore, the bodice of which shows the swell of full, firm breasts. Behind, the black material of the dress is not tight about her flanks but its folds nonetheless indicate full, womanly hindquarters.
Yes, a pretty and voluptuously-bodied young woman. One of Sir George’s two parlourmaids. The one he likes to see in the evenings, before dinner. Sarah who is blonde but equally well-built is usually before lunch. Sir George Hartgrove is a man of habit. A man who likes routine in his pleasures as in other areas of his life. And now…
The door opens. Without warning, but then you do not need warning with Sir George, if you know his routine. It is 7.47. You could almost set a clock by Sir George Hartgrove. He is in his fifties, a biggish man with ruddy complexion and thick black moustache though his hair is greying. He is dressed for dinner because he will go straight down when he has finished here with Jane. When he has had his aperitif as it were…
He closes the door after him. Jane, heart all at once thudding as it always does, does a quick curtsy. Her hands grip the material of the pinafore at her sides. He is coming close, with those gleaming eyes. A word of greeting. Jane stands still, though shaking, as his two large hands take hold of her large, firm breasts through the layers of clothing.
‘A lovely day, Jane.’
‘Yes sir.’ The hands are squeezing, mounding.
‘A hot day for September. Gets a girl hot, does it, weather like this?’
The remark is ambiguous, no doubt by intention. Jane colours slightly but tells herself to keep calm. ‘It… it was a lovely day, sir.’
‘I know that, Jane, but I asked you something else. Does this weather get you hot? Hot down here I mean.’ As Sir George speaks one hand has slid down. Through the pinafore and dress and what is underneath it takes hold of the mound of Jane’s sex. ‘This. Does it get this hot?’
A little whinnying sound pops from her soft mouth as the hand takes hold. Jane is trembling… but she must stand meekly still. ‘No… no… sir.’
‘No? Not hot for that Arthur? Eh?’
‘N…No sir.’ Sir George’s other hand has left Jane’s boobs now. It is yanking up the various layers: pinafore and skirt and petticoat. So that his right hand can dip in underneath. To her thighs in the flimsy white drawers… And not only her thighs. His hand sliding up to where it was before. Jane’s pussy. She makes a little sobbing sound.
‘I hope not, my girl. I don’t want you giving it to him. Whatever the weather. And no one else either. Not Jermyn. Nor to anyone who comes to the house. Is that understood?’
Jane stutters a desperate ‘Yes sir.’ The hand is there with just the single layer of her drawers now protecting her. Sir George’s hand that has pushed her thighs apart and is right there. Holding Jane’s pussy.
‘You and Arthur Tradwell, Jane. Nothing planned yet?’ Frantic-eyed Jane shakes her head.
‘Good. Well, see that you discuss it with me before you make any plans. I won’t necessarily object. Perhaps you’re getting to the age when you need to be wed. Eh? A big, ripe girl. Maybe you need a young man in bed at night giving it to you. Tupping you. We’ll see, eh? But until then… I want you still a virgin, my girl. Is that understood?’
Sir George is not always as bad as this. There is not infrequently the hand up her skirt; and of course what is shortly to follow, there is always that. But these things he is saying… Jane desperately nods her head.
Sir George grunts. He is finally taking his hand away. ‘As long as that’s clear. Now then. Let’s have something that a girl certainly needs, eh? Get your skirts up.’
Sir George turns to sit down on the chair. Jane’s skirts have fallen back into position but she now has to lift them again. Right up this time, round her waist, and get down over Sir George’s lap. For what she somehow found herself telling Arthur about a week ago. Telling him what Sir George did virtually every day before dinner here in this room overlooking the stables. Jane hadn’t meant to tell him. She hadn’t told him before although Sir George has been doing it ever since she came here as parlourmaid. In a way it was a relief to have told him, to no longer have that secret from him. But at the same time it is dreadful that he knows…
Jane hoists up her skirts. Naturally there is no thought of refusal, of argument. Jane is a parlourmaid. Sir George Hartgrove’s parlourmaid. He is her master and as such can do virtually what he wants with her. And if he wants to spank her bare bottom every day before dinner…
Jane’s skirts are up. There are white stockings and white cotton knee-length drawers which are tight over her bottom to reveal the voluptuous swell of the cheeks. She would not choose to wear drawers as tight as this but they are what Sir George insists on. Jane is now lowering herself over Sir George’s lap. Right over so that the ripe curves of her bottom-cheeks in the tight cotton are squarely across his thighs. Jane’s head is down close to the carpet. She grimaces. Sir George’s hand is playing with her bottom. Squeezing and patting, rolling the ripe flesh under his palm. And then the hands are tugging down the tight trousers…
Outside… the silent watcher waits. He has no means of knowing if anything is happening behind those closed curtains. But from what Jane has reluctantly told him the chances are very high. Most days, she said. And when pressed further that apparently meant whenever Sir George had no more urgent duties at this hour — and he usually doesn’t. So… it probably is. It is ten to eight. The probability is very high that Jane at this moment is over Sir George’s lap. With her skirt and petticoats up and her drawers down. And for the next 10 minutes — or maybe longer because Sir George, master in his own house, can delay the dinner hour if he so wishes — for the next 10, 15, 20 minutes or however long he wants, Sir George’s large hand will be cracking down onto Jane’s bared bottom.
Arthur turns away as a figure crosses the courtyard. It is Jack Slaper, head groom, a man of 50 or so. Arthur doesn’t want to be seen gazing desperately up at the window. Does Jack Slaper know? Arthur has no way of knowing but it is quite possible. He tries to push that possibility out of his mind as Jack greets him.
‘Not home yet then, young Arthur? Waiting for that Jane? I reckon you’ll have to wait a bit yet. She won’t be through till after dinner.’
Does Jack know? Is there perhaps a slight grin on his face? It is dark now apart from the light coming from the house, it is probably Arthur’s imagination. But grin or not Jack Slaper may be picturing what Arthur Tradwell himself is unhappily picturing: Jane over Sir George’s lap. Her ripe bottom red from the repeated impact of her master’s hand.
‘Stand up then.’
Sir George is red in the face now. Jane’s face is red and tearful as well. Having your bare bottom spanked really hard for 10 or 12 minutes is a shaking experience. Even if it is something you routinely get most days. Jane’s bottom of course is even redder than her face. She has struggled to her feet, to stand with her skirts still held high round her waist. The drawers remain lowered round her white-stockinged legs. The stockings are fastened by a white suspender belt and its taut straps frame the quivering flesh of haunches and thighs. Her red-hot bottom is away from Sir George’s view now as she has to stand facing him. Making herself stand straight like this, showing everything, in particular the thick brown bush of her pussy…
It is that that Sir George’s hot eyes are on. His eyes… and then his hand…
‘You’ll remember what I said, my girl? A bit earlier. About this. Eh?’
Jane makes a gasping sound of assent. The hand is cupping the hot, moist bush. The dreadful spanking… and now this. She feels sick.
‘You’re serious, eh. You and young Tradwell?’
Two fingers between Jane’s legs push apart the moist lips of her quim. ‘We’ll have a chat then, when you’re thinking about something. I don’t expect I’ll have any objections, as I say. Alright?’
More gasping sounds from Jane. Her legs are like rubber. This is worse than usual, a lot worse than usual. The fierce spanking… and now this. One of the fingers has found her tight entrance. It pushes up inside her.
‘But nothing until then, my girl. Not young Arthur Tradwell or anyone else. Jermyn: I have the idea he’s sniffing after it. Is that right…?’
Arthur’s lonely vigil is finally rewarded later in the evening when after dinner Jane is able to slip outside for a moment. ‘You’re still here,’ she says softly, her hand taking his, her bright eyes shining in the dark. ‘I thought you would have gone home.’
Arthur gives her a quick, fierce hug. He wants to ask but at the same time he doesn’t. His mind demands details but at the same time it would be made sick by them. ‘I can’t be out long,’ she tells him. ‘Mr Jermyn wants me back.’
Ronald Jermyn, the butler. As such he has as much authority over Jane as Sir George. More in a way because Jermyn is in day-to-day charge of Jane’s duties. He is the one she is answerable to throughout the day. ‘I need you in the house,’ he told her a few minutes ago. ‘I can’t have you mooning around outside with that Arthur Tradwell.’
Jane hasn’t told Arthur about Jermyn. Arthur has asked about him, suspecting that the butler might fancy Jane, but she has denied there is anything. Sir George and Jermyn would be too much to tell him. But the truth is that Jermyn does fancy her. He is always trying to get her into little corners about the house, to press up against her, grabbing her body, while he makes his hot suggestions. Sir George knows this, or some of it at least. And others in the house know it as well. Jermyn also fancies Sarah, but Jane is the one he is really after. And as with Sir George there is not a lot she can do about it. Mr Jermyn is in charge of Jane. She has to obey. So when he says he wants her back in the house shortly she will have to comply.
In the dark Jane kisses Arthur, then breaks her mouth away. ‘I’ve got to go in. Go home now. I can see you tomorrow.’ Tomorrow, Saturday, is a half day for Jane and Arthur has Saturday afternoons off too. They can perhaps take a bus trip to the town. ‘Are you sure?’ Arthur asks. Because sometimes Mr Jermyn can be awkward. Telling Jane he needs her on Saturday afternoon, she can have another afternoon off. Mr Jermyn is not concerned that this may wreck all Jane’s plans — in fact this may well be the reason if he suspects she has something arranged with Arthur. Jane is aware that this is sometimes the reason Mr Jermyn does it, though she hasn’t said so specifically to Arthur. ‘Yes. It’ll be alright,’ she tells him now. ‘And now I’ve got to go.’
Neither of them has mentioned Jane’s pre-dinner session with Sir George. It is of course in Arthur’s mind: he would desperately like to ask and be told that this at least is one evening she hasn’t had it — but on the other hand to have it confirmed that Jane has would make things much worse. It is very much in Jane’s mind still too — it was worse this evening, one of the worst she has had. Arthur doesn’t know that. He also doesn’t know about Mr Jermyn — who will probably be waiting for her when she gets back inside…
Yes. The butler is there, hovering, as soon as Jane is in the house. ‘I want to see you,’ he tells her, and heads for his room. Jane has to follow. In his room with the door closed Jermyn pushes the pretty parlourmaid up against the wall. ‘Been out canoodling then, young Jane? That Arthur been getting you all hot and excited?’
Mr Jermyn is grabbing her, grabbing at Jane’s boobs. She makes little sounds of protest but there is not a lot she can do about it. Mr Jermyn is her boss, he can make life pretty dreadful for her if he wishes. He could arrange things so that she couldn’t see Arthur at all. So Jane can’t do anything other than accept these hands. Which are not only at her boobs but at her pussy, and reaching round at her bottom as well.
‘What were you two at? Did you let him get your drawers down?’
Jane gaspingly denies that they did anything at all. ‘I don’t believe it, young woman. You’re hot, I can tell. What about the master? Did he give you a good going over earlier?’
Mr Jermyn is still all over Jane. One hand has gone up the front of her skirts. ‘Yes!’ she hisses, while making some sort of effort to stop the hand.
‘Ah. At least the master knows what you need then. A girl who’s hot needs her bottom hotting up regularly. And as you’ve been out again now, getting all hot and steamy between these thighs… I reckon you could do with another dose. Come on. Get your drawers down.’
Mr Jermyn lets go of Jane. To stride over to the door and lock it. She gives a despairing look but there is nothing she can do. If Mr Jermyn wants to spank her bottom, like Sir George, there is nothing Jane can do about it. In theory there is something of course. If she let the butler have something else, something that he desires much more than spanking her bottom… doubtless then he wouldn’t insist on a spanking. But as Jane is certainly not going to agree to that and it is something Mr Jermyn cannot insist on (indeed Sir George has specifically instructed Jane today and on earlier occasions not to allow it) then… there remains Mr Jermyn’s next best pleasure. Which Jane cannot refuse. Sir George has no objection to his butler spanking his parlourmaid’s bare bottom, as he does himself.
So Jane has no choice and she knows there is no point in pleading. If Mr Jermyn is in the mood for spanking her bottom then he is going to do it. Just like Sir George. What is happening is not a particularly rare occurrence. It doesn’t happen every day as it virtually does with the master, but it is not infrequent. Sometimes she can keep out of Mr Jermyn’s way, or he may have other things occupying him (including getting at Sarah). But… it is not infrequent. Arthur doesn’t know…
Arthur Tradwell, walking home on this starlit September evening, is picturing Jane doing her final duties of the evening before retiring to the little room she shares with Sarah. The fact that they share a room is reassuring. With the two of them together Arthur doesn’t have to imagine Sir George going in there at night and getting at Jane in bed. If a gentleman is randy and inclined that way then there is nothing a girl, a helpless parlourmaid, can do about it. But Sir George at least does not have the urge in that direction — otherwise he would have the two girls in separate rooms. In a way, perhaps, Arthur thinks he should be thankful he doesn’t have that worse thing to worry, about: Sir George getting in Jane’s bed, on top of her, when the fancy takes him. No, there is not that… but nonetheless he is not able to view the spanking she gets virtually every day without a sick feeling in his stomach. But at least it is now over, she will be in there with Sarah…
As Arthur strides along the road from the Manor, though, the steel of his heels ringing in the still night, Jane in fact is not yet in the little room with Sarah. She is in Jermyn’s room. Over his lap. Her skirts up round her waist, her drawers down around her knees. Her magnificent bare bottom, the ripe flesh spanned by the taut white suspender straps, in the same position it was when earlier Arthur was gazing up at the window. The splendid cheeks bared across a man’s thighs. And a man’s hand splatting hard down. And then pausing to do a spot of fondling. Sliding in between the squirming thighs. (‘You’re hot there, aren’t you, young woman?’) And then splatting hard down again…
Today, Saturday, has been another of those glorious Indian Summer days; and today Jane and Arthur, it being their half day off, have been able to get out and enjoy it. A bus ride into the nearby town where they have done some shopping, had tea in the tea shop, etc: a very pleasant break. But Jane was able to get away only after the problems with Mr Jermyn.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have told him, when he asked, that she planned to go out with Arthur; Jane could have lied, said she was seeing her mother or something like that. But there was always the chance of the lie being detected, because other people in the house would probably know. So Jane had told him, hoping against hope… Mr Jermyn of course had been awkward. He couldn’t let her go, he said, he needed Jane for some extra work. Sir George’s nephew was visiting. However… he could perhaps let her go as a favour… if Jane would stop being silly about a certain matter. She was a big girl and didn’t need to continue being silly about that particular thing.
Jane was in no doubt what this thing was. Red-faced she said she couldn’t. For one thing Sir George had expressly forbidden it. Mr Jermyn, hands groping, as they usually were when he had Jane in the privacy of his room, said hotly in her ear that Sir George didn’t have to know. No one needed to know.
Hot and flustered from the hands, Jane shook her head. She wasn’t going to let him. She would never be able to face Arthur again if she did — or even for that matter face Sir George. Jermyn wouldn’t at first accept her refusal. He kept on, and his hands kept on. But eventually he did seem to accept that he wasn’t going to get it — or not on this occasion at least.
‘All right. If you insist on being a silly girl, Jane. But silly girls need their bottoms dealt with, don’t they? I’ll let you have the afternoon off — but if I do I’m going to give you something else first. I’m going to give you the cane, my girl. If you agree to that you can get your skirts up and your drawers down. And if you don’t agree you’ll stay here.’
So Jane on her afternoon off had four red stripes across that sumptuous bottom. It was the first time she has been caned. The pain… as the cane impacted onto her bare nates, bent over Mr Jermyn’s chair… had been quite unbelievable. And there was the thought as well now, on this otherwise lovely afternoon out: that Mr Jermyn could be planning to do it again. Waiting for her with the cane when she got back. This thought certainly took away a little of the pleasure from her outing. Thinking back to that cane, Jane had the feeling that she wouldn’t be able to take it again. It had been too awful, so much worse than a spanking. And perhaps that is why Mr Jermyn has got the cane: to give her something she wouldn’t want to contemplate again. And therefore… that was a pretty sickening thought.
When Jane got back Jermyn was there — and so was someone else. Sir George’s nephew, Mr Oliver Hartgrove. Mr Jermyn did not seem in a very good mood. It turned out that Sir George had gone off and would not be back until tomorrow. Jane, Mr Jermyn said and clearly not in a good mood, was to go and see Mr Oliver.
Perhaps Mr Jermyn had thought that with Sir George away it would be his big chance: to get to work on Jane. Suggest she have another dose of that cane… and if she didn’t want the cane… but instead here was Mr Oliver asking to see Jane. Is this why Jermyn is in a bad mood? Has Mr Oliver been told that Jane is not to be left in the butler’s care during Sir George’s absence?
Arthur at least hears of the overnight absence of the master with relief and heartfelt thankfulness. Sir George away means that Jane will not be suffering her nightly penance and Arthur himself will not be suffering his nightly penance of knowing Jane is once again bare-bottomed over Sir George’s lap. But in fact Arthur’s feelings are not well founded…
Because Jane, shortly before the hour of dinner, though she may not be over Sir George’s lap, is, once again, over a man’s lap. With her skirts up and her drawers down. Not Sir George and not Mr Jermyn either of course. It is Oliver Hartgrove, the moustachioed young relative of the master. For some reason, Arthur would see, if his eyes could penetrate the heavy drapes of that room opposite the stables — although tonight Arthur is not in fact keeping his usual melancholy vigil outside — but if Arthur could somehow look into that room it would be to see that Oliver Hartgrove was doing it and for some reason has put on his straw boater. With a feeling of jocularity perhaps? A feeling of great well-being, could it be, that he is here in his uncle’s house and master for the evening and master as well of his uncle’s delightful parlourmaid. Because Oliver Hartgrove with his boater on has summoned Jane to that little room where, he knows, Sir George is in the habit of nightly spanking her bare bottom.
What Mr Oliver wants to do — ‘Take your drawers down, Jane,’ — comes as a nasty shock to the pretty parlourmaid. But naturally Jane cannot refuse; it has to be, after a moment’s hot-faced hesitation, a meek ‘Yes Mr Oliver.’ It is pretty awful being over Mr Oliver’s lap like this. With Mr Oliver spanking her bare bottom… and doing other things to it as well. But awful as it is it is not nearly as awful as later, when Jane is getting ready for bed. When Mr Oliver comes quietly in. A little smirk to Sarah… and then tells Jane that she won’t be sleeping in her own little bed tonight. No, Oliver Hartgrove, nephew of the master and with the master away, has other plans for this delicious young woman.