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Friday, 16 August 2019

A Firm Hand

From Fessée 1
Roger de Lacey Pennington was the youngest Duke of Merrileigh and Tovington to inherit the title for many centuries. His father, an amiable old buffer, died when Roger was six years of age but his son didn’t actually hold the reins of power until he attained his majority at twenty one. The estates were administered by his lady mother, the Dowager Duchess, a beaky-nosed, steely-eyed matriarch who influenced Roger rather more than she should have done. Mothers do that. It was she who instilled in him the need for being firm in order that the upper classes should continue to be seen to have the upper hand.
On the day that Roger came into his full estate he gathered all the servants, both those from the house and those dealing with the estate and he made a long speech about how he intended to use a very firm hand. He was young and not wholly sure of himself, so he ignored the sotto voce remark by Sam Snoad, the under gamekeeper, to the effect that he was a pompous little prick, but the Abominable Snoad was shortly sacked and therefore lost his cottage. He took his ferrety face to London where he plotted a Red Revolution.
The firm hand seemed to be working, and, as both a method and a philosophy Roger began to trust it implicitly.
He could be quite charming to those he considered his equals but he was arrogant in all his dealings with those he considered beneath him, and they were most of everybody else.
He possessed a magnificent town house and a grandiloquent country manor and a very large private fortune. He was also tall and handsome which should have been enough for anybody.
Additionally he inherited a ward, the very young Lady Daphne Tracey Pennington, almost a debutante and now husband high and frying size. She was smallish, neat and very pretty and possessed of a spankable bottom. It had been spanked severely throughout her childhood and she was used to it I suppose. Roger certainly spanked it at regular intervals for Daphne provoked him as regularly as she was spanked. It was Roger’s opinion that girls were anarchic, mischievous and possessed of no standards of any kind. They all needed to be taught a lesson by Gah!
In his twenties Roger was attractive to women. Oh yes. Some, in fact quite a lot of them, shivered with inward delight at the tightening of his lips and the coldness of his blue eyes when he was angry.
‘Spare the rod and you not only spoil the child, but the servants too,’ his mother had told him. He believed her.
His mater had ruled all her maids, parlour, upstairs, downstairs and in-between with a very firm hand. She had often been seen collecting birch twigs in the family woods, and she bound then together most lovingly and kept them supple in large jars of water. She used them too. What is more, she got away with it, even in nineteen eighty one! It never occurred to her that she couldn’t and she was certain that all her ‘gels’ were supremely grateful for her training.
She died of a severe stroke. A diagnosis by the family physician which was accurate enough although she was not receiving it but giving it at the time. She was giving it to young Molly Biddle from the village, a tow-headed slattern who was rebellious by nature. All the Biddles were Bolshie. ‘The Awful Molly’ was the Bolshiest of the lot and one of the Dowager’s conspicuous failures. She fled, yelling, ‘I’m glad the old bitch is dead. It should have happened years ago.’ She made other uncouth remarks but I will not repeat them. Molly vanished into the cesspool that is London and, predictably, came to a bad end. She went into films.
(She is currently to be seen on the television in a long-running American soap opera in which she has to spend most of her working day taking her clothes off and changing them in order to appear in every scene in a new outfit and an outrageously different hat. It’s a terribly boring way to earn a crust.)
Roger does not watch the rubbish, but said it served her right. ‘Think what she might have become if only Mater had finished her training,’ he brooded darkly.
Daphne, home for the hols, stared at him curiously.
‘You mean,’ she said, ‘Like all the others, bobbing and curtseying, like billy ho?’
‘Of course,’ he snapped.
‘Hm…’ said Lady Daphne.
She wandered out to make a phone call.
And the scene was set.
Roger was sitting on a cool summer’s evening in 1988 in the proud isolation to which he had grown accustomed when he saw a large, rather vulgar, American limousine coming towards the house via the driveway.
He waited for someone to inform him as to who was visiting him on a quietly darkening evening. Jevvons, his faithful butler entered the library bearing a card.
‘A lady to see you my Lord,’ he said, his saturnine face expressionless. ‘An American lady I believe.’
The name inscribed on the card meant nothing to Roger. The butler bowed and disappeared quietly.
Roger, puzzled, looked at the tall, willowy and rather beautiful blonde lady who replaced the butler in the doorway. She was certainly an improvement on Jevvons.
‘Hi,’ she said casually. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I figured I’d just like to have a look at the old homestead once again while I’m filming in the area.’
Her red lips parted in an enchanting smile. ‘Hell,’ she said amused. ‘You must be Roger. Who’d have thought that lezzie old pervert had it in her. You’re quite dishy.’
Roger stared. He could not quite believe his ears.
‘Lezzie old pervert?’ he said, dazed.
‘Sure,’ said the lady carelessly. ‘She sure as hell enjoyed zapping the hell out of the peasants when they didn’t dare hit her back, didn’t she?’
When Roger was angry he went pale and not red in the face or neck. His eyes became chilled steel and his lips tightened into a thin bloodless line.
‘Are you referring to my mother?’ he said softly.
‘Who else?’ replied the lady equably.
‘Good God,’ thought Roger. ‘It is the awful Molly Biddle. And masquerading under a false name too!’
‘Come here,’ he whispered coldly.
Molly moved towards him, still smiling gently. Roger seized her chin and jerked her face around and stared at her with ice cold eyes. Molly’s pupils dilated, very slightly.
‘When you refer to my mother in future,’ Roger said, ’you will speak of her with respect.’
‘Is that a fact,’ quoth the awful Molly.
‘It is a fact,’ Roger assured her. ‘My mother failed to complete the lesson she was teaching you when you left and I am now going to complete it.’
‘Over my knee,’ commanded Roger. Whether she was surprised to find herself in that supine position we shall never know. He didn’t manhandle her or force her. She knelt and bent over just the same. Roger quickly removed her panties and surveyed two milky-white buttock-cheeks unmarked by the years of Californian sunlight.
His hand rose and fell swiftly, and devastatingly and both her half-moons became crimson from the treatment. She wriggled a little but did not yell or shriek although her breath began to rasp in her throat.
‘Get up,’ he said. There was a pause. ‘Now strip,’ he hissed.
And amazingly she did. There was a moment of perceptible tension while it hung in the balance but perhaps all those years of obedience to the dictates of Hollywood wardrobe designers swung the balance between defiance and obedience.
Molly stripped swiftly and efficiently.
‘Over there. Stand by the mantlepiece and place your hands on it. Keep your legs firmly closed.’
He strode across the room and came back with a riding crop and a leather paddle, both left to him by his beloved mater. Molly’s face was buried in her arms. She hid her shame.
Wham, wham, slap and swish,’ went the crop alternately with the paddle and this time she did begin to squeak and writhe about. Roger bade her stand still and then he struck her again and again, marking her curvaceous bottom with weals and crimson lines.
‘Aw, Jeeesus,’ she cried. ‘That hurts, you bastard.’
‘Indeed it does,’ he said. ‘It is meant to do so.’
A scrabbling noise from the windows brought his head round sharply. Peering through the glass he saw the face of his ward the Lady Daphne Tracey Pennington. Furious, he strode from the room and called her into the house. Daphne entered the library with apprehension written all over her face.
‘Take your clothes off Daphne,’ he said. ‘Spying is not allowed and you are fully aware of it. Join the lady by the mantelpiece.’
Daphne, fearing the worst, took off her clothes and removed her panties and joined the ‘Awful Molly’ in her unexpected lesson. She likewise hid her face from sight.
Roger smiled grimly. He was rather enjoying himself.
Swish, swish, zap, zap and ZAAAAP,’ sang the paddle and the crop, a duet which made the girls sing in agonised counterpoint. And every time the weapons landed it seemed to Roger that a flash of lightning filled the room. A subjective reaction inside his own head he thought, but very exciting.
Until he paused on the twentieth stroke and the lightning flashed anyway.
He swung round and saw a camera peering in through the window and behind it a ferrety face peeping through the viewfinder which, after all these years he could not fail to recognise as being the ferrety face of the Abominable Snoad.
Truly angry now he rang for his servants but no one came to his aid. No butler, no footman, nobody. Too late Roger realised why both girls had stood with their faces hidden. Much too late he saw that he must have appeared in every damned picture. He ran down the hall and out of the house but he was no match for an odious Snoad who had been an under gamekeeper and knew the grounds. Snoad was up, over the wall and wading across the shallow moat with his camera held high long before Roger came within striking distance of the fellow.
When he returned he found both girls in each other’s arms embracing fondly, but were their tears of contrition or of mirth? Girls, you see, are anarchic, mischievous and they have absolutely no morals whatsoever!

They need a very firm hand.

1 comment:

  1. Yes two pretty girls, well punished finding sensual solace in each other's arms thighs sliding together, tongues tangling as the crop sings again making their hips jerk and thrust against one another, their nipples chafing until they are brought sharply to orgasm...