1926 Much Beating about the Bush

AUTHOR'S NOTE

When I conceived the idea for this little historical story it was immediately obvious that it would only work if I told it in the first person and from a man's point of view (that was far more difficult than I thought). I will leave it for you to decide how successful my temporary transition has been. It should go without saying (but I feel I have to anyway), that in all of my stories any views that my characters express are their own and not mine. When a drama takes place in the past, I tend to adopt a tongue in cheek view of the attitudes of those times.

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I am a gentleman of few interests. To be more accurate, I am a gentleman who has little interest in anything. My ennui has followed me ever since I can remember.

At school, I did what was needed and no more. I played what sports I had to so as to not be considered an odd fellow but I gave none of them any dedication.

Academically, I barely scraped into Oxford. I failed to obtain a degree in English Literature due to my lack of application. While there I did the usual undergraduate stuff. I got drunk, played a little lawn tennis, had sex with the odd barmaid in the town and was masterbated in my lodgings by my Scout (mine was a particularly jolly woman who couldn't clean for toffee but I suspect could get sperm from a walking stick). All of these things only left me feeling that life had little to offer.

In my final year my father died, within four months my mother joined him; I'm sure she succumbed to a broken heart.

At twenty-two, I am the owner of a substantial portfolio of investments, a moderately sized house in a village not far from Wimborne Minster in Dorset and most importantly staff. Just eight years after The Great War it is nearly impossible to find and keep servants.

My parents were most fortunate to retain a faithful married couple. Wilson acts as butler and general factotum while his wife takes care of the cooking and housekeeping. They are supplemented by a stick insect of a young girl from the village, who helps with the cleaning, and an old chap who takes care of the garden.

Mrs Wilson is about fifty years of age and is an excellent cook. She has the apple shaped face common among women in this area with the generous bosom and backside that goes with it. Wilson is a trifle older. He has a calm efficiency about everything he does.

Each Monday morning Mrs Wilson discusses her proposals for the coming week's meals. I rarely disagree with her suggestions.

Every morning Wilson brings my newspaper to the dining room. While he serves my breakfast he keeps me up to date with the local news that never makes its way into the newspapers. Which farms have been sold and to whom. Whose daughter is to be married and to whom and so on. He knows that I have no interest in it whatsoever but he is aware that it is better than a silent breakfast.

Occasionally, he would introduce wider matters. "I see that the Lord's Test Match was incredibly high scoring, Sir, but it still managed to end in a draw," he said.

"Really," I had played a little cricket at school but never excelled.

"The Australian chap, Bardsley, nearly struck a double century," he added.

Trying to show some interest I said, "Slow track, obviously."

"Quite so, Sir."

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With all the time in the world on my hands and absolutely no need to make my living I had to find some way of filling my days.

The only things that have any appeal to me are walking and reading.

During the day I drive my motorcar to some point in the county and then walk for an hour or two. After luncheon at a country Inn, I then hike back again.

In the evening, I read.

I have an on and off love affair with English Literature. At times I feel a real connection. I've been fortunate enough to meet Mr Hardy on a couple of occasions. He was only ever willing to discuss his poetry. He claimed that has always been a poet at heart. His novels were only ever a source of income.

At dinner, Wilson and I talk a little more deeply. I asked him about his life, how he and Mrs Wilson had met, which other houses he had worked at etc.

In return, with delicacy and respect, he enquires about my life.

"I suppose at some point I suspect that you will take a wife, Sir? " he suggested.

"That hadn't really crossed my mind."

"Quite rightly, Sir, you possibly have many wild oats still to sow."

"The ladies have always been something that I can't find much enthusiasm for."

"With respect, Sir, I understand that homosexuality is rather popular at the universities these days."

I had to laugh, "No, it's nothing like that. I'm not batting for the other side.

"I've had quite a few sexual encounters but nothing really excites me." I added.

"Ah yes, you have yet to discover your particular niche, Sir." Wilson said knowingly.

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At breakfast, Wilson gave me the benefit of his opinion on the third test match at Headingley. He obviously thought that I'd shown sufficient interest previously.

There was a fine drizzle in the air so I donned my raincoat and, forsaking the motor car, I walked as far as Kingston Lacey. This took a little over an hour. On the way back I stopped for luncheon.

During the walk my mind was set free to ponder Wilson's remarks from the previous evening.

After dinner that evening Wilson and I exchanged banalities. Then I broached the subject that was bothering me.

"Last evening you mentioned discovering my niche," I said.

"Niche, Sir?"

"Yes, you suggested that I hadn't found my particular niche, in the area of sexuality that is."

"Oh, do forgive me, Sir. I fear I may have spoken out of turn.

"I have placed your brandy and cigar in your study." Wilson concluded, leaving the dining room.

The following day, I had some business matters to go over with my solicitor in town. I do so hate going to London. I stayed at my club overnight and caught the train back the next day.

I was quite pleased to talk to Wilson that evening. The fellows of my own social class are such boors. At least Wilson knows when I don't want to talk and when I don't mind chatting.

"Wilson," I said, " I know that you feel that you may have overstepped the mark but I would be grateful if you would expand on the subject of my niche."

"If you insist, Sir," Wilson said rather reluctantly.

"Each man has a particular practice, of a sexual nature you understand Sir, that ignites something in his brain.

"You could never look at a chap and say what it is. Often he doesn't know himself until the circumstances arise."

"So, you're saying that something, say a particular way of copulating, would resonate with a man when a more normal practice would not?"

"Not necessarily copulation, Sir, but often what leads up to it." said the butler.

"Can you give any specific examples?" I asked.

Wilson started to reply, "Well, your father..................."

"Oh Sir, forgive me. I spoke without thinking.

"Your brandy and cigar are ready in your study, Sir."

With that he swiftly made his exit.

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Nothing was said the next day but I sensed a little embarrassment in Wilson's demeanour.

During my walk, I couldn't quite shake free from the contemplation that my parents indulged in some less than conventional love making. Normally, a chap doesn't like to acknowledge that his mother and father ever had congress; although it was obvious that they must have had.

After dinner, Wilson talked at some length about the upcoming Dorset Agricultural Show.

When he finally paused, I seized my opportunity. "Wilson, forgive me but I am going to put you on the spot."

"Sir?"

"The other night you suggested that my parents had one of those niches that we have spoken about."

"Oh, goodness no, Sir. Not your mother, Sir. She was a lady of high breeding. I didn't mean to suggest that she ever thought of things of a physical nature." Wilson said. Obviously he was extremely agitated.

"I'm sorry, of course you didn't. You didn't mention her. I just presumed.

"Nevertheless, to avoid any further misunderstandings, we should have a frank discussion, man to man.

"You must start by telling me everything about my father's niche, as you call it.

"I want you to sit next to me and treat me as your social equal. Just for this evening, you understand? Act as if I were some stranger you'd met in a pub." I concluded.

"As you wish, Sir. But I would never speak of these things in a public house."

"Quite so, but you understand what I'm saying. Speak freely."

The man sat at the table but didn't make full eye contact.

"Well Sir, your parents were a most loving couple in every sense. But, as is usual in a better class of household, they kept seperate bedrooms.

"Your father, being a gentleman, would wait until he was invited by his wife to join her in her boudoir." explained Wilson.

"Nothing unusual in that." I said.

"As you say, quite normal, Sir.

"In order to ensure that he gave the best account of himself in the marital bed he would employ his niche," said Wilson.

"Damn it man, you still haven't told me what the bloody niche is." I said angrily.

"Forgive me but please no more beating about the bush. Just tell me." I added.

"Well, before he went upstairs, your father would come into the kitchen where Mrs Wilson and I would perform a demonstration for him. This would always arouse him. It was his niche."

"Oh, I think I understand. Yes, I understand." I said, but nevertheless not fully understanding.

There was silence for a few moments while Wilson got over his embarrassment and I took on board what he had told me.

Eventually, I spoke, "One wonders, I suppose, if a man's niche could possibly be inherited? Because, to be frank, I feel that that could be something that would appeal to me also."

"I couldn't say, Sir."

Another awkward silence followed.

"I completely understand if you feel that it's not a good idea but is there any possibility that you and Mrs Wilson might be persuaded to lay on one such demonstration for me?

"At least in that way we know for certain." I added.

Wilson took a deep breath before answering, "I see no reason why not, Sir, if that's what you would like."

"Excellent, would Saturday evening be too soon?" I said, trying but failing to hide my keenness.

"As you wish, Saturday it is, Sir."

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After dinner on Saturday I retired to my study to partake of my usual brandy and cigar. Normally, I would only have one of each but poured myself a second drink.

Having left sufficient time for the kitchen to be cleared, I made my way in there.

Slightly to my surprise Mrs Wilson was already bent over the table. Wilson said, "Good evening Sir. With your permission we will conduct the demonstration exactly as your late father preferred it."

"By all means. I wouldn't have it any other way." I agreed.

"I am right-handed, so it may afford you the best view if you sit on that chair by the range," Wilson went on.

I sat in the indicated seat.

Wilson then lifted his wife's skirt and pulled down her bloomers. Her white backside was every bit as ample as I had imagined.

Lifting a tea towel that lay to one side, Wilson took hold of what appeared to be some sort of black leather paddle. He shook it up and down a few times to show that it wasn't completely rigid but had quite some flexibility.

Assuming a sideways stance a little to the left of Mrs Wilson he made one gentle practice stroke. This produced the faintest of sound as it made contact with her buttocks.

Wilson then took a fuller swing which resulted in a loud crack as it found its mark. The resultant ripples across her backside resembled a mill pond on a windy day.

"Thank you," said Mrs Wilson.

Leaving an interval of about twenty or thirty seconds, Wilson swung the paddle again. Once again the sound reverberated around the kitchen.

"Thank you, but could you try just a little harder, Mr Wilson?," came the voice of Mrs Wilson.

Another heavy delay was followed by Wilson responding to the request.

"Thank you," said Mrs Wilson.

After the first full stroke I had felt my penis twitch but now it was painfully constricted in my trousers.

Wilson waited and then swung again.

"Thank you," came the familiar response.

And again.

"Thank you."

During the next pause, Wilson parted his feet slightly.

The paddle made contact with the now rosey pink backside of Mrs Wilson. As well as the percussion sound of leather on bare flesh there was the slightest grunt from Mrs Wilson.

"Thank you but I think that will be sufficient," said Mrs Wilson.

Wilson turned to me and said, "Did Sir find anything in that to excite him?"

"Without a doubt. Most stimulating," I answered.

"If it would improve your enjoyment Sir, I could add a further stroke or two."

"No, that won't be necessary, thank you.

"Unfortunately, there may be one unforeseen issue in play here." I added.

"And what would that be, Sir?" said Wilson, looking puzzled.

"Not being a married man, I am now the possessor of an extremely painful penis and no prospect of relieving it."

"I must admit I didn't take that eventuality into consideration, Sir.

"May I therefore suggest that Sir avails himself of Mrs Wilson, just on this occasion, you understand?" said the butler.

"Would that be agreeable to Mrs Wilson?" I asked.

Wilson looked slightly bemused and said, "I hardly think that it's any of her business, Sir. But I am sure that she will be expecting me to make use of her just as soon as you leave so I don't think that a little extra attention in the meantime will be of any great inconvenience to her."

"That is true, Sir," called Mrs Wilson.

"Very well then," I said, standing and taking my place behind her. Undoing my trousers and releasing my captive penis was such a relief. I'm sure that not even in my adolescent years had it ever been this rigid.

I could feel a gentle warmth radiating from Mrs Wilson's backside.

In her current position, locating Mrs Wilson's vulva was simple. Once the head of my penis was in place it only required the softest pressure for me to sink the rest of it into her. It was obviously a well worn path but nevertheless the combination of warmth and the velvet creaminess was sublime.

When at Oxford, the barmaids' attention was entirely motivated by the five shilling that they were offered. Mrs Wilson was performing this service entirely for pleasure I had no doubt.

Such was the juxtaposition to my previous experiences that I would have gladly revelled in the sensation for an hour or so but some primal instinct overtook me and I started to move my hips.

With each trust my thighs made contact with her still warmed buttocks. Every backward glide felt like my penis had suffered a grievous loss that could only be relieved by forward force.

A gentle mewing sound emanated from Mrs Wilson everytime my testicles reached their forward most point.

I gave a respectable account of myself but all too soon the centre of the universe moved to the end of my penis and it hovered in that uncertain world that embraces both pleasure and pain but transcends both.

My semen showed no restraint in its haste to leave my testicles and escape in pulsing waves towards the promised land that is Mrs Wilson's vagina.

I tried in vain to maintain my thrusting but once the dam had been breached my penis gave up all attempts at rigidity and elected to vacate its newly discovered Paradise.

Once again I found myself in the kitchen with my trousers about my ankles.

Reinstating my clothing, I thanked both Wilson and Mrs Wilson.

As I left the room they both thanked me in return and wished me a good night.

I pulled the door behind me but it did not close completely. Instead of making my way to my bedroom I dailied just in the passage way. It is not my usual habit to eavesdrop, you understand, but I wondered if there would be any conversation between the couple as to the propriety of the encounter.

Almost immediately there was a series of squelching and slopping noises, rather reminiscent of butter being churned. Only then did I detect the gentle mewing sound of Mrs Wilson being attended to.

Much to my surprise, Mrs Wilson suddenly cried out, "Jesus, Mary and Joseph and the fucking Donkey that's it, just there. Ohhh!"

The churning increased in its speed and volume for a brief period and Wilson issued a loud guttural "Arhhhh!"

I quietly made my way to my bedroom.

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The next day passed without comment or reference. Sunday evening's conversation centred around England's victory in the Ashes.

The natural equilibrium had been restored.

I made no mention of the fact that in the early hours of the morning I had awoken and in my semi conscious state I had had the most vivid sexual flashback of my encounter with his wife's vagina.

On Monday morning, Mrs Wilson went through the week's menus with her usual proficiency.

When she had concluded her demeanour altered to that of an elderly aunt towards her favourite nephew.

Mrs Wilson smiled sweetly and said, "Now, with respect Sir, I think that we need to have a little chat."

"Do we?" I said, really wishing that we didn't.

"Yes, it's not going to help to ignore something, is it?

"Now that your carnal preferences have been established, being a mere man, you are going to want to indulge them again," explained Mrs Wilson.

"While I was more than happy to oblige on Saturday, I realise that I am now past my prime. With your permission, Sir, I will arrange for a discreet village woman to visit whenever you require it.

I kept my thoughts to myself. Despite the difference in our statuses, there was no doubt who had total control of this conversation.

"Would Sir prefer someone younger than yourself or an older married woman?" said Mrs Wilson.

"Oh, older, I think," I mumbled.

"Very wise Sir, given your particular tastes. Young women often have a jaundiced view of, shall we say, less straightforward sexual practices.

"I would strongly recommend that you remain with the same woman once selected. Just give Mr Wilson one day's notice if you please." added Mrs Wilson.

"May I say something of a personal nature?" she went on.

"Please do," I said.

"Strictly between ourselves, I thought that you acquitted yourself rather very well on Saturday.

"Now, pray let us resume our appointed stations," concluded Mrs Wilson.

And then she was gone.

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I held out for about a week or so. Goodness knows how.

After breakfast, I asked Wilson, "Would tomorrow night give Mrs Wilson time to arrange things?".

Fortunately, I didn't need to be more specific than that.

"Of course, as you wish, Sir," he answered.

No more was said.

The following day and a half felt like an eternity.

At dinner, Wilson spoke about the funeral of Mr Rudolph Valentino, the film actor.

"I understand that there was mass hysteria in New York, Sir," he said.

I observed, "Well, that's Americans for you, not ones to hide their emotions."

"Quite so, Sir."

I waited in my study, my brandy and cigar untouched.

Eventually, I walked into the kitchen.

Wilson and a woman in her mid thirties stood up. There was no sign of Mrs Wilson.

"Sir, this is Mrs Jarvis. Mr Jarvis brought her here in his donkey cart. I have taken the liberty of paying him already. He will wait for Mrs Jarvis in the withdrawing room, if you have no objections." said Wilson.

"Good evening, Sir," said Mrs Jarvis, cheerily.

"Pleased to meet you," I said.