An English Stately Home

It's 1918 and in a small room in a large mansion, a girl waits in trepidation, her predicament witnessed only by the pictures on the walls. This is the butler's pantry, the domain of the most senior of the servant class in the employ of Blanthorpe House, an English stately home.

Bent over a table and stretching to the furthest edge she nervously focuses on a black and white photograph. Its subject, wing collared, morning suited and inscrutable, is Forbes the butler, responsible for the discipline of junior members of staff. When involving such comely a figure as the one presented hardly an irksome task. High-spirited and independent of mind, this girl has been here before. Knows to lift her skirt to the small of her back, but not to lower her full-cut French knickers, a job Forbes will shortly attend to with unseemly relish.

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

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

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

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

Jessica paces the room, deep in thought. A Liberty print dress swirls around shapely legs, heels clicking on the Mendip stone floor. Simon remains slouched against the hearth, prudently silent. Jessica favours him with a wry smile.

"Trouble is there are so many country houses open to the public these days, and l am afraid this one isn't well known."

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

"Which is why," says Jessica, "I'd like just one more look around the house."

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

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

"Chambermaids," muses Jessica. "Droit de seigneur, and all that."

"No doubt about it before the last war," says Simon, "the social pecking order meant servants lived here or in nearby cottages owned by the Blanthorpe estate. They couldn't refuse his lordship if they wanted to keep a roof over their head. Not my father though, he only had eyes for my mother and his roses. But I've heard tell of senior staff happy to exploit the hierarchy".

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

"That's right, the butler's pantry, from where he wielded complete power."

"All the other servants had to obey," Jessica asks, entranced, "which would presumably account for this?" Heart pounding, she picks up a bundle of birch twigs from a bucket in one corner.

"Well, not those precise twigs. Cut from the arboretum last week, but a pretty good update of some originals we found." Simon pushes the door shut. "There's something about that little artefact that fascinates you, isn't there? I noticed as much on our earlier tour." Jessica flushes. There seems little point in denying it.

"Yes," she agrees, meeting his forthright gaze, "the power and ritual involved send a shiver down my spine."

"Not something you've ever encountered. No personal experience?" Simon enquires delicately.

"Not a birch, no," Jessica says evasively.

"But something not dissimilar?"

"Er, yes," Jessica replies, pulse racing madly.

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

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

"I'm offering you the chance to indulge a personal fantasy. No strings, no obligations."

"I don't know, it's..." Flustered, Jessica's prized professional cool deserts her. Rationally she should leave at once. But... He's good-looking, the setting ideal and there'll never be a better opportunity.

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

The following evening Jessica arrives at Blanthorpe five minutes early and feels strangely at home. Enters through the kitchen door and follows the familiar corridors to the butler's pantry where she waits, nervous and agitated. Tries to imagine being a servant in this room all those years ago; A helpless young maid about to be thrashed with more vigour and enthusiasm than some minor misdemeanour merits, knowing that afterwards her tormentor will have his wicked way. Jessica discovers the birch in its customary place and examines it. Several previous beaus have indulged her submissive fantasies. None took their role-playing as seriously as Jessica and the relationships didn't endure.

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

He takes the birch from her and swishes it through the air.

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

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

Instinctively Jessica's hands stroke her buttocks. "I hope you've come appropriately dressed?" he continues.

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

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

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

"You'll receive a dozen strokes," Simon says shortly. "Please touch your toes." Jessica bends gracefully from her narrow waist and grasps her ankles. With tantalising slowness, he inches her skirt up her taut thighs. "Stockings," he nods approvingly, make sure you always wear them in future."

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

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

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

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

"Good girl," says Simon, impressed she's stayed in position. "Now put your hands on your head. No rubbing." Her bum is burning; she aches to soothe the soreness but fears retribution. Jessica opens her mouth to explain she can't possibly continue, that this has been a leap too far, but no words emerge. "I think we'd better find you something to hang on to for the next six," Simon continues. "Be so good as to pull your knickers down."

Rotten sod, she thinks, determined to humiliate me. With as much dignity as possible, she lowers the damp panties and awaits his next instruction. Simon places Jessica face down over the sturdy table, breasts flattened against the smooth, unyielding surface, just so. Pushes her knees apart, making her wince with discomfort as he lightly touches the red-flecked flesh of her stinging bottom. The next strokes come at 30-second intervals. Errant parts of the punitive branch scratch and score the soft flesh of her inner thighs, dig harshly into her bottom cleft and, worst of all, catch her pouting labia. Simon pauses, lets Jessica regain her composure and then continues her chastisement.

"Please..." she gasps after the eighth stroke, "give me a minute,"

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

Jessica groans, "Don't you think your naughty servant has suffered enough?"

"Do you?" She bites her bottom lip in a way he finds irresistible and frowns. "I'm waiting?" Simon persists, a warning note in his voice.

"No," she said, at last, voice barely louder than a whisper. "I think I deserve to have my wicked bottom soundly whipped."

"Then ask me nicely," he demands. Wordlessly Jessica reaches to free the hope of future generations from the confines of his trousers. Sheer pleasure quite literally engulfs him. As her head bobs rhythmically, he caresses her crimson cheeks. Just when it seems Simon will reach the point of no return, Jessica stops.

"Was that nicely enough?" she enquires seductively.

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

"Oh sir, must I truly be punished more? Surely a poor girl has suffered enough?" Jessica's voice has changed to a rustic accent, slipping completely into her chosen role.

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

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

"Cease your complaining, girl," Simon snaps, in a voice sounding eerily like the butler Forbes. "I intend to become a good deal more familiar with this veritable peach of a bottom. You, young Miss Jessica," he continues, "may count yourself lucky, I like your bright feisty spirit and have chosen you for preferment. From now on you'll work under my strict tutelage. Who knows, if you learn how to dress and act to please me, we may make something of a lady of you.

"Over the months to come your application must be great, and your discipline rigorous. If you are to better yourself, I shall firmly correct the slightest fault or deviation. Before we're done your pretty arse shall also taste my cane, cruelly wrought across the full and naked expanse of those fine young orbs."

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

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

"Oh sir, no, I beg you, no man has ever before penetrated my kitty."

"Do not pretend such modesty with me, you wet and wanton girl, I'll teach you to pleasure me as any adept and practised lover should, and in return, I'll put all three of your beckoning orifices to the cock. Now silence, brace yourself to endure the birch. "

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

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

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

Jessica cries out and pleads for more of the same; shafted to the hilt she lifts her feet from the floor, clutching wildly at the table. Roughly Simon squeezes her lust-swollen breasts, lunging forcefully a final time until triumphantly she orgasms, and he shoots forth his seed, flooding her pulsating pussy.

Should you wonder, Simon got the grant funding; Blanthorpe House is now open to the public. Why not visit one weekend and soak up the history-heavy atmosphere? Admire the gardens and don't forget to visit the authentic butler's pantry. Treat yourself to a jar of cold cream - said to be extremely emollient - prior to exiting through the gift shop.

Perhaps the enterprise owes a large measure of its success to the skills of the business manager Simon subsequently appointed. Mind you, as an employee, Jessica is subject to a strict disciplinary code, and aristocratic gentlemen sometimes take advantage of female staff...