Well Hung Sons of England Pt. 01

The Well Hung Sons of England.

Chapter One.

Heirs and Graces.

This is a story about a highly sexed mother and her well hung son, the incestuous cuckolding and humiliation of a small penis husband and his domination by the females of the household; wife, daughters, maid.

All characters are 18 years old and above.

..............................................................................

My wife Margery and I were at breakfast. Although the old grandfather clock had chimed eleven I was still in my pyjamas tucking into our cook's excellent kedgeree and struggling with The Times daily cryptic crossword.

Margery was nibbling at a rice cake, flicking through messages on her phone and reprimanding Mary, our new housemaid, about some shortcoming in the execution of her domestic duties.

The peace of this domestic vignette was shattered as our daughters burst into the breakfast room arm in arm giggling and chattering in low voices over some piece of gossip.

Fiona and Lucinda were not permanently domiciled at the family home. It was a delight to have them around the place but at some considerable cost to my delicate nerves, Margery's excitable temper and our finely balanced marital equilibrium.

Twenty four year old Fiona was with us indefinately following another of her international life crises which had yet again cost me a small fortune in fines, bribes and extradition fees.

Her younger cleverer sister Lucinda was back for the academic spring break as she prepared for her Oxford University finals.

The girls sat down and, while Mary poured their coffee, continued their urgent whispering.

Margery gave them a look and coughed, in her usual instructive matrician manner, to which they responded, as they had been trained to do from a young age, by politely wishing us both a good morning and sitting properly at the table quietly sipping their coffees.

The soothing wordless symphony of our familial morning repaste was broken all too soon as the sisters leaned forward to interrogate the mother in unison:

"Mama dear, I meant to ask if you happen to know a Mrs Fanshawe-Hurley?"

"Oh mother, I don't suppose you're acquainted with Lady Fanshawe-Hurley?"

Margery looked up from her phone, and, deliberately ignoring their barely suppressed giggles, smiled thoughtfully at our offspring.

"Yes darling. Of course I do. I know Pippa rather well as it happens. Lady Phillipa Fanshawe-Hurley. Her son's in Nat's year at Humbers. You will have met him I'm sure. Lovely young man. Oh! what is the boy's name? It's on the tip of my tongue!"

By Nat, Margery was referring to our strapping eighteen year old son Nathaniel, also home for the Easter holidays before his final term but, as so often, unable to join the family for the first and most important meal of the day due to his nocturnal activities and pubescent proclivities.

Nat is a boarder in the Upper Sixth at the aforementioned Humbers. St Humbert's College, Independent Grammar School for Gentlemen, as it is more properly known, is perhaps the most exclusive of this nation's ancient public schools and the scene of your humble author's own early adventures.

Although my ears pricked up at mention of the old alma mater I thought it best to conceal my curiosity by hiding behind my broadsheet, sucking my fountain pen and squinting at an impenetrable anagram ('Make noises in bed, in pain around midday!' 5 letters, second letter N).*

Margery nibbled her rusk thoughtfully, wiped the crumbs from her magnificent decolletage onto the damask table cloth and clapped her hands:

"Benjy! That's her son's name! Benjy Fanshawe-Hurley! He and your brother Nat are great pals even though Benjy's only a day chap. Pippa said she couldn't bear to part from him so she wouldn't let him board. Don't say I blame her. Nice looking. Plays rugby. Big boy."

Lucinda took a sip of her coffee and leaned toward her mother:

"Well mama, that's all about to change. The hot news is that he's going to be boarding as soon as the hols are over. His father wants him away from home because of what he and his mother have been up to!"

Margery put down her phone, leaned toward our daughters and lowered her voice.

"I had heard some gossip."

Lucinda whispered back.

"It's all true mummy. Her husband, Lord Fanshawe-Hurley caught them at it. It all came out, they've been doing it for ages."

Fiona's voice chimed in:

"He's bigger than his father, is what they're saying."

I decided that pretending to be engrossed in the crossword was no longer the appropriate strategy. This situation called for a more robust tactical response.

I lowered the newspaper over my face, closed my eyes and slowed my breathing to what I felt was a perfect mimicry of the well fed middle aged paterfamilias enjoying a post prandial snooze.

Snoring lightly enough that I could hear everything and, peeking through half shut eyes between the sports and financial sections, I observed Margery put a conspiratorial finger to her lips.

"Ssh. Please girls. Not in front of your father."

Fiona rolled her eyes in my direction.

"Don't worry mummy, I think pater's nodded off."

Margery sat back with a sigh:

"Good. Sensitive subject."

I heard a trio of feminine giggles.

At that moment Nat blundered into the breakfast room in rugby top and boxer shorts, kissed his mother on both cheeks, ruffled his sisters hair affectionately and parked his solid form at the table in the manner of a viking longboat ready for a spot of pillage..

There was a brief interregnum while Mary came in to fill Nathaniel's coffee cup, place a large platter of his favourite breakfast dish (devilled kidneys, eggs benedict, poached kippers and welsh rarebit) before him and attentively tuck a napkin into the collar of his rugby shirt.

We all listened as the young epicurean hedonist attended noisily and enthusiastically to this sumptuous breakfast.

As soon as he had set knife and fork upon vacant plate Lucinda began to subject her brother to a salacious interrogation.

"So, Nat, is it true that you know a fellow by the name of Fanshawe-Hurley?"

Nat licked a stray particle of egg from his chin and bellowed in confirmation:

"What? Benjy? The Benjster!? Fanny Fanshawe?! Hurley the hurlester of hurlesterville?! The Rt Hon Benjamin Farquharson Fanshawe-Hurley? Of course I know BFH! I can't recall a time when I didn't know old fansh the fanshster! We're practically joined at the hip. Good wing man. Bloody nice chap actually, Shame he's just a day fellow. Always wished he could have boarded with us. Why do you ask, sister dearest?"

Lucinda replied:

"Well darling brother your wish might well come true. Did you know he's going to be boarding next term? He has to! He got caught bonking his mother. Apparently the poor old pater's abso fucking furious. Everyone knows about it. His mama says it's all the old man's fault on account of the diminutive nature of the honourable member's member!."

Fiona joined in:

"Yah such lolz! Your friend Benjy, fanny fucking fanshawe or whatever you call the darling rugger bugger is said to be hung like a thoroughbred stallion. Care to comment Nat? You play in the same rugby team, you've showered together. Please do tell!"

Nat smiled at his sisters.

"I'm sorry ladies, as a gentleman I am bound by ancient codes of honour and discretion. I cannot confirm nor can I deny your allegations. But the reputation of a Humbers man is always built on the truth and Fanny is no exception in this regard, although I have to say, he comes a close second to yours truly."

Realising where he was and in what company Nat's already rosy cheeks turned the intense shade of cerise that enabled rennaisence artists to authentically render on canvas the death scenes of our early Christian martyrs. He gawped at his mother in a convincing imitation of a landed carp who wishes it were back in the cool shaded waters of the pond.

"Oh! Ah. Gosh! Sorry mummy."

Margery smiled.

"I should think so too Nathaniel. I'm shocked. This is not a suitable conversation for the breakfast table."

Despite her demonstration of maternal disapproval I could see Margery was positively beaming with pride at the boy.

Nat's usual colour returned to his face as he gazed at his mother's magnificent bosom. In all the excitement her silk dressing gown had slipped open at the front.

Lucinda noticed and gave her brother's lascivious chops an affectionate slap.

"Don't start getting any ideas bro. I don't care what all your sordid randy chums are doing with their mums. You just behave and keep your great big willy away from our mama!"

The girls giggled as their brother protested.

Margery blushed and scolded her daughters.

"Don't tease your poor brother. That's totally unfair."

Fiona shook her head coquettishly and smiled at her mother:

"It is so totes not unfair! You should see his internet porn mummy."

Margery turned to Nat, her face flushed:

"Why should I see it? I can't believe that you young men lust after your mothers!"

Her daughters echoed their mother:

"Yes brother dear: what's wrong with sisters?"

..

All of this talk was becoming too much for me.

I'm fairly good at keeping my eyes closed and, even under intense stimulation, I can continue snoring to affect the demeanour of somnabulance.

But there are some bodily functions that defy the exercise of mind over matter.

Although not as long or as thick as one might wish, (in fact even smaller than Fanshawe-Hurley's aforementioned member) my own penis is quick to stiffen to it's full 3 inch erection given the right stimulus.

So it was that I found myself becoming aroused as my wife and heirs sat at their breakfast casually discussing the incestuous cuckoldry of my old school chum Lord Raeph Fanshawe-Hurley.

I began to regret having chosen to come to breakfast in my pyjamas.

A cold breeze on the head of my quivering stiffy made me fearful that my erection may have poked out of the front of my pyjama bottoms.

There was little I could do. If I opened my eyes to check the state of affairs or moved to adjust my dressing gown I would inevitably expose my subterfuge.

I could only hope that nobody would notice. I waited, praying that Margery, Fiona, Lucinda and Nat would leave the breakfast room without looking in my direction.

Mary came in to clear the table. As she leaned across me to collect my plate I felt her pause, then freeze as she struggled to stifle a laugh.

I heard my wife ask her what she was doing.

Mary, inexperienced in service and, as yet unschooled in discretion and discernment, continued to squeak and gawp before me.

"Sorry ma'am. I'm sure I don't know."

I kept my eyes closed and muttered in the way that dreamers often do as I heard Margery becoming impatient with the maid.

"What ever it is Mary....Oh....I see...."

My daughters must have followed their mother's gaze for I heard them gasp and stifle giggles.

There was a silence, broken, eventually, by my wife's voice.

"That will be all Mary. No, leave the plates on the table. Just go down to the kitchen we will tell you when we need you. Thank you very much."

Margery stood up and removed the newspaper from my face:

"Cecil. I need to talk to you. In my study. Now."

I snorted and blinked up at her before she glided swiftly from the room and was gone.

Still affecting the bemused absent-minded mein of a gentleman who's morning nap has been interrupted, I hurried after my wife as she thundered through the house to her chambers in the east wing of our ancestral pile.

In addition to the usual drawing rooms, library, dining room, bathrooms and bedrooms Margery has a large study on the second floor, with windows overlooking the rose gardens, and an imposing oak roll top desk.

It was at said desk that I found her leaning.

.....

Before we go any further I feel I really ought to introduce myself. Perhaps even tell you something about me, my history, character, etc, and a brief description of my wife: Lady Margery, her habits, customs, background, so that you might better understand events as they unfold.

......

I am Littlehampton; Lord Littlehampton (as you know we peers generally only give our title, not designation).

My full given name is The Right Honourable The Lord Angus Cedric Percy dePfleur Littlehampton.

I am known to all who love me as Cedric and I am the latest in a long line of Littlehamptons.

Our family has resided at the family seat, Littlehampton Hall in the ceremonial county of Littlehamptonshire for a little under 1000 years. We get a mention in the Domesday Book, compiled after the Norman conquest of 1066.

We Lords Littlehampton have played our part in every chapter of English history. Ours may only have been a small part but it has been noted and remarked upon. As our family motto has it: "Parvum et Superbum". **

My ancestors tend not to have gone in for the more showy aristocratic activities so beloved of the historian such as leading men into battle, circumnavigating the globe in the name of the monarch, building empires and crushing rebellions,.We have instead served our crowned heads with obedience and devotion in matters of the imperial bedchamber and royal privy. A duty far more hazardous than war and conquest; as the number of my forebears who have been beheaded and locked in the tower will attest.

Notwithstanding the sacrifice of earlier Littlehamptons our noble lineage has survived to this day where so many fine ancient houses have withered.

Survived, but, alas, not prospered.

I inherited the title and little else, save a crumbling stately home and my father's brothel debts. All class and no cash.

By contrast, Lady Margery was born plain Margery Jane Todger, only daughter of Nicholas and Jane Todger, and sole heir to the fortune of the famous lingerie empire; Todger & Son.

Her grandfather, Albert Todger travelled in ladies underwear - that is to say he sold female undergarments door to door. A man of considerable, energy, charm and persuasion Albert built his business up until he was servicing the intimate needs of the finest and wealthiest ladies in the land.

"You need to know what ladies want between their legs, against their flesh, under their dresses and have the werewithal to give it them." He would lecture us in that rather coarse manner he had, winking and patting the front of his trousers just to emphasise the point.

However successful he was as a personal salesman, it was only when Albert saw a hole in the market and invented the patented Todger Crotchless Pantie that the business really took off. Demand for the revolutionary undergarment was unprecedented and it rapidly became a global success.

Margery's father Nicholas Todger took over the family firm and made it the international multi-million dollar business that we know today.

He had his daughter brought up in the manner of an English lady. Margery was educated at St Clits - St Clittorious Independent Ladies College - alongside the daughters of the aristocracy.

She may have had the manners and accent of an aristocrat but, until our marriage earned her entry into the pages of Debrett's Peerage & Baronetage, she was a commoner.

Nicholas was determined that his daughter should marry into the aristocracy.

Which is where I come in.

My father-in-law is as coarse and arrogant as old Albert. Even on the very morning of our wedding he was direct to the point of rudeness:

"Littlehampton, my daughter's not marrying you for what's in your wallet nor" he added with a crude laugh "for what's in your pants. No. It's your title and class we want, That's why Margery's marrying you and don't you forget it. With this marriage we get to join the aristocracy, my grandson will inherit your title and become Lord Littlehampton when you pop your clogs. In return you get the Todger fortune and your descendents get the Todger genes." At which he patted the front of his pants and winked, much as his coarse arrogant father had so often done.

That was a little over a quarter of a century ago. Our marriage has proved more successful and tolerable than anyone, including Margery and myself, ever expected.

I have become accustomed to Margery's dominance, outbursts of cruelty and occasional affairs. In return she has given me two beautiful daughters and a strapping son who, to the relief of my in-laws, has inherited the Todger gene.

I think that pretty much covers our history and background. If I think of anything else that you need to know I'll throw it in as we go along but let's catch up where we left off.

.......

Margery stood leaning against the imposing desk as I stepped gingerly into her study, panting from the exertion.

I managed a weak smile as she surveyed me, her arms folded imposingly across her chest, and affected a casual conversational style: "You wanted to talk with me about something my darling. Whatever can it be?"

I knew instantly that my opening gambit had not quite hit the right note. The room became colder as though a storm were imminent.

I flinched as Margery opened her mouth to speak, but she remained calm.

"What do you think it might be?! You've just exposed your little hard on to me, to your daughters, your son and a maidservant. At the breakfast table for goodness sake. I think that's something worth talking about. Don't you?"

I put on a great show of shock and remorse.

"Oh gosh. How bloody embarrassing! I am so sorry. I had no idea. I was fast asleep and the next thing I know you're ordering me upstairs. I can only offer my grovelling apologies. Mea Culpa and so forth but in my defence it was an involuntary misdemeanour, committed while under the cloak of sleep...as Shakespeare put it: 'to sleep, perchance to.."

Margery raised her hand and gave me a look so cutting that my mouth became dry with fear and my words turned to dust.

She wasn't swallowing it.

St Clit's Independent Ladies College produces women with an assertive forensic intelligence and the unerring ability to identify a lie as soon as it emerges from a husband's gibbering lips.

"Tell me the truth. You were not asleep at all. You were listening to our conversation. Weren't you?"

I knew the game was up. I put my head down and nodded.

"That's better. So you heard everything, all that about Pippa fucking her son. And Nat showing off about his big...how much he's grown...You heard it all."

I nodded once more.

She laughed.

"And that's why your dick went hard and poked out in front of everyone. Because that talk of well hung sons fucking their mothers turns you on. Admit it."

I nodded for a third time.

"Look at me and admit it."

I looked up at her face and coughed: "I...I admit it."

Margery smiled angrily.

"Okay. Well I'm glad you've finally been honest with me. But I'm still very cross. You need to be punished and you need to apologise to your daughters. And to poor Nat. But especially to Mary. She's only been with us for a week. The girl's just twenty one and this is her first experience of service. I can't begin to imagine what she must think of us. Or of what she'll be saying to the other servants. You must throw yourself on her mercy. And that's no way to run a household. Now, take off that dressing gown, undo your pyjama bottoms and bend over my desk."

I obeyed her instantly.

It comes naturally to a fellow of my education and disposition.

My years as a boarder at St Humberts had served me well in this regard. A spanking holds no fear for an old Humbertonian. Quite the opposite, in fact. There are private gentleman's clubs adjacent to the House of Lords where stern matriarchs are paid well over the national minimum wage to serve boiled suet pudding on wooden benches and corporal punishment to chaps like me. I admit, I have frequented these clubs, from time to time, myself.