The Twelve Days Of Christmas 1868

Sir Jasper walked back from the fields with his game keeper, their shot guns broken over their arms.  As the wall of the kitchen garden loomed ahead of them, a shuddering in the branches of the pear tree caught his eye.

“What is that, in my pear tree?” he asked.

“’Tis one of the serving girls, sir.  Happen she is picking pears for a pie.”

The kitchen garden gate creaked rustily as they pushed it open and stood below the tree, looking up into the rustle of starched petticoats and long, worsted stocking-clad legs, swinging and revealing flashes of bare thigh.

“Ho now girl, down you clamber,” called Sir Jasper, shaking the tree roughly.  A wide-eyed girl slithered down from the tree and looked, alarmed, from Sir Jasper to the game keeper and back again, clutching a golden pear to her bosom.

“Now, this is a plump little partridge, “ said Sir Jasper, twirling his moustache between his fingers.  “Is she plucked, do you wonder?”

“Let me see for you, sir.”  The gamekeeper snatched up her skirts as she screamed, dropping her pear and struggling as he wrenched her arms behind her back.  With eyes brimming with tears she let out a big, gulping sob and gave up squirming.

Sir Jasper cocked his gun, running the tip of its barrel along the hollow of her thigh and inside the leg of her knickers, suddenly jerking it away and ripping her knickers from top to bottom while she wailed and a fat tear plopped onto her cheek.

“Hmm, still feathered I see.”  He reached out and gripped a single, soft hair between his finger and thumb, curling it round his fingertip, then plucked it out.  The maid squealed and writhed.

“See that she’s plucked clean, ready for my table tonight,” said Sir Jasper, turning towards the house.

“Very good, sir,” replied his keeper, touching the brim of his cap.

As he strode away, Sir Jasper smiled to himself as he listened to the shrieking and sobbing maid.  He paused to pick a pear and bit into its yellow skin, its juice trickling down his chin.

 

On his way to the gun room, the notion entered Sir Jasper’s head to go down to the wine cellar.  Carefully selecting the key from the wide keyring he carried everywhere, he unlocked the heavy door, paused to light an oil lamp at the top of the stairs and then slowly made his way down the stone steps, the cold air of the vault rising to meet him as he descended.

He ran the lamp along the rows of bottles, grey with dust, lining each wall, until its flickering light finally fell on the iron bars and padlocked chain of the inner cellar, where all the most valuable wines were kept locked away from light fingered servants. 

Nearing it, the pool of light stretching across the floor towards it, he stopped, the corners of his mouth twitching in appreciation of the faint rattle of chains that heralded his approach.  He leaned in against the bars, his face pressed to them, the lamp held aloft in one hand, the keyring jingling as it dangled from the fingers of the other.

Two frightened girls peered out of the gloom at him, their naked skin blue with cold, their arms wrapped tightly around each other.  To the casual observer, it looked as though they hugged each other for warmth.  Sir Jasper was not a casual observer and he knew that each had her hands securely cuffed behind the other’s back and a single ring pierced both girls’ clits, locking them together.

“How are my pretty little turtle doves in their gilded cage?” he leered, and they shuddered, weeping silently at the memory of past humiliations.

“Shall I unlock you, I wonder, let you fly free for a little while?  Would you like that my pretties?”  But neither girl knew how to reply.  They had been here so long in the dark and the cold, waiting for his footstep, that they no longer knew what feedom was.  Released into the wild, they would have simply pined away and died.

 

The bawdier brothels often put on an entertainment for the gentlemen as they lounge about on the over stuffed sofas in the damasked drawing room, drinking and smoking and gambling at cards while they wait their turn with the more popular girls or simply relax after a particularly strenuous session with one of the more submissive ones. 

Sir Jasper snorted in weary amusement as the madam and her daughters dimmed the lamps and wound the gramophone ready for the entrance of the dancers.  The three French girls, lifted their skirts and whooped, turning and bending and flicking their skirts up in the air to flash layer upon layer of frilly petticoat and knickers, for all the world like a hens’ bum.

He had seen better, really he had, in Pigalle where the girls danced knickerless, displaying their wet, swollen cunts for sale, letting a likely gentleman try them with his finger as they stood, one laced, booted foot upon the table while the music swirled around them, their eyes dark with absinthe.

He could hardly be bothered to look up from his hand of cards for these three French governesses fallen on hard times and forced into this travesty of a dance.  He glanced at them and then beckoned the madam over to his table.

“If you’re charging your usual price then I suppose I’ll take the red head but for that money I shall expect her to submit without complaint.  Nobody wants a repetition of what happened to that nervous blonde who screamed so very loudly.”

“No indeed sir, I can assure you none of these girls is in any position to complain about anything you might have in mind.  If I might suggest, I could do you a special price on all three…”

Being the soul of discression, she extracted a card from a silver case that hung from her belt and wrote a price on its reverse, pushing it with gloved fingers across the table towards Sir Jasper.  He lifted the corner of the card, peeked at it and then snorted again. 

“For that price I should at least expect to take the maidenhead of your youngest daughter.”  He waved dismissively at a solemn girl of around fifteen who sat quietly in the corner, her back straight, her hands folded demurely in her lap.

Madam followed his wave and sat in silence for a moment gazing at the girl.  Then she turned back to Sir Jasper.

“Done.”

 

“While it is a convenience to spend time at one’s London house for the purposes of visiting one’s club and perhaps availing oneself of the opportunities London has to offer,” thought Sir Jasper as he watched his footman throw a cape over the trembling, broken girl and lead her down the passage towards the trade entrance, “it is an inconvenience to be at the mercy of each and every dim-witted woman who wishes to come calling on one to solicit funds for good works.”

He frowned at his reflection in the hall mirror, adjusted his features into the snarling semblence of a smile and then strode into the study where the four women who had come calling sat and waited for him.

“Ah ladies, now how can I help you at this festive time of the year?”  He settled himself into an armchair and prepared to nod and smile through their story of distressed gentlefolk, or malnourished orphans or whatever species of wretched creature was fashionable this season, without actually listening to a word they were saying.

As the twitter of their voices faded into the back of his conscious mind, he scanned their figures, clad in plain, dark, God-fearing clothes with scrubbed faces and tightly-fastened bonnets, like birds, perhaps crows or rooks, squawking and pecking away at one.

Suddenly a phrase drifted into his consciousness.

“Excuse me, did I hear you say, fallen women?”

“Yes indeed, Sir Jasper, repeated the oldest, plainest and bossiest of the women, “that is what we have been talking to you about for some minutes now.”

“I should very much like to see these fallen women you talk of.  I should like to be better acquainted with…well, their circumstances, how they came to fall and…and such like.”

Surprised at their success with such a notoriously intractable gadfly as Sir Jasper, the women bustled him straight down to the miserable mission house in Bermondsey that occupied their charitable thoughts.  There they showed him the straightened circumstances of these poor unfortunates, many the victims of the insincere promises of wicked men.

“See how thin and ragged their apparel, how red their hands from work, how pleading and filled with natural goodness their expressions…”

Sir Jasper looked.  He saw swelling bosoms beneath the thin apparel, women eager to find some occupation less wearisome than their current one, eyes that followed him round the room, desperate to do…well, he was determined to find out for himself just how desperate and just what they would do.

Sir Jasper turned and beamed a benevolent smile on the four ladies who came calling.

 

Sir Jasper surveyed the naked body of the whore as she sprawled across the bed.  Firelight flickered, glinting dully off the gold rings that pierced her erect nipples and her belly button.  Parting her legs, he glimpsed the ring that pierced the hood of her clit.  Carefully he theaded the fine gold chain through it.  Bending, he kissed and nipped the whore’s full bottom lip then, with his finger and thumb, pinched the tip of her tongue and drew it from her mouth, revealling a final gold ring. 

He threaded the chain through this ring and then drew it taut, listening for the catch in her breath as the chain tugged at her clit, stretching her tongue from her gaping mouth to its full extent. 

He sat back on his heels for a moment and looked at her.  Her jaw trembled and she wriggled her bum against the bedclothes, moaning softly.

Straddling her face and unbuttoning his stiff cock he let it flop onto her tongue, gripping tight hold of her ears with each hand as he began to fuck her throat with long, deep, brutal thrusts, each one yanking sharply on her clit, fucking faster now as she curled her fingernails into his thighs and began to kick and struggle, her face flushed pink and her eyes frozen with panic.

 

It was sir Jasper’s habit, when in town, to travel in the daytime by public transport.  Not for him the privacy of the carriage, he far preferred the crowded omnibus or even the dark and smokey underground train.  Here one might legitimately press oneself against the curves of a young female, caressing and even goosing her ample bottom without much fear of reprisal.  If challenged by a shriek, an exclamation, even a sharp smack across the face with an elegantly gloved hand, one simply apologised for inadvertantly standing too close in the crowd, tipped ones hat and smartly got off at the next station.

Because Sir Jasper knew a wonderful secret.  Some women liked it.  In his experience so far, six young women had been roundly goosed and liked it well enough to accompany him to the nearest hotel, sign in as Mr and Mrs Smith and spend a happy afternoon getting well and truly laid.     

Sir Jasper referred to this little hobby of his as ‘geese gathering’ and he had ambitions to amass an entire flock.

 

The medicinal benefits of leaving Mayfair and travelling all the way to Hampstead to bathe in the ponds on the heath were largely lost on Sir Jasper, but his doctor had been most insistent after his last attack of gout and so here he was, up to his waist in freezing water in a knitted bathing suit.

Having done this for a full four minutes, he was quite ready to go home when the unmistakable sound of a female shriek drifted over the bushes.

Hastily dried off and wearing his greatcoat over his bathing suit, Sir Jasper, oh so casually, edged his way to the end of the shrubbery and peered through the leaves at the ladies’ bathing pond.

Seven bathing beauties bobbed and splashed in the water, taking it in turns to clamber up onto the wooden jetty and take elegant swan-like dives into the water.  An older woman – a governess, an aunt, their mother? – scolded them from the shore, hissing at them that this is no way for a young lady to behave.  But they were deaf to her, totally immersed in the sharp coldness of the water and the delight of leaping, free from corsets and stays and all restraint or propriety.

Each girl wore a one piece serge bathing suit with bloomers to her knees, covered with a skirt and a modest, sleeved top.  But wet, they clung, tight and heavy, to their curves and Sir Jasper was captivated.  Their bathing caps made it almost impossible to tell them apart by looking at their faces, but within minutes he could tell exactly who was who by the swell of their breasts, jiggling madly as they ran down the jetty and launched into the air.

 

Back in the country after his excursion to town, Sir Jasper walked around the home farm, having a slightly dull conversation with his stockman and being occasionally told off for disposing of a cigar butt in a barn full of hay or prodding an errant chicken with his cane. 

The gist of the stockman’s conversation was that the farm was losing money and some economies must be made.  Sir Jasper scowled at the thought of giving up a single one of his pleasures in favour of a cow.  At the door of the milking shed he pointed with his cane into the gloomy interior where a row of cows steamed gently while busy fingers milked them.  “I mean, is it absolutely necessary to have all these girls to milk the cows, couldn’t we do with one or two fewer?”

“That’s as maybe,” replied the stockman, “But you’ll ‘ave to be the one as tells ‘em.”  And he stomped away.

“Right, erm, good day to you ladies,” began Sir Jasper, not quite sure how one addressed milk maids.  They stopped what they were doing and sat up, each still gripping her cow’s teats with nimble fingers, their breasts squashed against their cows’ hot flank.

“Now see here,” he continued, “eight milk maids is just too many for this farm to support.  I’m afraid I can only employ seven so, um, well one of you will have to leave and we have to think of a way to decide who it is.  Yes, that’s what we have to do…”  He petered away.

At the far end of the shed, a girl stood up.  She was tall and strong with ample curves that rolled when she walked and a wide sensuous mouth that flickered into a grin.  “I can think of a way, lover…”

Afterwards, Sir Jasper explained to anyone who questoned his decision, that being a milk maid was something that called for rare talent in the use of gentle kneading with the fingers and the subtle application of pressure to extract the milk in the most effective way possible.  And far from eight maids to do the milking being too many, a search must be made of neighbouring farms for the most talented girls to join the home farm dairy.  And he would conduct the search personally.

 

Country dances bored Sir Jasper rigid.  It wasn’t so bad in town where there might at least be an heiress or two in the room.  But in the country it was all parsons and squires and their wives and their fat fair girls, forever thrust in his direction in the hope that he would take an interest in one of them and impregnate her then scuttle up the aisle at gunpoint. 

In this set of assembly rooms alone he counted nine ladies dancing in their best seductive fashion, rolling their eyes at him and fanning themselves in the hope of catching his attention.  He knocked back another glass of punch and winced, his head aching with the out of tune fiddling of the local band of musicians as they murdered a quadrille.  Ignoring all the ladies, he slouched off down the back passage towards the kitchens.  Surely one of these women would have brought with her a French maid who carried a cachet faivre to ease his throbbing head.

To his great surprise, he could hear music from the kitchens as well and he pushed the door open quietly, breaking into a grin as he saw that a dance was underway here too.  But this was altogether more fun than the desiccated dance upstairs.  Footmen whirled kitchen maids round by their waists, their skirts swirling as they lifted off the ground with a happy little shriek.  The older servants danced the dances of their youth with great precision and tender care for each other.  In the scullery, newly made couples kissed and giggled and from the open back door came scuffling and moans and a regular thump, thump, thump.

Suddenly the fiddler caught sight of him and stopped playing.  The room fell still and silent and Sir Jasper felt both awkward and guilty for interrupting their simple pleasures.  However, his headache was quite gone now and, spotting a pretty, slender brunette with pink cheeks and a shy, downturned face, he stepped up to her, bowed stiffly and asked, “May I have this dance, miss?”

She looked up at her fellow servants in a panic of confusion while they silently mimed at her to go ahead and take his proffered hand.  Slowly, the music started up again and he wound his arm tightly around her waist, pressing her belly against his stiffening cock as he began to spin her around the room.

“The thing about simple country folk,” said Sir Jasper much later one evening at his club, “is they’re much more free and easy than us.  I spend half my life down there trying not to get those chubby little gentry girls in the family way for fear of having to marry the God awful creatures, but when it’s a serving wench you impregnate it’s so much simpler to deal with.”

“I suppose you gave her money to go away?”

“Not at all, I merely dismissed her and all her family, evicted them from their cottage and had them driven out of the county.”

 

Sir Jasper made rare appearances in the House of Lords.  The State Opening of Parliament, which was an opportunity to get an eyeful of any likely peers’ daughters in their tiaras, and the day set aside for claiming expenses.  However a small party for ten, thrown by his old school chum Duff, was always an event.  Officially, ladies were not permitted in the Palace of Westminster but Duff had arranged for a large number of rather nubile ones to be smuggled in through the basement in laundry baskets.  Sadly, their removal from the laundry baskets had also resulted in the removal of a great many of their clothes, but at least it gave everyone an opportunity to explain to them what was meant by Chief Whip.

As servants brought in ice sculptures filled with caviar and Duff climbed on a chair to pour champagne into the top glass of the pyramid of glasses he’d rather unsteadily built, Sir Jasper took his opportunity with a Junoesque girl, currently kicking and squealing bent over an armchair while two honourable members took it in turns to thrash her shuddering bottom.

“My dear,” said Sir Jasper, holding out his hand to her, “let me take you away from all this.”  Tearfully, she smiled up at him and allowed herself to be led away.  Sir Jasper murmured, “Don’t mind, do you old chap?” to the two men, who clearly did mind very much the loss of their target.

She trotted behind him across the darkened, empty lobby, the tiled floors cold on her bare feet, and he pushed open the door to the Chamber.  She twirled slowly, taking in the red leather benches and gilt carvings, gazing up at the painted ceiling and gothic, stained glass windows, moonlight streaming through these windows casting coloured lights on her pale, naked skin, illuminating the scarlet stripes across her ample rump.

“It’s magnificent,” she whispered.

“Yes, it is,” he replied, gazing at her arse.

He unscrewed the cap of his hip flask and offered it to her.  She coughed and spluttered, holding her hand to her mouth and giggling as the brandy blazed its way into her belly.  “That’s not the last time something like that’s going to happen to you tonight, “ thought Sir Jasper, as he seated himself on the throne and patted his knee.

 

Such was the success of this young lady that Sir Jasper decided she should come with him to his regimental dinner the following evening.  It was not generally the done thing to bring ladies one was not married or at least affianced to and some eybrows were raised, especially when it transpired that she charged by the hour and Sir Jasper wasn’t quite sure of her name.  Still, no old soldier wants to insult a lady, however dubious her provenance, so they seated her at one end of the table with Sir Jasper at the other. 

Dinner was uneventful despite the girl drinking the finger bowl, using the wrong fork to eat a banana and giggling like a shopgirl at almost everything anyone said to her.  The low cut of her dress and generous pout of her lips quite made everyone forgive her.

As was traditional in the regiment, the end of dinner was signalled by the arrival of the pipers – ten bagpipe players and a sergeant major with a mace – who circled the table playing, their kilts swaying as they marched, and then led any ladies to the drawing room while the gentlemen lit their cigars and passed the port.

As she was the only lady, she found herself at a loose end in the drawing room with eleven pipers standing guard outside.  By the time Sir Jasper and his comrades came to join her, they found that every piper’s bag had been deflated, its pipe drooping.

“It’s funny,” remarked Sir Jasper, “I heard a peculiar wailing while we were playing billiards, but I imagined it was simply the pipers regaling us with some folk tune I was unfamiliar with.  Now it turns out I might have been quite wrong.”

 

The next morning, walking in St James’ Park, Sir Jasper stopped to watch a military parade go by.  Horses pulling thundering gun carriages were followed by ranks of drummers and finally four great shire horses in gleaming silver gilt breastplates each bearing two huge kettle drums which their riders banged sonorously.

The girl, who he had failed to shake off last night, waved cheerily at one of the riders.  “Coo-ee, coo-ee, over here!”  He stiffened in his saddle and ignored her.

“Do you know him?” asked Sir Jasper.

“Oh yes, dearie, I’m a great friend to the regiment and I do love a drummer, don’t you?”

SirJasper started to explain that he’d never given much thought to drummers but she had him by the hand, running across the park towards the barracks, “Let’s beat them home!”

In the stable yard the drummer dismounted crossly, striding towards them.  “How many times do I have to tell you, not when I’m on duty.  You’ll get us all into trouble one day, so you will.”

She pouted and said, “You don’t really mean that.”

“Yes I do, you should flaming well get a whipping for behaviour like that.”

Sir Jasper, who had not been much interested in this exchange and had been staring idly around him at the stables, raised an eyebrow and thought, “Hello…”

Her wrists bound with reins, hooked high on the wall, she squirmed and yelped as twelve of the drummers beat out a tattoo on her bottom with their uniform belts.  As they paused to roll a sleeve up or wipe the sweat from their brow, she would look over her shoulder at them and moan, “More, harder, give it to me you bastards!”

Sir Jasper sat on a bale of straw and took a slug of brandy and reflected on what an exhausting Christmas it had been this year.

Comments

[D&L]

Merry Christmas, Lucy, and thanks for the story!

L&D

[Carles]

Lucy,

I had started reading this the other day but did't have a chance to finsh. So I just had to come back today and finish reading it. I truly enjoy your writings. I should write a book or prehaps even a movie script.(and star in it) For some reason lately I've been having these day dreams of you dancing. Maybe it was because of reading this I don't know.But now I wonder how you dance. All women have their own style.
Your such a sweet young thing.You bring out a very old world Dom. style in me.

Your loyal and admiring reader,
Charles

BTW I recently did a trace of my heritage. I come from two very old and Royal blood lines.One from France the other from Wales.