An adult stories – Fooling Priory by mrs_mackenzie,mrs_mackenzie Author note: This is my entry for the April Fools Day Story Contest 2024.
It was after dinner at Fooling Priory, which meant the Duke of Ruthering and his son, Lord Fitzmichael, had gathered in the drawing room to discuss matters of importance. In reality, this meant Daddy and Bertie were smoking the most evil-smelling cigars and talking about tomorrow’s hunt, the first of the season. In fact, Bertie hadn’t spoken about anything else for the past week: he’d got a new champion hunter he’d been training, called Dodger, and this would be his first chance to put Dodger through his paces, and, far more importantly, his first chance to show his new horse off in front of everyone else at the hunt.
But enough about the drawing room, full of men’s talk. On the other side of the door, in the ladies’ sitting room, I was seated, re-reading The Count of Monte Cristo.
“I do wish you wouldn’t hold with those new, overly-feminine novels,” Mummy said, looking up from her work. She was treasurer of the National Society for Friends of the United States, an organisation full of oddballs which had begun as an effort to thaw relations with the new nation in the eighteenth century but now seemed mostly to exist in order to entertain rich, distinguished Americans when they were over here, visiting. Mummy claimed it was geopolitically vital, as some of these Americans held sway over issues of international if not global importance. I told her I was sick of dull Americans and their fat wives at dinner parties and soirées, which doubtless didn’t help with my reputation for being insolent. In any case, Mummy was poring over the latest Friend’s Bulletin, the tedious monthly magazine of the society which even she couldn’t read without yawning, and comparing it favourably with Alexandre Dumas.
I looked at the cover of Monte Cristo. “I think you’ve confused which book I’m reading, Mummy.”
“Well, I don’t mean that one specifically, I mean generally,” she said, adopting the haughty tone she usually used when she thought I was being unmanageable.
“Mummy, you plainly don’t know anything about this book.”
“Look, Kitty, darling, all I’m saying is, while we’ve got your Aunt Peony staying, you ought to involve yourself in something more improving than some awful novel you found in your father’s library.”
I rolled my eyes, another gesture that tended to lead to suggestions of insolence. “Did you have something specific in mind?” I asked, setting my book down and setting my teeth as well. Aunt Peony was half-American, had been widowed in the Great War and would think Monte Cristo excellent if she ever had the chance to sit down and read it.
“Well, what about helping me plan this wretched April Fools ‘joke for tomorrow? I’ve spoken to Mrs Inbrock and she didn’t seem completely sold on the idea. We still have time to change the arrangements…”
Mummy was fishing to cancel it. Fooling Priory had a tradition, going back generations, of living up to its name and throwing a Fools’ Festival on the first of April. In the olden days this had meant laying on entertainment for the peasantry at the Duke’s expense, but in recent years Daddy and Bertie had altered it and begun playing tricks on the rest of the family, generally for the amusement of the domestic staff. Last year, for instance, Bertie had set a rat loose in the ladies’ bedchambers. Obviously we were horrified and our screams seemed to please the staff no end, while Daddy demanded we women were ‘soft’ and needed to ‘sort something out ourselves for a change’. We’d gone as far as calling in a local rat-catcher and his terrier before Bertie admitted it was a mechanical toy he’d bought when he was last up in London. Daddy thought this was hilarious, of course, and he, Bertie, the rat-catcher and doubtless the terrier had laughed themselves hoarse over drinks well into the night, while the ladies were left with red faces.
“Why don’t we call Mrs Inbrock and see what she says?” I suggested, sweetly, reaching for the cord-pull that would summon a maid.
“I don’t like to bother her after dinner,” Mummy said, primly. “She’s presumably quite busy with the washing-up.”
I scoffed. “They’re domestic servants, Mummy, they can manage the washing-up.” I rang the bell and sat back, smugly.
“Well, this was your idea and on your head be it,” Mummy said, the haughty tone returning.
“You’ll enjoy it, really,” I hissed at her, half-joking, half-annoyed.
“You called, Ma’am?” asked Gertie, a wizened old housemaid whom I did not like, but who Mummy insisted was the only one who knew how to dust the dining room tapestries properly.
“Fetch Mrs Inbrock please, Gertie,” I said before Mummy could interfere.
Mrs Inbrock was plump, middle-aged and, if anyone was laughing, it would usually be her. She loved the April Fools’ jokes and I knew she’d back me up. Her apple cheeks and grey curls were at the door in a flash.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Sorry to interrupt your washing up, Mrs Inbrock,” I said, tartly, and Mummy scowled.
“Oh, I get the girls to wash up, and if it’s not finished by now I’ll be raising hell with ’em when I get back, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
“We were thinking about arrangements for tomorrow,” Mummy said, bossily taking over.
“Well now hold on a minute, I don’t want to be left out,” Aunt Peony declared as she bustled in from behind Mrs Inbrock, skirts swishing.
Mummy backed down, defeated. With Aunt Peony on my side, I’d win for sure.
With the big hunt due, Daddy and Bertie had decided not to play a trick this year, or, as I kept reminding everyone, they’d told us they wouldn’t so we’d let our guard down. In any case, now that I was twenty and therefore legally a full member of the household, I had made a suggestion for how to get one back against them. It was simple but had a lot of potential: Mummy, Aunt Peony and I would all dress up and replace members of the household staff, explaining our absence by telling the men that we were urgently needed all day somewhere else in the county. If we were able to do our tasks well, then it would be amusing to see their faces when they realised who was responsible. If we did them badly, it would be even more amusing as they’d be furious with nobody to be angry at.
“It’s genius,” Aunt Peony announced. “Personally, I have always wanted to be the Duke’s chauffeur.”
“Don’t be silly, Peony, that’s a man’s job,” Mummy said.
“Nonsense, Willow. I can drive perfectly well and putting on a hat and coat is hardly difficult.”
“You’ll have to take my place, ma’am. It wouldn’t be right for any but the lady of the house to be overseeing things,” Mrs Inbrock added, talking to Mummy. “I’ll help, of course.”
“And I shall be a lowly housemaid,” I declared, in a fit of egalitarianism. “It will be tough but I am sure I am up to it.”
No sooner were things finalised and Mrs Inbrock dismissed than the door to the drawing room banged open and Bertie appeared in a haze of blue smoke, looking thoroughly annoyed.
“Father’s gone to bed: wants a decent night’s sleep before the hunt,” he said, throwing himself down into an armchair, a half full whisky glass in his hand.
“I’d advise the same for you,” Mummy said, eyeing the glass.
“Rot. I could drink ten of these and be on top form tomorrow,” Bertie said, sulkily, his conversation partner for the night gone to bed well before their usual hour.
“I’ll join you,” I said, partly to spite Mummy.
“Cheers, then,” Bertie said, looking pleasantly surprised. “I’ll ring for the butler. Gin okay?”
“Gin is hardly a fitting drink-”
“Oh do shut up, Mummy. A glass of gin isn’t going to put me on the path of ruin,” I scolded her. Bertie guffawed, but Mummy was offended and gathered her work things.
“I will see you both at breakfast,” she said, knowing she’d have Daddy on her side then.
“I’ll come up too, Willow. Let the young people have their drinks in peace,” Aunt Peony said, and after a the goings of the ladies and the comings of my drink (Bertie told the butler to leave the decanter), we were finally in peace, listening to the loud tick of the clock on the mantel; the crackle of the fire and a fine rain falling on the windows.
“Won’t rain tonight make it heavy going tomorrow?” I asked, adding soda to my gin.
“Dodger excels if the going is heavy, so it’s in my favour,” Bertie said, sitting back in his chair. As much as he could be a colossal arse at times, he was every inch the dashing British aristocrat he’d been born to be. Tall, blond, charming and funny, looked damned good in a fashionably cut suit, but he was also curiously keen on being hands-on. He trained his own horses; fixed his own car; loved playing with the hounds; and even did minor bits of repair work around the Priory. He especially loved plumbing, for some reason, and had two pairs of horribly working-class overalls he’d had made in town. This little eccentricity put him well in with his fellow gentlemen and he was eternally popular at social events. And, thanks to the family fortune he’d inherit on Daddy’s death, he was wealthy too.
“How’s the engagement?” I asked, changing topic before Bertie began another lecture on Dodger’s outstanding qualities. Bertie was nominally engaged to an Australian heiress that Daddy knew, the disgustingly rich daughter of an agricultural magnate, but they’d only met once.
“Susie’s fine, I keep meaning to write to her,” Bertie said lazily, looking at the firelight through his whisky. “She’s got the whole of Australia fighting over her: she’s quite the arbiter of new world fashion, I hear. A dinner party is wasted unless she’s there. So she’s quite happy where she is and I’m happy having Mother off my back.”
I smiled into my drink. “Wouldn’t you rather be together?”
Bertie laughed, his genuine laugh he kept for people he really respected and liked. It flattered me whenever I heard it.
“Look at Mother and Father. They’re lucky if they spend an hour together, except at mealtimes, and they barely speak. Having Susie over here or me over there would only make us both less happy. You know how these arranged marriages are. I’m twenty-three, let me live a little before settling down.”
“But I thought you liked her?”
“Oh, Kitty, do stop going on about it. You’ll no doubt be a bridesmaid at the wedding and Susie like a sister to you, and so on and so forth, in due course. She’s stunningly pretty, you know, these Australian girls are. Must be all the sunshine, not like these drab British girls who grow up in the dull climate.”
I was reminded why Bertie was an arse.
“You’ll have your own engagement soon enough anyway. I heard Father talking to Lord Richmond: his wife’s been dead over a year, now, and he’s only thirty. The nanny can look after the baby and you’d get to enjoy his money.” Bertie grinned unkindly. “Richmond’s a filthy gambler, though, you’ll forever be dragging him away from card tables after he’s lost his shirt.”
I pouted. “Daddy can’t make me marry him,” I pointed out. “He’s ghastly.”
“Well, if you’re very good to me, I’ll put in a good word for Arthur Drythe. He’s in line for his cousin’s money, that big estate up near Perth. If you can tolerate a draughty Scottish castle, that is.”
I’d met Arthur at a gala event a year ago and he was fabulous. Fun, handsome, a great dancer. He was definitely a catch, probably the most eligible bachelor at the moment, as Bertie was off the market.
“I wouldn’t mind Drythe, especially compared to Richmond,” I said, trying to be subtle.
Bertie saw right through me and laughed again, almost spilling what was left of his drink.
“I should think so!” he gasped, before draining his glass. “Drythe is twice the man Richmond is. He’ll be my brother-in-law too, so I should get some say in the matter.”
“I didn’t get any say when you and Susie got engaged, but she’s my future sister-in-law,” I pointed out, adding more gin to my glass.
“This is why people think you’re insolent,” Bertie said, putting down his glass with a flourish. “I’m trying to help you, you know. Anyway, I’m off to bed. Think I’ll give breakfast a miss, though, doesn’t do to ride on a full stomach.”
He patted my knee and got up to stretch, then strolled off towards the stairs without a second look. I couldn’t believe how some people seemed to be able to behave however they wanted with absolutely no consequence: how did Susie feel about being abandoned half a world away with no firm word on a wedding date? But nobody asked that question. Bertie just did as he pleased, as usual. Even now, he’d walked off when I had just poured myself another drink instead of being sociable, making it clear he couldn’t be bothered talking to me.
I ignored him. I was an adult: if I wanted to drink this entire glass of gin and soda on my own, contemplatively, watching the fire die out, I would. He didn’t make the rules.
I regretted the gin immediately when my bedroom door opened at five o’clock the next morning.
“Excuse me, Kitty, ma’am, but Mrs Inbrock said you were to be wakened this early,” a girl’s voice said, obviously unsure.
“Who is it?” I asked, my mouth as dry as paper. I wished the topic of April Fools’ had never even been spoken of.
“It’s Elizabeth, ma’am, the housemaid.”
“Lizzie?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Lizzie was nineteen or twenty, unmarried and as bright as a button. She was practically the ideal housemaid: hard-working and polite, but apparently determined not to marry the first man who came along and become a housewife. She had very dark hair which seemed to endlessly escape her cap and white teeth which shone no matter the day. And, most enticingly, she had a reputation for being a wild spirit when she wasn’t trapped by her duties at the Priory.
“Oh, alright, I’m awake,” I conceded, reaching for the glass on my bedside and pouring a drink of water to remedy my mouth.
“I’ve brought one of my spare uniforms to dress you in, ma’am, Mrs Inbrock thought we were a similar enough size.”
I eyed Lizzie. She had an hourglass figure with a bust that threatened the integrity of her dress. I wondered if she was still growing in that department. Whereas I was slim in the English style, much more fashionable, but with a tendency for dresses to hang off me like tunics. Lizzie seemed to recognise what I was thinking.
“We’ll, ahem, build your bust up a little,” she suggested. “It’ll help with the disguise, too.”
“Good idea. I hadn’t really thought about needing to disguise myself, I thought I’d be lurking in the kitchen all day,” I said.
Lizzie smiled, and, like Bertie in a way, I could see it was a genuine, free-spirited smile. Not the smile that domestic servants loved to give their masters, obsequious and false.
“I’ll try to keep you out of sight as much as I can but it can’t be all day. Anyway, with a bit of face paint and a cap you’ll look different enough,” she told me.
“Do your worst,” I declared, returning her smile.
I knew housemaids were worked hard, of course, but the early start combined with racing around lighting all of the fires had me tired even before breakfast. I ate a roll with some cheese standing up in the servants’ quarters, while Lizzie desperately gave me instructions for airing the linen between bites. I didn’t even see Daddy or Bertie as they went out to the hunt, as they’d been told the ladies had gone out and weren’t expected back until the evening, and so didn’t hang around to say goodbye. I think it suited them, really, although I exchanged a wink with Aunt Peony as she stood by the door of the car to drive Daddy down. Bertie would ride, of course.
Mummy was having a great time acting as housekeeper, of course, gossiping endlessly with Mrs Inbrock and marvelling at how well everything worked below stairs. I’m not sure I saw her actually doing any work, even though Lizzie and I spent hours with our hands in washbasins. In fact, I think the day would have been quite unbearable but for being paired with Lizzie the whole time. She seemed inexhaustibly cheerful; was always ready to give me a hand where I needed it; and in fact, we seemed to get on quite well as friends. Certainly she was more honest and fun than most of the girls I called friends, society ladies now who only wanted to talk dresses or husbands. Lizzie’s two main interests seemed to lie in making harmless mischief, which she did at all available opportunities, or if that diversion wasn’t available, then she enjoyed collecting scandalous gossip. When we had thirty minutes’ break, sitting and eating apples on the back of the grocer’s cart, Lizzie paid for them by passing on a tale of a gentleman from a big house in a neighbouring town whose wife had left him when he’d been caught with a lady of easy virtue in London. I knew the man in question and the story had a ring of authenticity which shocked me.
“If I don’t pick up something juicy while I’m ‘ere, the wife goes crazy at me,” the grocer said to me after Lizzie relayed the ‘menu’ on offer at that particular London brothel.
“Always happy to oblige, Mr Wilson,” Lizzie said, nudging me and we both giggled.
Daddy was back first, in time for a late dinner. The domestic staff could easily put together dinner for the family and twenty guests, so a solo meal of cold chicken and vegetables was well within the talents of the cook alone. There wasn’t a huge amount for us to do in the evening, consequently, and although usually Mrs Inbrock would have had Lizzie on a task of some kind of other, she saw us laughing together and said we could have the evening off, as a special, April Fools’ Day treat, so long as Lizzie was back in time to turn the house down for the night.
“Well, then,” Lizzie said, pleased with her unexpected luck. “What would you say we walk into the village and have a drink at the Eagle?”
The Golden Eagle was not a pub that young ladies from the big house set foot in and I told her so, but she just waved away my concerns.
“Nonsense, just don’t wear one of your prettiest dresses, the seats aren’t the cleanest,” Lizzie told me, putting her arm around mine. “I’ll make sure you get a warm welcome.”
I had never thought I’d be walking through the dark countryside with Lizzie on my way to the Eagle, but there we are. I’d picked my least nice-looking clothes: an old muslin dress that was, in truth, slightly too small for me, and Lizzie had changed into a cotton frock which was simplicity itself, but it was very low cut.
“It’s neoclassical,” she said, when I questioned whether it was a wise choice for an unmarried woman. “Influenced by French fashions at the turn of the nineteenth century.”
I looked at her, agog.
“I can read books too, you know,” she giggled.
After the big hunt the Eagle was quite full, and we immediately saw past the crowd of men drinking in groups around tables to the bar, where Bertie was leaning, in full hunting gear still, spattered with mud. He was holding forth, tankard in hand, when he spotted us.
“Well bless my soul if it isn’t my dearest sister,” he bellowed, beckoning us over. “Now Mother really would explode if she saw you here.”
I had worried about being unescorted but with Bertie here, and the atmosphere jovial, I felt much more at ease.
“I’ll just get our drinks,” Lizzie said, her eyes flashing towards Bertie, but he shook his head.
“No, my dear, allow me. Barman, two gins and sodas and keep them coming. The ladies are letting their hair down tonight!”
“I don’t want too much-” I protested, but Lizzie caught my arm again and pulled me towards an unoccupied table.
“Don’t worry about it, I’ve got to be back before too long anyway. Enjoy yourself, Kitty,” she said, and when I looked back at Bertie who was bringing the drinks over, he had definitely also noticed the cut of Lizzie’s dress. The way he selected the seat next to her was a little over-familiar and once again I was reminded that certain people seemed to be allowed to get away with anything they wanted. But on the other hand, Lizzie seemed to be enjoying the attention from Bertie, and she could certainly hold her own in conversation with him.
As the night wore on, things got boozier and Bertie was generous in handing out the gin. I could feel the world spinning slightly when I got up and I stumbled, so Bertie jumped up and steadied me.
“We’d better go,” Lizzie said quickly, taking my other arm. “I don’t want to get into trouble, and I need to be back soon.”
Bertie seemed too drunk to care, but Lizzie didn’t seem at all the worse for her drinks, so we left and I let her guide me back along the village street.
“You know what the worst thing is?” I said, a little too loud, and Lizzie shushed me with a giggle.
“What, Kitty?”
“I planned this whole April Fools’ joke and neither Daddy nor Bertie ever noticed.”
“Well, did you have a good day?”
“I did.” I stumbled again and Lizzie’s grip around my arm tightened.
“Then it wasn’t a complete loss.”
“I just really wanted to see Bertie getting a joke played on him, for a change.”
We walked up the driveway to the servants’ entrance at the back, and the light drizzle which had begun falling wetted our dresses and made us hurry the last hundred yards.
“You know what might work?” Lizzie suggested when we were inside, her dark hair damp and sticking to her face.
“What?” I asked, blinking, wondering if the alcohol was wearing off.
“I still need to turn down Bertie’s room and do his fire before he goes to sleep. Why don’t you do that, dress up as me, and then you’ll give him a shock when he realises who it is?”
I had enough gin inside me to think that this was an excellent idea. The only snag was, we’d changed out of our housemaid’s uniforms.
“You’ll have to wear my dress,” Lizzie said, dragging me into the servants’ quarters so we could go to her room.
“Oh, no,” I replied, thinking of that neckline. “It won’t fit, anyway.”
“Forget won’t fit, you only need it to fool him for a few seconds.”
“No, no, it’s damp anyway after the rain, and-”
“If you don’t change now, he’ll be back and it won’t work,” Lizzie said urgently, slipping out of the dress the moment we were in her room. She picked it up and handed it to me and I looked at it, trying to decide. The thought of fooling Bertie was too good to resist, though.
Even though we lived in the same house, I didn’t actually go into Bertie’s bedroom very often. It was somewhat nicer than mine, with a view over the front lawns in the moonlight, but it wasn’t as well-furnished as it could be. He seemed to prefer simplicity. There wasn’t much there beyond a dresser, the four-poster bed and the fireplace. The fire had burnt low but wasn’t out, to my relief, as starting the fire again from nothing while I was wobbly on my feet didn’t sound like an easy task. I just stoked it up, though, and when it was blazing again the door opened, making me jump.
“Ah, good, you’re here,” Bertie said, slurring his words slightly from all the beer. “I was surprised to see you at the Eagle and even more surprised you brought Kitty.”
“Mm,” I squeaked, trying not to ruin the joke, facing away from him. Lizzie’s dress did not look as attractive on me as it did on her, and anyway, feminine dresses like this were out of fashion. I bided my time for the perfect moment to spring the joke, otherwise he would probably just laugh at me.
“And you wearing that dress too; you just wanted to tease me. Well, it worked,” Bertie went on, sitting down heavily on the bed. I heard the sound of his belt being unbuckled with rising panic. “Now get out of that dress, get over here and do exactly what you did last night, you saucy slut.”
This was it. There would probably never be a better moment in my life to humiliate Bertie than right now: having his affair with a mere housemaid found out, lying on his bed, drunk, and by his own sister. I turned around, fire in my eyes as well as in the grate, ready to spring the trap, but Bertie was lying on his back on the bed, hand over his eyes, not even looking at me. However, he’d taken off his trousers and was lying there, naked from the waist down, just a shirt over his chest, and he looked like the very image of the female fantasy. In the low firelight, I could see the soft contours of his muscles, the fine hair covering his arms, the low sheen of sweat on his legs, and the mass of hair around his thick, hard cock.
I know now that, if I hadn’t been drunk myself, I would have screamed, or given him an insolent line which would have given him the shock of his life. But I was actually a little embarrassed to see him in all his glory, and given the way he got away with everything, no matter how outrageous, I actually worried that I would be the one who got punished for this. And, being honest, I had never seen a man’s penis in real life and I was curious. I wasn’t going to get a better chance than this until my wedding night.
I looked away and put the fire screen on the hearth, darkening the room. Then, my heart in my mouth, I strode over to the bed, still half-planning to reveal who I was.
“Come on, Lizzie, don’t tease,” he murmured, still not looking.
This was the moment. But I didn’t reveal myself. Instead, I slipped out of the dress, unlaced my stays, dropped my underwear to the floor and climbed onto him, naked, sitting just below his cock, on his thighs. It was mesmerising, in a way: an unrestricted view of a man’s penis, right before my eyes. Not some kind of virginal fumbling, or a dark wedding night that was over in five minutes. I could wait a lifetime for intimacy like this.
The alcohol gave me a surge of courage. I reached out and touched it.
“Yes, that’s it, Lizzie,” Bertie said, with relief.
“It’s not Lizzie.”
Bertie’s arm flew off his face and he looked at me, somehow even in this situation appearing composed. He was calm in any crisis, even this one.
“Kitty?” he asked, his hands sliding down the bed and onto my thighs, simultaneously giving the impression of being shocked whilst also touching me and showing me he wasn’t necessarily opposed.
“Yes,” I breathed, enjoying my moment of power. The moment of the reveal. The moment when he heard me confirm and he groaned gently, his cock responding, harder than ever. “April Fools’.”
There was a pause for a moment, the only sound being my heavy breathing. I moved my hand over his cock, rubbing gently, feeling a shiver of arousal.
“Well, if we’re going to do this, let’s do it quickly while I’m still drunk,” he said, pouring cold water all over my passion.
“Bertie, you absolute swine,” I said, letting go of him instantly and climbing off, pulling out of his grip.
He just lay there, looking over at me as I stood by the bed, every fibre of my body vibrating with anger. He seemed totally unruffled.
“Come on, Kitty, be reasonable. I’m hardly about to fuck my sister, am I?”
“You weren’t saying no.” My hands had formed fists. He sat himself up slightly and leant on one arm, half-smirking.
“Kitty, think this through for a moment. You’re the daughter of the Duke of Ruthering, your virginity is worth something. What if you got pregnant?”
“We wouldn’t h-have to d-do that,” I stuttered, taken aback by his calm demeanour.
“Come, Kitty, what other sex act do you suggest?” He laughed, that genuine laugh that always seemed to win me over.
“I don’t know… But I’m not as innocent as you seem to think.”
This made him laugh again, tipping his head back, filling the room with the sound. “Don’t worry, I know all about your adventures with the bath tap in your room.”
I blushed instantly, my blood running cold. “How?” I asked in a deadly whisper.
“After I put in the hot water pipes, something was draining the tank occasionally and I worked out it was happening when you bathed. I thought there was a leak, but while I was checking in the floor underneath your bath, what did I hear through the floorboards but ‘oh, oh, oh, yes, yes, mm, mm, oh, oh’?”
Filled with shame, I held up a fist. I thought it was my private secret, discovering that the jet of water from the tap running directly onto my pussy felt fantastic. “You spied on me?”
“No, Kitty, I didn’t spy on you, you were just overheard,” Bertie sighed. “I assume you were thinking about Mr Darcy or something.”
“That’s not the point,” I snapped, but I wasn’t sure what the point was. And I was slowly becoming aware of being naked in front of him, even in the semi-darkness. He didn’t seem to be making any effort to cover up and, to my annoyance, he even reached over to his bedside cabinet for a cigarette and matches. I felt like a naughty child.
“Well, what about Lizzie?” I demanded. “You’re obviously… fucking her.” I spat the word out, probably the first time in my life I’d used it.
Bertie went on lighting the cigarette. “She’s a housemaid, she’s attractive and she was the one who propositioned me. If she tells anyone, she’ll be out of a job and probably destitute, as well as unmarriageable. That’s life for the lower classes.”
“What about a pregnancy?”
“She’s been sterilised,” Bertie said casually. “Some problem she developed in puberty. Don’t ask me, I’m no doctor, but so far she’s never fallen pregnant.”
I was speechless. He’d even explained away an affair with a maid. “And Susie?”
Bertie shrugged. “Susie and I will probably have sex strictly for the purpose of procreation, and as soon as we’ve got a baby boy, I expect she’ll move into her own bedroom. I’m not blind to how these things work.”
“But you don’t know-”
Bertie finally looked angry as he cut me off. “Kitty, you’re twenty, you’ve barely left the nursery. I suggest you start learning the reality of the world and go and get Lizzie for me. I can’t ring at this time.”
“I won’t,” I said, defiantly.
“You’ll go and get her or there’ll be consequences. I’m your brother, don’t forget I’ve got the right to discipline you until you’re married.”
I felt a thrill go through me. He was finally getting really riled with me. Well, he was going to get what he deserved. I didn’t want to see him sitting there, relaxed and calm, for a second longer.
“Then that’s what you’ll have to do,” I told him, managing to keep my voice level. “I’m not going.”
He reached over and lazily stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray, and I thought he was thinking of something devastating to say. Instead, he sprang up from the bed, athletically, his cock erect. I barely had time to react before he’d grabbed my arms, bundling me up against the mantelpiece. He pinned me there, the fire screen hot against the back of my bare legs, his cock pressed hard between us.
“You’re playing with fire, Kitty,” he breathed in my ear as I struggled against his powerful grip. “Want to get burnt?”
“Get off me,” I spat, kicking at his legs, but there wasn’t room to get any momentum and it was harmless. The fire was getting hotter behind me the longer I stayed there and his fingers on my wrists were pinching my skin and hurting me.
“No,” he said simply, sending another thrill through me. It was like playing with a tiger: he was so powerful and I was so powerless. That single word was enough to make me shiver and I realised with rising fear that this was turning me on. I struggled all the more, managing to slide one of my arms out of his grip with a sudden movement, and I lashed out, my fist bouncing off his chest.
“That’s it.” There was an air of finality in his voice that made me try to pull away, to run, but now his arm was around my waist. He picked me up and strode back to the bed, bodily throwing me down onto the mattress, then dropping his weight on top of me, holding me there by my waist while I thrashed my arms and legs.
He smacked my arse, hard. It was a lot harder than I had expected and I cried out in pain. He smacked again and I stopped thrashing, his big hand leaving a stinging sensation behind, hot and spreading. He hit me again and I moaned into the bedclothes.
“Finished misbehaving?” he asked, his hand hovering behind me, arm ready to strike.
“No,” I said, trying to suddenly roll over to get away, but I could barely move. He smacked me again, twice in quick succession, and there were tears in my eyes.
“Be a good girl and stop fighting me,” he said, menacing, this time resting his hand on my stinging arse.
“Make me,” I said, trying to look at him out of the corner of my eye, and he stared back.
“Since nothing else has worked,” he said, quietly, “I’ll try fucking that insolence out of you.”
“Oh, God,” I said, as his hand slid firmly between my thighs, prising them apart.
“Kitty, you dirty girl, you’re wet,” he grinned, and I blushed hotly. Still holding me down on the bed, he shifted himself on top of me, his cock sliding over my arse and then down between my thighs. I tensed, trying to push my thighs together again, and he pulled away, spanking me hard, then I felt the touch of his fingertip against my arsehole. I gasped.
“You’re getting fucked somewhere tonight, and if you keep your thighs closed, it’ll be here instead,” he told me, rubbing my arsehole as he said it.
I relaxed my thighs, unable to even imagine what would happen if I didn’t, and a few seconds later the tip of his cock was pressing up against my wetness. “I’ll go slow,” he whispered, more tenderly.
“Don’t,” I replied, in a final moment of anger.
His fingers gripped my waist and he pushed himself fully inside me. I screamed, once, then heaved huge breaths, my body burning. He pulled back and I moaned, trying to ignore the pain, and then he was fucking me hard, with long, firm strokes, his hips hitting me and forcing me into the bed. I didn’t try to struggle or pull away, just lay there and took it, any thoughts of blood or discomfort my first time being swept away by just how good this felt. His whole weight on top of me pushed his cock deeper inside me each time, and soon I was lost in a haze of pleasure. My whole body was awhirl with feelings, most of them good, and the sharp points of pain only served to enhance the pleasure, like a tiny dot of lemon peel in the sorbet.
“Fuck,” Bertie said, the word sounding like it had been forced out of him. “I can’t go much longer.”
Honestly, I had no idea what came next. My only experience with sex up to this point made the assumption that the husband finished inside the wife, so she could give him children. I lay there, moaning into the bed, my hair all over my face, waiting to find out, burning with anticipation.
He gave a final grunt, and I felt a sudden emptiness as he pulled back and out, my pussy sore but satisfied. I waited for him to touch me again, but then there was hot wetness hitting my back and my arse, spreading gently, splashing. Bertie groaned, and then his cock was touching my arse again, wet and sticky.
“I’ll get Lizzie, she’ll help you clean up,” he said, voice back to normal. The room lightened as he moved the fire screen on his way out but I lay still, my breathing slowing, letting it sink in.
“How was he?” Lizzie asked, running a cloth over my back as I sat in the hot bath in my room, trying to ignore the stinging pain coming from my pussy and arse. The hot water was helping a lot and I didn’t seem to have bled much if at all. Lizzie was in her nightclothes and looked worn out, but still smiling.
“Angry, I think,” I replied.
“No, I mean, how was the sex?”
“Oh. Good, probably.”
Lizzie sighed. “I remember my first time. Donald Tall, behind a hay rick. We seemed to barely have begun before he finished. Bertie is a lot more fun. So long as you enjoyed it, that’s what matters.”
I blushed when I thought about the fact that my brother also had sex with Lizzie.
“I’ll get some balm for you to put on before you go to sleep,” Lizzie carried on, oblivious to my blush. “It’ll help soothe things. Now stand up, I need to rinse you. Semen’s the very devil to get off sometimes.”
After church the next morning, Bertie walked back to the house with me, waiting until we’d got ahead of Mummy and Daddy to talk.
“How are you feeling? Not too rough?” he asked, sounding surprisingly sympathetic.
“Okay, yes, thank you,” I replied, unsure what our relationship was. He laughed gently.
“Something good to think about when you were repenting of your sins, hmm?”
I blushed. “You’re the one who’s sinful,” I hissed back.
“I see that insolence is still there.” He sounded matter-of-fact.
“Well, so what if it is?”
We both recognised this as flirting and exchanged a smile.
“If you’re feeling on top form again, feel free to come for another lesson tonight,” he said, a warm feeling rushing through me, and then he jogged ahead to catch the gardener for a chat.
I couldn’t make up my mind whether I should go. In the end, I went to bed instead. It felt too intense. But lying in the darkness, just the slight glow of my bedroom fire playing on the ceiling, it reminded me of the night before and suddenly I wanted him again. So I got up and slipped down the landing to his room.
“Ah, you’re here,” Bertie said, sounding pleased when I went in. He was lying on the bed, head propped on a pillow, while Lizzie, completely naked, sat on him, moving her hips up and down as they fucked.
“Oh, I didn’t realise-”
“Come in.” Lizzie smiled, her breasts bouncing, breathless. “I don’t mind.”
“Maybe I mind,” I pointed out.
Bertie looked at me. “Kitty, don’t test me.”
I felt a little hurt that before even one night had passed, he was already back in bed with Lizzie. “I’ll go,” I said, turning.
Before I could reach the door handle, Bertie’s hands were on me, grabbing and turning me even as I tried to get out of his arms. He lifted me, my legs kicking, and threw me down on the bed. But this time around, I landed not on the bedclothes but on Lizzie, our breasts colliding and our legs tangling together.
“Hello, Kitty,” she said, softly, looking into my eyes.
I blushed and she giggled.
She breathed the next words to me as Bertie stood between my legs, both of us naked before him, getting his way. Again.
“I can’t wait to watch you fucking your brother.”
THE END