Story from Roue 14.
The garden is large, sunlit, drowsily abuzz with the busyness of insects. Some way from the house, itself large and splendid in a slightly neglected way, seated on a settee suspended beneath a striped canopy, a grey-haired man swings himself idly to and fro, pushing with one foot in time with the movement of the settee.
Further down the garden, at some distance from the house, a swimming pool glitters in the sun. A series of splashes make their way along the length of this pool, and after a moment while the surface of the water settles back into a rippled spangle of reflections, a slim, youthful shape plops onto the poolside in a little shower of spray. This nymph pushes her bright hair away from her face and rests back onto her elbows, legs dabbling in the water. The grey-haired man waves casually. The girl waves back, tossing her hair in the sunlight, and plays at kicking splashes across the surface of the pool.
From the direction of the house a man, dressed formally despite the summeryness of the day, walks along a gravel path which runs round the lawn. He walks with an upright posture, head erect. He approaches the man in the swing and stands to one side, his posture one of deference. This man then goes from the swing in the direction of the pool. The girt seems less relaxed as it becomes clear that she is the object of the man's intention. She eases forward and slips back into the bright water, submerging her shoulders while keeping a hold on the pool's edge with one hand.
The man walks to the poolside. He stands above the girl in the water and looks down at the underwater nakedness of her breasts. The girl covers herself with her free hand as best she can.
"Your uncle would like to have a word with you, Miss. I believe a certain document arrived in the post this morning."
"Thank you. I'll – I'll be there in a moment." She remains for the most part submerged, apparently unwilling to come out of the water. The man stoops and picks up the towel lying beside the pool.
"May I help you, Miss?" He holds out a hand.
"No – no thank you." The girl hoists herself up onto the side, tummy wet against the cool stone. She stands up, breasts concealed hardly at all by her hand as she reaches for the towel.
"That's alright Miss – I'll carry it for you."
She is about to speak, but doesn't. With a little shrug of resignation she drops both her hands to her sides. She walks beside the man, across the grass.
"How's the swimming going Miss? Can you manage a length?"
"No." It is all she can do to bring herself to answer him.
"Oh well, never mind. You'll get better I dare say."
The two of them walk together towards the swing, the man lagging a pace behind, eyes on the white wetness of the girl's tie-sided bikini pants. The damp pertness of her buttocks bobs tightly as her hips sway with an under-emphasised seductiveness. She does her best to ignore her companion.
The man seated on the swing smiles up at her.
"Nice in the pool?" he asks enthusiastically.
"Lovely. Thank you." She stands straight, nipples solidly erect from the chilling of the breeze. Her tits hold themselves proudly, firm and yet without weight enough to fold a crease under their out-thrust sauciness. The elderly man looks up at the youthful vitality of his niece's body – particularly at the damp-satin uplift of her breasts. He speaks quietly, as though party to a conspiracy.
"You find it – pleasant, to be free of restrictions, here in the garden?"
"Yes – it's very nice."
"I mean – without your top. You didn't mind my suggesting it –?"
The girl blushes slightly but smiles a little, obliging her uncle as she has learned to do.
"No – not at all, Uncle Timothy."
The man smiles back at her.
"Well now, sit down. We have some news."
From the table he takes a long brown envelope. He removes the contents and unfolds the heavy sheets of paper.
"From the solicitor. My new will." He reads her the relevant passages. "I'll phone your mother – I expect she'll want to know."
"Oh yes – I should think she'd like to know." She wonders how it will feel, to be rich. She and her mother, that is. She has no idea. It occurs to her that Uncle Timothy may not be as unwell as her mother seems to think he is. He may live for years yet.
"You understand the reason for the – er – conditions which I have placed upon this inheritance?"
"Yes – I understand. Mummy has explained the – the reasonableness of your request." She felt almost resigned to it all now. "Yes – I think I understand, Uncle Tim."
Her uncle smiles and begins to chat about the plans he's been working on for the renovation of the house. She nods in the right places and smiles enthusiastically now and then, and finds herself looking over Uncle Timothy's shoulder at the little shed which leans against the wall at the far end of the long garden. She remembers how her mother hushed her up when she'd told her about Uncle Timothy. "Well, naughty little girls do get spanked, Victoria." And the next time. "Well, I suppose it's not unreasonable. Naughty girls do have to take their knickers down you know." Until at last she had begun to accept it. The summer holidays, every year. The shopping expeditions with her uncle. The clothes which he bought for her, always too close-fitting, or too brief, or both; to be worn in the garden on sunny days. To be relinquished, if not with a good grace then at least without too much of a struggle, in the little shed at the end of the garden. The tea-times, sitting up straight until Auntie Clary gave her permission to start and trying not to wriggle on her chair too obviously all the while. Tugging the brief legs of her shorts down as she got up from the table so that her aunt shouldn't catch sight of the spank-reddened soreness of her smarting bottom underneath. Even then she'd understood that Aunt Clary wasn't to know, though it had never been put to her not to tell. Last summer she hadn't told even her mother. It seemed almost unnecessary that she should be told. She knew, and turned a blind eye every time, content that her daughter should be her brother's favourite niece. Aunt Clary had died last year. It had prompted Uncle Timothy to meditate upon his own mortality, and to think about his will. And his favourite niece, coming on for seventeen. It had seemed reasonable, somehow, that she should continue to spend her summers with Uncle Timothy, especially if she was to be his chief beneficiary. The conditions – well, what was wrong with a girl learning a bit about running a house. Especially if it was going to be her house one day. Uncle Timothy had said that she would have to start at the bottom, learning all there was to know and working her way up bit by bit. And she has no doubt that Uncle Timothy will be starting at the bottom too.
She drags herself back to the conversation. She agrees with her uncle. There's no reason why she shouldn't start tonight.
"Fine. I'll get Roberts to lend you a hand. Well now – what will you do for the rest of the afternoon? Back to the pool, eh?"
"Yes. I'm getting on quite well."
She stands up, breasts bobbing.
"Good – that's splendid." Uncle Timothy brushes a hand against her thigh. "You're beginning to get a nice tan." He chuckles. "Almost all over." Victoria smiles dutifully. "Almost –" he says again. "– but not quite, eh?" He pats her half-bared bottom. "It's very private here, you know – I don't suppose Roberts would object, pretty girl like you –."
She can't help flushing again. He helps her untie the lace at her hip. The bikini pants slip down her thighs and plop damply around her ankles. She walks self-consciously back to the pool, the hot sun feeling strange as it kisses her naked bottom.
Her new room is up under the eaves. Tiny, with a single dormer window. It is a maid's room, and in the wardrobe, the door of which now stands open, is a collection of clothes which only Uncle Timothy could have bought. There are at least a dozen pairs of knickers, mostly in cellophane bags, none of them exactly school issue. There are aprons, little ones, with frills, and several caps. There is even, praise be, a little black dress – which Roberts has said she is to wear only on special occasions. 'Special occasions' being, presumably, 'special' only because of their infrequency, the implication is obvious. Most of the time she won't be wearing too much! Like now.
The little knickers are brief, to say the least! A triangle of nylon pulled intimately up under her crutch and stretched over her pubic swell. Stray wisps of hair refuse to be tucked in. There is hardly more to the knickers at the back – three-quarters of her bum is left bare, so high-cut are the pants. She is wearing stockings, and suspenders, which Roberts says are supposed to go under her knickers, not over. "So you can take your knickers right down, Miss, without interfering with your stockings.'
Roberts has put the top loop of an apron over her head and tied the waist cord in a little bow in the small of her back. The upper part of the apron, which is white nylon with little scalloped frills around it, covers rather less than half her chest. The side-swell of her tits pushes inevitably out on either side of the apron. If she breathes too deeply one or other of her nipples peeks out. There is another cord to the apron.
"But I don't see what it's for," says Victoria, bewildered.
"For? Well, I don't know exactly what it's for – but that's where it goes."
"Like this?" It seems stupid.
"Yes – but inside the knickers, Miss."
"It's ridiculous!" says Victoria.
Roberts makes that professional face of his. Hit not to reason why –.
Sulkily Victoria eases the waistband of her little knickers and tucks the cord down into the warm curls. She can't look at the butler as she pushes it through the moist tunnel underneath. She finds the end at the back and pulls it up over the back of her pants and stands there with eighteen inches of cord dangling from one hand.
"Shall I do it for you Miss Victoria?"
She shrugs resignedly. Roberts stands behind her and takes the cord.
"It's supposed to be in the middle, Miss."
"It is in the middle – where else could it be?"
"Are you sure Miss?"
"Of course I'm – oooh!"
Roberts' hand slips down the front of her pants. His fingers adjust matters.
"That middle, Miss." He pulls on the cord from behind. The tension makes Victoria's knees press themselves instinctively together. A nipple pops out of the apron. She splutters in confused embarrassment. The cord slips up between her buttocks and Robert ties it to the waist cord at the back.
"Nearly ready now Miss."
He inspects her from every angle. Gently nudges the insolent nipple back into the apron. He pats her bottom on the bare bits. Victoria protests meekly, unsure of the situation with the butler.
"Oh, shouldn't worry about a bit of slap and tickle, Miss. Butler's perks." Roberts, at least, seems to be acquainted with the protocol around here. He straightens her cap. "We'll be – I mean, you'll be serving dinner in a few minutes Miss." He slaps her pert bottom cheerfully. Victoria teeters to the door on her unaccustomed high heels. She can't help feeling that it's she who's being served up.
Victoria is standing on the upstairs landing. The case-clock is tocking in a well-bred way. After a while a hidden mechanism whirrs and ten trim chimes reverberate around the hallway.
One of Victoria's nipples is peeping out from under the apron again. It pokes cheekily upward, firmly erect. It seems hardly worth tucking it in, since the other one will probably pop out instead. She stands with her feet close together, head inclined slightly downward, hair tumbling loose about her face. There is a run in one of her stockings where it snagged on something. Uncle Timothy's watch strap, most likely. Her knickers are a little lop-sided, and at the back one side of them is still tucked into the crease of her bum. The pants look as if they might have been tugged up and down a few times in the last two hours. The bare bits of Victoria's bum are suffused all over with a hot, glowing crimson which extends nearly halfway down both thighs. The cord which runs up between her buttocks looks as if it might have been tightened an inch or two since before dinner.
From downstairs comes the slamming of a door. Victoria lifts her head, listening. A quick, precise step sounds on the stairs. The girl smooths her little apron with her hands and holds herself straight. Roberts appears at the top of the stairs, puffing slightly. She looks at him apprehensively.
"Oh no!" Her whispered exclamation sounds loud on the landing. Roberts is carrying – a cane!
He comes and stands in front of her, eyes up and down. Victoria's lips part moistly – she is trying to find the right words, trying to plead with him.
"Upstairs, if you please Miss."
"But – Mr. Roberts –."
She goes in front of him, bottom waggling bare inches from his face as she mounts the stairs. He makes her stand at the foot of her bed while he arranges the pillows to go under her tummy. Victoria squeezes her buttocks together as she sees the cane quivering in his hand. Even when he stops arranging the pillows and stands expectantly beside the bed the tip of the cane vibrates so that she can't quite get her eyes to focus on it.
"Over here Miss –."
"Over here. Bottom nice and high."
She spreads herself across the pillows, bum elevated and rosy and feeling dreadfully vulnerable. She feels her silly little knickers slipping down her legs.
"Lift up Miss."
She holds up one foot at a time and Roberts removes her knickers. Victoria's face is pressed against the bed, her eyes wide and fearful.
"Please, Mr. Roberts – please! I've been smacked so much – oh, please –!"
The cane slides up between her slightly parted thighs, cool and menacing.
"Open your legs Miss."
"Oooh –!" She spreads her feet, closes her eyes. "Please, Mr. Roberts – I'll do anything you want – please!"
The cane taps her firmly poised buttocks, sending tiny tremors through the plumpness of her cheeks. It goes away, swishes through the air. Victoria twitches. Robert swishes the cane again – again it doesn't land. The spanked redness of the girl's bottom quivers in dread anticipation.
"Oooo – ooooo –"
"Come along now Miss – big girl like you! A little bit of the stick won't do you any harm!'
"Oh Lord – please don't Mr. Roberts –! You can – can do –"
"Can I, Miss?" says Roberts wheedlingly.
"Yes – oh, yes –!"
She feels the tape which runs up between her buttocks loosen. It slips tinglingly down between her legs as Roberts delves a finger for it under her belly. The roughness of trousers pushes up between her thighs, spreading her legs. His hands slip under her hips and lift her a fraction higher, tilting her to the necessary angle. Victoria grips the bedclothes in frantic fingers. Her mind races, round in circles. In a panic she wonders if she ought to enjoy it. Pretend to come. Even whether she will, in fact, do just that!
She wonders what her mother would say.
"The butler? Come now, Victoria. You have to remember your position dear."
She thinks she'll remember that, alright, by the end of the summer. Bottom up, mummy. Bottom up!