Katie to my friends that is; Miss Catherine to the servants.
I’m so busy these days that I don’t have much time to socialise – I have to consolidate the estate – so I hear the words ‘Miss Catherine’ far more frequently than I hear ‘Katie’.
The estate is huge and it’s all mine. The latter fact is a source of some considerable annoyance to Mark and Michael, my respectively big and little brothers.
They had expected the text of Daddy’s will to show that everything would be divided equally amongst the three of us.
They didn’t know about the little jobs I’d been doing for Mr Morley, the family solicitor, in the latter years of Daddy’s life.
I’ve had my hands on Morley’s balls since I was seventeen.
Daddy threw a fancy-dress party at the Hall and the old solicitor turned up dressed as a schoolboy.
I went in my Finishing-School Head Prefect uniform: see-through blouse, stockings, suspenders, high-heels and a tiny mini-skirt.
I didn’t bother with knickers but did wield my beaten- up old hockey stick.
It was obvious that Mr Morley and I were going to be introduced at some stage – the compatibility between our modes of dress was perfectly obvious to the massed ranks of Public-Schoolboys that Daddy called friends.
I had never met him before but when I realised his position – the fact that he had intimate knowledge of Daddy’s legal affairs, I quickly improvised a plan to hook him. Once I had lured him from the party into my bedroom it was easy.
I won’t go into the details just now – the story takes a long time to tell – but from the moment I had him bent over the dressing table with his pants around his ankles, waiting for a slap from my hockey stick, his pecker was – to misquote the politician – in my purse.
It was a simple step from getting hold of the solicitor’s willy to getting hold of Daddy’s will and it only took me a few hours to copy his handwriting and forge another.
My brothers were left with nothing. I got the lot.
Mark and Michael could have contested the will, of course, but neither of them dared.
I had discovered the weakness of their balls many years earlier and they were too fearful for their manhoods to attempt to cross me.
Unfortunately ‘The Lot’ included a substantial number of debts that I hadn’t bargained on.
It seemed that Mummy’s divorce settlement had included the vast majority of the family’s inheritance so, by the time I had paid everything off the estate was almost bankrupt: I had the house, the furnishings and the 70 acres of land, but no ready cash with which to service it all.
The day after Mr Morley had completed his execution of the will I had rather foolishly told him exactly what I thought of him.
Not verbally, you understand: I strapped him to the bed and communicated my contempt through my knees, feet, fists, hockey stick, a tennis racket and a cricket bat via the media of his cock and balls.
Whilst he was unconscious I set up a video camera and filmed myself having simulated sex with him, then woke him up with the threat that any police involvement would lead to a pleasant surprise for his wife.
A few months later I realised the critical state of my finances and decided to put the video to more immediate use – I started to blackmail him. He paid me £10,000 a month for just over a year, then committed suicide when his law firm went bankrupt.
I sent the tape to his wife in the hope that it would cheer her up.
Matters began to get out of hand when staff started to leave. They had some peculiar mediaeval notion that they were entitled to wages for the work they put in. The chambermaids went first, followed by the cook and all the other female servants. Soon the estate was being serviced by just the butler, two kitchen boys, a couple of house-boys and my four gardeners.
The gardeners were the next to go. I remember that It was a hot, sunny summer’s day and I was sun-bathing on the patio, wearing nothing but my favourite pair of chain-mail bikini briefs. Smithers, the head gardener ambled up, cap in hand, and begged an audience. I find the idea of being spoken to by servants tedious, however I was in need of a touch more sun-tan lotion so I agreed to hear him out on condition only that he oiled my breasts whilst he was at it. He performed the task in silence, with shaking hands that I found quite irritating. “Well, boy,” I demanded. “What did you want to speak to me about?”
He stood back and chose to hold his cap in front of his groin. “Sorry, Miss Catherine,” he whispered quite hoarsely. “It’s just that the lads… Well… We were wondering when we would be getting paid. We’ve had nothing for over two months…”
I sucked in my breath, astounded by his insolence, then stood up to tower above him. He cowered backwards but not with sufficient speed to avoid the slap that I landed on his left cheek. I aimed a second slap and he brought his hands up to defend himself; it was then that I saw the bulge in his crotch that he had been trying to hide behind his cap.
My mouth fell open and I just stared at it. My surprise gave Smithers the time he needed to come to his senses and attempt to escape but I quickly caught him up and wrestled him down onto the grass. He resisted and we rolled around on the lawn until I was able to incapacitate him by sitting on his head, the steel links of my bikini briefs trapping his tongue and silencing the gurgling noises that he had recently been emitting. He continued to writhe around beneath but could not prevent me from leaning forward and tearing open his flies.
And there it was – his erect cock. I slipped my hands into his pants and located his balls.
I had always assumed that servants were sexless. Perhaps this was a result of my classical education in which I had learned about the great empires of the past – Rome and Egypt being premiere amongst them – in which servants HAD been sexless. Nobody had ever intimated that things were different in the twentieth century. Many times over the years I had had cause to reprimand waiters and other house- boys for various misdemeanours and had always done so with a slap across the face.
Things would have been much different if I’d known about their balls – I would have controlled them in the same way that I had controlled my two brothers.
The writhing Smithers, who’s face my crotch continued to grind, received the brunt of a lifetime’s frustration: my strong fingers kneaded away at his genitals long into the afternoon, heedless of the fact that he spent most of that time totally unconscious.
I paused to light a cigarette and caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked up and could see the figures of the three undergardeners, spying on me, vainly attempting to hide themselves behind a bush.
“You – Boys!” I called. “Here, now!” They realised that they had been discovered and that there was no further point in attempting to hide. The three of them came out from behind the bush and walked very slowly towards me with their heads bowed so low that I could see the hairs on the backs of their necks.
They lined up in front of me. I retained my sitting position on Smithers’ face so that their crotches would be at eye level – My bare breasts had aroused the ardour of the head gardener and I did not want the sight of them to do the same to these underlings without me noticing. I intended to exact a painful retribution from any mere servant who dared to lose control of himself. “Well,” I said, expectantly. “I understand that you require payment for your services.”
There was no immediate reply so I reached out to the crotch of the nearest male and grasped his manhood through the thin fabric of his baggy trousers. “Answer,” I demanded.
“Oh no, Miss Catherine,” he blurted. “Honestly, it’s all been a misunderstanding. We’re sure that you’ll pay us when you see fit.”
“A misunderstanding,” I repeated, then smiled. “Yes,” I said, “and I have to admit to being responsible for it – I hadn’t realised that payment was necessary for the services that you perform… I shall endeavour to take care of it immediately.” Well, not exactly immediately: Smithers chose that moment to regain consciousness again and the sudden, frenzied movement of his tongue beneath my steel briefs proved rather arousing. I eased slightly up on my haunches to let the creature breath then sat down again with a crunch. By rocking forward slightly I realised that I could bring the wretched man’s wriggling tongue into contact with my clitoris which began to swell up as a result of the stimulation.
“Just wait, all of you,” I ordered the gathered juniors.
“I think I may be close to orgasm.”
I leaned forward a little further to guide the gardener’s tongue into permanent contact with the bud protruding from between my pert petals.
This meant that my breath was forced to caress his manhood.
I didn’t mind until the damned thing started to swell again, and even then I was happily rocking my hips in time to his rasping tongue, but eventually I reached orgasm and collapsed forward, nearly poking my eye out. I cursed and sat up quickly, crunching his face with my briefs, then slapped his organ until it subsided, bouncing up and down with the exertion.
I arose from Smithers’ face, hot and wet. “I’ve climaxed in my panties,” I announced. I shall have to change them before they rust.”
Smithers also climbed to his feet, his face smeared in a mixture of his obnoxious spittle and my delicious juices. He attempted to say something but he seemed to have acquired a lisp – he began holding his tongue, literally. I couldn’t be bothered waiting for him to pull himself together so I gave him a good kick in the balls, watched him fall to the ground, then stamped down between his legs.
I turned to the young undergardeners who looked communally queasy. “I want you all to wait here,” I intimated, pleasantly. “I shall return presently with your wages…” and I turned and walked towards the mansion.
The arrangements for the pay-off took me twenty minutes to prepare. I returned to the garden dressed in black leather, armed with a riding crop, some handcuffs and restraints, and wearing a pair of stilettos so high that I had to duck as I passed out through the patio doors. “Right, boys,” I said, evenly.
“Who wants to be paid first?”
Smithers had regained some semblance of consciousness. He looked at me, understood the glint in my eyes, and yelled: “Run!”
He was the only one to move and his shambolic attempts to ignore the pain between his legs ensured that he would not be getting very far. The others remained rooted to the spot, unable to comprehend the pleasures that I had in store for them.
They began to comprehend soon enough.
I raised my crop and slashed it down on the cheek of the nearest man. He yelped and slipped on the grass allowing me to stamp a stiletto into his groin.
The second man began to turn and run but my crop split open his trousers at the back of his knees, sending him tumbling into a heap, suitably positioned for the tip of my toe to find his manhood. The third had a few yards head start on me but my long legs ate up the ground between us: I caught him, frog-marched him back to where the others were laid, and flogged him to the ground.
Smithers was still in sight, hobbling slowly away into the distance, but I decided to let him go.
I knew from my games with Mr Morley, the solicitor, that a man should be allowed time to rest in between bouts of punishment: it gives his nerve endings the chance to recover so that they are resensitised for the next gratification.
One of the men at my feet attempted to rise up from the grass so I gave him a slash with my crop. “Stay down!” I commanded. “I haven’t finished paying you yet.”
I ordered them all to roll over onto their fronts and they obeyed without hesitation, clearly being keen to ingratiate themselves with me by dint of their efficiency.
I attached the riding crop to my belt and detached the handcuffs which were dangling and jangling against my sex.
Kneeling down between the legs of one of the men, I fastened the cuffs onto his wrists behind his back.
I used a piece of cord to tie the second man’s hands in similar fashion, then produced the leather harness for the securing of the third.
The harness was designed to be fitted to a horse but I was able to improvise, locking it tightly between his neck and his wrists, pulling his arms high up his back.
Satisfied that they were a1,1 adequately secured I commanded them to their feet.
I lit a cigarette and surveyed the rank of tethered gardeners.
A final precaution seemed apposite – I had immobilised their hands to prevent resistance but they could still attempt to run away if I turned my back – so I knelt in front of the handcuffed man, unfastened his belt, undid his flies and allowed his trousers to slip down to his ankles.
He was wearing underpants so I slipped my hand into their gusset and dragged them down to his knees.
His cock caught my eye because it was prominently lined with pulsating veins – evidence of frequent use.
“Whose is this,” I demanded, wondering which of the ex-chambermaids had been pleasuring herself with the organ.
He stared down at me, open mouthed, as if unaware of my meaning.
“Who empties it for you,” I explained.
“Well, er, nobody, Miss Catherine.”
“Nobody!” The answer was quite puzzling – clearly the man’s penis was well-used. I suddenly remembered what I used to catch my brothers doing when they were teenagers: ‘wanking’ they called it; masturbation; playing with their little willies.
Keeping a tight grip on the gardener’s penis I rose up to my full height and looked down into his face.
“Tell me,” I said, slowly and seriously, “do you…”
I could hardly bring myself to finish the question… “Masturbate?”
“S-s-sometimes, Miss Catherine,” he confessed.
This time it was the turn of MY mouth to fall open.
The habit of masturbation is quite endearing in a youth but the man before me was in his late twenties, or thirties.
“That’s disgusting at your age,” I gasped.
“Men who do that sort of thing should be castrated!”
I emphasised my contempt by angrily twisting his cock and simultaneously lifting my knee into his testicles.
He sank to his knees with a high-pitched squeal and I moved onto the next man in line…
Eventually I had them all back on their feet with their trousers and undies around their ankles. “Right,” I said.
“You want to be paid for the work you’ve done… Lets have a look at it, shall we?”
I withdrew my riding crop from my belt and lit another cigarette before directing the three gardeners to march on towards the rose garden.
I made allowances for the fact that they could only move slowly, having deliberately hobbled them with their pants, and only gave them light clips with the crop on the short walk.
I finished my cigarette just as we were walking down the steps into the shrubbery, so dropped it onto the concrete and stamped it out with my stiletto heel.
“Who,” I demanded, “is responsible for ensuring that the gardens are kept clean and tidy?”
None of them answered but I could tell from the guilty look on the face of the man who’s hands were tied with cord that it was him.
I pointed to the cigarette butt that I had just extinguished on the step and said: “You don’t do a very good job, do you?”
“But Miss Catherine,” he began.
“You’ve only just…” And I had him by the throat.
“Pick it up,” I enunciated, slowly and menacingly, adding as an afterthought: “With your teeth.”
He knelt down on a lower step and moved his head towards the butt.
Just as his mouth came into contact with the target I gave him a hefty crack across the rump with the crop, making him scream out and bang his head on the step higher up.
He tried (I’ll give him that) for five minutes to get the cigarette-end between his teeth.
My ministrations prevented it: I used the crop on his buttocks, shoulders, neck and cheeks, I stamped on him with my stiletto heels, and I kicked his manhood with my toes until, eventually, he forsook trying and began, instead, to wail for mercy.
I holstered my riding crop, stood at his feet, grasped his ankles in my hands and dragged him backwards down the ten or so steps into the rose garden; his genitals scraping against the hard, rough concrete with its sharp edges, all the way to the bottom.
I rolled him over onto his back and said: “You’re incompetent, boy. I employ you to keep the gardens neat and tidy but you can’t even pick up a little cigarette end. You’re sacked.” I used the crop to flick his penis up onto his belly, stared down at his battered scrotum and added, whimsically, “But only just.”
Two men remained to be dealt with.
I looked around the rose garden at the multiplicity of blended colours and had to admit (to myself) that the tenders had done a good job. “Okay,” I demanded.
“Which of you is responsible for the upkeep here?”
This time the guilty shrug came from the man in the leather harness.
I had rather hoped that the handcuffed masturbator was the culprit, since the payment I had in mind would have been particularly apt for him, but we can’t have everything we want, can we?
I ordered the latter to lay down on the ground whilst the former gave me a guided tour around the various bushes.
I decided that the tour would be more amusing if the guide were to have an erection so I commanded him to produce one: “Come on, boy, I want that cock up in the air.”
I gave the flaccid thing a couple of encouraging prods with the tip of my crop but it seemed determined to remain lifeless.
“What’s the matter?” I demanded.
“Can’t you get it up?”
He blushed and mumbled apologetically.
It was clear that the cock was not going to harden of its own accord so I determined to provide it with a little assistance.
Kneeling down in front of him, I took the floppy organ momentarily into my mouth and nibbled at it until I had elicited the desired response.
“Right,” I said, standing up.
“What sort of rose is this yellow one?” I indicated the nearest bush and he studied it for a moment.
“A tea rose, Miss Catherine.”
“Good; and what is its Latin name?”
“I – I don’t know, Miss.”
“YOU DON’T KNOW!” I thundered. “What sort of gardener ARE you? You don’t even know the names of the flowers that you’re supposed to be looking after!”
I slashed my crop across his buttocks, causing him to leap forward with a shriek. The shriek was repeated with substantially more energy when he realised that he had just inserted his erect manhood into the midst of the thorny bush.
He attempted to extricate himself but I let loose with a flurry of strokes across his behind, forcing him ever further into the spiky jaws.
My assault did not abate until I was sure that the thorns had made a comfortable nest in his soft flesh.
I stood back, looked, and laughed – escape from the bush would be very difficult for him, particularly with his hands locked in the harness behind his back.
His writhing had shaken the leaves off almost all of the flower-heads, leaving the rose as nothing more than a cluster of shoots and thorny branches.
“You’re supposed to take care of the plants,” I said, irritably, “not destroy’them… You’re fired.”
I attempted to reach between his thighs to grasp his bollocks but the thorns were too concentrated in that area.
Instead I took hold of the harness and dragged him backwards out of the bush.
His howling was getting on my nerves so I silenced him with a stamp of my heel into his groin.
The final victim was still laid on the grass where I had left him.
His colleague’s screams had obviously affected him because his first words
were “Please, Miss Catherine, spare me.”
“Spare you?” I said, amused.
“That all depends on the quality of your work. If I’m happy with the way you’ve carried out your duties then I will not damage you in any way. If I’m not, I shall; it’s as simple as that… Get up.”
When he stood before me, hands cuffed behind his back, pants down around his ankles, I asked: “And what aspect of the garden do you look after – when you’re not too busy masturbating, that is?” I gave his cock a light clip with my crop to remind him that I hadn’t forgotten about his disgusting little habits.
“The vegetable patch, Miss.”
“That’s appropriate,” I laughed. “I’m sure you must feel at home there.”
I forced him to hobble towards the said area, beating his buttocks frequently along the way, whenever he seemed to be slowing down.
I could have nit-picked but there were no serious faults with the vegetable patch. Beside it, however, was a small but where the gardeners kept various implements. “I suppose that’s where you all play with your tools,” I suggested, light-heartedly.
The man blushed and averted his eyes – a reaction that astonished me – my comment had been a joke…
“Are you telling me that you DO play with your tool in there?” I demanded, clipping my crop across the organ in question. His silence was ample confirmation that he did.
I grabbed hold of his cock and stared angrily down into his frightened eyes.
“Let me get this straight,”
I started, slow and cold.
“Not only do you masturbate but you do it in MY shed whilst you are supposed to be working. I’ve been paying you to wank!”
With my riding crop in one hand, his cock in the other, I turned and dragged him towards the hut.
I kicked open the door and pushed him inside, following into the dim, tiny interior.
Apart from the usual gardening tools the shed contained various implements for their maintenance.
A lathe for sharpening them, for instance, and a small vice attached to a workbench to hold them steady.
I dragged my servant to the bench, put his manhood into the vice, and closed the jaws around it until the organ began to change colour.
I pulled the cross-bit clear of the vice, making it impossible to open the jaws, tossed it into a corner, and sat down on the bench for a cigarette.
The man had the temerity to wain me of the dangers of smoking in the little hut, pointing out: “We keep the petrol in here for the lawn mowers, Miss: the fumes…” I cropped him around the head to shut him up.
There were indeed two or three cans of petrol in the shed, stacked up in a corner.
I rested my cigarette on the jaws of the vice, above the man’s trapped organ, and went to investigate.
They seemed perfect for my purposes.
I removed the cap of one of the cans and knocked it over so that its foul-smelling contents spread across the wooden floor which was littered with wood chippings and bits of paper.
The gardener grew hysterical, screaming out: “Miss Catherine, what are you doing?”
On a hook on the wall hung a pair of secateurs which I removed and placed on the bench beside the straining vice.
I picked up what was left of my cigarette, then took the key from my belt and unlocked the man’s handcuffs.
He quickly attempted to free himself from the vice but the missing cross-bit prevented him from doing so.
“No need to panic, boy,” I said lightly.
Then, indicating the secateurs which were easily within his reach, I continued: “You can escape in a moment if you use those.” I went to the door and opened it but, before leaving, turned for a final word with the despicable masturbator: “It’s your choice, boy.”
With that, I tossed the dying cigarette towards the pool of petrol and went to find Smithers.