The grand National Trust house I visited recently was, for all its grandeur, built less as a residence than as a venue for house parties. Guests would stay from Saturday to Monday; the entertainment and hospitality would be second to none.
As such, perhaps the most evocative part of the house for me was the wide first-floor corridor, off which could be found the suites used by the most favoured weekend guests. And I was given to picture a dishevelled young woman, walking alone, unsteadily and unkempt, past the gaze of the family portraits late at night.
Mr —- had waited until his young wife was ready for bed on the first night of the party, before taking her hands in his and telling her what was to come. “His Grace the Duke was telling me after dinner that he rather likes you,” he explained.
She blushed, prettily. “I didn’t think he’d even have noticed me.”
“Oh, he most cetainly did. And he’s an important person, you know. Someone whose favours could be very beneficial to us.”
“I know. I do hope we can impress him this weekend.”
“Well, you see, I rather think we can. He asked a favour of me after dinner… And rather depends on you.”
She smiled. “Whatever I can do to help…”
“See, he asked me to send you along to his room. And I said that I would.”
“To his *room*….? But I am in my nightdress.” She paused, puzzled, then suddenly realised. “Oh…. No…”
He kissed her gently on the cheek. “You’re to be a good girl for him. Do whatever he asks….”
She’d look up at him, pleading, but would see that she had no choice. He’d kiss his obedient girl, tell her how much he loved her… and send her on her way.
It’d be an hour or so before she returned, looking tearful and used. She’d fall into his arms, crying as he reminded her that she was a good girl and that he was proud of her.
Crying… because of what he’d done. And because the note she had to hand him, written in her neat handwriting on the Manor’s exquisite paper:
“His Grace wants you to know that he took great pleasure in my company, despite my momentary disobedience.”
“Disobedience?”
“I’m sorry. But he… he wanted…”
“Yes, my sweet?”
“I can’t say it… Please don’t make me…” And then, softly: “He wanted to fuck my arse.”
“And you let him, I hope? After what I’d told you to do?”
A pause. “I didn’t want him to. He… Eventually he made me.”
She’d end up over her husband’s knee: a spanking for having disobeyed him, by disobeying the Duke. A hard spanking, until she cried. To show her she was his girl; to remind her how much she was loved – before he took her to their bed and reclaimed his girl…