Lord Marchington’s Staff.

If truth be told I was dreading my return to Marchington Hall, my brother Charles the Fifth Baron Marchington was barely cold in his grave before I found myself dragged from service overseas to oversee his estate, though in truth it was no longer his but mine.

He left his dear wife Marjorie, as frigid an ice maiden as ever walked England’s hallowed turf, and her mother Deloretha, the perfect model for any artist wishing to depict a witch as ever walked abroad, and with an evil manner to match, and in addition there was a crumbling mansion, dilapidated estates, depleted coffers and by some miracle Charles’ tiny daughter, oh and gambling debts, in the form of mortgages mainly, and yet by leaving no male heir the whole depressing disastrous edifice descended upon my shoulders.

And the responsibility weighed heavily upon my shoulders, I had been abroad in the Army for years and had no clear notion of how one keeps discipline among servants when they may simply walk away and leave one’s employ, one might have the slovenly soldier thrashed for idling but an employee? No I dreaded the whole enterprise more than I dreaded anything even canon fire, for one might see the puff of the canon and seek to dodge the balls.

You see soldiering is my life, the Cavalry, the flash of the blade, the thrill of the charge, thundering forth with the flailing hooves and straining sinews of the horse, snorting and bellowing as he charges the line, sabre against musket ball, sinew against flesh, grape shot against muscle, charging on as ones fellows lie writhing in death, that’s what I gave up for Marchington Hall and the family name.

It was worse far worse than I imagined, the family’s closed carriage which collected me off the mail coach was filthy and ill maintained, the driver spent the journey chattering to his guard who sat beside him whereas he should have been keeping a lookout behind for vagabonds, the horses were filthy, the brasses tarnished, the leather cracked and unkempt, even the seats were full of dirt.

The household were assembled for my inspection at the front porch, Mr Belcher the Butler, aptly named I surmised as a bellyfull of porter produced a loud belch with every sentence, Frobisher the under butler, resplendent in a uniform notable by such cleanliness that one could discern that it was bottle green in hue and not mildew on black like Belcher’s.

The Footman was a mere boy and not even liveried, he might have been a farm hand, Binks, by name though Belcher called him Matthew, and there were chambermaids, Sally, May and Patience, carefully selected for their supreme ugliness I assumed, though the severe cut of their hair and fat corpulent bellies did much to enhance the effect, and Mrs Maguire the housekeeper, straitlaced and upright with a liking for whisky I deduced from her breath when I inspected her as I always inspected my troops, and of course there was Milly the scullery maid and Bessie the under cook not to mention the platoon of idlers who inhabited the stables posing as ostlers and stable hands while playing pranks and idling their days away.

I made a perfunctory inspection only as Lady Marjorie and that old witch of a mother looked on and Belcher introduced each one before I stepped inside the house, “My dear Marjorie,” I said “I am so sorry.”

“Ha glad I should think,” the old witch cackled, “I have my eye on you!”

“Yes,” Marjorie interjected immediately without any pleasantries, “Mama says you should return my dowry.”

“Oh does she?” I enquired, “Interesting, have you arranged Luncheon?”

“We didn’t know when to expect you,” Marjorie trilled as she led me through to the sitting room beside the drawing room.

“I said noon, it is now twenty six minutes after noon,” I explained patiently, “Luncheon time.”

Her mother spoke up. “It’s cook’s fault,” the old witch lied. “We told her.”

“Then have her whipped,” I replied.

“Well we told Bessie to tell cook,” said Marjorie uncertainly, “Or was it Milly?”

“Then have all three whipped,” I suggested.

“John!” the old witch snapped, “This is England, we are not savages, these are our servants and we do not whip our servants!”

“That madam is what is wrong with this household, with this estate, no discipline!” I exclaimed, “Discipline, clean uniforms, clean bayonets, clean shaven smart soldiers, that, madam is how one wins battles!”

“This is not a battle!” Marjorie interjected.

“That is where you are wrong,” I snapped, “There is a war here between masters and servants and the servants are winning and I do believe it is time for us to take a firm stand, now who shall it be?”

“What?” Marjorie asked.

“Whom shall take the whipping?” I asked.

“Imbecile you cannot whip the servants,” the mother snapped.

“Very well, then assemble the staff before the main staircase and I shall address them.” I insisted.

“I shall not,” the mother declared, so I reached for the bell pull and tugged, predictably it broke, but not before a bell clanged Starzbet half heartedly in the servant’s pantry.

“You rang sir?” Belcher enquired.

“I wish to address the household,” I announced, “Please assemble them before the main staircase.”

“But it is staff Lunchtime Mr John,” he said tiresomely.

“I am Lord Marchington now, and don’t you forget it!” I snapped.

“Fall them in and that’s an order,” I snapped.

“Very military Captain!” Marjorie sniggered.

“Major, ah in fact I am a Lieutenant Colonel now I am on the reserve,” I explained.

“Are we supposed to be impressed?” the old witch asked.

“Assemble the staff!” I demanded, “Luncheon be damned!” and I stormed out of the room and lunged up the stairs to what had been my room in father’s time.

It was a wasteland of dust and neglect and did my humour no favour, and I watched from the window for a moment as the household sluggardly wandered into the house once more.

I gave them a few moments before I went to the head of the stairs, they barely noticed me until I bellowed, “Squad, Attention!” That got their attention.

“You are the most slovenly rabble it has been my misfortune to command,” I explained, “And it will not do, will not do,” I continued, “And I shall go away and come back tomorrow when I expect a complete transformation, Dismiss!”

I went down and pushed through the assembled crowd and mounted the carriage, its says much for the staff’s idleness that my luggage was still aboard the carriage and the team of horses still harnessed to it whilst the coachman consumed a huge meat pie and tankard of something brown and probably alcoholic.

To his credit the coachman came rapidly enough when I bellowed “Coachman,” at the top of my lungs, but I was aboard before he could open the door for me, “To Trentham Town and don’t spare the horses,” I ordered.

I dined alone at the Dog and Duck, and lodged at the Crown, eschewing the chance to spend the night with one “Shantell,” she of reddened cheeks and ample bosom and haunches and a bloated swollen belly and in so doing saved myself several shillings and probably a bout of the sailors disease into the bargain.

The morning came, none too soon if I am honest and then after a very acceptable break-fast I strolled uselessly about the town until predictably enough the carriage arrived twenty minutes after the time we agreed, the coachman claiming there to have been a surfeit of slow farm carts along the way.

The predictably dirty carriage clattered along disreputably enough keeping me tolerably dry if not clean and soon enough we arrived at the house.

This time footman and under butler attended upon us as soon as we swept down the drive and halted before the front steps, and between them they set the carriage steps down and collected my bags, this at least was an improvement, but otherwise if there was an improvement in any other area then I failed to detect it, though at least the staff were lined up neatly enough on the steps.

I proceeded to inspect them one by one, Mr Belcher the Butler unwashed, badly shaven,dressed in a filthy shirt under a filthy jacket, Frobisher the under butler, in his shirt sleeves, from portering, his shoes in need of a shine, his threadbare shirt and trousers tolerably clean as was
Matthew Binks the footman a mere boy, the chamber maids, Sally and Patience, had bathed I discerned, but Milly the scullery maid and Bessie the under cook were as dishevelled and sweaty as before as was cook, and worst of all her hands were filthy.

Mrs Maguire the housekeeper, was as straitlaced and upright as ever though slightly drunk with her liking for whisky, and looking on were Marjorie and her mother.

I made a list. “Sack or Lash?” I asked Belcher.

“What do you mean sir?” he asked.

“Whip or dismiss you are a disgrace sir!” I snapped.

“Then I shall take my leave,” he said.

“Then go!” said I “Frobisher, you are butler now, any questions?”

“No sir.” he said and quickly corrected himself, “No my lord.”

“Can you handle a cat?” I asked, he looked puzzled, “A cat of nine tails, a whip man!” I asked.

“I suppose so sir, I never tried,” he said.

“Good man,” I said, an turning I added, “Belcher don’t stand there open mouthed, you’ll catch a moth, be gone man.”

“You need a better suit if you’re to be under butler Binks,” I informed the younger man, “And you must use more soap and less scent, I told the chamber maids, who smiled awkwardly.

“Sack or Lash?” I asked the cook.

“You wouldn’t dare!” she scowled insolently.

“You, Bessie, lash or sack?” I repeated before the under cook.

“Keep your trap shut,” Cook snorted.

“Lash or sack?” I asked Milly the scullery maid.

“What have I done to deserve this sir?” she asked.

“What you have not done is to bathe child,” I said.

“But the lads should certainly defile me if I didn’t stink sir!” she said honestly.

“Just two lashes then, gentle ones,” Starzbet Giriş I offered, “This time.”

“On my hand sir?” she asked.

“No on your bare bottom,” I assured her.

“Ohhhh sir!” she tittered.

“That’s a lash then?” I suggested and I moved on to Mrs Maguire, “Lash or sack,” I asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” she snapped.

“Lord Marchington you are unhinged!” Marjorie’s mother snapped.

“I’ll lash you in a moment,” I snapped back.

“And me?” Marjorie asked her icy eyes suddenly aflame.

“You have done nothing to displease me,” I assured her, “Now Mrs Maguire, lash or sack?”

“I have done nothing wrong, and I have nowhere to go,” she said.

“Good lash it is, excellent, see Belcher off the premises Frobisher and I’ll see you all in the courtyard by the kitchen after lunch,” I said breezily and made my way to my old room.
It was still unprepared, “Mrs Maguire!” I shouted.

“Sir,” she replied and hurried upstairs, “Madam said the guest room sir.”

“Really, your lashes madam, would you prefer twenty here in private or ten in the courtyard?” I asked.

“The courtyard, I have seen too many girls ravished after whippings.” she averred.

“Where in gods name was that?” I asked.

“Jamaica,” she said.

“Well have no fear,” I insisted, “Pray bend over the bed and raise your skirts.”

“No!” she protested, “I shall not submit!”

“Take a week to secure another position before you decide,” I said as kindly as I could suspecting the old witch was at the root of the room being unprepared.

Luncheon was tolerable, if greatly more palatable than field rations it hardly equalled the standard of the officers mess at Catesby, and then after luncheon I ordered the house hold to the courtyard.

Now the courtyard was to the east side of the house and was the area between the walled garden and the house with the stables at one end and a wall with just a modest wooden door to the south, access being through the great oaken doors at the north by the stables, and the whole on the whole secluded from prying eyes and one by one the servants assembled as directed by the kitchen.

I had in my minds eye the mounting steps whereby a woman in crinolines might mount her horse side saddle which was in the centre almost of the courtyard, as a whipping stool.

“So cook what is it to be?” I asked her as I selected a horse whip from the selection I had brought from the stables.

“You won’t lash me, of there’s anyone you should it’s her,” she pointed at Marjorie, “And her bitch of a mother, scheming bitches the pair of them.”

“Tell me more?” I suggested.

“Ha that girl ent your niece she’s Frobisher’s!” Cook averred.

“Thrash her hide!” Marjorie’s mother screamed.

“No, you do it,” I exclaimed and strode across to hand the whip to Marjorie’s mother before I returned to cook, grasped a handfull of her filthy hair and ignoring her protests I dragged her to the mounting step over which I bent her before I hauled the back of her skirts high over her head to reveal her soiled filthy once white cotton underwear.

“You lying little bitch,” Marjorie’s mother snarled as she grabbed Cooks voluminous pantaloons and dragged them down her legs revealing a none too clean backside, “Liar!” she said as she raised the whip and slashed it across the fat boated cooks fat bloated backside.

White cloth, pink skin and a tight brown bud of a womanly ass hole were revealed to all as the whip flashed adding red stripes and specks of blood to the scene as the cook wailed for forgiveness and then retribution, “Seven, eight nine,” the old witch counted, “Fifteen,” and she was tiring, her brow sweating as her unaccustomed exertions in her many layers of underthings beneath her black gown.

“Enough!” I cried, “Frobisher, Mr Frobisher five more lashes if you please,” I requested and indicated he should take the whip.

“Swack,” the whip slashed the cooks fat ass ten times harder than the old witch managed and the cook shrieked in alarm, then she screamed and as the whip descended again so she screamed again and again, I counted seven more swats before I called a halt and the cook raised herself up pulled up her pantaloons and ran for the kitchen

“Bessie, your turn,” I called sweetly, “Raise your skirts and lower your pantaloons if you please Bessie.”

“I can’t sir I ain’t wearing any,” Bessie confessed, “I can’t afford none sir.”

“Well, that should make chastisement easier, now bend over,” I ordered and when she did as I asked I slapped her rump just once with the palm of my left hand, “Now go away and take heed.” I said, “Milly?”

Milly too bent over the step and raised her skirts, she too was bare beneath her skirts and her young unplucked virgin womb peeked innocently out below her sweet untouched brown budded ass hole and I felt my sap rising, stretching my member and making him feel constrained, I am quite sure that I blushed.

“Never mind, just bend over the step.” I suggested, and I Starzbet Güncel Giriş guided her forward, “Frobisher?” I asked.

“She’s Matthew’s sweetheart sir, maybe he could chastise her?” he said insolently, but sensitively I deduced.

“Binks, ten of the best lad,” I ordered and invited him to step forward, he stared.

“Never seen a girl bared?” I asked.

“No sir, not Milly!” he agreed and he reached out and caressed her buttocks.

“Slap them lad, show her who’s in charge!” I ordered and so he slapped her rump, “Enough, she just needs a simple lesson.” I ordered as my discomfort became intense, “Let her up!” I ordered and I went to seek the cook who now lay face down on her kitchen floor sobbing.

“What did you mean about Lady Marjorie?” I asked.

“Everybody knows, her and Frobisher used his stuff and my turkey baster to get that kid, your brother wasn’t nothing but a sod!”

“I suspected as much,” I said, “So she cuckolded him?”

“Stopped him topping his self,” she said, “If that’s what cucking hold is.”

“No,” I sighed, “But why?”

“Because he was diseased,” Lady Marjorie stood in the doorway, “I was still intact do you see,” she said, “Though I am no longer.”

“Then it is true what Cook says,” I exclaimed and when she nodded I added, “My god, my god you are evil!”

“John?” she said alarmed.

“A whore, a filthy whore,” I exclaimed and my member was agonised at the thought of a whore, I wanted Milly’s soft succulent ass hole around my swollen member but all there was was cook, and Marjorie, the unfaithful cuckold, a whore.

“No John,” Marjorie pleaded as she looked into my eyes.

“You’re just a filthy whore, well you can earn your board and lodging on your back!” I cried.

“John in law I am your sister!” she wailed, she was animated now, her breast heaved like a whore’s breast, her lips seemed inviting, her eyes now smoldered where before there was ice.

“I’ll teach you to cuckold Charlie!” I snapped and I reached for her throat, she dodged but I had my fingers among the buttons upon her tightly buttoned collar and ripped it away tearing the white cotton away down in a vee between her tightly bound breasts, it was a moment for me to rip the fabric down off her shoulders and on down to her waist, the kitchen knives were drying on the draining board so I took a huge one and plunged it down beside her breast bone.

She thought it was for her breast but no, I merely cut the bindings around her breasts, and pulled away the torn bindings and then as her back was bared I cut the lacings of her corset and then I cut down between her buttocks and the fabric fell away to leave her naked but for her boots.

“I’ll teach you to use my brother so ill!” I snapped and to a gasp from all assembled I dragged her to the courtyard, “Look, we have a new scullery maid, and new whore and an old lying bitch,” I snapped.

“John are your quite mad?” her mother queried, but she was afraid now that I had a knife and she shrank back in fear but I was past caring as I threw Marjorie to the ground and thrusting the knife in the waistband of my trousers I took the whip from Binks which I lashed across Marjorie’s back drawing blood.

“No!” she wailed rolling on her back as if she thought such would protect her but I hit her mounds in stead, mounds as she tried to cover them with her hands and the teats on her mounds which reared up as if roused, she rolled again and I slashed her back with the whip leaving livid red streaks on her pale pink flesh.

“Marjorie save your face!” her mother cried suddenly and as Marjorie left her mounds uncovered to peek through fingers saving her face so I whipped her between her legs.

“Nooooo!” she wailed, “I cannot bear it!” and she rolled in the mud again.

“Bitch!” I cried, “Set her to work!” and I went inside.

“Lord Marchington, I shall have you shot!” Marjorie’s mother informed me as she followed me inside, “I shall have the Constable,” she said before I silenced her with a slap to her weasly narrow face.

“How,” I demanded, “Why? Why did he die by his own hand?”

“They blackmailed him, as he was a sodomite,” the old crone said quietly, “Marjorie knew she had the life of a nun for a future, she has no liking for the flesh, none at all,” the mother said, “So don’t judge her, restore her to her station and we will say no more about it.”

“You planned it didn’t you,” I demanded, “You witch, you sought to keep poor Charlie alive long enough to get a boy grandchild and you were set up for life!”

“Marjorie had a substantial dowry,” the old witch explained, “Charles pursued her!”

“You did more like, now admit it!” I insisted.

She shook her head, “You don’t scare me John, you’re just a boy!” she said sarcastically.

“No?” I queried drawing the knife, “You miserable dried up barren old witch, you made your daughter a whore!”

“No!” she declaimed but I was enraged and she saw it and she ran, ran for her life ran faster than for twenty and more years and by the greatest of misfortune she ran upstairs and ran to her bedchamber.

I followed barely a pace behind and when she threw herself despairingly upon the bed, I took the knife and cut her clothing down her back from neck to hem and peeled it apart to reveal her body ready for whipping.