Tuition Ch. 04.5

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The party starts and a secret is revealed.
13.3k words
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Part 5 of the 11 part series

Updated 10/27/2022
Created 01/25/2011
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Hubee
Hubee
366 Followers

I have been writing this series with a brilliant author - sacrificedangel. We disagreed on some aspects of the plot and the action - especially in Chapter 4. As I wrote a plot surprise occurred to me that seemed perfect at the time. It wasn't really something that either of us was turned on by or would have usually written about - it just became more and more obvious as I wrote.

My co-author didn't like it as much and as a result I agreed to take it out, to change this chapter. Now our writing arrangements have changed somewhat and I want to submit the original version of this chapter to see what people think.

If you are coming to this chapter first then I do suggest you go back and read the first 3 chapters first. They aren't all as long as this one and I believe it will be worth the effort. The story is very much character driven and I think you should get to know Kat and Bastian from the start, before you start this.

I hope to do more writing soon and try to finish the tale soon, although the ending may be different to what was originally envisaged.

Then maybe another chapter of 'Ill Met By Moonlight'?

*

"Damn it!" I hissed out loud "Damn it to hell", shouting now. After six attempts to do up my bowtie frustration got the better of me and I threw the doubly damned thing onto the bed.

I'd been dressing in a 'penguin suit' from even before I got my first bespoke version at the age of fourteen - made for me by Henry Poole's in Saville Row. My father had taught me how to tie the 'thistle knot' and I'd never had any problems with it after the first few times. But now it seemed to be beyond me. This, coming on top of the difficulties I'd suddenly discovered with threading my cuff-links and shirt studs, was disturbing. What was wrong with me?

At that point Barton rapped on my dressing room door and entered with my usual aperitif. Taking in the scene in an instant he put down the tray and fastened the bowtie for me in a trice. I felt no gratitude; it just seemed another sign of weakness that I had to let him do this for me. And with him standing so close to me whilst performing this task I was more than usually conscious of his fetid breath and greasy hair.

And after this afternoon's incident with Miss Soren he was well and truly off my Christmas card list.

He stepped back to admire his handiwork with a small smile, before he caught my expression. He instantly understood from my face that, if looks could actually kill, he should be a blackened lump of dead meat. Dropping his head he departed as quickly as was seemly.

His arrival and abrupt departure served only to worsen my mood. Barton had many fine qualities but when they were weighed against his faults, the scales sometimes came very close to tipping against him -- never more so than right now.

Distracted as I was I couldn't stop my mind wandering back specifically to this afternoon's scene with the new girl; and to the general subject of 'weakness'.

The evening before this had been a topic of discussion, with Adam and Wren, whilst my Delemain cognac had seemed to evaporate from the decanter. The cousins had been ribbing me about my new servant. They had suggested that I was too protective, too interested in her. They laughed and asked if I was "soft" on her. At first the baiting was relatively gentle. Their use of this word had, at least initially, a gentle, childish inference and I laughed off their gibes -- as if I would get soft about, or have "a crush" on, a servant?

But as the cognac consumption rose the word returned in a different, harder guise. Wren started to suggest that I was soft on her; in the sense of not disciplining her as I should. I didn't see this suggestion as at all humorous. For a man of my inclinations and standing this was dangerous talk. Wren knew it too. Amongst us this was nearly the equivalent of asking a stranger in a pub, "did you spill my pint?" Despite the smile on his lips and the bantering tone of voice I could see the cruelness in his eyes and the desire to hurt.

I can forgive my cousins many things, but this nearly went too far. Keeping my emotions under tight rein I told them I was going to bed -- and suggested they do the same. But when I did retire I found sleep elusive.

Now, as I poured a glass of the champagne that Barton had left, I faced myself and answered my own questions. I realised that the reason my cousins had found it so easy to goad me about being "soft" was, that I feared they were right. I feared the weakness that this revealed if it were true. The tension this dilemma had generated was giving me a headache from grinding my teeth. I suddenly realized that it was also the source of the slight tremor in my hands that had made getting dressed so frustrating.

Now that I was being honest with myself I realized it explained something else. I better understood my anger with Barton. I knew that his story about the girl attacking him was patently absurd. But once he had made the accusation I had felt that I had to act. I had to maintain the discipline of the hierarchy within my household.

But now I wondered if I had over-reacted in order to prove that I wasn't "soft" on Kat. I knew the news of her punishment would spread to my cousins and I hoped it would remove any excuse for more "jokes".

Then a smile crossed my lips and my spirits lifted. Recalling the punishment of the girl inevitably lead me to think about her response to it. The way she had reacted to my lashes, and not to Barton's, had been exquisite. She had borne her unfair punishment like some mediaeval "trial by ordeal" -- and been proven innocent.

I hadn't intended to fuck her, just punish her. But I had been carried away by the eroticism of a true submissive, revealed by torment; blazing like metal tempered in a forge of pain

I took an H. Uppmann cigar from the humidor and stepped onto the balcony with my glass. I carefully went through the familiar, calming ritual, clipping the end and lighting it with a cedar match. I savoured the distinctive 'leather' taste of the smoke before sipping the fizz.

Looking out from this place always made me feel good revived my spirits if ever they flagged. This vantage point allowed me to see a fair part of the Shornecliffe grounds. The drive, lined with Scots Pines, snaked and sloped away to the road. But even on the other side of the road, to the horizon, was part of the estate. As always, unbidden, the expression, 'as far as the eye can see' rose in my mind.

My father had often brought me here, to share the view. He didn't say anything much at those times, he didn't need to. I knew what he was feeling and I shared those emotions, then as now. It was in our DNA

No matter how many times I saw this vista it never failed to me invigorate and awe me. My great-grandfather had planted those pines on either side of the drive, knowing that he would never see them grow to maturity; but at the same time knowing that one of his ancestors would appreciate the pains he had taken. It was that certitude, that foresight, the arrogance in believing we would still be here that left me most impressed. We, my family, knew the importance of having our roots deep in the landscape. And we knew the importance of leaving our mark. High on its hill, this house dominated the landscape in every direction. It stated in brick and stone, firmly but without fear of contradiction -- "here we stand and here we stay". Hic Nos Sto Quod Hic Nos Subsisto might be the family motto, but I was sure that the attitude existed and defined my family a long time before the words were coined to do the same

The noise of a car broke my reverie. I could hear an engine over-revving as it climbed the drive and see a cloud of dust rising. The exhaust noise betrayed a powerful sports car, driving too fast. Just the noise was enough to alert me to who was arriving. Seconds later an Aston Martin DB4 GT Zagato fishtailed to a stop in the gravel before the front door and my spirits fell as my suspicions were confirmed. My sister had announced her arrival in her typical under-stated way.

I watched Barton scurry to open the door for her and then take her luggage as she entered the house. The Lady Bailey La Motte had arrived -- with capital A -- as she did everywhere. Then my spirits fell further when I saw a slim, young man get out of the passenger seat. Invitations to my parties were never 'plus 1'. Only those specifically invited were welcome. But my sister did not believe that any law, rule, convention or custom applied to her. She believed that she was entitled -- in every sense of the word. And she knew that I would not turn away her guest. She knew I would follow the rules of polite society that she so provocatively flouted.

My sister was three years younger than myself and the darling of the tabloid press. Her two ex-husbands had both been famous in their own right - and that would have been enough to keep her in the papers. But as 'Britain's Top Posh Totty' (© The Sun) she had become a 'brand'. Sister of the 'Reclusive Earl' (© The Daily Mail), she was a fashion icon and trendsetter. What she wore, sold out. Where she ate got booked out. If she did something is was seen as proof that it was 'trendy'. I almost snorted at even thinking the word. She was dangerously close to becoming a national treasure. Sometimes I felt that I was the only person who knew what an unmitigated, irredeemable, world class bitch she was.

I also knew that her arrival would coincide with a renewed argument about money.

She used the old family surname -- La Motte, the one that probably prompted my father's interest in castles. But in her case it had resulted in a normal(ish) first name for her. Everyone called me 'Bastian' pronouncing it with two syllables and assuming it was short for Sebastian. I doubt there were five people in the world who knew it was spelt Bastion and should have three syllables.

I felt my headache pounding even worse and ground out my barely smoked cigar to go back inside, to find some pain killers and to continue getting ready. I had invited my sister out of courtesy, out of duty, hoping she wouldn't come; knowing she would. But she was here and the party would now be a different affair as a result; much more 'interesting'. Then I remembered that the Chinese curse an enemy by hoping that they 'live in interesting times'.

The invitation had stated '7.00 for 7.30' so I was in the ballroom by 6.45. I wanted to check all the arrangements and I knew that many guests would be early, eager to sample Shorncliffe's justly famed hospitality. I was also worried that uninvited guests might try to join us.

Just recently the papers had become a real nuisance. They were rabidly and, to my mind, irrationally curious about me. My refusal to do any interviews seemed only to infuriate them and did nothing to lessen their interest. The last offer for a photo shoot 'at home with Bastian, Earl of Shroncliffe' had been over a million pounds; I hadn't even bothered to reply. This hadn't stopped them making up stories to fill their empty pages -- and the even emptier heads of their readers. But just recently the stories had contained too many grains of truth. And the paparazzi were apparently getting lucky in guessing where I was going, turning up to photograph me when I least wanted them about. I couldn't help wondering where they were getting their information from.

At the front door I chatted for a while with the beefy head of the security firm I had contracted for the night. We reviewed the arrangements for patrols through the grounds and checks at the door to ensure that only those invited made it through the portal. I reminded him about the prohibition of mobile phones and cameras

I knew the man, and his firm, to be efficient and discreet having used them in the past. But even then only he would be permitted into the house, and only in an emergency. The other guards would remain outside. Portable toilets had been installed to the side of the house and food would be provided for his staff in the summerhouse.

When I started to talk about camera phones for the third time I could see that he was on the verge of rolling his eyes. I felt a flash of anger, but bit down on it. My nervousness about the press was making me garrulous. I half laughed and shook my head.

"Sorry" I said brusquely. "You know your job -- I should let you get on with it." He nodded as I turned away in to the house, making my way to the ballroom.

When I entered the room I saw Barton, Mrs. Hiddleton and Mary deep in conversation. Mary broke away to approach me. She was my hostess for the evening and looked very different out of her dowdy daytime uniform. Her raven dark hair, released from its dowdy daytime bun, was swept back and loosely held in a chignon. Artfully applied make-up complimented her natural advantages, high cheek-bones and a wide generous mouth. Emeralds glittered at her ears and in the shadow of her décolletage -- mirroring her eyes. Obviously braless her breasts swayed enticingly under her silk couture gown.

At that moment I couldn't stop warm memories from crowding into my mind as I watched her. This was the woman who had been my first lover, the one who taught me so much about the joys of sex -- straight and kinky. I realized with a jolt that she had basically been ever present in my life, that at every stage she had been there to give assistance, advice - and pleasure. I felt a little of the tension in me loosen in her presence.

She must have noticed the strange expression on my face because she smiled quizzically when she drew nearer. I pushed those thoughts out of my mind and took her hand to kiss it.

"You look ravishing Mary; ravishable might be more accurate actually." She smiled at my clumsy compliment, looking me straight in the eye.

"You are looking pretty good yourself ....Bastian."

Taking on the role of hostess meant other roles changed. We had never discussed how things changed in these situations; we had just arrived at an arrangement that worked. We became equals, almost, for an evening. No 'Sirs' or 'Masters' when she was hostess Many of the guests tonight were friends of my father's and Mary had known many of them for more than thirty years. 'Known them' in several senses as she would have 'entertained' them over the years in the special Shorncliffe way. But now, in recognition of her unique status, Mary was not expected to accommodate the guests as other maids were. Long tradition dictated that whilst junior girls could refuse no request or order from the guests. (I trusted my friends and acquaintances enough to know that these would not be 'unreasonable'), Mary was free to pick and choose.

I waved away her compliment. "Are you happy with the arrangements?" I asked, suddenly business like.

She glanced around before summarizing. "The outside catering staff are in the kitchen and Mrs Hiddleton is supervising them. Naturally they won't be allowed in this room." she added. "Barton is looking after the bar." She couldn't stop the slight curl of her lip as she continued. "I'll try to make sure he doesn't sample his own wares too much."

I suppressed a smile and asked, "Did he manage all the equipment?" Mary acknowledged his competence in this area.

"Yes, the St Andrews cross is erected and a couple of 'sore horses' are scattered around."

I smiled at the expression she used. The 'sore horses' were another fiendish invention of my father's. They looked a little like a carpenter's 'saw horse' but were padded and equipped with straps and buckles. Once someone was strapped down they would be helpless and exposed - at the mercy of whoever put them there.

"We have to cater for all our guests little foibles." I reminded Mary. "I'm guessing that after a few drinks your friend, the Judge, will be confessing how 'bad' he's been and how much he deserves to be punished."

Mary laughed. "If...when he does I'll strap him to the 'sore horse' and give him the thrashing of his life." Then she frowned, "But if he starts going on about 'potty training' him, then he is going to be disappointed."

Now it was my turn to laugh. "You can relax Mary. I had a polite word with him about that when I invited him." Then I added, "anything else?"

She frowned slightly. "With Miss Soren making such a fetching smorgasbord I think Miss Rousseau is going to be very busy."

I looked away from Mary. "Yes, Miss Soren, I had forgotten about her." I lied. When I glanced back at Mary her mocking smile made me realize how well she knew me.

I coughed and felt as I might even be blushing. "Don't let me keep you from your duties Mary" I suggested lamely. She nodded, still smiling, and turned and headed for the kitchen.

I glanced around and immediately noticed that Mary was right about 'Miss Rousseau'. As I watched she put down her tray of drinks and knelt, with just a hint of reluctance and disgust, before one elderly guest, the fly of his tuxedo trouser were already open. He fed his half-erect cock into her mouth and I watched as she bobbed her head efficiently enough. The old guy stroked her platinum curls gently as she sucked. I knew him to be a gentleman of the old school (as befitted an ex ambassador to France). I was gratified to see from his expression that he was pleased with my servant's efforts.

I saw his thrusting increase in speed and saw Alice pull back slightly, starting to stroke his cock shaft. The man half-heartedly tried to hold her head but her hand did the trick, conjuring a spurt of semen that splashed on her chin before dripping onto her neck and breasts. I could see the slight look of disappointment on my guest's face, which he was too polite to let Alice see when she stood up and collected her tray.

I was not going to be so polite. She caught my eye and her face fell when I beckoned her over.

"Miss Rousseau?" I growled. She nodded; eyes wide. "Your job is to take care of my guests -- very good care of them. You will do whatever they ask and whilst doing it you will look and sound like you are loving it, do I make myself clear?" I waited till she nodded.

"If they want to come in your mouth you will let them and lap it up and say thank you. If they want to fuck your arse you will spread your hole open to make it easy for them. Nothing is to be refused my friends."

As I was speaking the girl was struggling to get a tissue out of the arm of her uniform, obviously with the intention of cleaning the sperm from her chin. She evidently wasn't getting the message.

I leant closer to her and hissed in her ear. "You aren't listening you empty headed slut. You've been told before that cum suits you. You will not clean yourself up."

"Now", I continued with extra menace in my voice, "unless you want to spend the night on the whipping cross, or serving as an extra pissoir in the men's room return to your duties and perform them properly."

I saw the shock in her face and knew she now understood what was required. Without another word I turned away. I knew where I wanted to go next, where I had wanted to go since I came into the room. But I could not allow anyone to think I was too interested. I was especially conscious that Mary might notice and I didn't want any more of her knowing smiles.

At the bar, Barton was dispensing drink - and greasy bonhomie - in almost equal measure. He saw me approaching and had a drink ready when I arrived.

"Your Laphroaig, Sir" he oozed. "The 40 year old for you Sir. I kept it by specially".

I sipped it, ice cubes tinkling and savoured the peat, before nodding my thanks to Barton. With the familiar pleasant burn of the whisky in the back of my throat, and the painkillers kicking in, my headache started to fade. For all his faults Barton had a genius for anticipating my needs. I knew he was an immense irritant to everyone else in the house but he knew which side his bread was buttered on and who paid his wages. He looked down on nearly everyone else in the house and took advantage of them whenever he could. But he looked after me wonderfully. And then there was his skill for staff recruitment.

Hubee
Hubee
366 Followers