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Lady Chatterly's Master

Proud, educated, professional women who secretly long for humiliation, discipline, or slavery have their fantasies fulfilled.
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imreadonly2
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Lady Chatterly's Master

Post by imreadonly2 »

I decided it would be fun to do a story based on class, and power games, based on the old classic. Nothing too explicit, as it's all about the tease, and the game This is simply a quick one-and-done. Enjoy!

Digging in the spurs and using the crop, Lady Cynthia Chatterley rode up the driveway of her massive estate at full gallop. It was starting to drizzle, and it simply wouldn’t do for her ladyship’s hair to get wet, as it might, even with her tight-fitting equestrian cap on.

Cynthia let the stable boy grab the wheezing stallion as she jumped off her house and trotted toward the house.

“Yer’ Ladyship!” the boy shouted out. “There’s a man waiting to see you. About the gardener position.”

“Not another hedge trimmer!” she said, not bothering to look back. “Send him away, or make him wait, until after my nap.”

Lady Cynthia could feel the 19-year-old stable boy’s eyes on her swaying bottom, which looked exquisite in her skin tight jodhpurs. Not wearing any underwear did have its advantages, and she decided to complete the look by removing her cap and shaking out her shoulder length blonde hair, causing the awe struck stable boy to gasp at the vision in front of him.

Enjoying the attention, Cynthia bent over, to wipe an imaginary fleck off her shiny black boot.

“Nice view, but I’ve already waited. Nearly an hour,” a strong, masculine voice with a thick, working class accent said. “I’m done waitin’. If ya’ don’t need a gardener, ya’ don’t need me.”

Surprised at the loudness and brashness of the voice, Lady Cynthia immediately straightened up and turned to find herself in the enormous, rising shadow of Oliver Mellon. He was very tall, about 35, she guessed, with a broad barrel chest and rippling muscles his rough woolen shirt couldn’t conceal. Unconcerned with the rain, he advanced on her, even as she nervously ducked under the portico.

“Oliver Mellon,” the man said. “We were supposed to talk… an hour ago!”

“Yes, yes, I remember” she said, stopping his advance by holding out her riding crop against his chest, keeping him in the rain. “You were the gardener on Lord Bradford’s estate, as I recall. The one with the… eclectic resume.”

“I don’t rightly know what you mean,” he said, in a voice that made it clear he had no use for words he did not know. “Does yer’ daddy wanna gardener, or not? Because I ayn’t plannin’ on standin’ in the rain all day, waitin’ for some little girl to finish playing horsey.”

“My father died five years ago,” she said.

“Sorry to hear. I’m sure he was a right proper gentleman, judging from the fancy house. May I speak to your husband, then?”

“I have no husband. I am in charge of Jasmine, the governess of all that you see, and I control everything that sets foot on my land.”

Oliver laughed derisively. “No man in charge?” he said derisively. “No wonder the grounds are such a fuckin’ mess.”

“I don’t appreciate that language,” Cynthia huffed.

“Too bad. I talk plain.”

“So do I, and I expect frank talk from those in my employ. However, candor does not require profanity.”

“Fine,” he said, shrugging off the rule. “We’ll talk dainty, if it pleases yer’ ladyship. Let’s go inside, then, and get you sorted out.”

Cynthia hardly needed sorting out, and was tempted to tell him to get off her land. But there was something about his rugged handsomeness that intrigued him. He might be fun to talk to, even if she didn’t hire him.

Boldly walking around her as if she were an unnecessary obstacle, Oliver bounded up the 8 front steps in two gigantic strides. Cynthia wrinkled her nose, displeased at the thought of such a brute in the proper part of the house.

“Your shoes are muddy,” Cynthia observed.

“I was looking around the grounds, when I was waitin’. I don’t like wastin’ time.”

“Excellent, neither do I. But I simply can’t have you in the house, after you’ve been mucking about in the mud. You may go down those stairs and through the door to your left. It will lead us to a mudroom, where I shall decide on what position you may be suitable for.”

Oliver again looked her up and down, in a way that made it clear that he was sizing her up as a woman, not an employer. He said nothing, but turned and bounded down the steps first. The basement door to the downstairs mudroom was not locked, as it was for deliveries, and servants of Oliver’s sort.

Sitting down on the padded bench alone the wall, Cynthia rang one of the servant’s bells. It only took a few seconds for Daphne her upstairs maid, to fly down the steps and do her ladyship’s bidding.

Daphne was wearing her French maid’s costume, which was quite short and brief, particularly on her. Lady Chatterley knew it amused her male guests, and didn’t mind if Daphne had to endure a few pinches and squeezes as result of her regulation attire, but she found herself frowning at the way Oliver grinned at her, and was even less pleased when Daphne eyed the handsome stranger and flashed him a flirty smile.

“I am the lady of the house, Daphne, and I would appreciate it if you focused your attention on me. Now fetch me some tea, and a chair for my guest. A couple of towels, too. He’s dripping on the floor.”

“I don’t need no chair,” Oliver replied. “I could do with a spot of brandy, to get rid of the chill.”

Daphne looked shocked. It was 10AM!

Lady Chatterley smiled at the outrageous of asking for a drink during a job interview. “There will be no drinking, certainly not during an interview. You are off to a poor start, Mr. Mellon. Open the radiator vent, and fetch him a dry shirt. Hurry up, get to it. And bring me clean shoes. I can’t bet trapsing around in riding boots all day.”

“I doubt you got a man in this house with a shirt that could fit me,” Oliver noted. “I got big arms, and a broad chest.”

Lady Chatterley acted unimpressed. “Quite so. Get a shirt from… what’s his name… the big fat one who works in the kitchen?”

“Peggly, Ma’am”, Daphne replied.

“Yes. Now hurry up. Spit spot!” she said, tapping the side of her long leather riding boot for emphasis as the maid scurried from the room. Oliver eyed her ruffled panties peeking out from underneath her short uniform, as Lady Chatterley frowned.

Cynthia was pleased to see Daphne disappear, as it turned the tables nicely and left her at liberty to look Oliver up and down. As the lady of the house, she was seated, and he was standing before her, soaking wet. She smiled, and leaned forward, waiving her riding crop in the air as she enjoyed looking at his body with a bemused smile.

“Yer’ an impudent lass,” he observed. “So do ya’ need a gard’ner, or not?” he asked impatiently.

“I do. The question is, do I need YOU? You laid out all the trails and tended to the woods at Lord Bradford’s estate. Can you do a formal garden?”

“I can, but I won’t,” Oliver said. “Formal gardens are a waste, for fops and sissies who don’t understand the beauty of letting things run wild.”

“As the owner, I would think I have some say in how the grounds are maintained.”

“Ya’ will, if you smarten up and act like ya’ have half a brain. But I don’t take suggestions from fools. Ya’ can hire a pansy to plant your pansies. Ya’ best hire a real man to tend your grounds.”

“You won awards for your work on Lord Bradford’s estate.”

“Those are his Lordship’s awards. I don’t work for no fancy trophies. A man works for honest wages.”

“I was at Lord Watcher’s for a foxhunt last weekend, and he raved about you. He said he wanted to hire you back, but you wanted virgin ground, that you can break in.”

“True ‘nuff,” Oliver said. “The fun is in the tamin’!”

“Which brings me to your other profession. I understand you left Mr. Bradford’s employ two years ago, to become a slave grader at Harrod’s. That’s an unusual change in professions.”

“Not so much,” he said. “Foxes weren’t the only things Lord Watcher hunted.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Oliver hesitated. “It’s not mine to say, Miss. It’s not the sort of things one discusses with a proper lady. ‘Specially one that’s all prissy ‘bout rude language.”

“Carl and I are close friends, and there are no secrets from us. Furthermore, I am your future employer, and I would ask that you pay me the respect I am do wasting my time. So far, you have been quite impertinent, and…”

“I don’t know what that means,” he said, interrupting her. “But it don’t sound good.”

“You’ve been quite rude. However, I am willing to tolerate a lack of manners, giving that I’m hiring you too dig and haul and fertilize, and one can’t expect proper manners from a garden troll. Tell me, what is it that you did at Lord Bradford’s estate, in the language you deem appropriate.”

“I organized the pussy hunts, Miss. He’d release naked slave girls, then hunt them down.”

Oliver fought the urge to laugh as her ladyship went white. “Really?” she said. “I had no idea. Are you certain you’re not mistaken? I mean… you witnessed this?”

“I was in charge of the stables. I got the girls ready. I got ‘em in shape for the run. It was kind of a game. I’d teach ‘em to run through the stream to try and lose the scent, if they could. Taught ‘em how to double back, and where they could move through the trees, or the caves, or jump back and forth over the fences. Basically, anyplace where the horses couldn’t go. Tried to make it a bit of a challenge. Girls go slave stupid when they hear a dozen barking Great Danes runnin’ ‘em to ground.”

Suddenly feeling quite warm, Cynthia removed her black jacket. Oliver licked his lips as she spied her nipples through her tight blouse, but Cynthia was too distracted by the vivid imagery of the slave hunt to notice.

“I see. Well, I imagine that learning to deal with the sort of riffraff that might find herself being chased by braying dogs prepared you well for a career training the slags and scrubbers one might find at a slave mart.”

“Indeed, it might, Miss. Only most of them weren’t working girls. Lord Watcher liked to chase down proper ladies. I actually trained his step sister for a run once, and his fiancé, too.”

“Lady Jennifer and the Baroness Diana?” Lady Chatterley said, appalled. “That’s not possible.”

“Kept ‘em kenneled for two weeks I did, getting’ all hot-to-trot, if ya’ catch my drift. I kept ‘em in the same cage as the female dogs. I nicknamed Lady Jennifer foxtail, because of her red hair, and I called the Baroness Snooty, on account of her high opinion of herself, which she lost quick enough when I got her ladyship on her knees, and taught her how a slave girl pleases a man, if you catch my drift.”

“I do indeed,” Lady Chatterley said, squeezing her thighs together at the thought of Jennifer and Diana in this brutish thug’s kennel.

Carl had showed her the kennels, and the enormous pack of male Great Danes had started barking at her in a crazed frenzy when Cynthia had rounded the corner. She found them quite frightening, actually, much to Carl’s amusement.

“Well, it would appear I don’t know Carl or his family quite as well as I thought. Still, I imagine that must have been wonderful preparation for your career at Harrod’s.”

“It was indeed, Miss. Teachin’ posh girls the meanin’ of their collar. Of course, they had a lot of rules, about what ya’ could and couldn’t do. I didn’t pay it no mind, as the girls had to learn their place, the posh tail most of all. I got no complaint’s from the ladies I trained, only recommendations, but Harrod fired me anyway. Said I wasn’t ‘on brand.” I said the only brand I cared about was the brand I burned into their pampered asses.”

“You BRANDED their bottoms?” Cynthia said. “Temporaries, I presume?”

“Sometimes,” Oliver replied, wiping his nose with his sleeve, as if whether a woman of quality received a temporary or a permanent slave brand was a matter of no great importance to him. “The point is, I don’t like taking orders. I just wanna do my job, Miss, with no interference from nobody who don’t know their’s.”

Lady Chatterley, eager to regain the upper hand, decided to move the conversation to terms of employment. “Very well. I will pay you twice whatever Carl Bradford or Harrod paid you. Show me the paystub of your highest rate of pay and it will be done. In return, you will have free reign to tend the grounds, save the back of house. I will hire someone to do my formal garden, but they will not interfere with you, or you with them. Understood?”

“Seems fair,” he said.

“You will live on the estate, in the servant’s wing. I think you will find your apartment quite comfortable.”

“No. I saw a cabin in the woods. I best live there. I’m a grown man, not a little boy, and I don’t cotton to living in no fancy, frilly, lady’s house. I make my own way.”

“The cottage you speak of is quite run down, and hasn’t been used in 100 years. It doesn’t have a heater, or electricity.”

“It’s gotta toilet and a fireplace. That’ll be enough, after I fix it up. You’ll provide the money I need.”

“Of course,” she said, smiling. “After all, you’ll be improving MY property.”

Daphne returned, rolling in a silver tray with the tea and supplies. With an enormous smile, she grandly presented Oliver his towel and shirt first, much to her ladyship’s displeasure. Oliver took off his wet shirt, revealing his rippling muscles.

“Oh, my!” Daphne said, giggling as she stroked his chest.

Lady Chatterley, unamused by her maid’s antics, swished her crop through the air, causing the whip end to CRACK. “Daphne, you silly fool! Get over hear and take my boots off, NOW!”

Knowing she had angered her Mistress, Daphne knelt on the floor submissively before Lady Chatterley, struggling to get off her tight, shiny, knee high boots. The boots were difficult to get off, and Lady Chatterley held her foot in a way to make it quite impossible.

Much to her displeasure, Lady Chatterley noticed that Oliver’s attention was now fixated on Daphne’s wiggling bottom, which were sagging out of the corners of her tight ruffled panties.

Releasing her foot, she allowed her maid to kick herself in the head with her booted foot. “Clumsy girl! Get these boots off, now!”

“Do you have any Pleasure Sluts on the estate, then?” Oliver asked, eying Daphne’s bottom. “For the servants to use, I mean.”

“I most certainly do not!” Cynthia said, shocked at the idea.

“Fair ‘nuff. Getting tail ayn’t never been a problem fer me,” he said, eying Daphne.

At last, the boots were removed. Cynthia had not worn socks, and was pleased to see Oliver staring at her bare feet. Cynthia put her seat up on the cushion, to keep her delicate pedicure off the dirty, cold floor.

“Ya paints yer’ toenails red,” Oliver noted. “I saw a lot of that, at Harrod’s. Do you shave yerself, too?”

Lady Chatterley blushed at the obvious comparison between her and the lowly Pleasure Sluts this ruffian standing before her used to train. Nonetheless, it was quite an arousing comparison, and she felt a delicious surge of pleasure between her tightly clenched thighs.

“I shave it quite proper, I do” Daphne said. “She leaves a little landing strip, she does, just like the Pleasure Sluts do when they’re put on the block. It’s the fashion, even for proper ladies.”

Losing her temper, Lady Chatterley whipped Daphne square across her bottom with the riding crop. She didn’t make a habit of striking the servants, but the thought of revealing the grooming of her sex to the half-naked slave grader standing before them was beyond outrageous!

Oliver laughed as Daphne rubbed her bottom. He had finished drying himself, and ringing out his shirt, he tossed it to Daphne, who curtsied to him, and hung it up across two hooks on the wall to dry.

“Hurry up with my shoes, girl!” Lady Chatterley shouted, angered by her maid’s ogling and smiling and docile service of the bare-chested brute.

“These are the wrong shoes!” Lady Chatterley, she said, throwing them at her maid. “I’d rather go barefoot than wear the wrong shoes. Fetch my tea, then go stand over there, you will girl, with your nose in the corner. And pull your skirt down. You’re not putting on a show.”

Like a penitent schoolgirl, Daphne served her ladyship’s tea and obediently took her place in the corner.

Once again feeling in control, Lady Chatterley returned her focus to the eye candy standing before her.

“I hope I didn’t offend, Mr. Mellon,” Lady Chatterley said. “Daphne can be most outrageous.”

“I’ve seen worse,” he said. “Nothing wrong with whippin’ a girl’s bottom, when she needs it. And they all do, every now and then.”

“In this house, I hold the whip hand,” Cynthia said.

“I hope you won’t be expectin’ me to stand in no corner,” he said. “Ya’ might be in fer a surprise.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” she allowed, frowning at the implication. “However, I will need you to fill in for Giles, my chauffer, when he has the day off, and I need someone to drive me to town. I assume you can drive a stretch limousine.”

“I can fly an airplane, and drive a tank. I think I can handle your fancy car,” he said dismissively.

“Excellent. I’ll take you to the tailor, and have you fitted with a proper uniform.”

“A uniform?” he said, wrinkling his nose.

“Yes,” Cynthia said, smiling slyly. “It’s quite like a military uniform, actually, light gray, with a double breasted jacket and bright red buttons. It has epaulets on the shoulder, and the family crest on the breast, and the cap.”

“Like a school uniform?”

“Yes, quite. It identifies you as my servant. That way, everyone will know that you belong to me, if I send you into a store, to fetch some perfume, or tampons or such.”

The idea of buying tampons quite repulsed the macho gardener, as she hoped it would, and Cynthia enjoyed watching him flinch at the idea. Oh, yes, she was going to make sure his gray trousers were skin tight, to show off that magnificent bulge between his legs. Little Ollie would look quite delightful, in his little uniform, running and fetching for her!

“I didn’t much cotton to a uniform in the army, and I don’t ‘magine I’ll like one now.”

“That is too bad. You are quite direct, Oliver, so let me return the compliment. You will have your refurbished cabin, and free reign over virgin territory, as you put it.”

Cynthia noticed Daphne’s stifled giggle in the corner. She would need to keep those two apart.

“I will pay you quite a bit more than you are worth. This will give you all of the freedom you desire, assuming you don’t waste the additional funds on loose women, such as my maid here, and drink, as men of your ilk are so often do. However, in exchange for that freedom, once a week you will be my boy, and you will fetch and carry for me, in your smart cap, and snug trousers.”

Daphne, realizing her lady’s intentions, stifled a giggle at the image of Oliver placed squarely under her lady’s thumb.

“Why she’s still here?” Oliver asked, noting Daphne with a cock of his head.

“She’s serving me my tea.”

“I ayn’t no expert, but the lady of the house serves when company is present. Ayn’t that the proper way? The Queen of England serves her guests, you can serve yers’.”

Pleased at the excuse to get rid of her bothersome maid, Lady Chatterly nodded. “Quite right, Oliver. How rude of me. You can go, Daphne.”

“Don’t forget her ladyship’s shoes, girl,” the groundskeeper said, picking the shoes up off the floor and handing them to her maid. “She’d rather go barefoot than wear these.”

Oliver handed the maid the shoes. She curtsied to him, as if he was the man of the house, as if he were giving the orders. Outrageous! Lady Chatterley frowned.

“Do you agree to my terms, Oliver?” Lady Chatterley asked, as soon as Daphne was gone. “As you said, neither one of us has all day.”

“Will I be able to keep a Pleasure Slut in my cabin?”

“I don’t allow slaves on the estate. My estate, my rules.”

“I know you saw Lord’s Bradford’s sluts. Not even a fine lady could be so dense as to not know why the girl serving her fancy drink was naked, and wearing a collar.”

“When I visited, Carl had me served by maids wearing proper attire,” Cynthia said, sipping her tea. “However, to your point, I am aware that most of the landowners keep slaves, for work, and for… other duties.”

“And your fancy lady friends, do they keep any stallions to ride?” he asked, smiling.

Her friend Pippa often had naked male slaves serve theme tea, with little pink ribbons tied around their erect members. Pippa and the other girls found it quite amusing.

“Indeed, they do,” Lady Chatterley allowed. “However, I myself never indulge, as I find such services… disappointing.”

“Indeed. Nothing sadder than a woman’s slave, desperate to please and terrified of the gelding knife. Ayn’t no way to satisfy a woman, no matter how big their tool is, or how good they are at wagglin’ their tounges. Women need a man who’s in charge.”

“A man like you?” Cynthia asked.

Oliver folding his arms, nodded. Damn, he was sexy!

“Very well. If you must keep a woman, you must keep her in your cottage. I don’t want to see her.”

“You won’t, unless you go into my bedroom.”

“Why would I wish to go there?” Cynthia said, shocked at the insinuation.

Oliver shrugged. “I’m a gardener. It wouldn’t be the first time a fine lady cum to my room, to ask about me taking care of her bush, her hedge, and her trim.”

“We’ll discuss matters in the mudroom, or out of doors. I don’t like dirt, or mud, and I don’t want you in the house. We have agreed on terms. Do you want the job, or not?” Cynthia demanded.

“I’ve changed my mind. I’ll have my tea now, my lady.”

“Have your tea, then,” Lady Chatterley said, pointing at the silver cart.

“I ayn’t accepted yer’ offer yet. Yer’ the lady of the manor, and I am yer’ guest. You should get up off yer’ backside, and serve me.”

“I have no shoes.”

“Do it barefoot. Girls serve best barefoot.”

Cynthia thought it over. Oliver’s presence was quite arousing, and there was a definite sexual tension between them. This power game between them was dreadfully exciting, and fun to play, even if it wasn’t going to lead where Oliver thought it should. She would have him sign an employment contract, and put the law on him if he tried to leave. Once he was in her clutches, she would enjoy breaking him in. But until that happened, his defiance was quite… stimulating.

“Very well,” she said, taking her feet off the couch cushion and setting them on the icy cold cement floor.

“Ahhh! This floor is freezing,” wincing from the cold.

“Yes, which is why I need my hot tea. Hurry up, girl.”

Cynthia, eager to get matters over with, needed no encouragement, running over to the cart as if the floor were made of lava. Staying on her toes, she quickly poured the tea, as Oliver sat down, man spreading so that poor Cynthia had nowhere to sit.

Oliver smiled as Cynthia, still on her toes, and wincing from the cold, bent down to hand him his steaming cup of tea.

Lady Chatterley noticed his huge erection throbbing in the brute’s pants. He was well hung, and he was enjoying being serviced by the lady of the house, there was no doubt about that.

Oliver, not taking the tea, picked up the riding crop and used it to tap the front of Cynthia’s pants. “Yer beaver be dripping in my tea. All this talk of slave girls git my ladyship slave hot, did it?”

Cynthia looked down, and to her horror saw that the wetness from her arousal was plainly visible through the front of her skin-tight white jodhpurs. Worse, she had the most vulgar case of camel toe imaginable, and was showing this ruffian sitting before her everything she had!

“You forgot the sugar, girl. I like girls who serve it up, nice and sweet. And fetch me some biscuits.”

Oliver snapped the whip in the air, causing Cynthia to jump as she spilled the hot tea on her hands. Quickly, she turned to get his biscuits, only to hear the evil hiss of the whip as a flash of pain exploded across her bottom.

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Freight_Train
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Re: Lady Chatterly's Master

Post by Freight_Train »

Thanks . . . really excellent story. D H Lawrence would be pleased. “There is no such thing as liberty. You only change one sort of domination for another. All we can do is to choose our master.”
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