The Butler Did It

I want to tell you about our man-servant, "Harry the Horse-Cock." That's just what I called him, actually I didn't call him that, nobody did, anyone who met him was a little intimidated by him. But it's what I thought about him in my head, especially after I saw his giant cock. When he first attempted to shove that mutant hose into my mouth, I thought that my throat was going to be swabbed-out by a living, thrusting telephone pole. But more about that later.

I was raised at a time in this country when the Deep South was a place of fading refinement and sedate calm. Cavaliers of the Old Guard were immortalized in family portraits, and elegant ladies sat on downy pillows behind ruffles and palmetto fans. Ofcourse that's not where I lived. I was born in hectic, always-changing New York City. My family did the best that they could with their meager savings, to keep me sheltered from wickedness and grounded in the moralistic and religious customs of an earlier age. I was educated in church schools and sent to a private academy for young women and finally a private university where no men were enrolled.

All that they managed to accomplish for their troubles, despite their best intentions was to raise a hot-house flower who didn't quite have a niche in this world. My name is Carolina, but most people call me Lena. I met my future husband after college when I interned at his law firm. He was a generation older than me, but cut a dashing figure in his custom suits and knew how to communicate with anyone. I was smitten with his mastery of his profession and quite taken with his 19th Century panache.

To make a long story short, since my parents had emptied their accounts to help me become an attorney and to find me a suitable husband, they felt that an arrangement of marriage to this elderly gentleman, who was a partner in the firm, would enhance the process that they had begun. I was swiftly removed to his ancestral home along the Southeastern seaboard and we skipped through a whirlwind wedding. I was ensconced in an aging antebellum plantation where I believed I would live like Scarlett O'Hara in "the land of cotton." That's where I was introduced to Sir Harry.

My new husband Richard apparently had been in ill-health for years. He tried to hide the disabling symptoms for the sake of his practice and was too vain to see a doctor for what he understood to be bad news. Richard hung out his shingle at the firm's southern branch and we made our new home in his oak and moss-lined, colonial estate. He started to deteriorate quickly but was able to work from home and I helped him to prepare briefs and with correspondence. We didn't entertain much, and acres of property separated us from our neighbors. Richard mostly sat on the veranda reading until he tired, and maneuvered around the manicured grounds in a wheel-chair. At first he only needed minimal care and a major assortment of medications. It lingered on until gradually growing worse.

I could tend to most of his needs and for the heavy stuff, we had Sir Harry. I was never really accepted into this stuffy, old magnolia society, especially as a female lawyer. This was a culture slow to accept emancipation of any sort and convention said that a person should know his/her place. Despite my husbands efforts at pushing business my way, no corporation took me on, and his stately friends would only engage my services when they wanted to swindle some poor shop-keeper from his holdings or to demonstrate to the city that they had a heart, by endowing a wing to a hospital (and sugar-coating the tax deductions.) So I became a veritable "Lady in Waiting," in a worn-out home in a dying age.

And when I went to town the reception was just as chilly. The resident Southern Belles looked down their sharp noses at every facet of my being from New York accent to libertine (for the times,) casualness. At a time when having alabaster skin was a sign of breeding and wealth, I had a freckled tan and sun-streaked red highlights in my long chestnut hair. Polite women still wore crinolines and velvets in the warmest weather and seemed never to perspire. The snootiest of them had chaperones who shadowed them with silk parasols when strolling was called for, or liveried carriages when their dainty slippered feet grew weary.

From my northern upbringing and middle class station, I was used to roughing it. I could often be found traipsing the sidewalks in shorts, bare-legged and wearing light, frilly tops. Or sometimes I wore cottony summer dresses that were sleeveless and showed a hint of freckly cleavage. I was not big-chested or voluptuously rounded, few women were back then. Heavy women had large tits and small women were practically flat-chested. Breast enhancement was unheard-of in this genteel society and even a hint of a visible bustline or a muscled calf in heels, was scandalous. And there was nothing worse than scandal.

Well, I had nice legs and they showed. My cup size was a "B" but after a few years of rich, gravy-soaked meals and a few additional pounds to the rounded edges of my anatomy, I sported a bouncy "C" cup, that jiggled enticingly when I wished to be noticed. The other ladies sneered and muttered to each other behind their hasty fluttering fans. But they were forced to smile cattily and make small talk due to my elevated marital status.

The men smirked and whispered their horny little remarks while fawning over me in public. But I saw early on where I would place in this old world caste. In some ways I was fortunate on account of a good marriage, or sometimes because the well-dressed, well built gentleman walking just behind me cast a wide shadow on the crowd. At other times it seemed I was invisible, just a walking cunt with a pair of tits.

Maybe now is a good time to introduce "Jeeves," yet another name that I didn't dare to mention outloud. There was an old song, "I'm Just Wild About Harry," well I wasn't then and I'm not now, and when he's dead and buried, I'll dance on his stinking grave! When I was first introduced by my husband to our house butler, I thought that he was calling him some unusual European name that I did not quite understand, (Cerheri, Sirrarri, etc.) I presumed he was some stuffy British prick, trained to be a snippy servant but assumed by breeding, that he was better than all of us Americans. It turns-out that Richard was using the mock title "Sir" infront of his nickname, Harry. That probably helped lead to my fearful intimidation.

Later I found that he had never been Knighted, and he wasn't even English. He was not your typical effete English snob, or the typical butler-type. He had a swarthy complexion, with smoldering chocolate brown eyes, and an unruly lock of blue-black hair that constantly drooped over his face. I'm certain that he could use hair-gel to control it, but I believe he heard one of the country gals mention that it lent a disarming, sexy air to his countenance. He was about six foot-three and two hundred pounds in his silk argyles, and the highly starched crease of his pants couldn't quite hide the shape of his manly package, that was more often at attention whenever he caught me alone in a small space. He seemed quite dashing and debonair, but I still hated him. My husband I guess, was used to his stuffy ways and had employed him for years, and besides, it was his plantation. So I was stuck with Sir Harry

Richard just applied that term as a comical reference to denote that Sir Harry knew more about the estate than anyone else. He joked that Harry ran the place and that we would be better off following his directions. For Richard, it was merely humorous and he really did like and trust Harry, and soon Harry did actually take charge of my husband's health and care, and would be generously rewarded for it.

Sir Harry could take on some haughty airs, but Richard was deaf to criticism about him and cautioned me to "get to know him, you'll find he's indispensable." To me he just appeared officious, and like a ninja he could quietly pop-up at any time and he scared the bejeezus out of me. He especially materialized at times when I was alone or caught off-guard, often in a compromised position. I grew to believe that the crown-molded walls of the old plantation held hidden passages and that the eyes on the hanging portraits followed me wherever I moved. I would catch his reflection in the mirror as I brushed my hair, wearing only a diaphanous dressing gown. Or he would suddenly appear on the patio with sweet tea, while I was laying out in the sun in a yankee-style bathing suit. And more than once as I stepped from my bathroom wearing only a plush towel wrapped around my sleek, wet body, he would be holding a fresh robe and my soft slippers. He never uttered an impolite word but his leering ice-blue eyes and the lascivious sneer to his curled lip was a not-too subtle expression of his devious thought about the Lady of the Manor. And that conspicuous bulge in his neatly creased pants was telling.

Sir Harry had things pretty good. He lived in an entire wing of the old mansion. He wore the finest silks and always a fiercely starched and bleached white shirt with cravat. He was the only one who drove the car, a classic Rolls Royce touring sedan that I was afraid to even wind down the windows. And the household had an older woman who did the shopping and cooking, and I could not have been the only one who noticed that he smacked her ass when he dismissed her, or that on occasion he let his hands linger on her abundant bosom as he straightened her outfit or knotted her kerchief. I know he was fucking her brains out!

I hadn't been with my future husband long when Richard's health took a serious down turn, and he hid it from me as long as he could. Our wedding turned out to be a rushed affair and we agreed that the strain on his heart mitigated against any strenuous sexual liaisons. We kept private bedrooms to avoid temptation or embarrassment and promised that we would resume activities at a later date.

He depended now much more on Sir Harry, than on me, and really I was thankful at the time for Harry's help. I must admit that I never actually found myself in love with my husband. I was young and thought that it would come to me. I was fond of him, and I hated to watch a sick old man suffer. It was also painfully apparent that his firm was squeezing him out, and while there were never any lively parties at the house, I became aware that people seemed to be shunning us. I discovered later that Sir Harry had been spreading vile, beastly rumors about me.

When he squired me around town in the sedan, I was made to ride in the back (to be mindful of my position, he said.) We had a window divider between us. I would prefer to have sat upfront or just once, to drive the car myself. Other lawyers or stately matrons might have felt regal and privileged being chauffeured in the custom-upholstered and wood-accented luxury auto, but at only twenty-one years old and with no friends for a thousand miles, that wasn't me. I felt again like a child being driven to private school, under the watchful eye of a stern taskmaster.

I could always see his ogling cobalt eyes in the mirror, appraising my figure like a zoo animal watching children pass by his cage and hoping for just one chance to pounce. I know that's why he always wanted me in the back, where under the pretense of being an attentive driver, he always noticed when I crossed my legs or when my fingers strummed through the mass of brunette waves, sticking to my face in this tidal humidity. And I would catch the upward tilt of his feline eyebrows if I tried to fan some of the sticky, moist air across my chest or inside of my dress, or to spread my bare legs a little to catch the infrequent breeze. Was I the only one in this damned region to sweat?

Sir Harry was careful and guarded to never give Richard any reason to scold his behavior, and I was forever being told that "he's a great guy and a good friend, just give it time, he'll grow on you." He became comfortable around me and more assured of his potent dominion of the manor and everything in it, (which came to include me.) His attitude was growing startlingly familiar. Especially as Richard was increasingly bed-ridden and addled by drugs. The formality he once showed- even took such pride in- morphed into a seductive sado-masochistic ritual of him lecturing me to rely on his judgements and my almost needing to meet with his approval. He was literally instructing me now on how to dress and how to act.

To this point in my life, I had been subjected to the teachings and guidance of a succession of uninformed or self-serving collection that manipulated my lonely and desperate feelings for their gratification, and this weakness made me starkly vulnerable to the ravenous mob. School, job, marriage was all planned for someone else's benefit and I was the "good girl" that succumbed to the pressure.

My sex life, as it graciously could be called, had been a comical and frightening series of mishaps and teachable moments. In the very few stilted and hurried occasions that a man's ugly and raging penis entered my tight, apprehensive vagina, I found the experience to be fumbling, uncomfortable and filled with terror. The lesson learned was that sex was not enjoyable, something disgusting that only men got any satisfaction from, and that was an event that I could either manage better on my own or do without.

The first time for me (every woman's cherished memory,) was with a boy who claimed that he had "knowledge." We tumbled around on an old carpet on the dirt floor of his family's garage. He was afraid to turn on any lights so that no one could see the eerie glow from the windows. So without ever even kissing me, he fumbled in the dark to hike up my skirt, ripping the zipper in the process, while tugging my panties down, all the while he was laying on top of me, crushing my ribs and sweating on my cashmere sweater. I could feel his pants being shimmied to just below his hips because the buttons scraped my thighs all through the torturous procedure.

At first it was his grubby fingers that groped and clumsily plowed their path into my constricted orifice. The searching, needy digits clawed a tunnel through my labia and into my tingling, desperate passage. I thought I might faint at his impertinent invasion of my womanhood. I squeaked-out a frightened note, not quite knowing if I wished for this to continue. But then as he withdrew his sticky fingers and I felt a soothing, warm flow in my loins, I felt a strange sense of loss and incompleteness. I wanted more. Suddenly his enquiring fingers were replaced by his straining, stabbing penis. It went on for just a few minutes. I cried out once at his initial jab and he covered my mouth with his dirty paw. He was doing push-ups on my abdomen and my rear end was getting rug burns. When it finished, he seemed oddly delighted with his accomplishment. I only wanted to leave. He asked if it was good for me, I wanted to sock him.

I never did actually see his cock in the blackness and his hurried, amateurish thrusting only served to bruise my pelvis and tear my hymen. After five dizzying minutes I stumbled home with an old shawl covering my torn, oil-stained clothes to find a dried trickle of blood matting my pubic hair and black and blue wounds on my thighs where just moments ago, my lovely pink panties kept me chaste. I never did see them again or even enquire about them. Probably a souvenir to a boyhood rite of passage. Nothing really gained or lost... besides some semblance of pride.

"So that was sex?" I asked myself. Not much to brag about and not much fun either. I understood that sex produced babies. And that "the sex act" was supposed to be the truest expression of love. But who would do that for fun?

While the physical act of intercourse lacked any real pleasure for me, the orgasmicly erotic, slightly seedy fantasies of debauchery began to take hold of my waking and slumbering moments. Primal desires became necessary stimulation. Masturbation and vivid, sexual dream sequences began to filter into every unguarded occasion. The thing I took from my "first time," was that it could be so much better. And that's what I would look for, a way to make it better. I didn't realize the type of quest I was about to embark on. I would lay awake at night or run to the locked privacy of my room, whenever I found a minute to myself. Always searching for a way to relieve Cupid's Itch. I fumbled at my anatomy, discovering new and exciting routines to pinch, poke and prod at the many mounds and crevices that my heaving, sweaty torso offered for sexual satisfaction.

I found different, carnal techniques that caused jolts of electricity and ripples of warm fluids to surge through my hungry form. I grew daring with my own trembling fingers but still harbored sinful and shameful doubts about permitting someone else to approach me, that would have to wait for now. With a small, covered light and forever under the covers, I continued to explore.

I had a forest of coarse, chestnut curls from my anus to my waistline and stretching from thigh to thigh. This seemed natural for a grown woman of my time. The girls in my school would sometimes smuggle-in a men's magazine; and though titillating and inspiring of a few knowing looks, and even more nervous chatter, I already knew what the female form looked like, more or less. It was a man's physique that was so mysterious. I knew that they all had a penis, but the girls confused and upset me with their wild stories describing the various shapes, colors and sizes the those "cocks" could take on. I needed more information, but for now, I was eager just to learn all that I could about my own confounding form. Some flavor of manual manipulation became increasingly a part of my daily (and nightly,) routine. It took a hand mirror held between my thighs and experimentation with hair brushes, wooden spoons, pop bottles and broom handles to simulate the obscene act, and to stimulate my inner walls. I even delicately jabbed at my secretive rear opening, causing me to squirm and blush to no end.

I determined the existence and true purpose of those fleshy, swollen folds and the perky nub that lay hidden under the suddenly sodden, matted ringlets. Remember, this was an age before "Cosmopolitan" or "Playgirl." There was no Dr. Ruth, to say nothing of cable television or the internet. "Good girls" didn't speak about sex or even of their own bodies. And what scraps of information that you did hear, was often misguided and mostly horrific. Women suffered through sex! That left us to the privacy of the bedroom or the bathroom.

The old "tried and true" method was still the simplest. So when my pert pink nipples became erect, telling me that they had a mind of their own, I rubbed them, squeezed them, pinched and pulled them. Each time generated an erotic turn-on and a never boring or subtle tingle that caused the liquids to flow. That worked to encourage more touching and to bring my respiration and blood pressure to a fevered pitch.

I had no boyfriend and no sex-life. So my nights and fantasies were filled with masturbation. And I got good at it. But I was eager to add a real-life partner to take me to the next level. I knew that I had a flesh and blood cavity about ten to twelve inches deep, nestled in my almost-virginal vagina that needed to be probed. I could chalk-up my first taste as a learning experience, I knew now what I didn't want, now to find someone more mature to help me.

About a year later nearing graduation, I met an older boy at a Spring carnival by the pier. He bought me a sno-cone, won a stuffed doll at the ten-cent ring toss, and held my hand while we strolled the arcade. As the evening settled in, we settled under the dock where we engaged in very passionate kissing while hiding in the shadows. He was such a good kisser. My pressure was beginning to rise and the warm sensation in my loins was causing me antsy twitches. I tried to calm the intense rush I was feeling. my obvious arousal must have signaled to him that I was game to continue. His hand worked a slow, tender path under my blouse and patiently tickled the outside of my bra. My skittering grew more frantic and I was close to pleading with him to go faster. He lifted the cups of the bra and was soon fondling the soft undersides of my breasts and then tweaking and circling the pert nipples. He was even better at this than I was.