Tem 26, 2022 // By:analsex // No Comment
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Or “Oh dear! My bodice appears to be ripped!”
This is a story concerning the relationships of an English aristocratic family sometime around 1810 (vaguely) — the time of the Napoleonic Wars. It could quite easily have been called Brotherton, or Sisterton, or more appropriately Motherton, if you were so inclined. It is a shameless effort on my part to use my vague knowledge of history and moderate story-telling abilities to cash in on the interest in the English Regency period off the back of the popular TV series of a similar(ish) name Bridgerton. At least there isn’t an annoyingly condescending gossip columnist voiced by Julie Andrews, driving this one, the gossipers are there, they’re just not controlling the narrative.
If incest or historical stories are not your thing (and it’s long as well), you might want to look at something else. On the other hand, you could try it and see, after all, what’s the worst that could happen?
Most of this was written before the release of the second season of the Netflix series, and watching it while I have been finishing this off has made me reflect on what I written so far, and so far, I am happy with the choices I have made. there were some tweaks, but not many.
All characters are over the age of 18, though references are made to the characters’ younger selves, all of the sexual acts referred to take place when they are adults.
Some notes on pronunciation — ‘Rogeringham’ is pronounced “rogering ’em”, the word ‘mama’ is pronounced “mum-mah!” and the word “ma’am” as ‘mam’.
It is a very long read, but I hope you will find it entertaining and worth your perseverance. And if you do enjoy it, please leave a comment letting me know what you thought.
Edit: when I first submitted this for publication, inevitably errors had crept into the text – mea culpa — I believe that I have sorted most of them in this updated version, though there may still be some errant commas, I would ask you then, gentle reader, to accept this as it is, warts and all, ‘cos I ain’t changing it any more.
1. I return from Spain and set about my life’s work …
The little olive-skinned whore with the long tumbling mane of black hair and huge bubbies was energetically throwing herself up and down on my hard, throbbing prick, babbling away in Portuguese, throwing her arms about, while those glorious tits of hers bounced up and down in a mesmerising motion. It was a fabulous show and a wondrous fuck but something caught my eye, just past the rise and fall of her hips.
Barclay, my valet, looked in at me through the open doorway. That meant it was something important, he would never have interrupted us for anything trivial.
I let her finish and bring herself off, even though I didn’t spend myself, and she sank down onto the bed beside me, murmuring soft words — still in Portuguese, but I was more interested in what Barclay had to say.
A half of an hour later, Barclay had begun packing my belongings, and I was on my way to my colonel’s headquarters at the local fortress.
“It is a shame about your father, William.” Colonel Harris said, “My condolences. We were at school together, though he was a couple of years older than me. He was a good man.
“This must be a great blow to you, coming so soon after the er_” He indicated his side vaguely. What he meant was the wound that I was recovering from — hence the little Portuguese whore doing all the bouncing up and down – from where a French Dragoon had tried to skewer me, raking his blade along my ribs, after I had been thrown from my own horse.
“It would be entirely inappropriate to have a newly inherited duke fighting in the ranks, so I assume you will return home to set your affairs in order?”
I nodded. As far as I was concerned, I was done with being a soldier in Wellesley’s army. As the heir of Lord Henry Rogeringham, the 5th Duke of Norton, I needed to make my way home to England, to my mother and sisters, and take up my duties there.
“Leithbridge-Stewart of the Light Company has been after my captaincy for a while, I would like to let him purchase it, if that is all the same, sir? He is a good officer, and conducts himself well. He is also quite capable of taking up my administrative duties within the regiment.” As captain of the grenadier company, I had a role in the battalion’s administration as well as my normal duties. The colonel nodded his agreement.
“Well, you will be missed_” he waved the letter at me, “Your Grace. But you should be gone as soon as you can.”
Three dreadful weeks later — including a full week dodging what was left of the French navy in the tempestuous Bay of Biscay – I was entering the stable yard at our town house in Mayfair. It was pissing down. It was late, and my horse — a pretty chestnut mare that I had bought in Portsmouth – had thrown a shoe, and was limping yalova escort badly, so I had had to walk her the last three miles. Barclay was a day behind with my baggage, I was cold and my side ached, I wanted nothing more than a hot bath.
One of the grooms took the horse and I made sure that he took care of her before I entered the house, making my way into the hallway.
I approached the drawing room, and as I reached for the handle, the door opened and I saw a young man standing in the doorway, looking at me in a mixture of surprise and challenge.
“Who the deuce are you, sir?!” He asked, seeing me dripping wet, my uniform muddy from the road and looking like I had been chased through every hedge from here to Portsmouth.
“And who the deuce are you to ask? Sir!”
“Do not take that tone with me, sir!” He said angrily, “I am James Barthomley, Esquire sir!”
“Well, Mr James Barthomley,” I kept my tone even, “I happen to be Captain Sir William Rogeringham, 6th Duke of Norton, master of this house and you sir, happen to be in my way.”
I was just about to advise the young man, who looked to be about eighteen, that as I had just arrived back in town and did not yet have the services of a second to call on, I would be most obliged if he would meet me to satisfy my honour in two days’ time, when he almost fell over backwards, fawning and apologising.
“Your Grace! Forgive me please!” He stepped out of the way, quickly and I was able to make my way into a room, that was apparently filled with women. More importantly, there was a large, roaring fire towards which I made my way.
The occupants of the room exploded in delight at my home-coming, and I was mobbed by the pastel and grey shaded community, before the chaos resolved itself into six female forms, most of them franticly scattered about — making space for me to sit down, and disappearing to summon servants.
The only one who did not move, remaining seated, and looking stunning, was my mother, Helena.
I stood in front of her and bowed. “My service ma’am, and my sadness at your loss.”
The lady who offered me her hand was actually my step-mother, and was as fine a looking woman as any I have ever laid eyes upon. Despite marrying my father and supplying him with five daughters, she had maintained her figure. She was tall, five feet and eight inches in height, with a good skin, and clear grey eyes. She drank little, and like myself enjoyed most things in moderation and often walked in our grounds both here in Mayfair and at our family home in Buckinghamshire. Mother alone, of all of the women there, wore black as a sign of mourning my father. But it was a dress which fitted her form and although it was ‘widow’s weeds’ that she wore, she was breath-taking.
I may have gazed just a touch too long or perhaps a little hard — which would have been understandable, because she was so beautiful, and because I was so enamoured of her. My father had brought Helena into my life not long after his first wife, my own mother, died, when I was three. To me, she was as much a mother as the one I had lost, though she was but fifteen years older than me. While she lived with us and before I left to go to school, she and I formed a deep affection for each other, as I did with the succession of sisters that she added to our family.
Despite eventually being sent off to school, I never lost my regard for my step-mother, in fact as I grew more aware of how the world functioned, I realised that among women she was an epitome, in character, in intellect and — I later came to understand — in her beauty. In short, I fell into a deep lust for my step-mother.
Of course, it never found an outlet. My father was a jealous man, and a crack shot. I got shipped off to the army where I traded my way through various commissions over the years until my recent captaincy of the grenadier company, and senior captain of the 112th Foot, The North Staffordshire Regiment.
I have never wanted for anything, money has never been short, nor has there been any dearth of female companionship. I have been blessed with saturnine good looks, and, if I am honest, a couple of scars over the years have only served to heighten the strength of my face. Success with the fairer sex has never been a problem. Even conducting myself in war has come easily (I have made my way where other men have succumbed). But in all this time the way that I felt about my step-mother has never lessened. I want her! I want her badly. Now, I decided, I could finally do something about it.
Do I sound callous, unfeeling? Racing home so that I can press myself upon the widow of my recently departed father, is that wrong? Who the hell cares? I am Sir William Rogeringham, and in this household, I stand as God’s appointed upon the Earth. This is now my house, and to a greater extent I can do what I bloody well want to.
My step-mother yalova escort bayan made room so that I could sit next to her and beside the fire. A foot-man removed the fire-screen which had been placed there so that the heat did not mottle my mother’s fair skin, allowing the crackling flames to warm me. He took my great-coat and uniform coat to dry them and I surrendered my boots for slippers so that they too could be cleaned and dried.
Other servants fetched soup and bread and at my request, a tot of rum. My sisters sat quietly around me as I ate, waiting to ask their elder brother all about his time with the army in the Peninsular.
I took a moment to look around me, Helena, my step-mother, sat now upon my right-hand, beyond her Charlotte, the eldest — four years younger than me. Across from Charlotte, and still as beautiful a pair of book-ends as you will ever see, the twins — Margaret and Louise, six years younger than I. Moving back around the circle towards the fire place, my eye fell upon the form of the elegant Caroline, five years my junior. Next to her was the still nervous looking form of Mr James Barthomley, and next to him, directly opposite me, was the youngest of them all, the delightful, just turned eighteen, Hermione.
“Mr Barthomley?” He sat up straight as I addressed him. Respect, always an admirable quality, I thought, though I suspect (hoped) there was also more than a little fear in there. “I take it from your presence here, that you are calling upon my sister Hermione?”
Clearing his throat nervously, he nodded rapidly and told me that he was.
“It is late sir, and I have much to do now that I am home. You would be so good as to return in three days’ time at mid-day? I shall see you then. Am I understood?”
He got to his feet and nodded. He knew that he was being ejected but there was nothing he could do about it. “Yes, Your Grace, perfectly.”
Bowing all around him, he gave his goodbyes, first to my mother, “Your Grace.” And then he recited the whole list before leaving us.
Once he had departed, the questions began — was it terrible fighting the French? The worst thing about it, I said, was the damned marching, constantly marching. “Lord Wellesley is a master of movement, he has the French marechals flummoxed, never knowing what he will do next. He manoeuvres his army so that the situation favours us and not the enemy, but he relies on the dusty feet of our men to make it work.”
“How long are you home for?”
“For good.” I said, “I am done with soldiering.”
“Do you hate the French?”
“Gracious! No.” I told Margaret, “Some of them, of those I have met, are excellent fellows, gentils hommes, and their soldiers are well schooled at war.
“But when you come to an actual battle brother?” Charlotte asked wide-eyed.
“That is something that I pray you never ever see, but it was after all, what we are there for, and our men, though for the most part they are the sweepings from every lock-up across the country, our men fight well, indeed I would match them against any nation on the Earth.”
“You have been injured?” My mother regarded my face carefully.
“Several times,” I told her.
“This one,” I pointed to the short scar along my right cheek-bone, “Was a French voltigeur, one of their excellent light bobs, their skirmishers, who thought he had me.”
“And what happened to him?” Margaret asked.
“One of my men did for him for his impudence.” Her face paled.
Perhaps in an effort to veer away from death and injury, Hermione leaped in next, “Were there any women William, did you meet anyone special?”
“There is a veritable social scene about Wellesley’s headquarters. Wives. Mistresses.” I looked around at their scandalised faces. “And a whole host of women of lesser virtue.” I told them, their faces shocked by this revelation, “But none for me.”
I did not mention the Portuguese whores who were constantly available, nor my adventures with other women, like a certain Elizabeth, Lady Dorrington, who engaged me to seduce her daughter. Arabella Dorrington was a very pretty young woman, with a great enthusiasm for carnal pleasures. It was something she got from her mother obviously, because her mother wanted to ‘try me’, like you would a horse, before she would let me bed her daughter. Lady Dorrington rode me herself first, and it was an experience which was very pleasurable, especially so later, because after I had slept with Miss Dorrington, I slept with both women together in the same bed.
It was not a completely unusual experience, though perhaps at the extreme end of my adventures d’chambre. The situation in or about the army in Portugal — going into winter quarters in the prepared defences of Torres Vedras was unusual. Wellesley would take the time to repair and make his growing army ready to re-enter Spain in pursuit of Boney’s Marshals. Because the officers and escort yalova men often found themselves with time on their hands, time not in contact with the enemy, there was a strange energy about the place. Mainly it was because both officers and men had time on their hands. It was simply not possible to drill and exercise the soldiers all of the time, had it been I am sure there would have been less sexually driven behaviour, or perhaps there would have, I do not know.
A soirée — that most genteel of social occasions — could degenerate into an orgy at a moment’s notice. An evening playing cards, once drink was consumed would become openly lewd when the local strumpets were allowed in. Adultery was so common that some bed-hoppers associated with the army kept a ‘dance card’ of available officers. All sorts of sexual politics were rampant, daughters — and sons in some cases, were used as pawns in dynastic manoeuvrings, as lesser families sought to better themselves, or more renowned families sought to reverse failures by marriage. All of which was centred on young men who gave not a jot, knowing that a mere chance could end their lives in the line of battle, and who plunged themselves into the heated cauldron of sex and licentiousness with abandon.
However, I decided that a discussion of these things was perhaps not for my half-sisters, not tonight anyway.
“Enough of all that, my dear, dear sisters, I am home now and there will be time enough for your questions in the days to come. I am tired and in sore need of a hot bath, so if you will permit, I shall retire.”
A footman — who I discovered was called Henry – conducted me to my bedroom — ex my father’s. I stripped off my sodden clothes, bathed and because Barclay would not arrive until the morning, put on one of my fathers’ night shirts and a warm banyan dressing gown. My father was inclined to wear a bed cap, but I never took to the habit.
“Where is my mother’s room?” I asked the footman.
“Her room is just along the landing, Your Grace.”
“Ask her to join me, please?”
Moments later my step-mother entered. Her dressing gown was a rustle of pearl-grey silk, spreading around her.
“You wished to see me, William?”
Her hair was loose for sleep, and her face pale in the light of the lamps. “Yes mother. I wished to tell you how glad I am to be home and to see you, to see all of you, but you especially.”
“I thank the Lord that you have been returned to us whole, William, or very nearly so.” She smiled, and reached up, touching my cheek tenderly.
“Did you receive my letters?” I asked, I had written often. Mother nodded.
I went on “Do you know how very much I missed you?” It was my turn to touch her beautiful face, tenderly. Deliberately. It was not the touch of a son, but the touch of a lover. “How many times I have imagined your face before me? Do you know that I have loved you since the day I first met you? Oh, how I have missed you, mother.” Freed at last, after years of confinement, the words tumbled out before her.
She looked at me, uncertainly at first, but then she said, “In all the time you were away I never stopped thinking about you. About my brave boy who had become a man, and now fought in the war. William, I dreaded opening each letter in case it told me you had been killed or worse, maimed. When I did open them and when I knew that you were safe, I would read them again and again.”
I embraced her, feeling her soft form through the silky material. I pulled her body against mine, in a manner unlike that of a son embracing his mother. Helena was now moulded firmly against me, my swollen prick hard against her belly. I noted that she did not pull away.
“I am home now and ready to take up my role as the man of the house.” I slid my hand down her back and rested it on the swell of her bottom. “To fulfil the duties of that role.” I told her.
She looked at me hard, scanning my eyes for a sign of my intent. Whatever she found there, her words surprised me. “Yes, Your Grace,” she said breathlessly.
I know many men who would have taken her there and then, mother or no. However, Sir Arthur Wellesley was not the only master of manoeuvre in the Iberian Peninsula, I had my own tried and trusted ways of seducing women I found attractive. I wanted my union with my step-mother to be willing on her part as well.
My hand still cupping her face, I looked at her, looked into her eyes. “Go to bed now mother, there is much to do in the next few days.” I was rewarded, I thought, with a brief flash of disappointment, but she left and returned to her own room.
2. Settling In
The next morning, I rose early as I would normally. With no Barclay there, I rang for Henry, bathed quickly, and rummaged through my father’s clothes to see if there was anything I could wear. My uniform was not fit for wear yet, still being damp from the previous evening. Fortunately, my father and I were of a similar size. I found some passable waistcoats, a couple of very fine shirts, neck cloths and some decent breeches. My own boots had been dried by the fire and polished.
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