Young Mistress

James Missaglia

Description

Davis is a solid, working class chap, socialist and proud of it. Miss Eletta is one of the Bright Young Things - spoilt, rich and carefree. When she discovers that he has an interest in tying women up, she decides to see how kinky he can get - and teaching what class bondage really means...

Sujets

• Erotic literature

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 23 août 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781785389658
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE YOUNG MISTRESS
A Tale of the Twenties
James Missaglia





First published in 2018 by
House of Erotica Books
www.houseoferoticabooks.com
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© Copyright 2018 James Missaglia
The right of James Missaglia to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.



The Young Mistress
If you had asked Davis anything about the Rolls he could have told you. It’s current oil pressure. How the gearbox worked. The one thing he could not have said was why Lord Fulchester insisted it be driven at twelve miles per hour.
He lifted his eyes to the rear view mirror. The old man lounged in the back, reading ‘The Times’ and no doubt mentally counting his money. There were grim headlines today. More strikes. More pit closures. The stock market was sinking further, leading to greater unemployment for the working classes. None of that touched this old swine. His world rolled sedately forward at twelve miles per hour.
Davis sighed. Not all the family were like that. Take Miss Eletta, for example. Whenever he drove her, she would lean forwards over the seat back, half smothering him with her perfume, and tell him to put his foot down because she was late. She was always late for something. It took time to find the right fur coat and put on that much make up. He didn’t mind though. The new style of short dresses and shorter hair were a bit fast for him, but the young mistress carried them off well. He almost forgave her for being part of the Capitalist system of exploitation and oppression.
She stole the car, too. Well - not stole, obviously, because it belonged to the family and if the girl wanted to use it then she was entitled, licence or not. Only yesterday he had found the Rolls mud splattered and smelling like a tarts boudoir, all French cigarettes and cologne. And ’found’ was entirely the right word because Miss Eletta didn’t so much park the thing as abandon it and flee. He could spend half an hour looking round on the gravel to find where she had dropped the keys.
In the back, Lord Fulchester harrumphed and snapped the paper. Davis checked their speed. Nope, the needle was still where it should be, soundly between eleven and twelve MPH. A cyclist hurtled by them. Horses seemed to be making good speed. He continued at this funereal pace and ground his hands on the wheel until his leather gloves creaked.
Once they arrived at the station, Davis carried his lordship’s cases to the train, and then helped the ungrateful plutocrat load himself into a First Class compartment. Another newspaper was opened, and the old man began to read the financial pages of that without a further word to his chauffeur. Davis remained on the platform until the train departed. Perhaps Lord Fulchester would change his mind at the last moment and insist on going to London by road. Perhaps he would just feel like pissing up his servant’s leg. It didn’t matter. Davis had to remain on the platform just in case. It was only when the train vanished off in a cloud of steam and clanking that he was permitted to start moving again.
It was a different story on the way back. With no one to stop him, Davis gunned the engine to full revs and let the old girl show what she could do. There were some nice straight coaching roads in this part of Berkshire and that was ideal for cutting up some speed. This time he was passing the cyclists, they were wobbling to a stop and shouting things back at him. Well sod the lot of them, entitled bourgeoisie lackeys. The world was going to hell in a handbasket and here he was, shuffling rich people between their enormous houses. Still, a job was a job.
* * *
He parked the car in the garage and then went straight to the kitchens. It was half bustle and half mortuary down there. The family were moving to London for the season and that meant most of the staff were already in Eaton Square opening shutters and dusting. The staff down here at Broadwaters had to do the opposite. Even so, there were still a few of the kitchen maids around. Molly cooked him a bacon sandwich and brewed tea. The Chauffeur stood at the kitchen door and enjoyed both.
“Oh, there was a note for you.”
“A note?”
“Yes.”
“That’s unusual.”
“Not with the Butler on his way to London it’s not. Have to get hold of you somehow.”
“Suppose so. You have it?”
Molly sorted round on a cluttered counter and found what she was looking for. Just a scrap torn from a notebook, covered with a busy little scrawl.
“From Miss Eletta,” he commented.
“I knew that.”
“Did you. Don’t suppose it’s anything.”
“She wants to see you?”
“Yes.”
Molly shook her head.
“Funny one, she is. Went off to that nice Swiss school, came back with some funny friends and some funnier notions about life.”
“Yeah, well she can afford them. When you have money you can do what you like, that’s how it is at the moment.’?”
“What do you mean ‘at the moment?”
Davis finished his tea, then lit a cigarette. He would never have been able to do that if Cook had been in residence. Like everyone in this semi abandoned plutocracy, he was enjoying a little taste of freedom. He offered Molly one too but she shook her head.
“I mean, my girl, that times change and countries change too.”
“Oh this isn’t about Russia again, is it?”
“It’s not called that anymore. It’s the Soviet Union now.”
“That’s a funny name. It’s not a proper name for a country at all, if you ask me.”
He shook his head. Some working people associated themselves with the capitalists. No way to convert the likes of Molly, so he let her get back to her chores and looked at the note again.
The surprising thing was that it specified he had to come and see her ‘in her rooms’. He had to read that twice to make sure he had it right, but that was what the scribble said. Such an instruction was unusual and frankly improper. The only reason he could think of for it was the house being closed up for the London season. The young mistress would probably be there with two of her maids, packing her hundreds of dresses and thousands of shoes. Not like he was seeing her alone or anything. So Davis finished his cigarette quickly then hurried up to the third floor of the rambling country mansion.
* * *
He liked the house this way. With the shutters half closed and sheets over everything, it looked like the rich buggers he worked for were selling up after bankruptcy. That suited him. No one should live this way when there were people in the North out of work and starving.
He stopped by a mirror and lifted the dust covers. One quick check that his cap was on straight, his uniform spotless, his sandy blonde hair combed. You had to look presentable for employers like this.
“Enter,” came the reply to his knock. He checked his collar then went through.
“You wanted to see me, miss?”
“I did indeed.”
The rooms formed a suite which he knew contained a second dressing room and a bathroom, but the doors stood open and they were empty. The only person there was Miss Elletta herself, perched on a stool and fiercely brushing what there was of her short brown hair. She was only half dressed, whatever she was wearing covered by an art deco dressing gown with a massive upturned collar. He remembered the under house maid complaining about that thing. It had cost hundreds of pounds to ship from a Japanese catalogue, and the maids regularly had to scrape off careless splashes of nail varnish from the sleeves.
“Is this... to do with going to London, miss?”
“You would think so, wouldn’t you.”
He looked around for the maids. There were none. The room itself was quite intimidating.