The Girl Who Fell From Grace

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The Girl Who Fell From Grace
Emy Naso
All Rights Reserved
The next century was just five months away. Eighteen ninety-nine sparkled, glowed and sprinkled the land with warmth. It was one of the hottest summers on record and the Duke and Duchess Delisy thought that everything was perfect. Well, almost perfect. As they strolled across the lawn of their country home a minor irritant bothered their thoughts. It was their twent-one year old daughter, Lady Columbine.
“Is that girl not interested anything?” The Duchess said to her husband, whilst keeping an expression of complete serenity and waving regally at a group of guests who were playing Crochet.
“I’d settle if she were to show an interest in getting married,” the Duke huffes. “She must be the most eligible woman in the county. What with your beauty, my influence and our welath,” he added grumpily, less able than the Duchess to moan and keep a happy face at the same time.
“I’ve thrown so many grand parties and introduced her to men with titles, men with money and men with family connections going back farther than an antique heirloom,” Camilla, Duchess of DeLisy agreed.
They reached the stairs leading up to the veranda, took drinks of champagne from a footman standing rigidly to attention, and walked with confidence up the stone treads to greet the old Queen’s envoy. The aged Victoria had sent Lord Beaumont to Askley House, the palatial mansion of the Duke and Duchess, to discuss matters of state.
From an upstairs window, Lady Columbine watched her parents. She knew what they would be talking about–her. They wanted her to marry some noble earl or even one of those rich industrialists who made their money by crowding thousands of workers into a noisy factory, mass producing something or another and then selling it to a mighty Empire around the world.
Columbine’s mother was constantly lecturing her daughter on the need for decorum, the heritage of their illustrious past and the necessity to bear an heir to continue all this tradition.
She walked to the satin and gold thread bell-pull and gave it a gentle jerk, then she continued across the room, sat in the high-back brown leather chair looking away from the door, studiously staring at the bookcase.
After a while the door opened and a hesitant young footman came in, looked around the room, saw no one and was about to go out.
“I am sitting over here, Stiffman,” Lady Columbine called to the footman from her position hidden behind the chair. “Bring me my tea from the table over there.”
As she couldn’t see him, he raised his eyebrows in disgust that he’d been summoned up from the servants’ quarters to fetch Lady Columbine’s tray from just the other side of the room. He picked it up, marched dutifully across the room, walked around in front of Lady Columbine… And there was a loud crash. He’d dropped the tray and its contents. The gorgeous young mistress was sitting in the chair, legs and knees pulled up, soles of her feet on the flat of the chair and stark naked.
Lady Columbine smiled and fluttered her long eyelashes for the entire world, as if she was a demure girl at her first party, not a wanton aristocratic nude showing every single asset she possessed to the footman.
“Well, Stiffman? Are you?”
“Am I what, m’Lady?”
“A stiff man,” she retorted with a gleam in her eye.
He gulped. She languidly reached out an arm, stroked his crotch and made a little cooing noise.
“What are you hiding in there, Stiffman?” she smirked as her fingers seductively started to undo the buttons on his pants.
“Nothing, m’Lady,” he said, trying to remain dignified.
She slipped her hand inside his pants. “It’s big enough to be a candlestick.” With a dexterity that made his eyes water, Lady Columbine manipulated his erect cock out, and admiring its dimensions, fondled the shaft as the footman made a sound like a lucky cat with laryngitis.
Lady Columbine continued to massage him; enjoying the feel of his taut skin and the increasingly lustful looks he was giving her body. “What is your first name?” she purred. “Doesn’t seem polite to be holding a man’s cock when we haven’t been formally introduced.”
“Richard, m’Lady,” he moaned as she momentarily increased the pace of her manipulation.
“Dick Stiffman, is it?” she giggled. “So tell me my very stiff dick, do you think servants should obey at all times? Answer now.”
“Certainly, m’Lady,” he answered, his voice becoming more horse with a deepening breathes.
“Do you want to be my slave, Dick?”
“Yes, m’Lady.”
“Who will do what I say?”
He nodded, swallowing hard as Lady Columbine ran her thumb quickly along his shaft, rolling his sensitive foreskin tightly back and leaning suddenly forward to kiss the tip of his red-capped cock.
“And come when I call?” she said in a teasing voice, escalating the speed of her hand massage.
“Yes, m’Lady.” He struggled with a cogent reply.
Lady Columbine rubbed him furiously. “Oh Richard, I’m calling; let’s see you come.”
He lost control. Lady Columbine laughed lasciviously. “Kneel down here in front of me, Richard,” she instructed. He did so. “At least you come when I tell you to,” she smiled. Then added; “Now you can lick it all off my breasts before it trickles any further down my body.”
Throughout dinner, the Duchess of DeLisy, glared at her daughter, Columbine. Whatever Camilla did to draw Lady Columbine into the polite conversation, her daughter sat glum faced and looked bored. The Duke, who was sitting next to Lord Beaumont, had desperately tried to get his daughter interested in what the Queen’s envoy had to say. When Lord Beaumont expressed his opinion on the need for discipline in the modern age and talked about standards in society, Lady Columbine pulled a face and positively sulked. It added a certain charm to the beautiful twenty-one year old, but was not to the liking of her parents.
By ten o’clock that evening, the Duke and Duchess had given up trying to get their daughter to act in a civilized manner and were relieved when she decided to go to bed early. After another two hours discussing matters with the Duke in the billiard room, the distinguished white haired Lord Beaumont bid his hosts good night and retired to his bedroom.
He yawned as he went in the room and noticed the servants had left a warm drink of milk and a separate glass of his favorite malt whiskey on a side table. The room was warm and he went over to the window, opened it and gazed across the extensive estate of the Duke. The cottages of the workers were mainly in darkness but here and there a faint light shone, some lit by the gas, now installed even in humble homes where the landlord was as enlightened as the Duke of DeLisy.
Feeling tired after a long evening, the fifty-eight year old Lord went over to the large bed with its drapes closed and pulled the side one back.
“What the…!” Lord Beaumont said, astounded at the sight. In his bed was not one woman, but two. The one he recognized sat up. It was Lady Columbine. She held the white sheet clutched to her chest. The dumbfounded noble got the impression she was nude. This was immediately confirmed as Lady Columbine threw back the covers, revealing her own nakedness and that of the young woman by her side, who lay face down, ass up.
“Don’t look so surprised, Lord Beaumont. This is Charlotte the maid, who has been ever so bad and definitely needs to be chastised. And knowing your strong views on punishment I thought you would be delighted to administer the reprimand.”
“Lady Columbine! This is outrageous behavior. I must ask you to…” Before the Lord could finish, Columbine threw her arms around him, kissed his lips passionately, pressing her naked breasts into his chest, and gently squeezed his aristocratic balls and cock.
She pulled away and smiled. “Well, my Lord, for someone who is professing indignity, you are mightily hard. Let me oblige you by soothing your desire.” Without waiting for his further reaction, she had her hand down his pants and petted his erection into a raging fever. With his eyes popping out of his head, Lady Columbine produced a large wooden food-mixing spoon from under the pillow, gave it to Lord Beaumont with a giggle and added encouraging words. “Give Charlotte a spanking, my Lord.”
He started cautiously with a few gentle taps, but with Lady Columbine unbuttoning his pants and wriggling his cock out so she could get her elegant hand fully around it, livened up. When he got into his spanking stride, and panting fast, he wheezed out, “What did Charlotte do wrong?”
“Indulged in a licentious sexual session with me earlier this evening,” Lady Columbine answered in a matter of fact manner, but which made Lord Beaumont get so excited at the thought that he gave way to the hand stimulation and ejaculated his arbor all over Charlotte’s reddening rear.
“Well, that’s a shame, Lord Beaumont,” Lady Columbine tutted and wiped his cock delicately with a laced-edged handkerchief. “I was going to suggest you give Charlotte a good shafting. Still, never mind, my Lord. You rest back and recover, and watch the maid and I have unbridled sex. When your zeal has returned you can try us both.”
The butler, Carstairs, walked slowly and with poise along the corridor, silver tray in one hand and his lofty nose snootily stuck in the air. It was eight-thirty in the morning. He was a punctilious man, who loved order and felt Lord Beaumont sleeping in and not coming down to breakfast was bad from.
He tapped the bedroom door and at the same time, opened it.
“Breakfast, my Lord,” he announced in his unctuous voice. “Shall I put the tray by your bed or on the side table? I’ll ask the maid to bring up hot water later so you may…” he paused. Lord Beaumont hadn’t moved. Carstairs was now very supercilious about this conduct. And the man is a confidante of our gracious Queen, he thought to himself, shaking his head in dismay.
The butler coughed to signal he was there, pulled back the drapes and stared at Lord Beaumont. The man laid perfectly still, white face, staring eyes and a silly grin. Beaumont noticed two things. The noble Lord was quite dead and the bedclothes were raised at the middle. Carstairs took a quick, discreet look. Lord Beaumont had died with a permanent erection.
How will they close the coffin lid? Carstairs thought.
For the next week a dark gloom descended over Askley House. The death of Lord Beaumont cast a pall of despondency over any activities and the rumors flying about the county surrounding his Lordship’s demise didn’t help the atmosphere. It became the whispered joke of many that he had been carried away with rigor mortis erectus, as the doctor had entered on the death certificate. To add to the scandal a woman’s bodice was found in his bed and although the Duchess of DeLisy didn’t say anything, she was suspicious about the ownership. Along the stitching and whalebone support was a family crest which looked like that of DeLisy’.
The family was assembled in the drawing room, the Duke and Duchess wearing mourning clothes out of respect for Lord Beaumont. The Duke announced that even though he didn’t know the man that well, he had after all passed his last night under their roof. He wasn’t quite sure why the maid Charlotte giggled when he said that!
“What we need to brighten up the place are some flower displays,” the Duchess said to her husband. “It would be both a mark of respect to Lord Beaumont and a timely hint of cheerfulness in the house.”
“I’ll go down to the walled garden and tell Johnson,” Columbine offered to the Duchess’s surprise. For the last hour her daughter had sat slumped inelegantly in a chair, looking bored and truculent, so this intervention was a relief to be rid of her company for a while.
Beyond the formal gardens of statues, fountains and topiary were the walled gardens of Askley House. Here were grown the vegetables for year-round use, plums and damsons trained on wires close to a wall for warmth, and also flowers for cutting. A team of five gardeners toiled to supply many of the house’s needs and Johnson was one of the under-gardeners whose responsibility was for the chrysanthemums and marigolds, much beloved by the Duchess.
As Lady Columbine strolled through the row of cloches and turned right, she skipped happily into the long greenhouse. In the far corner was an area, enclosed in wooden walls and used as a potting shed. She saw the broad back of Johnson leaning over the benching, busily taking cuttings and de-budding flowers in pots to bring on bigger single blooms.
The other four gardeners were much older, and the head gardener, Arkwright, was, some said, at least seventy-five. Johnson had been a stable boy, then when he reached twenty-one expressed an interest in gardening, so the Duke transferred him to this new work. That was four years ago.
“Hello, Johnson,” she greeted him. He swung around, a lock of black hair falling forward. Instinctively pushing it away, he left a smudge of soil across his forehead. Lady Columbine let her eyes wander over him, his collarless work-shirt undone low down, showing the deepness of his chest, his hands strong, eyes as intense brown as the figs served at the Christmas banquets.
“G’morning, Miss,” Johnson said, his accent thick with the brogue of the local dialect. She noticed the white straight teeth set behind his broad lips. He had a dimple in the center of his chin and a cut just above the left eyebrow.
Her hand went up to the graze and gently stroked it. His eyes reflected the image of her own face. Lady Columbine licked her finger, ran it along his forehead, cleansing the layer of ingrained soil.
“They tell me you are an expert on propagation,” she purred.
“Most of what I touch grows,” he stammered.
Lady Columbine smiled and whispered, “I have that effect as well,” and grasped his crotch in her hand. “Feels like your root is shooting up already,” she smirked, and kissed him tenderly, encouraging Johnson the gardener to lie back on the bench.
He watched her excitedly as she undid his pants, slipped them down, discovering the laborer didn’t wear underwear, and with her hand stroking his shaft leaned over to lightly touch her lips around his bulbous tip.
“What sort of plant do you think I am, Johnson?”
“I don’t know, Miss,” he said, his throat dry and his cock moist.
“I could get on top of you and be a climber,” she pouted, and he sensed her using her unoccupied hand to undo her dress. When it was unbuttoned, Lady Columbine let it slip off, scrambling up on the bench and sitting over his chest.
“Unlace me, Johnson, and find my petal.”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Your hands are leaving dirty marks all over my bodice,” she scolded mockingly, but helped him undo her. She pushed the garment back, exposing her breasts and then knelt up to pull her lace pantaloons down. Then with a delightful little shimmy, crouched down so his cock went straight into her flower. Taking his hands, she placed the big palms on her breasts, leaving him in no doubt she wanted him to treat them roughly. A few minutes of stimulation warmed both of them. He started to groan with pleasure and she rode him hard and fast.
As they came to a climax, Arkwright the head gardener came back to the greenhouse, and stood mesmerized watching the buxom Lady Columbine bouncing up and down on Johnson. He stood transfixed, but there was more to come. The assistant gardener stood up, carrying Lady Columbine with him, turned her face down on the bench, came up behind her and with his large hands around her gorgeously naked rear, screwed the aristocratic cunt until she squealed with satisfaction. 
The funeral of Lord Beaumont was a splendid affair. The Duke and Duchess of DeLisy, with their only daughter, Lady Columbine, attended, and were now back at Askley House.
Tea was served by the butler, Stiffman, helped by one of the maids, Charlotte, and during the light meal, the assistant gardener, Johnson, arrived with a especially cut bouquet of flowers.
As cake was passed around, the Duchess looked over at her husband, then daughter and with a nervous smile, began. “Columbine. Your father and I have something to talk to you about.”
“Yes, mother,” Lady Columbine responded in a desultory manner, almost contemptuously. She sensed another lecture.
“Charles,” Camilla DeLisy prompted her husband. “You tell Columbine.”
The Duke finished eating a large slice of cake and adopted a stern expression. “It seems, Columbine, you have brought disgrace on the family by your conduct.”
Columbine stared at her father, no longer in an obstreperous way.
“You see, Columbine, your…what shall I call it…peculiar behavior has caused some comment.”
“Even the servants have said things,” the Duchess added.
Lady Columbine looked over at Stiffman, beginning to worry that the butler had complained of the amount of times she had frigged his cock or given him a blowjob. His face was passive. But then she knew even in the throes of lust he wasn’t the most demonstrative man she’d given pleasure to.
“Servants at the lowest level,” The Duke put in.
Columbine started to sweat, glared at Charlotte, thinking the maid had snitched on their over exertion with Lord Beaumont–the very late Lord, that was. Or perhaps it was their own hot velvet sessions which had been revealed.
“And in a public place as well,” the Duchess frowned.
Oh no, Lady Columbine felt her heart sink and just knew that bonking the assistant gardener in the greenhouse was now common knowledge. Not to mention her letting old Arkwright spank her naked ass and put his finger in her potting compost!
“Are you listening, Columbine?” the Duke said.
“Yes, father.”
“You realize society is saying you are the girl who has fallen from grace,” the Duchess said, shaking her head. Then standing up went over to her daughter and in soft voice, so the servants couldn’t hear, said, “Fancy wearing blue and yellow feathers in your hat at poor Lord Beaumont’s funeral. Have you no dignity and manners, Columbine?”

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