The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Tick, tock; tick, tock; tick, tock; the steady beat of the mantelpiece clock formed the background to the tedium of Trustram’s afternoon. Dropping the newspaper to the floor he fished for his pocket-watch—an unnecessary action given the presence of the large timepiece on the mantelpiece—three-thirty or thereabouts: still half an hour before tea and, perhaps, crumpet. Trustram smiled thinly at the other meaning of the word. There was not much chance of that! No fillies down for the weekend and the servants (how should he put it?) rather stale: except perhaps the new under-maid but, alas, there was insufficient time for his wiles to have any chance of success with her. Not, certainly, in the very little time now remaining before he departed early Monday morning. Trustram was for foreign parts on active military service.

The newspaper was recovered and Trustram’s eye was caught by a review. ‘The Great Mesmo’ was delighting audiences at the Palladium, bowling them over with his hypnosis act. Trustram did not for one moment believe in the reality of the show but, nonetheless, was amused by the descriptions of members of the audience thinking they were sheep or cats or famous singers. It was greatly diverting, so much so that he was energised enough to walk into the Library to see if there was anything on hypnosis: he was not disappointed.

‘Method Hypnosis’ seemed a little read, if it had ever been opened at all, volume and Trustram settled back in his armchair to read its virgin pages. Perhaps there was something in the idea, he mused, and was absorbed when a knock on the door announced tea and crumpets. Trustram eyes glanced up as the new under-maid set out the tea things. He nodded. The picture was not unpleasing. Severely tied back dark hair, pretty enough face in a common-folk sort of way, goodly bosom, wide hips and, yes, the promise of interest beneath the black and white uniform and lace. Nor were the crumpets unpleasing, dripping as they were with golden creamy butter. Trustram watched the retreating servant girl before returning to his book, tea and, indeed, the buttered crumpets.

Sometime later Trustram looked up from his book and mused. The book was more convincing than he had expected, perhaps indeed the Great Mesmo’s act was not an act but the real thing. It must be entertaining being able to make people do things they would not ordinarily do and not remember a thing about it afterwards. Did perhaps the Great Mesmo use his abilities other than for his act, was he tempted to make improper suggestions to the young, pretty ladies and take advantage of them? Trustram’s good white teeth showed through his lips. It was a pleasing idea.

The tea in the pot was now rather cold. Should he ring for more and an additional hot, buttered crumpet? All he had to do was ring and the new under-maid would come at his beck and call and do his bidding—up to a point, that was. There were things, interesting things, he could not bid her do. But could perhaps method hypnosis take the obedience rather further? Could he get her to loosen the black band around her hair, slip her uniform and lace to the floor and stand with her bosom and, no doubt, dark muff all on display for his delectation and delight? To go about her duties so much more pleasingly attired or rather not attired. He thought of getting her to bring hot water for his bath to his bedroom. Perhaps, alas, with the other servants around she would have to remain dressed as she fetched and carried but then...

Of course normally the servant would be sent away before his disrobing, though he still fondly remembered being bathed by a young governess as a boy, completely unaware at the time of the pleasures that would have given him as a young man. But, he had not forgotten and his imagination had rather embellished the idea over the years.

Indeed, the under-maid could wait on him as he undressed. How pleasant to disrobe and reveal his naked body to her. Would she be shocked; shocked at the sight of his Arbor vitae? Or would the hypnosis allow for no adverse reaction. Would he get her to wash him as his governess had done, yet, unlike the governess, so far as he recalled, getting undressed herself so as not to splash her own clothes with water. Kneeling by the tin bath, her fine bosom swinging as she applied the sponge and the delightful shock when her hand reached under the water and found he was most certainly not the little boy. He smiled as he imagined himself standing to allow her to sponge him the better, his tackle at the ready and his whirlygigs hanging full of mettle above her face. Her look a picture as she carried out her duties and raised the sponge.

The sheer delight of her soapy fingers and the sponge applied. Trustram could not recall but had the young governess soaped his behind when a boy, her fingers running soapily over his fundament? She must have done, and his then boy sized cock.

It would not be long, in his imagination, before he would suggest he bathed the young under-maid. Why not? Why should the young master not perform that duty? More hot water and then Trustram would enjoy looming over her, his tackle all at the ready, almost poking her in the eye! The pleasurable application of the soap to her diddeys, seeing the shock as his fingers found the crinkum-crankum, before laying her on the bed and rodgering her, his bottom rising and falling as he found himself up cock alley and probably a virgin cock alley to boot! It would make his last day or night at the hall rather more memorable.

Trustram fished again in his waistcoat for his pocket watch and his smile slowly spread across his face as he looked at it. He would try method hypnosis on the young girl. If it did not work, nothing was lost, if it worked there would be considerable gain. He undid the chain and swung it lazily in front of his eyes. Would it work? Trustram rang for more tea and an additional hot buttered crumpet.

The sun was getting low on the horizon but the rain had cleared and its light slanted in a washed blue sky through the windowpanes. Trustram had positioned himself in shade but the evening light caught the gold back of the watch and reflected it back at the girl’s face. He could see the reflected spot of light moving to and fro on her face and carefully he aligned it with her eyes, mere dark pools until the light flashed on them one and then the other as the watch swung in an arc before her.

“Look at the watch, follow its movement as it swings to and fro. You do not need to do anything but watch, there is no hurry to run off and do your duties, just relax for a moment, I’ve said you are to rest, it has been a tiring day and it is good to just sit and watch the light go backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards.”

Trustram was pleased at how soothing he was making his voice, saying the sort of things the book had told him to say.

She had not demurred when he had asked her to sit. Her face had not even betrayed the panic he had anticipated. His father, Sir Hew, was a strict disciplinarian. Something the back of his younger day breeches had known only too well. Sir Hew expected obedience from servants but was anything but a tyrant. Soft as butter in the reality but his reputation was fearsome. Servants on the estate certainly knew to do as they were told. The idea of sitting in the young master’s presence should have completely unnerved the young girl. That it did not, he mused, might be down to her inexperience. She was a new addition to the household.

The under maid sat with her hands in her lap. Small hands showing somewhat red from hard work, scrubbing floors and the like, no doubt. Her eyes were downcast in a proper subservient way but there was no fast rising and falling of her bosom denoting panting and panic.

“Look at me.”

The girl raised her head and Trustram was able to examine her face from close to. Beneath her severely tied back dark hair, hazel eyes stared up at him above a small, slightly upturned nose; beneath, her full lips were relaxed with, to one side, a white tooth or two showing, biting at her bottom lip and making the lip redden. It was the one sign of nervousness and it was very attractive. Yes, indeed, the girl was pretty enough, as he had thought, perhaps rather more so now close to. Trustram wondered if she had any experience of men. An illicit tumble in the hay barn perhaps with one of the farm hands and him getting his hands beneath her skirts, perhaps even finding cock alley there. Or, pleasant to think upon, a bit of flat fucking with another maid. He was sure the maids slept two to a bed.

“I wish to try something.”

Was there a momentary widening of eyes? Did she think he was about to touch her?

“Just sit there and look at my watch.”

His voice had begun and gone on in a soothing way. Trustram was not a man lost for words. A necessary attribute in the officers’ mess and with the men. The girl’s hazel eyes had followed the watch backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, the light flashing in such a regular way. Trustram’s soothing voice went on and on until:

“Are you feeling sleepy?”

The reply had been a trifle slurred, just a “yes, sir” but drawn out. It was just as the book said. Exactly as the book said.

“Keep listening to my voice but go to sleep. Go to sleep.”

The girl’s eyes closed and her head lolled forward a little. Trustram sat looking at the steady rise and fall of the under maid’s bosom wondering what delights were hidden beneath the black and white uniform and lace. It seemed as if The Great Mesmo’s act was not a fake and ‘Method Hypnosis’ was the genuine article. It also seemed the remainder of the day might lack the tedium of the early afternoon!

He had not asked what she was called. He might have heard it but it had not imprinted itself on his brain. That lapse was not something his father would have failed to do. He was punctilious in ensuring he knew all about his servants and their welfare. It was a thing to admire and an approach Trustram tried to adopt with his men.

“What is your name?” It was as good a first question as any. Her head raised itself a little but her features were blank as if she was unconscious or asleep.

“Mary, sir, Mary Woollen.” That was good. She was answering questions but was it really involuntary. Was she really hypnotised?

“Do you like it here? You must answer truthfully.”

“Yes, sir, only I miss me mum and pa something dreadful and Billy.”

“Billy?”

“My sweetheart, sir.”

“Has he kissed you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Has he placed his hand on your bosom?”

Was there a momentary hesitation? “Yes, sir.”

This was interesting, very interesting. Had this Billy done more?

“Has Billy touched you between your thighs?”

There was the hint of a smile as if the recollection was bubbling up inside her.

“Yes, sir.”

“You liked that?”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“Has he gone rather further, has he docked you?”

“Oh no, sir, nothin’ like that. Me madge’s just had his fingers, nothin’ more.”

It was all going so very well. Trustram was delighted. The idea of young Billy’s fingers in her crinkum-crankum was giving him a most pleasant cock-stand.

“And how have you made your Billy happy?”

“I tried in many ways, sir, I do hopes he has not forgot me. I so wants to hold his whirlygigs again.”

Trustram leant forward, “And fetch the mettle?”

“Yes, yes, sir, I so likes to see that. White as snow, all running.” The girl slowly licked her lips.

“Do you,” Trustram paused, his questioning was becoming very deep, “do you drink from the spring?” A nice allusion. Did they go gamahuching?

As he expected, he did not think her young swain would have been backward in his advances.

“Yes, I lets him spend in me mouth.”

“You must miss your tumbling with young Billy.”

“I gets the green sickness some’it rotten, sir.”

Trustram smiled, the supposed disease of young celibate girls. He knew what a good doctor should prescribe!

“Have you the symptoms now?”

“A little, sir.”

“I expect it is getting worse. You are thinking of Billy. Billy in the hay barn or Billy in the meadow. He has perhaps been swimming in the river...”

“He can’t do swimming, sir.”

“Bathing then. The sun is high in the sky, it is a lovely day and you and he have all the time in the world. You are at leisure. He sits with you and there is his lobcock all there on his thigh. He has a large willy does he not? ”

“I thinks so, sir.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

Lovely to see the girl with her eyes closed opening her mouth, a hint of fine white teeth but her lips forming a round shape, her tongue moistening.

“You want to suck, don’t you?”

Mary’s head nodded firmly. The emphasis had been on the ‘you want to suck,’ it had been a command

“I’ll pretend to be Billy, sliding my hand up your thigh whilst you suck. His willy is before you. You will like the feeling of my hand.”

There was nothing of the lobcock about Trustram’s arbor vitae. No longer was it a little filled with blood, large but relaxed, the lobcock indeed—it was as if piss proud now, straining to be released..

The girl’s mouth was open and moving as if attaching itself to Billy’s erect organ. Trustram’s hand touched the girl’s knee and lifted the hem of the black dress preparatory to slipping it within to delve amongst petticoats. There was not the slightest resistance to his moving hand. The girl’s head was rocking back and forth and within her open mouth he could see her little pink tongue moving as if it was stroking the smooth skin of Billy’s knob end. The young farm hand had been a lucky lad but Trustram was now in the chair.

The girl shivered as his hand advanced, feeling for the young girl’s bare skin and then touching her knee. This was much more what he had needed that afternoon. So much what he needed before his departure on the morrow. Trustram’s hand began its ascent of her so smooth thighs. Thighs that parted—for Billy, not for him.

Mary was not wearing under-drawers!

The excitement of touching her private hair, that pleasant pasture the young lasses possess. A ground that grows at first as a few tentative fine shoots, like grass seed newly sown and, as the girl grows, turns into lush, strong growth covering her Mound of Venus and edging the narrow pathway down into the moist hidden dell. The hair Trustram felt was already grown thick and luxuriant and had that fresh springiness of good turf. His fingers patted the hair, feeling it push back against him.

He looked up and the girl’s mouth was still moving as if on a penis, her eyes tight shut. Such a sight!

Trustram delved further, his fingers sliding down the little valley of her mound, down under her legs. He felt a delightful slippery moistness. Her sex, when he reached it was soft and slippery, so like pushing his fingers into a hot buttery crumpet simply oozing with melted butter. His fingers moved, exploring the secrets of the young servant.

“Can you feel Billy’s hand touching your privates?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is it good?”

“Oh yes, sir, I am feeling all a-tremble, me cunny’s all a-dripping.”

“You want to suck again don’t you. I am here, the young master is here. You want to serve me too, suck my staff, do your duty. It is good medicine for the green sickness. Tell me what do you want to do?”

“I wants to suck your willy something rotten, sir, and take the good medicine.”

Trustram stood. Always a pleasure to reveal himself in the company of young women. His penis fine and strong. Trustram released his man, Thomas, out into the open, right in front of young Mary Woollen’s face. Such a pretty little face, her skin a little browned from the sun. Not as innocent as she looked. Seemingly a maid but Trustram’s penis was not the first to have stood before her or entered between those pretty lips. The lips were waiting, nicely parted in an oval. He knew when he touched they would open wide and slip forward, feeling for him and grasping. She knew the game. With her eyes closed she could not see his mettle was already rising, that his knob was ready moistened with a thin, clear stream running from his piss hole.

He pushed forward, his already sticky knob touching Mary’s lips. They opened and slid and Trustram’s penis was in the young servant girl’s mouth. He looked up and out through the window, across the brilliant emerald of the lawn towards the stone gatehouse. Over the other side of the lawn old Bradshaw the gardener was hoeing. As Trustram looked the old man raised his head and evidently saw the young master standing looking out. The low evening sun no doubt illuminating him. Trustram raised his hand and the old man doffed his cap. He could not, of course, see what Trustram was doing, the high back of the chair in which Mary was sitting both obscuring his cock and Mary’s head.

Trustram returned his gaze to the young girl. He had often thought a girl never looked prettier than when she had a penis between her lips. There was something so right about how the arbor vitae fitted as well into a mouth as into a quim or, indeed, though he was not really a back gammon player, a girl’s arse—the windward passage!

The feeling of her lips sliding was excellent. There was absolutely no chance of his strength failing him. His mettle would come—and perhaps too soon. Trustram pulled away, his knob came dripping from the girl but she only leant forward and sucked it in. What a first rate wench, a real bobtail!

It was a game, a most delightful game. A game old Bradshaw could not have imagined being played there inside the house. Trustram pulled his cock away and Mary sought it out with her mouth, he pushing it against her cheek, even in her ear so her seeking lips could not easily catch it—yet catch it they did and held on with both a sucking and a clamping of warm, soft lips. It was a great game.

He was delighted with the success of the hypnosis. A pretty girl playing games with his willy, all smiles and laughter—so rude! Lovely to see the juxtaposition of mouth and strongly erect penis. He was leaking freely and could see it caught wetly upon her face: cheek, chin, nose and lips. Trustram had a great desire to spend and see his piss hole producing generous gobbets of mucilage all over her pretty face. That delightful release, that rising and falling of the ballocks as a man spent: alas too soon completed. Buttering her face indeed!

But he had a greater desire to unburden within her mouth.

He did not release too soon but, as the gardener worked outside, Trustram enjoyed the game with the girl and his cock for a goodly time. She seeming to try and make his spend: he to hold back and revel in the pleasure.

So pleasurable to not only feel but to watch when it finally happened. The girl’s eyes looking up at him, her lips so spread around his pole, sliding too and fro as he spent in her mouth. She had learnt well with Billy—that tongue, that tongue!

Trustram looked up. Still old Bradshaw was at work, little knowing the young master had just had the most enjoyable suck. He did not move, just letting himself subside within her mouth.

She had taken the good medicine, the medicine for the green sickness. Trustram pulled, and his soft willy, no longer at cock-stand, came out from between the girl’s lips.

She might have been a virgin. There was certainly no barrier he had felt, there would be no barrier to his pego’s later inward journey. And making that journey up cock alley was exactly what he planned to do before his night’s rest. He needed not just a suck but a fuck. He needed, before he sent the girl on her way, to arrange his evening’s entertainment.

“Mary, you’ve been a very good girl. I am so pleased with you.”

The lips that had so recently been so busy, smiled in pleasure. Her tongue slid across her lips.

“You will come to my bed tonight. How will you do that undiscovered?”

“Martha, she I sleeps with in one bed, she do sleep like a log,” there was a giggle, “and a hog. Once I hears her snoring there’s no awaking her ’til morn. I can come then.”

“Good. You are a good girl, Mary. You will come to me bed and do as I tell you. As you come, secretly through the house, to me you will think of Billy and the green sickness will come again. Your little cunny will be as wet as this.” Once more Trustram delved, feeling the warm wetness—her buttery crumpet. Now, you will wake but not forget what I have told you to do. You can go about your duties but will come to me tonight and do your duty to the young master. You understand?

“Yes, sir.”

Trustram tucked away his willy and twin tarrywags and smoothed down the girl’s petticoats and skirt.

“You will stand, wake fully and take away the tea things,” he stepped away, “now.”

The girl stood, blinked a few times and turned for the tea cup and plate. The further buttered crumpet untouched on the plate. Trustram had found a different hot morsel which had been very much to his liking: that had not gone cold. The girl turned, tray in hand, curtseyed before leaving the room. Trustram threw himself down in his chair and picked up his discarded newspaper. It had all gone very well. His afternoon had considerable brightened and there was the prospect of a decent tumble later on before sleep.

The knock on his door came late that night. Trustram had been sure Mary would come, his command had been clear.

The curtsey was to be expected even in the coarse linen of her nightgown.

“Good evening, Mary. Is Martha sleeping soundly?”

“Oh, yes sir. I made sure of tha’, I knows what sends her to sleep.”

“Oh?”

The young maid was blushing. “She likes her quim stroked, sir, until she’s all a tremble.”

“Mary, your hands.”

Trustram bent and brought his nostrils close to Mary’s hands. The scent was strong and invigorating. The heady scent of a woman’s quim. He had not dallied with Martha. He did not know her scent. He did now.

Martha was a rather earthy, course sort, not unhandsome in her way. His father had expressed surprise she had not been spoken for a few years back. Older than Trustram but he would not have been averse to wiling away an afternoon or night with her. There was plenty of meat on her body and she would have done at a pinch. Trustram had not lain with her but that did not mean he had not seen her naked, though he had not before smelt her scent.

It had been many years ago that he had seen her unclothed. A delightfully warm and sunny afternoon had taken Trustram to the woods. He had been up with the dawn hunting and was digesting a rather fine luncheon when he had espied Martha through the trees. It had been a game to hunt her without being seen and she did not see or have any inkling that her young master was close at hand when she chose to bathe in the river.

To the young Trustram the scene had been a revelation about women and what they hid beneath their clothing. Close by Trustram had watched the disrobing becoming more and more excited. Had watched the white bottom and back of the girl wading in and been absolutely entranced by the sight when she turned towards him of ample bubbies, rounded stomach and the way the skin flowed downwards with no protrusion such as men have but, yet, a triangle of hair.

Trustram brought his hard penis out from his breeches and watched the bathing girl whilst he stroked himself. Such a pleasure to watch: such a pleasure to feel the sensations from his sliding skin. When the girl rose from the water and walked out and back to her clothes Trustram froze so movement did not betray him. That prevented his spending whilst observing her naked. He had almost done that several times whilst watching but had held back, not wishing to release whilst still able to observe her naked, thereby missing his chance. The now dressed Martha passed quite close to him but did not see him—did not see the lad with his hard pego exposed.

Trustram had stood and walked to the river bank with his cock still hard and still protruding from his breeches and looked down at where Martha had been bathing. Removing his own clothing Trustram had stepped into the water but unlike Martha had swum. Rising again any observer would have seen his arbor vitae not one bit diminished by the cool water. The mettle needed spending. Standing in the water Trustram applied himself imagining what he would love to have done to Martha there as she bathed—and that would have meant the fountain of semen would not have been seen at all! As it was any hidden wench—though there were none—would have seen the most impressive spurting out from a not unimpressive cock attached to a well built and naked young man.

It had been a good spend and Trustram could remember it even now. In his bedchamber with Mary, his cock was no less firm than it had been on that day. It was clear to him that the hypnosis still worked. She had come to his bedchamber as instructed, had seen Martha asleep—indeed had helped Martha sleep and seemed unfazed by the very clear tenting of his nightshirt. A pull on that and it was over his head and he looked, though Mary would not know it, as he had done that day in the river. A proud, upstanding, still young man used to command.

“Oh, sir,” she said. Her eyes had been on the tenting: they were now on what was revealed. If the truth be told, Mary had a liking for young men in uniform, as most young woman do. She was looking forward to seeing the young master in his regimentals the very next day proudly seated on his horse. In a way he looked no less military now—certainly he bore a substantial ‘weapon’, a spear or lance.

Trustram reached and lifted the girl’s nightdress up and off her so that they faced each other in nature’s way. He was tempted to crush her to him, feel the press of her breasts against his chest and the warmth of her thighs against his cock. Instead he reached and pushed down on her head, gently forcing her to her knees, though there was not much force needed, bringing her face to face with his arbor vitae. She was a mere servant, after all, it was right she should kneel and suck. Again the pleasure of her seeking, sucking, soft lips on his staff. The urge to just let her do that until, once again, he felt his ballocks rise and the mettle release, was strong.

It was not so much a valet a man needed as a young girl to tend to his pego, keep it in trim with good old spit and polish and suck it dry as required.

Trustram raised the young servant up again. Her lips were wet from her sucking. He bent and kissed them and her tongue responded entering his own mouth. Evidently in her mind she was thinking of Billy. He pulled back the bedclothes and eased her with him onto the bed. It was good to feel his fleshy spike against the softness of her stomach.

“I’s never been in a bed likes this one, sir, it’s so soft and big.”

Trustram smiled as he looked at her pretty face, “and what about my pego, Mary, nothing soft about that?”

“No, sir, big and hard as we women like them.”

He was not so sure about the ‘women,’ she was but a girl.

Her hand sought and held. She squeezed and then began to stroke moving the mobile skin. Trustram watched her little white hand. He could feel the callouses catching at his delicate skin. She was a servant girl, used to hard work, not one of his sisters’ friends with their delicate hands. Not that he had felt them upon his pego, alas! Annabelle and Christine De Mons were twins and more than once he had enjoyed thinking of them together in that role: the role of handmaidens! Such delicate hands and hidden white bubbies—bubbies he would so like to spend upon! Not that he would not enjoy taking them properly but what would his sisters have said to that if they found out! He watched Mary’s hand at work thinking both of the De Mons twins and her. It was very pleasant.

His lips sought her bubbies and her nipples. It was joyous to hear her sigh as she, no doubt, had done when Billy sucked.

“Has the green sickness come Mary?”

“Oh yes, sir, as it does whenevers I think of me Billy.”

It was good to see her thighs part, it was good to touch and feel once again the springiness of her turf. His fingers delved. The girl was as wet as a river!

“That’s nice, sir.”

Trustram drew his fingers back. He had touched enough to establish the wetness of the girl. “Moisten me.”

It was delicious lying back and watching the dark haired servant girl alternately dipping her fingers between her thighs and dripping and stroking her wetness onto his pego making it shine in the candle light. It was obvious she was finding the touching of herself pleasurable. A continuation, no doubt, of her romp with Martha. Her fingers wetted his whirligigs as well.

What a pleasure to have a naked servant girl playing with his tackle and clearly taking such pleasure in the fondling and stroking. Clearly enjoying wetting him with her own oil. The girl was up for it—he could see that from the amount of liquid she had transferred from him and the way she played with herself with one hand and he with the other.

Trustram did not ask but again the girl’s mouth descended. She was licking her wetness on his pego, perhaps as she had been licking Martha’s wetness if not minutes ago, then on other days. To his mind came the idea of the DeMons twins not actually licking each other but licking and sucking his Nebuchadnezzar as he alternately plugged and then removed it from their cunnies. Sucking their sister’s wetness rather than their own. Which would receive his mucilage? Would it be cunnie or mouth? With a whole day it could be all four places. And why not young Mary serving them all, perhaps daintily wiping his pego on a napkin before he sank it again into Annabelle or Christine.

The prospect of sinking it in a cunnie was becoming an increasing need. Trustram pulled his bell end from Mary’s mouth. He had filled her mouth during the afternoon: he had other plans for the night. The excited servant girl’s hands just would not leave his pego alone. Such a pleasure to see her so smitten with the green sickness, so ready to be taken.

“Young Billy has not yet had you on your back?”

“I’m a virgin, sir.”

“Open and let me see.”

Holding the candle close to the girl’s spread thighs Trustram’s white teeth showed in a grin of delight. Betwixt the black curls, the girl’s notch showed so swollen and wet. He could easily discern the dark entrance. It would be so warm and wet. Such a pleasant grotto for a man to enter. What could be more comfortable! To ease his gaying instrument within, hold it and then begin that delicious movement. Trustram had spent mettle that afternoon, his second spending would taken a little time. He was hardly in a hurry! It would be so pleasant just to stroke. Pleasant for them both.

Would there be an obstruction—a physical maidenhead? He had felt nothing that afternoon but his pego felt strong enough to piece a fleshy barrier however defensive.

“It will make it easier for Billy—next time.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lucky Billy to have so many chances whilst Trustram needed to leave for his regiment the next day. Perhaps when he returned? Perhaps Billy and she might then be married. Trustram would not mind a married lass, perhaps even swollen with child.

Trustram loomed over the girl. The candle, now replaced beside the bed, showed shadows on the wall. An exaggeratedly large Trustram over Mary on the bed. An exaggerated Trustram and cock to match. It felt large. It felt good as its very tip touched the girl. An easy push—did Mary perhaps push up at him—and he was lodged, knob within, shaft without.

Trustram eased inwards and the connection between man and woman was fully made, the fleshy spike reaching far up inside the woman’s body. There had been no obstruction. Trustram had slipped in as easily as a knife into butter.

“Oh, sir. I do so likes that.”

She liked it the more when Trustram began to move, his cock sliding easily in its soft, wet, embrace. He did a lot of moving, the bed creaked as the young girl brought her feet up over his back and pulled him to her. She shuddered twice before, finally, he released within her. His mettle released in spurts deep in her body. Too soon, of course, but, nonetheless, it had been a long fuck.

Trustram eased himself backwards and off the girl. By the light of the single candle he could see her crinkum-crankum. Not a hint of blood, no evidence of the virgin but his mettle was there at the entrance to cock alley. Her crumpet had been well and truly buttered. Buttered with the best butter. Trustram was from a good family!

A hot, buttered crumpet—and just like those of his long afternoon, it really did look good enough to eat. It seemed a pity to waste it, to leave it to get cold as he had that final crumpet of the afternoon. Trustram bent his head.

“Oh, sir!”

It was not quite his ordinary choice of fare. He liked his crumpet buttered: not spread with cream! He went gamahuching nonetheless.

Trustram stood naked at his window looking out over the grounds stretching away from him in the moonlight, behind him the servant girl, Mary, seemingly asleep in his bed. He would have to ensure her return by day break, indeed perhaps best before the early hours: he would have to wake her. Her body, half covered by a sheet looked so perfect by moonlight. White as snow and as softly curved as fallen snow across the ground, but hardly cold, hardly ice cold, rather the antithesis of snow—warm and alive. He touched his cock, took it in hand. It was soft, still wet and sticky from his bout with the young servant, and unresponsive. Soft and floppy, not even the lobcock, half firm and big. Trustram pulled upon it wishing it to harden so he could spend again on the girl’s sleeping form.

Capt. Haight claimed to be able to get a cock stand again within minutes: not that any of the other officers had seen enough to verify his claim. Trustram wished he could do the same.

A military man, Trustram was used to making decisions and being decisive. He was going to spend again that night. There would be a second bout. Never before had he left his bedroom stark naked, never before had he descended the stairs like that or gone out into the grounds. He felt exhilarated as he stepped out onto the lawn and began to run. A military man used to long riding and fitness he knew he could run for miles if he needed to. Trustram was sure the exercise would restore his vigour, his sexual prowess, the quicker.

There was something different about feeling his willy and ballocks all over the place as he ran. A feeling of unrestraint. Perhaps like the naked Hottentots or Bushmen that he would, no doubt, see on his African posting. No doubt they ran whilst hunting, their manliness flying free.

He was half erect on his return—the ‘lobcock’ indeed! The exhilaration of the exercise and the unaccustomed freedom for his cock coupled with the prospect of naked Mary on his bed had produced the result he sought.

She was where he had left her, sleeping soundly. He looked down at the sheet covered form. There was no mistaking its femininity, nor the effect it had on him. As he stood there his manliness fully returned and there was no longer any softness about his arbor vitae. It was standing proudly and ready for action, his sword drawn and ready to stab soft flesh. A most military bearing! Lovely to look down and enjoy the delights of the young servant. His father would, most definitely, not approve. Trustram drew back the sheet and gazed upon the girl entire. Surely not even his father would be unmoved by the sight? Could the old boy still make a stand? Would he not like to creep silently up to the girl and stare, feel all lickerish and, even if his old rod was not what it was, surely it would still rise. Surely he would stand there whilst stroking his man staff? Would he not like to do what Trustram was about to do.

“Mary.”

“Whaaa… oh, sir!”

Through her barely opened eyes she could see what he was presenting to her. Perhaps she would have been the more pleased had he brought young Billy to her and she opened her eyes to find not one but two strong staves presented to her: but she seemed not annoyed one bit to be woken from her slumber.

Mary roused herself up at first onto her elbows and then leant towards him so that, once more, like the good servant girl she was, she sucked on her young master’s cock, a good preparatory task before joining giblets once more. It proved an even longer fuck than the first. A fuck by moonlight in the deep of the night. The bed creaked for a long time.

When his spending was done, Trustram did not permit Mary to sleep again in his bed but sent her back to Martha with an injunction to forget. To forget he had dallied with her that afternoon and to forget he had fucked her twice that night, to forget she was no longer a virgin, to forget all of it once she reached her bed.

Trustram patted her bare behind and delighted in her naked curtsey as she left his bedchamber with her nightdress over her arm. Had some of his mucilage actually dripped from her as she curtsied? He watched her retreating bottom as she disappeared into the dark of the house. He had enjoyed his afternoon, evening and night with young Mary. A fine young wench. A shame he was not tarrying the longer but he was under orders. He would pack ‘Method Hypnosis’ in his saddle bag on the morrow.

Trustram made his goodbyes to his father and mother in the lichen encrusted stone porch of the old house and stepped out to the waiting dark brown horse held ready. His military coat brushed, the metal shining bright. He shook the old man’s hand and kissed his mother and sisters. All the servants and the men and women of the home farm had turned out and were lining the gravelled drive down to the lane. Even the little girls and boys were there. Sitting high in his saddle, ram rod straight, Trustram drew his sabre from its sheath and saluted them. The children screamed in delight at the display of military drill. It was not something his commanding officer would have approved, but humouring the children would very much draw his father’s approval.

Trustram sheathed the sabre and kicked the horse into a walk nodding from side to side at his father’s people. He knew his father would approve. His eye caught Mary Woollen’s pretty face and there was an unmistakable wink on her part. The minx! It was not at all that something was in her eye: that it was a genuine wink was unmistakable.

The horse and rider advanced towards the gate. Trustram did not look back but rode with the thought of Mary naked on his bed and that wink in his mind. The minx! Had there been no hypnosis after all? Had ‘Method Hypnosis’ not worked? Had she been playing him along all the time? If so she had done it very well indeed. A cockish wench!

It had certainly been a good bout with the young maid. Trustram rode easily down the lane as his thoughts went back to the afternoon and evening of the day before. Pleasant thoughts and regret there had been not a few more days to join giblets some more, place his toad in her hole and, perhaps, taste her hot buttered crumpet once again.