Stately home, sound spanking
April 8th, 2009 | Author: Zille
Abel and Haron often visit castles and stately homes and fantasize about the spankings which must have (or which might in the future, if they have anything to do with it!) happened in various locations in the building.
Since my Master and I live in the U.S., we have less opportunity for “stately home visits,” (yet another way the U.K. is superior, I try to explain to my Master, so he will move back there and take me with him!) but last Sunday, driving home from our friend’s wedding, we suddenly decided to visit a “water alter” that was on the lovely road we were cruising in the Sunday afternoon sun. Well, we didn’t quite get to the fancy water-works, because we found “an historic site of the National Trust for Historic Preservation,” thought it was what we were looking for, bought tickets, and then discovered it was actually a “stately home and garden.”
Well, that was fine, because we had a camera, so we took flower pictures for a while, and then, when the sun was getting to us a bit, we headed into the house to see what was there.
Wow. This was a serious old-style mansion/manor house, with drawing rooms and dining rooms and pantries and kitchens (and dumb waiter!) and ball-room. We wandered around in ever-increasing delight, until we found ourselves in the study. The wood panelled walls, and the solid, masculine writing desk, and leather-covered chair put us both in a tizzy, and when we met each other’s eyes in erotic delight, we knew exactly what the other was thinking. We inspected the liquor and wine closets (behind hidden doors in the wall) and my Master whispered that if I’d been bad, I’d be locked in there, and I suddenly felt the inseam of my trousers very acutely!
Next was the library, and the wonderful wooden library steps pulled us over to them. My Master pointed out how he would have bent me over them, and I replied, “Oh! And then strapped, me, right Sir?!” and our eyes were glowing, and we just wanted everyone to be gone, the house to be closed with us left in it, and for my Master to have with him a full compliment of period implements of chastisement and discipline! (I wouldn’t have minded period — 1900-1920’s that is — outfits, just to add to the fun…!)
When we got home we were pretty exhausted from a weekend with little sleep, and lots of partying, so a nap was in order! But as soon as we roused from our late afternoon “disco nap,” his cock was hard, and soon I was astride him, moving faster and faster as we talked about the study and the library of that house, about me bent over the desk or the library steps, and him using the strap or the cane mercilessly upon my bottom….
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I love “getting in touch” with the past through old things such as furniture, houses, clothing, and even headstones in ancient graveyards. Its fun to imagine, when looking at a sturdy, ornately carved wooden chair, all the bottoms that might’ve been bared and spanked to a blazing hue by the stern masters of the house who sat in it, one after the other, each possibly lording over succeeding generations. Or to peer back through the mists of time at all the naughty lasses, vigorously rubbing away the sting or forced to endure without touching, as they stand in an oddly empty corner, the stone walls spurning their tears and mockingly echoing their whimpers, century upon century.
Though it’s harder to do when preoccupied by the demands of driving, I find myself entering a sort of “temporal empathy” whenever I pass a particularly striking or otherwise interesting old house, observing and sometimes even stepping into the lives of people who might once have lived in them. Perhaps a quaint farmhouse with a well-worn path to the woodshed, and a barn where a girl might’ve found her overalls taken to the floor and been thoroughly spanked in full view of the cows she was indifferently milking. Maybe an otherwise innocuous cottage in the woods, where an adult child lived with her parents, still subject to their discipline and other limitations of an enforced childhood. Then there are the rare houses which sit as if waiting, ominously, shedding time like falling rain. Until the day when the floorboards on the porch suddenly fall away, dropping an unsuspecting young salesgirl into a dungeon, like Alice down a *different* sort of rabbit hole, where she’s stripped, bound, and driven to near insanity by undreamt-of carnal sensations inflicted by an unseen but irresistible presence.
I used to pass through a picturesque town in South Carolina, which was filled with both stately and relatively modest Victorian-style homes on oak-shaded lanes; every one a story in itself. Sadly, the place has since been eviscerated by an Interstate, but the memories of the houses I saw – and what might gone on inside over the decades – remain.
Wow, ^Mike, what an amazing comment! Thank you so much for coming by and sharing that!!!