Jimmy and Mabel
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Miss Mabel free porn video
This is my first attempt to write erotic fiction. It seemed natural to me to give my tale specific locations, Loughborough, Leicester and North London, and a specific time-frame, the 1850’s. I hope my tale gives pleasure, despite being so far removed from most stories on Literotica. Please bear with it. Almost all the characters are made up, but two, Alderman Biggs and William Perkin lived real lives. Much to my regret I totally lost touch with my first volunteer editor when my computer ingested its hard drive and spat out the bits. All I can now remember is that his name was Ed. (Ed. if you remember me, please get in touch) I am indebted to him and, for their generous help, to my more recent editors, Creative Talent and LustyMadame. I made use of their advice and suggestions, but, of course the end result (w.a.f) is my own.
Miss Mabel
i. Caught in the act
My name is Arthur Cowell and this is my story. Most people have no story at all. They live and die unnoticed, even by their neighbours. Some, like the brave soldiers of the peninsula, have many stories. Sergeant Coxon, who sits, tankard in hand, evening after evening in the snug at the Dun Cow is one of those who has outlived a myriad of adventures. Some, like me, have but one story, but one that will live in their hearts until the day they die.
I was born in 1834 in the village of Burbage, near Hinckley in Leicestershire. Although only a village lad, the elder son of a poor framework knitter, I had the inestimable privilege of being educated at grammar school at the expense of my generous patron Alderman Biggs of Leicester. I received this munificent gift, not by any merit of my own, (as I fear that this narrative will amply show), but because of my late father’s reputation as a man of shining probity and loving-kindness and a devout and eloquent Unitarian elder. Our beloved pastor, Henry Saltmarsh of Hinckley was as poor as he was generous. After my father’s sad passing, leaving a widow and three children, Pastor Saltmarsh commended us to Alderman Biggs of Leicester, one of the leaders of Unitarianism in our area.
My older sister had married a railwayman and lived nearby with her little daughter. The Alderman helped my younger sister to get a place in service with a kindly family and gave my mother a small pension of ten shillings a week. I was eleven years of age at that time, just ready to leave school and work as a bobbin-winder, but when he was consulted, the master at our National school in Burbage spoke very highly of me as a scholar, and gave it as his opinion that I was the cleverest boy at number work he had ever taught, and Alderman Biggs used his influence to get me a place at Grammar school, and paid the fees. My young brother Ceddie, who, sadly, showed no talent or aptitude, remained with my mother, and was later apprenticed to a glover. It was my pleasure and privilege, as time went by, to assist them both to a reasonable standard of comfort, and to enable my mother to stay in her own home until the day she died.
So it transpired that a few months after my father died, I found myself lodging in Great Wigston, with a family much like my own, and attending the Wyggeston grammar School. I had a struggle to catch up with my form-mates, but I worked hard and had an excellent, retentive memory, so that even the dreaded Latin became intelligible in time. Four years later, I left school and took the job of office boy in a branch of the Midland counties bank.
***
I begin my story in early May 1858, when I was twenty-five years of age. One morning I was summoned from my desk at in the Loughborough branch bank in the Marketplace, to see the Chief Cashier at the Leicester office. Of course I searched my conscience to see what I had done wrong — but nothing more than the most trivial of sins came to mind. I am one of those happy people for whom columns of numbers dance intricate and beautiful dances, and so, work in a bank was my idea of heaven. The bank at Loughborough was a happy place for me, as I had found there a real friend and mentor, the branch cashier Frank Dennis.
At Leicester I found I was not on the carpet. Rather, I was offered a handsome promotion to a post in the new London office, at Holborn, in central London. This was a wonderful opportunity for someone like myself, born without wealth, position or connections. I had only once been to London – a huge and terrifying place — but offers like this come only once. Accordingly, in the last days of May I bade a sad farewell to my mother and family, and, privately, to my sweetheart Jessie, and took a railway train for only the second time in my life, the Midland Railway to St. Pancras station.
On my arrival at the Holborn offices, I reported to my new senior, a huge towering Lancashire man, Mr Ollerenshaw. He welcomed me and told me to report at 8 sharp on Monday. This being Friday afternoon, I had perfect freedom for a long weekend. Mr Ollerenshaw’s assistant had given me the address of some suitable accommodation, very respectable lodgings in Boscastle Street, a fifteen-minute walk away off Kingsway. Little could I have know as I made my way there through unfamiliar streets that this house was to be the scene of some of the most thrilling moments of my life, and the place where I was to find my life’s partner.
14 Boscastle Street I found to be a handsome, four-story, stuccoed house, with a railed area below from which came sounds of cheerful chatter and the smell of cooking. I went up the steps to the front door and rang the bell, to be greeted by my future landlady Mrs Bissell. She was a stout, florid, handsome, motherly woman, showing signs of former beauty and also of former affluence. I later learned that her late husband had been a merchant, apparently prosperous, in the Levantine trade, an importer of currants from Smyrna and mastic from Chios. Alas, when he had died suddenly the extent of his debts was revealed. His widow found herself in straitened circumstances, and forced to take in paying guests.
Mrs Bissell introduced me to her sister, Miss Harriet, and showed me to the room she had designated for me, subject to mutual approval. I was delighted. With its handsome marble-topped washstand, large mahogany chest and wardrobe, and huge, soft feather bed, the room seemed palatial compared with my little attic room at home. Over the mantle, with its small cast-iron fire-grate (lit only in cases of illness in bleakest midwinter), stood a pair of pink lustre candlesticks. Above them two drab, browning oil paintings of highland cattle in the rain recalled to me the Queen and the late Price Regent’s relentless promotion of the Highlands. Why, I wondered for the thousandth time, was art so often drab and dispiriting? Why couldn’t more paintings be full of life and vitality like Mr Frith’s wonderful ‘Derby Day’, that I had stared at, enchanted, in Leicester Art Gallery?
The terms for half-board were high, but well within my means, and I could see that I could be comfortable and happy there. My pleasure was increased when I discovered that, apart from Mrs Bissell and her sister, the only other residents above-stairs were her two pretty daughters, Miss Mabel and Miss Emily, and two elderly ladies who were paying guests. I was the only adult male in the house, a situation I was well used to and of which I knew the advantages well.
Mrs Bissell told me that hot water would be brought to my room at a quarter past six each morning, and breakfast would be at a half past six. Evening meals on weekdays would be at half past seven, but that allowances would be made if I were kept late at work. On Saturday, usually my half-day, and Sunday dinner would be at half past one, after church, with high-tea at six. This was all a far cry from the poverty of my childhood, with my parents snatching a hurried slice of bread and a mug of mock coffee, made from burned crusts as they sat at their work, but I had some indirect knowledge, as most of the boys I had known at grammar sch
ool had spoken as if these regular mealtimes were universal.
On Monday morning I started work, at the impressive new Portland stone bank building, heated throughout by hot radiators, with wonders such as a passenger lift (made in Leicester I was delighted to see). No more winter days in an icy room heated only by a tiny coal fire, with me as the junior having to provide the kindling (the older men provided the coal), clean the grate in the mornings and feed the fire through the day. In the Loughborough branch counting house, the fire was obscured on many a winter’s day by the drying coats of the men and boys, smelling strongly and unpleasantly of sheep. Here there was, of all things, a drying room with a radiator for our use on rainy days.
I discovered that my work concerned overseas receipts and payments, an area of work totally new to me, and of never-ending fascination. Seldom could a young man have been happier in his work. Mrs Bissell’s forbearance over evening meals was amply tested, as I was seldom able to leave Holborn before seven — and sometimes much later. Thus began some of the happiest years of my working life, but enough now about my work.
I have said little of my landlady’s two daughters, but now they come to the centre of the stage. Miss Mabel, the older, was around nineteen, and Miss Emily eighteen months younger, had just celebrated her eighteenth birthday. They were fair, pretty, buxom, cheerful girls, always neatly and becomingly garbed, their hair dressed neatly in bunches of ringlets in the latest style. They chattered endlessly over meals, and whispered and giggled together behind their hands. Having two sisters of my own, I was accustomed to the company of girls, and enjoyed it. I made little jokes and teased them gently. They seemed to like me in return, so we became friends very quickly. My work tended to keep me late, and so it was unusual for me to leave the office at six sharp, and stroll home amid the crowds of shoppers. A week or so later, when the opportunity arrived to get away at six, I took full advantage. When I arrived at my lodgings the front door was open and Ellen, the maid-of-all-work was flirting with the postman who was just making his final delivery of the day. As I climbed the stairs I could see the door of my room ajar, and hear girlish giggling within. I pushed open the door and there, sitting on the bed were Mabel and Emily. To my shock and fury I saw that they were reading my sweetheart’s rather warm and affectionate letters.
Seeing me the girls coloured crimson, and sat open-mouthed with horror. I was home a good hour early, and had caught them in a most compromising situation. They stared for a long moment, then, together, they burst into tears, flung down the letters and ran from the room. I sat down myself on the bed, scarcely able to contain my rage, and picked up the letters. How dared they pry into my most intimate secrets? What could they, or I do now?
A long quarter of an hour passed as I considered my course of action. Then, just as I was going in search of the errant girls, there came a soft tapping on my door and Miss Mabel sidled timidly in.
‘Emmy was too scared to come with me,’ she burst out, ‘but I had to come to ask you not to tell Mother. She would be so humiliated, and we couldn’t bear to hurt her!’
I said nothing for a moment, but just looked at her face. She blushed even deeper, and looked close to tears. I had had a little time to think my reply, so I said calmly.
‘It is my duty to complain to your mother, and I am afraid that, if I do that I shall certainly have to leave here. I cannot tell you how angry it makes me to be forced to give up such pleasant lodgings because of the behaviour of two thoughtless, wicked girls.’
Miss Mabel blushed crimson, and her downcast eyes filled with tears.
‘Please don’t do that! I should never forgive myself. I am so very sorry, I never meant to offend you so’.
‘You means you never meant to be discovered. If you will the deed, you should will the consequences.’
Then, as if struck by a sudden thought:
‘Alternatively I could punish you both myself. You shall both come here at 9.o’clock in your nightdresses and receive my punishment — which will not be light!’
I chose nine o’clock with some thought. At that time the servants would be having their own meals in the kitchen, with no reason to come upstairs unless they were summoned. Mrs Bissell and her sister would be down in the parlour, perhaps playing the musical-box, or Miss Matilda would be reading aloud whilst Mrs Bissell sewed. The girls could easily make the excuse of writing letters, and everyone was well accustomed to me withdrawing on weeknights to catch up on work. A little noise would not be heard from outside my room. I could see these thoughts race through her mind, as she replied:
‘No, please, please don’t leave here on account of our wickedness. Couldn’t you just punish me? I am sure I deserve it more. I am the elder and I was the one who suggested coming in here to look through your things.’
I was tempted, but the thought of the two of them gloating over Jessie’s letters hardened my heart.
‘No, it must be both of you.’
‘Very well,’ she gave in, ‘Emily must accept your punishment too, but please don’t be too hard on her, she is not a bad girl, just easily led.’
In the interval before dinner, I removed my trousers and undergarments, and, sitting down on the bed in my shirt-tails, I took up that same razor strop that I had so dreaded as a child in my father’s lifetime. It was a double strip of heavy horse-hide, one side coated with a fine abrasive for sharpening the razor, the other polished and oiled to impart the final razor edge. At the ends were shaped leather handles with holes from which the strop hung on the wall beside the shaving mirror. I practised slapping myself on the tops of my thighs, trying to judge the amount of sound, and, also the amount of pain a sensitive female might stand. A few minutes experiment convinced me that it was, indeed, no light punishment I contemplated
After dinner I retired to my room as usual, but, for once, work had no charms for me, and I waited with increasing tension. Twenty minutes later I heard the girls on the stairs, subdued and silent. They went up to their room, and, ten minutes later, the door opened softly, and there they stood, pretty as a picture in their voluminous white linen nightgowns, their fair hair, fringed and plaited, curled round in twin buns over their ears.
They came in hesitantly and stood side by side with their hands behind their backs, looking at me.
‘Miss Mabel’, I said, ‘You shall be first. Lie across the bed and raise your nightdress to your waist. Miss Emily, you go around the bed and hold your sister’s hands tightly if she can’t trust herself to stay still. I am going to give you each a dozen hard smacks of my hand, then half a dozen with the razor strop. I advise you to keep as quiet as you can, if you do not want your mother as a witness.’
Imagine, if you will, those creamy-ivory globes and the slender, shapely legs below them, revealed to the soft lamp-light as Mabel shyly raised the skirts of her night-dress over her back. I was struck by the sheer beauty of the sight, and felt a momentary qualm about marring this beauty as I intended, but, still angry at the violation of Jessie’s sweet, tender letters, again, I hardened my heart.
A hard, crisp slap on each buttock, and bright pink handprints rose on the creamy, smooth skin. Mabel gave a little groan at each stroke, but refused to allow her sister to capture her hands. I was sure that in her own mind she was, atoning for her crime, and setting an example to her weaker sister. Ten more slaps followed and her bottom glowed pink. A fat tear rolled down her left cheek, as she turned her face to me, avoiding my eyes. Then, I confess, with a little reluctance, I followed through my sentence, and picked up the razor strop. Emily, t
he other side of the bed, was already crying at the sight of her sister’s punishment and the prospect of her own.
By now I was uncomfortably aware of the wondrous perfume of female flesh, and of a shameful excitement rising in me that sorted ill with a righteous punishment. Luckily Emily’s eyes were averted, and she was in no position to discover my secret. I picked up the strop and brought it down hard across Mabel’s reddened globes,. After a few seconds a livid purple streak appeared, white-edged across the already reddened flesh. She gave an audible squeal, and controlled herself with an effort. Again, and again, without much pause, the hard leather fell with an audible slap. Then three more, slower, and now Mabel was sobbing audibly.
‘That’s enough, get up now’. I said unrelentingly stern. She rose, and walked stiffly and painfully around the room to take her place by the other side of the bed. I glanced at her face, usually pretty and composed, but now with eyes swollen and reddened, and tear-streaked cheeks, and we both had to look away as our eyes met.
Emily did not move until Mabel firmly instructed her, reminding her of the need to protect their mother’s security and their reputations. Emily, crying openly, took her place on the bed, raised her skirts, and reached out, convulsively, to her sister. The little satisfaction I had experienced was now gone out of me, all I had left was determination. She wailed pathetically as I carried through the smacking, and the strapping, less severely than with Mabel. By this time, my main desire was to have the whole thing over with. Afterwards, they peeped up and down the passage, and, sure that they were unobserved, stealthily returned to their room, leaving me the prey of gloomy thoughts. If the events of that night had stood alone, I should never have slapped naked girl-flesh again, and the whole course of my life would certainly have run differently.
The following morning I rose for an early breakfast, and was just decapitating my morning egg, alone in the dining room, when Miss Mabel slipped in. With a sweet smile, she thanked me for my forbearance in not speaking to their mother, and kissed me on the cheek, leaving the room with a blush and a smile. She at least had forgiven me and somehow I knew at that moment that she would be over my knee again before many weeks had passed.
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