6. The Lawyer and the Steward

Mr Thomas Langton sat in my study with a pile of papers. He is an efficient man who at first glance appears to be brusque. He looks too young to be an experienced lawyer but he is an intelligent fellow and quite personable once you become more familiar with him.

My father's will was the first thing that he discharged, handing it to me so that I could read it and sign a receipt for it. Then we spent an hour going through various documents and deeds before our business was completed.

I was stunned when he stood up and gathered the rest of his papers and asked if there was anything else I required.

"No, thank you, Mr Langton, but I am surprised," I told him, "I was going to invite you to stay tonight and dine with us."

"Thank you, Your Grace but my wife is due to give birth any day now, and, by your leave, I would rather be there. I can get partway home tonight and arrive early tomorrow, if I leave now."

"Then begone sir, with my blessings!" I laughed. "I'd not stand between a man and his wife at such a time. Kindly convey my regards to Mrs Langton, and my deepest apologies for calling you away from her at this time."

I saw him out into the stable yard, "I intend to remove to Rogeringham Hall, soon, I will see you and your wife and family there. God speed, sir!" And with that he was gone.

I was with the steward, Alfred Dodgson, until quite late and missed dinner. Several times there were things about his accounts I asked him to clarify, and though the explanations seemed plain enough, once he was dismissed, I spent quite a long time re-reading the summaries of the accounts he had provided.

The steward was new - he had been in his role for perhaps a year, but though my late father was generally a good judge of character, there seemed to be something 'off' about him. Whereas Mr Barthomley was a twit, he was an open and almost unabashed twit, this fellow set my nerves on edge but for no reason I could put my finger on.

In general, as I have said before, the system in Britain - estates and houses like ours - works with a certain amount of skimming. The farmers raise so much, then declare slightly less. The steward then takes in revenues but declares slightly less and so on. Each person supplements his or her income, by the judicious deduction of the difference between the actual amount and the declared amount. It is a tradition as old as time and generally kept to a manageable level. Quartermasters in the army do it, for them it's easy, but there is no man better placed for such everyday larceny as a steward. Of all of a man's staff he is one of the most important, the most trusted. He controls the life blood of a house, what feeds the family, what powers its growth and life, and what would pay for my sisters' weddings. Our books were not bad and the Rogeringham estates were healthy and wealthy, but there was a slight dip in the rents in the farms tied to the estate that bothered me.

Mr Dodgson had advised me that he too needed to return to his wife that night, so he left me with the summary and went off to return to Buckinghamshire. After he had gone, Barclay brought me a plate with some bread and sliced beef. I asked him to look at the documents. As my man-servant, he keeps my personal accounts. He read through them, then simply looked at me. His face was a picture of amazement.

"You see it too, then?" I asked.

"Yes, Your Grace. And begging your pardon but it looks kack-handed, not right." He said, indicating that it was sloppy in execution.

"A distraction?" I wondered aloud. Had the steward deliberately placed one obvious issue to hide something else. I assumed that it was a relatively new thing, instigated since my father's death - he would have spotted something like that immediately. Whereas I, coming new to the situation, a beginner as it were, might miss it.

"I would assume so, Your Grace, either that or he is genuinely inept, which I doubt."

There was something else going on, something more serious than judicious skimming.

I rang for a footman, Henry answered. "Has my mother retired yet?" She hadn't.

"Ask her if she will attend me." He went off to find her. Barclay asked if I needed him further. Dependable Barclay, tactful as ever but I instructed him to stay.

I showed Helena the account books. It was the first time that she had seen them. My father had died some three months previously, and the issue with the rents had begun just a few days after. During that time, she had had reports from Mr Dodgson, but she had not seen the ledgers. She assured me that there had been no report of any issues or irregularities.

My mother read through the accounts, and after a page or so looked up at me. Her handsome face was perplexed. She looked from me to Barclay.

"Do you see this too, Mr Barclay?" She asked him.

"I do, Your Grace." He told her.

Helena looked back at me. "What do you intend to do?"

I sat back in my chair. "We are going have a ball."

Helena looked at me, in surprise.

"We discussed it the other night, mother. To mark my succeeding to the title, and as a celebration of my safe return from Spain we shall throw a Grand Winter Ball, at Rogeringham.

"If you would mother, I would like you to go with the girls and begin the preparations." Helena nodded.

"Barclay, you will accompany my mother, officially, you will be making ready for my arrival."

"As you wish, Your Grace."

"However, I would also like you to make discreet enquiries, if you would? Find out what you can about this steward and his work." Barclay nodded. As I have said, my man can be most diplomatic when he needs to be. "Until I arrive, Joshua, make your reports to my mother."

With that concluded I retired for the night.

Later when the rest of the house was quiet and still, my mother came to my room again. Her pearl-grey gown slid to the floor as she climbed into my bed, her warm skin pressing against mine, her round bubbies dragging across my chest, her lips seeking mine.

I was more than ready for her; my prick was iron hard in anticipation. But no matter how much I wanted to just throw her on her back and plough deep inside her moist and welcoming lips, I waited and embraced her, kissed her and teased her, making sure that our pleasure would be mutual. I was eager, to be sure, desperate for her, but I was never going to be that man, the one who takes without giving pleasure, who plunders and leaves nothing. They call it fore-play, I understand, and it is a wonder; both parties may achieve pleasure enough before the deed, as it were, is actually done.

I was just about to begin my mother's new favourite activity of cunnilingus, when she stopped me. Instead, it was her that slid down the bed, her skin gliding across mine as she positioned herself near my hard cock.

Imagine my surprise when Helena actually licked the head of my prick. She was tentative at first, licking it as one would lick a fruit or something when one is not sure how it will taste. I propped myself up on my elbows so that I could see better. She pulled a fleeting wry face but then licked it again.

We made eye contact, and she pulled back.

"You seem surprised," she told me.

"Oh! Indeed, I am!"

"May I ask why?" She asked, as she lay spread across my thighs, with my prick held possessively in her hand.

"Well," I began, "My mother - the image of sweetness and light," I teased. "Who barely curses, and even in the height of passion calls out the name of God and all of His Little Angels, has without any preamble, or a by-your-leave, taken my shaft in her hand and put it into her mouth. So, yes, I am a touch surprised."

"It is a fine 'shaft'," She observed, bending down and kissing it again.

I waited.

"Very well then!" She snorted, and her breath was warm on my prick. "After the pleasure you gave me the other night, I merely sought to return the compliment. This is not something I ever did for your father, but we were at a function at Madame Minette's one evening. She had a reputation for a certain wildness with her being an émigré, and this one time, I was witness to a woman doing this ..." she squeezed my prick gently.

"Sucking a cock?"

"Yes. They were in a side room and I had come out of another room, when I saw them, through a partly opened door. She - I didn't recognise her, but Alexandra Minette was not above importing a few whores to get the party moving along, so I assume that she was one of them. Anyway, the girl was on her knees in front of the man, with his knees either side of her. And she had his shaft in her hands, stroking it, and rubbing it all over her breasts, before she began to suck on it. At one point she appeared to have her nose buried in his pubic hairs it was so far down her throat. And he seemed to be enjoying it immensely. So, I thought that perhaps you would enjoy it.

"Have you had this done before?" She asked.

"Sometimes." I told her. I did not tell her that several of the whores who frequented our regimental lines in Portugal had been so adept at fellatio that they could drain a man dry in the time it took for him to get his breeches fully off. I am not talking about the soldier's women either, several of those that plied their trade among the officers were so skilled as fellatrices that getting 'sucked off' by them was almost as pleasurable as an evening fucking. (I concealed my experiences from my mother because being compared with others, especially when just starting out on an adventure such as she was, can be disheartening. I supposed that there would be a time when I would eventually tell her but it would not be tonight).

Having my cock sucked is something I have always enjoyed. I was overjoyed when Helena took my prick into her mouth again, surprised, but happy.

Her first action was to take my cock out of her mouth again. "I have to admit that I am not at all sure of what I am doing here."

"Do whatever you find enjoyable," I told her, "Just be careful that you do not blow into my prick."

"Is that not a good thing?" She asked, and I could see an impudent little smile in her eyes.

"It is excruciating, or so I am told. And you would not want to see me in such pain, I am sure."

Helena smiled, shook her head as if to say 'certainly not', then she scraped her teeth down the length of my prick. When I jumped, she gave a girlish giggle and said "Oops! I suppose I should not do that either?"

"Minx!" I snarled at her, playfully.

Soon my mother was sucking away on my cock as if it was the passion of her life. She applied herself to it with a will, experimenting on ways to lick it, or draw her tongue along it, to push it into her throat as far as she could without choking, trying to reach my pubes with her nose.

Soon, with a few gentle suggestions, she settled for what might be considered the classic method of fellating one's partner. With her right hand she grasped the base of my shaft and gently but firmly frigged it. At the same time, she sucked on the head of my prick, opening her mouth as she lowered her head and closing her lips tight and sucking as she drew her head slowly up.

It being such a novel experience, my own beloved mother whorishly pumping my cock in and out of her sweet mouth, it wasn't long before I could feel the spend growing in my balls.

I stopped Helena and rolled her onto her back. Kneeling next to her I pumped my cock with my hand to bring the spend.

Oh fuck! My hips pumped as I spent, spraying cum across her face and breasts. Once, twice, three times I shot jism onto her. Some landed on her mouth, but most landed upon her neck and across her lovely, lovely breasts.

"Gracious!" She exclaimed as I sat back on my heels. "That was ... quite ... er spectacular."

Helena's finger touched the spend that lay on her face, bringing the same finger to her lips afterwards.

"It is a strange taste." She said, "Neither particularly salty nor is it sweet. But neither is it unpleasant."

I leaned down and licked some of the spending off her teat. Pushing the nipple with my tongue, I cleaned that one, and then the other. "They tell me," I said as I massaged the rest of the cum into the flesh of her breast, "That it does wonders for the complexion."

Helena's eyes were shut in bliss from my licking and massaging. "I will admit that I have heard this," she said.

"But I understand that opinion is split," I went on, "It may be the spend itself that does the trick, or it may be the effect of being well-fucked on a regular basis. Both views are popular."

"Then having tried one side of the argument," my mother said as she rolled on top of me and inserted my cock into her cunny. "We should at least explore the other side as well."

And with that she started to ride me as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a mother, even a step-mother, to ride her son as if she were trotting out on Rotten Row on a morning constitutional.

I rested my hands on her hips, once again admiring her exquisite form, the breasts I had just licked my own spend off, with the long stud-like nipples, the smooth skin of her belly. I tightened my grip on her and pushed my own hips up, meeting her descent in a slow, grinding fuck.

Soon, though, Helena began to bounce quicker, a rising trot, my own thrusts matching and my grip upon her hips firmer. After all I would not have my rider fall, and then find myself sold off as an ill-tempered mount. But I could feel my passion rising, I could feel the urge to take the bit between my teeth, and set the pace.

I threw my rider, pitched her off to one side onto the sheets.

Helena squeaked in surprise, as I rose up behind her and covered her. The squeak turned into a sly lascivious grin as she looked back at me and realised that I was intent on taking her.

I was taking her for myself, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Not that I believe she wanted to do something about it, in fact doing something about it was the last thing on her mind. My mother had me exactly where she wanted me and she pressed her arse back onto my cock to show it.

For a moment, I looked at the brown pucker of Helena's arse, we had come so far in so short a time, even fellatio, but that was a step too far, too soon. Instead, I set about pumping her cunny full of my seed, encouraged by her urging me on - in God's name, no less - as I pushed her shoulders down into the mattress.

"Fuck me, William! Oh God, so full, yes! Yes! Yes! Oh, so much! So strong! Fuck your mother! "

On and on I drove into her. Pumping, pumping, pumping. I have no idea where that energy, that power came from. Love? Lust? A measure of both, I suppose. It surged through me - I was the Lord and master, and Helena was mine to be taken. It surged through my hips, a blacksmith's hammer, pounding, pounding. It surged up from my balls - exploding, spraying, filling, escaping, dribbling.

As we lay entwined afterwards, it was as if Helena sought to burrow inside me, she pressed herself so close.

"I fear that I shall be fit for nothing tomorrow," she laughed. "I can say quite truthfully that I have never been fucked like that, ever!" Her smile filled her face, her eyes laughed with pleasure.

I leaned over and kissed her lips, "Should we do more?" I asked. "We can if you wish?"

Helena pushed against my chest, laughing. "I do not know which is worse - that you are prepared to leave me bed-ridden, or that you could do it to me."

"Anything you wish, I would do it for you." I told her. "Anything at all."

"I know," Helena said, and her kiss was tender and loving. "And I thank you for it. But there is no need for you to leave me prostrated just yet."

And so saying, my mother rose from our dis-arrayed bed and drew on her dressing gown. Even as she did, I saw the discomfort in her hips as she walked. Turning towards me Helena saw the concern for her in my eyes, but dismissing it with a smile and a coquettish tilt of her hip, she left and went to her own room.

I sat down by the fire, I found myself possessed of a strong feeling of contentment. I looked at the tot of rum that I had poured and decided that tonight, at least I did not need it. When I did sleep, it was deep and undisturbed until morning.