Naked Heir

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Copyright Oggbashan July 2015

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.


I woke up with a vile hangover. My head was pounding, I felt nauseous, and the light through the barred windows was hurting my eyes.

Barred windows? Why barred windows? I wasn’t in Oxford, sleeping off a drunken night in the Police cells. It was the start of the Summer vacation. I was at home, on the family estate. As the only son and heir, I should be in an impressive four poster bed, curtained all round to keep the light out until a reasonable hour.

The light was coming from above. I must be in mad Great-Uncle Albert’s suite of rooms in the basement. He died years before I was born. He could be violent at times and was kept away from the family and servants. He had had two hefty male attendants who made sure he was kept clean and well-fed.

But why was I in what was effectively a prison?

I tried to think but my pounding head was little help. I crawled off the mattress. In a door less room there was a sink with a water pump. I pumped enough to rinse my face but winced when the cold water splashed on my body.

My body? I was stark naked. I didn’t even have shoes or stockings. I went back to the bedroom. There were no clothes there. Beyond the bedroom, again with no door, there was a living room. No clothes there either. No furniture except a large table screwed to the floor which had a built-on folding seat, a bench firmly fixed to the wall and a range of bookshelves full of ancient tomes.

No. They weren’t all ancient. There, on the top shelf, were the books I had brought back from Oxford to study during the Summer. Why?

I went through to the entrance passage. Pinned to the inside of the door was an envelope addressed to me in my father’s scrawl. I removed it but put it on the table. I wasn’t ready to read, nor would my head make sense of anything yet.

I went back to the sink. There was a pewter cup attached by a chain. I filled it and drank, again and again. Only then did I appreciate how much I needed a piss. There! An alcove with a flush toilet. That was a relief.

I went back to the mattress and tried to sleep as far as my spinning head would let me.

If the movement of the sun was any guide I had slept for six or seven hours but I couldn’t be sure.

Somehow a tray of food had appeared on the table. It was only bread, butter and cheese, but I was hungry. It was on a wooden platter with a wooden knife, probably relics of Great-Uncle Albert who couldn’t be trusted with china or metal knives.

Once I had eaten I reached for the envelope and opened it carefully as if it was an explosive grenade.

It might just as well have been. This is what it said:

“Dear son Gerald,

I am disappointed. While you were away in Oxford it became painfully apparent that you had impregnated four of the female staff. While taking a mistress is acceptable behaviour for an unmarried gentleman, having sexual encounters with four servant women almost simultaneously is not.

You and I know that many of our servants are offspring, or descendants of offspring, of my grandfather, but he never had more than one mistress at a time. Despite his lax morals, he treated each one well, and ensured that they and any children lived comfortable, if useful, lives.

But four bastards at once is excessive. Although I will ensure that the women and their children do not suffer through your unconscionable behaviour, there was considerable upset within our domestic establishment when the four pregnancies became known. Each of them thought they were your sole mistress and expected to be treated as such. That was soon seen to be impossible and caused distress.

I would have thought that you could have used what in my time was known as Mrs Phillips’ Ware. I understand they are now called Cundums or Condums, and are easily obtained in Oxford. Even so, fucking four women who live close together is not cricket. You should have appreciated that they would soon find out about each other.

My concern is not so much about your apparent virility but your lack of tact. It is not the way I expect my son and heir to behave. I would not expect it of anyone who has some claim to be called a gentleman.

I have decided that you are missing some part of the education necessary for one of our class, namely how to conduct yourself with women who are not of your station. Even though they are not gentlewomen, they should still be treated as ladies at all times, unless you have paid a professional for her services. Even a professional lady should be treated with courtesy unless she demonstrates that she is not entitled to it, for example by stealing your purse.

As you seem totally unable aksaray escort to control your animal instincts, I have decided that you will live in a state of nature, without clothing, until you have demonstrated that you can behave like a gentleman.

How can you demonstrate that? Your sole attendants will be the four women you have impregnated. Until all four of them report to me that you are behaving like a gentleman and treating them with the respect to which they are entitled, you will remain where you are, unclothed.

As I expect that you are suffering from a hangover, I do not expect you to start your re-education until tomorrow at breakfast. The four ladies will join you for breakfast at nine o’clock. I know that is far earlier than your normal time of rising, but it is hours after theirs, so nine o’clock is a compromise.

While you are confined I also expect you to continue your studies. Your books are with you.

In the drawer of the table you will find paper and writing materials. Any reasonable request for additional stationery, or books from the family library, will be met.

The minimum time for your re-education is a week from tomorrow morning. IF by that time you have satisfied the four ladies, and their report is unanimous, you will be welcome to join the family for breakfast.

If that happens, your misbehaviour will be forgiven, and you will be treated as my son and heir, and a gentleman. It cannot be forgotten, because there will be four children as a continual reminder. They and their mothers will remain your responsibility for the rest of their lives. Your allowance as my heir will be reduced by a quarter from next term and that quarter will be used to maintain the four ladies and their children.

My agent has already redeemed your outstanding Oxford debts. The relevant people have been advised that any further indebtedness will NOT be paid by me. You will have to live within your reduced means.

I hope that you will join me for breakfast in just over a week’s time. Until then I remain,

Your disappointed father.”

Oh shit! I had a real problem, apart from my father’s anger. Nowhere in his missive had he given the names of the four pregnant women. How could I convince them that I could behave like a gentleman, if I didn’t know their names?

I had fucked more than four. Which four had become pregnant? I had used condoms but I had a succession of women in my bed every night for three weeks. Some of the condoms must have failed. How many had I fucked? It must have been nearly all the servant women under the age of thirty. I hadn’t tried with Dorcas, the head dairy maid, who was still very attractive even if she was closer to forty than thirty. I had left Dorcas alone because she was my father’s mistress, and had been since a year after my mother died giving birth to my youngest sister.

I cudgelled my pounding head to try to remember the names of all the women I had fucked. After a few names came, I dragged out the writing materials and began a list, with some distinguishing attributes. Unfortunately the only one I could describe in detail was Dorcas. She was still a stunner, a blonde beauty with creamy skin, a well developed cleavage… But Dorcas wasn’t on my list. Apart from my delicacy in refusing to tread on my father’s terrain, she could have been on my list of possible sexual partners.

It was easier to start a list those I hadn’t fucked — the butler’s wife, the housekeeper, the governess, and all the married women. I added Hesbe, the second coachman’s widow, to the other list, but I hadn’t fucked her. She had seduced and ridden me, my first sexual encounter, ending my virginity at the late age of nineteen.

I started recalling Hesbe. She had dragged me into the ancient state coach, tucked away in the darkest recess of the coach house. It had been the family’s pride a hundred years ago but was far too heavy and clumsy for modern toll roads.

She had showed me that the seats could be converted into a comfortable bed, and then what could be done on a bed.

She had removed my trousers and lifted her skirts with practised ease. My excitement led to emission within seconds of first penetration, but she encouraged me to become hard again, and again. How many times? I’ve forgotten, but that night with Hesbe must have been my record with one woman.

Hesbe showed me so much, but that night was our first and last. Within days she had become engaged to the widowed first coachman, and was now comfortably established with his two children, and her posthumous daughter from her late husband. I hadn’t appreciated that she was obviously pregnant when she made love to me. Now — I would have noticed. Then — she was my first and my excuse was that it was very dark in that coach.

Thinking about Hesbe had started to eliminate some of the possible women. Hesbe had been much older than me, the oldest of all at slightly over thirty. All of the women had been older than me, anadolu yakası escort so I could ignore the younger staff, the kitchen maids, the between-stairs maids, the trainees.

Every woman had been at least twenty-one, probably older. That reduced the possibilities. Only the women who were at least twenty-one and under thirty years old.

If they knew they were pregnant now, I must have been with them later than Christmas. I had been with the family then but had visited Charles for the New Year, returning to Oxford from there. Any woman I had fucked at Christmas would have known she was pregnant by the time I visited at Whitsun. So they must be those I had fucked at Easter. There had been no sexual encounters during my brief visit at Whitsun. I had been too busy unsuccessfully chasing my cousin Hermione.

But how many women had I fucked at Easter? And who were they? I was still a long way from working out which four might be pregnant. My list was scrawled with crossings-out and amendments with at least a dozen possibilities, some of whom were just job title and hair colouring.

Tomorrow morning I would have to play it by ear, hope that I could recall the names of the four who arrived, or wait for any hints.

I had another problem. How would I know when it was nine o’clock? There were no timepieces around. I should be able to tell by the height of the sun, but I wouldn’t be accurate. In Oxford I used my fob watch and church tower clocks. Even if I had tried to judge time by the sun, I was rarely sufficiently aware of my surroundings at nine in the morning because my lectures didn’t start before noon.

It was getting dark. It must be late because it was summer, nine o’clock at least. There had been some discussion at Oxford about changing the clocks to Summer time. I hadn’t taken notice. Did that mean that it would be daylight very late, or earlier? My pounding head wouldn’t work that out.

I drank some more water and ate some more bread and cheese. This time I noticed that the cheese was well matured Cheddar, probably from our dairy and made by Dorcas, as was the butter. The bread was from our kitchen. They reminded me that I always fed better at home than at Oxford. Almost everything we ate came from our own farms, our own dairy and kitchen, and the staff’s standard of food production and presentation made even Oxford’s best victuallers seem incompetent.

I should be grateful to the women of our house and estate, not just for great sex, but for the care with which they looked after our household.

I went to sleep feeling apprehensive about tomorrow’s encounter at nine o’clock but without the drunken stupor of last night.

I was woken abruptly by a hard slap on my naked backside.

“Master Gerald!” A female voice exclaimed.”You have made a bad start. A gentleman should stand when ladies enter a room!”

I rolled over groaning. My morning erection stood proud. She flicked it with a finger.

“And I don’t mean that sort of stand. That is a tribute to a woman, not a gentleman’s response to a lady.”

“I’m sorry,” I replied, covering my erection with my hands, “but I have no clothing…”

“…and you won’t have unless you behave better. Cheer up! We have brought your breakfast.”

She indicated the table just visible through the bedroom doorway. It had my normal breakfast spread. It looked delicious and I had recovered enough to feel hungry.

“Thank you,” I said, rising from the mattress, covering my erection with difficulty. “Will you join me at breakfast?”

“That’s better,” she said, “but we ate hours ago. You can eat and talk. Come on!”

I followed her into the living room. I watched the attractive wiggle of her crinolined skirt while I was struggling to remember her name.

Beside the breakfast table stood three other young women wearing crinolined dresses. I nodded to them.

“Good morning, ladies,” I said.

“Sit down, Gerald, and start eating,” the first woman ordered. I sat.

As I began to eat I was trying to put names to the four women watching me. I couldn’t. When I paused, the first woman spoke again.

“Gerald. We have had a wager with Dorcas. She said that you would remember all our names. We said you wouldn’t remember a single one. Are we right?”

“Ladies,” I replied, “that puts me in a difficult position. I ought to let you win the wager by pretending NOT to know your names, because I owe you more than I owe Dorcas. But a gentleman shouldn’t lie.”

“But you can’t remember our names, can you?” One of the others asked.

“I’m sorry. I really can’t. I ought to, but I can’t.”

“You aren’t doing very well, Master Gerald, are you?” the first woman continued. “You weren’t awake at nine, you didn’t stand up when ladies entered the room, and you can’t remember the names of the women you made pregnant. At this rate you could be down here until you go back to Oxford.”

“I’m sorry…”

“You should be, but ataköy escort we are here to teach you how to behave with ladies, even if we are only servants. Dorcas said…”

“Why ‘Dorcas said’?” I interrupted.

“You don’t know? Your father’s letter didn’t explain?”

I shook my head.

“OK. Your father was very, very angry when he learned that we four were pregnant. He was even more annoyed when he became aware that there could have been more pregnancies. He even talked of disinheriting you. Dorcas persuaded him not to. It wasn’t difficult for her, once she had calmed him down. You are his only son. She suggested that you were impetuous and randy, not a callous seducer, and that most of us were willing participants. That was true. All of us consented. You didn’t force any of us…”

“But most of us thought we were the only one,” a second woman added.

“And therefore we would be treated as special…” said a third.

“…instead of being one of many.” Completed the fourth.

“That hurt. Having an honoured position like Dorcas has with your father would be attractive, but being one of four, six, eight, ten or whatever number Gerald fucked is demeaning.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeated. “I didn’t mean…”

“Master Gerald,” the first woman said and paused.

That hurt. The title ‘master’ was for younger male children, not for an adult male and heir.

“Master Gerald,” she repeated. “Dorcas does not expect to emulate Mary Ann Bullock of Uppark and marry your father. Neither do we, with you. We couldn’t. Not four of us.”

Mary Ann Bullock of Uppark? The name was familiar. Of course! She had been a Dairy Maid and had married Uppark’s elderly owner to become a Lady. At first he had regretted proposing to her, but she kept him alive, well and happy, long after his marriage age of three score years and ten. What if Dorcas married my father?

“I’m sorry, again,” I said, “but if Dorcas wants to become my stepmother, and my father wants to marry her, why not?”

My statement seemed to shock them. For a few seconds they stood looking at each other as if they couldn’t understand what I had said.

“Dorcas seems a very good woman,” I continued. “If they want to marry, they would have my blessing. I’d even give the bride away, or act as my father’s best man.”

“Thank you for that,” the first woman said slowly. “I think Dorcas is right. You DO have the instincts of a gentleman, even if you have behaved badly. We’ll start your education now. Please stand up and face us.”

I stood.

“Take this,” she said abruptly, offering me a very small apron. I gawped at it stupidly. She snorted and wrapped it around my waist, tying it tightly. My erection tented it obviously.

“Gerald,” she started. That was better than ‘Master Gerald’. “I am Abigail, a parlour maid.”

“Thank you, Abigail,” I said, bowing slightly.

Abigail was a tall, slim brunette, an inch or two shorter than me.

“I am Lucia,” the second woman said. Lucia was a well-endowed blonde, shorter and plumper than Abigail. Her breasts strained at her bodice.

“Pleased to meet you again, Lucia,” I said, bowing again.

“I am Miriam,” the third woman said in a contralto voice. Miriam had glossy black hair loose across her shoulders. She was the same height as Lucia and her bosom was only slightly less obvious.

“Delighted to meet you, again, Miriam,” I said with another bow.

“And I am Sylvia. We are sort of related through your great-grandfather.” Sylvia looked as if she was one of my relations. She shared my freckles and ginger hair but they looked better on her.

“I am pleased to meet you again, Cousin Sylvia,” I said. I would have bowed but Cousin Sylvia grabbed me for a hug and a kiss.

“That’s for saying ‘cousin’,” she said as our lips parted.

“Hey, Sylvia,” Abigail protested. “We are supposed to be teaching him to be a gentleman, not rewarding him.”

“We can do that too,” Sylvia retorted. “He has surprised us with his acceptance of Dorcas. He deserves some thanks for that.”

“If he does,” Lucia said, “then all of us should…”

She didn’t finish her sentence. Her last words were lost as she kissed me. Miriam followed and then Abigail’s lips met mine. All four of them were pressed against me and the small apron was almost inadequate to conceal my reaction.

“Are we agreed?” Abigail asked, “that he has passed the first test?”

“Oh, yes,” Sylvia replied. “it would be much more comfortable.”

Miriam and Lucia nodded agreement, to what, I didn’t know.

Abigail explained.

“If we agreed, Gerald, that you have accepted the situation and were willing to be cooperative, then your surroundings can be improved. That would be better for you, and for us. We have just agreed. We will leave you for a while. When someone knocks next, in a couple of hours’ time, you should retire into the room with a sink and some furniture will be brought in. The conditions are that you should not look at nor speak to those who bring the furniture. Will you promise that?”

“Yes, Abigail. I promise.”

“Good. We will take your breakfast things with us and see you in about three hours from now. You can keep your apron — for a while. Remember — when we return, you should stand up for ladies.”

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