To really understand this story you have to go all the way back to the day that dad died. It wasn't just that he threw himself under a train, that was just the start of the nightmare. It turned out he'd been the victim of a con man and, while investing in his fool's gold, he had spent all his meager savings and mortgaged the house to the hilt. This meant that, by the time the various vultures had had their share, mum and I were not just bereaved but out on the street without two pennies to rub together.
And this wasn't the first time dad had ruined Mum's life. When they were both little more than school-kids he'd sweet talked his way into her knickers and mum, pregnant at fifteen, had left school at sixteen with no qualifications and no skills to speak of. To give dad some credit he had, at least, had the decency to marry her but as he too had little in the way of schooling the best he could manage was a job as a fitter at the local tire depot.
Mum took two years out to care for me as a baby but as soon as I was old enough to go to nursery school mum she started working on the checkouts at the local supermarket. When dad was alive this had been useful extra income. After he kicked the bucket it was never going to be enough and she became one of those single parent welfare scroungers that the tabloids like to bang on about.
But she never gave up. She knew she could do better and she kept on searching for a way out, a route to a more comfortable life.
Her persistence paid off. It was maybe a year later that she found the perfect job working as live-in cook, maid and housekeeper for local boy made good, Clive Hall. As a young man he had bankrolled some computer genius, the resulting web site became the next big thing and he ended up selling up for a significant figure to... well, let's say you'd recognise the name if I told you.
With his fortune made he turned his business into a hobby and became a wheeler-dealer setting up deals and watching his money grow. Nowadays you can do all that from a computer terminal so he'd set up shop in this huge Georgian mansion he'd purchased just outside of town. It's nothing like as big as Downton Abbey but it's along the same lines and there's plenty of room for him and Sally, his ex-model second wife, all tit and arse and barely older than his daughter. Naturally they needed staff to run the place and, to cut a long story short, it mum who got the job of live-in maid.
I say 'live in' but, actually, we lived not in the big house but in a little cottage in the grounds. It was perfect. Although they didn't pay mum much we had enough to live on and, after what we had been through, it felt like luxury. After all, there was no rent to find and, beyond that, our needs were minimal. Together we settled in and started our new life.
And that was five years ago. Time heals most things and, nowadays, mum often has a smile on her face. As for me, I finished school went and off to college where I'm studying engineering.
And that just about brings us up to last summer, the real start to our story. I'd come home for the vacation and, after the pressure of exams, I was enjoying my new found freedom. I'd stayed in bed all morning and only just made it up in time for lunch when mum came home wearing that rather old fashioned maid's outfit that the Hall's insist she wear.
"For heaven's sake, Andy, why are you still in your dressing gown?"
"Aw, mum, I'm on my holidays. I'm entitled to a lie in now and again."
"Not in this house you're not. Round here people work for a living and that includes you. Talking of which, Mrs Hall asked if you would go up to the house this afternoon. Apparently Jack has had to cut back on his hours and, unless you've any other plans, then she'd be happy to have you fill in over the summer."
"Do I have to?"
"Yes, you do. And make sure you have a shower and a shave first. I don't want you going up to the house looking like a complete slob."
"OK."
Jack was the gardener and handyman and had come with the property. He was as old as Methuselah and it was no surprise that he was having to cut back on his hours. I didn't particularly relish the prospect of mowing the lawns all summer but there wasn't much else around and at least the commute would be short.
So it was that, after lunch, I followed mum up to the house and, after a bit of searching around, found Mrs Hall swimming lengths in their indoor pool. I watched as she completed her lap and swum to the side where I was waiting.
"Hi Andy. Thanks for coming," she said as she climbed out of the pool. She pulled off her bathing cap and her hair cascaded down. I'll admit I gawped somewhat; I'd forgotten how damn gorgeous she was. After all, you don't snag a husband as rich as Mr Hall without being something pretty special. Although the swimsuit she was wearing was mostly functional rather than poolside lingerie its cut did everything possible to emphasise the curves that had once graced the catwalks of Milan and Paris.
She looked me up and down in a way she had that made me feel small and nervous. It wasn't as if she was unfriendly, far from. It was more that she was a woman who knew what she wanted and knew how to get it. I was the son of the paid help and, however subconsciously, she made sure I knew it.
"I don't know if your mother told you but we're looking for someone to help out for the summer. Ever since he did his knee in Jack hasn't really been able to cope and he needs a hand. Clive and I wondered if you'd be interested."
"What would it entail?"
"Keeping the place clean and tidy, mostly. A bit of help around the stables, a bit of gardening. I'm sure there's nothing a smart young man like you can't handle."
"When would I start?"
"Tomorrow morning. I like to take Flashdance out for a run around the paddock at nine o'clock. I'd like him saddled up and ready for me by then. Do you think you can manage that?"
"Err..."
"Splendid. I'll see you tomorrow then."
And, with that, she turned and disappeared into the main body of the house. I stood there bemused. I didn't remember actually agreeing to take on the job but, somehow, it seemed that I was to have Flashdance, her horse, saddled and ready for nine the next morning. Of course, I could call her back and object but I knew that wasn't really an option. I was employed whether I wanted it or not.
The next morning found me, bright and early, down at the stables saddling up Flashdance. The weather threatened to be hot so I had dressed in baggy cargo shorts and a tee shirt. Once the saddle and bridle were fitted I had a look around; I could see that Jack had been letting things slip and the whole stables needed a bit of a tidy so, when Mrs. Hall arrived bang on the stroke of nine, she found me pushing a broom, chasing the dust out of the corners. As ever she looked immaculate. Skin tight johdpurs and a crisp white cotton blouse. She also carried a riding crop which she flicked from side to side.
"Have you got my riding boots ready?"
"Riding boots?"
"Yes, riding boots," she snapped. "I assume by the gormless look on your face that they're still in the tack room and you haven't even begun to clean them."
She strode to the tack room where, under one of the benches, there they were and, yes, they still had splashes of mud on them from the previous day.
"Did you really think for one second that I would deign to go out riding wearing boots in this condition. I shouldn't have to tell you; you should just know."
"I'm sorry, I didn't..." I began.
"I have better things to do in my life that spend it listening to your excuses. More important is what you're going to do about these."
"I could give them a quick wipe down."
"I suppose that will have to do - this time."
I grabbed a cloth, took the boots from her and wiped off the worst of the mud. They were a long way from perfect but they were as good as they were going to get without getting out the polish and so forth. I handed back to her but she gave me a look like I was dirt, sat down on a chair and stuck out her right leg. Evidently my duties included fitting them for her. I knelt down on the floor, took off her shoe and, as I reached for the boot, she rested her foot on my lap.
And that's when it all got kinky. When I say she rested her foot on my lap I mean right on my lap, on the middle of my lap, right over my prick, my rapidly hardening prick. At first I thought it was just an accident but she gave a little wiggle with her toes and it was clear she knew exactly what she was doing.
I knelt there, still half turned, still reaching for her boot, as she moved her foot in slow, sensuous circles over the more than obvious bulge in my shorts. Nothing, nothing I had ever done before had ever felt this good. I glanced up at her and she gave me a knowing smile and, thus encouraged, I put her boot back down, and, with a sigh of pleasure, pushed my hips towards her.
"What on earth do you think you're doing?"
"But... but I thought..."
"But you thought what?"
"I thought you were..." I couldn't continue. I was, quite literally, lost for words. Had I really read the situation so wrong? Surely she had been encouraging me, actively stroking me with her foot and now, suddenly, I seemed to be cast as the villain of the piece. "I don't know what I thought."
"When I was a girl I used to have a puppy that would get so excited he would try and rub himself off against my leg. Judging by the state of your shorts you seem to just as overexcited. It looks very much as if you have no more self-control than my puppy. Is that the case?"
I just hung my head. I didn't know what to do. If I suggested that she had led me on then I would be effectively calling her a liar; if I didn't I was calling myself a pervert. And the strange part of it was that my erection, instead of subsiding, was as hard as ever.
"Well? I'm waiting for an answer."
"I don't know."
"You don't know. How pathetic an answer is that. Too ashamed to admit what a dirty little boy you are is more likely. Now, here's the thing, with my puppy I'd smack him with a rolled up newspaper and send him to his basket. Is that what I should do with you? A quick smacking and sent to your basket? Is that what you need?"
Again all I could do was hang my head in shame.
"Well, what's it to be? A quick smack or, maybe, I should call in your mother and see what she suggests for a naughty little boy who can't control his urges."
