Chapter 1
How stupid I was …
Of course it’s easy to say that now, but back then I still had this weird notion
that my body was mine and that I didn’t have to surrender it to anyone, even my employer,
Sir Reginald Fortescue, Baronet, owner of a vast estate in Devon where my father was the
head gamekeeper.
Now of course I know differently and I have the marks on my body to prove it.
Marks that can never be erased for they are brands. Yes, real brands, inflicted by a
red-hot branding iron while Sir Reginald watched, his penis tenting his aristocratic pants
as the glowing iron desecrated my flesh — on my chest, right on top of my breasts.
But I am jumping the gun … My name is Angela. Angela Davis and I was brought up
on Sir Reginald’s vast estate where my father is the head gamekeeper and is paid a very
nice salary for his trouble.
I looked on Sir Reginald as a very kindly man during my childhood but later on,
into my teens, when my body started to develop and I assumed a more womanly shape, he
began to take a more intimate interest in me. I have to be honest and say I inherited
good looks from my parents. I am a blue-eyed blonde, slender and have good skin and
excellent muscle tone, brought about by a healthy diet and a great deal of exercise for I
loved tennis, riding and gymnastics and spent every moment I could playing sports of one
sort or another.
I had hoped to go to university to study physical education but Sir Reginald had
other ideas and when he made it very clear to me that my father’s job depended on my
acceding to his request to become one of his secretaries in the estate office, I sadly had
to put my own ambitions on the back burner and go to work for him.
From that moment on, I was under constant sexual harassment by him. He dictated
our uniforms: me and the other two girls who worked there, both of them as pretty and as
well-built as I was. He provided, and we were required to wear, body-hugging silk blouses
with no bras or slips (or anything at all) under them and an ultra-short, wrap-around
pleated skirt below them. Under the skirts we were permitted only an ultra-brief
thong-type pair of panties while sandals without socks made up the rest of our clothing.
We thus wore three garments over our bodies plus the pair of sandals.
We could of course wear warm covering to get to work in the colder months but once
there, we had to shed them and sit and do our work in this almost indecent set of
clothes.
Sir Reginald spent a lot of time in his estate office but he didn’t need to. One
of us was often in his private office ‘taking dictation’ but in truth he spent more time
looking us over, complimenting us on our figures, our skins and our beauty than attending
to correspondence.
I hated it. I mourned the fact that I was missing out on my education — being a
physical education teacher had been an ambition of mine all my teenage years and now I was
relegated to this humdrum bookkeeping and secretarial work which I hated. But the work I
could have coped with; it was Sir Reginald’s constant pawing of my body including my
breasts that was so untenable.
That and his insistence on knowing everything about my personal life: my
boyfriends, what make-up I used. How long I spent in the shower. My sexual dreams … I
tried to resist, of course, telling him none of this was his business but then he merely
smiled and reminded me how well my father was paid; that his very job was dependent on my
cooperation and that at his age, finding another job at all would be difficult, let alone
one as well paid as his …
I was being blackmailed but I saw no other alternative. I had to put up with his
inspections: standing in the so brief attire before his desk while he sat there, eyeing me
up and down for long minutes before rising, coming around the desk to stand in front of
me, his hands now reaching out to feel my body — assessing my muscle tone, he called it,
his fingers stroking, feeling, squeezing my arms and shoulders, straying down to my
breasts which he caressed while staring into my eyes, then moving down to stroke my flat
belly and complimenting me on the firmness of my belly muscles — and thighs as his hands
moved down to them — and then back up my backside to feel and fondle my bottom.
I complained to my mother all the time, at least at first, until I realised it was
pointless, but she just looked uncomfortable and reminded me of my father’s good fortune
in being Sir Reginald’s head gamekeeper. I realised eventually that I was not going to
get any help from them.
I have to say he was a handsome enough man. At age thirty-eight, he had kept
himself in good trim and was tall and lean with a tanned face and matinee idol good looks,
although there was a touch of cruelty in his eyes. A cruelty that I was to discover (to
my misfortune) was almost legendary. I didn’t recognise it for what it was at that time,
though, but still there was something about him that, even as a growing girl, I felt
wasn’t quite right.
And when I went to work for him, it became very obvious what it was. He preyed on
pretty girls. He was married, of course, but his wife was a mere social adjunct to him.
He had two children by her but by mutual consent they virtually ignored each other except
when duty bound to appear together.
He liked working class girls, rather than those of his own class. And gradually he
undermined our defences, going just a little bit further each ‘inspection’. He started
out by merely giving me a little pat on the shoulder for good work but this then developed
into a sliding caress down my arm; then a forearm ‘accidentally’ grazed my breast or his
fingers touched my bottom.
At first I thought it was all really accidental and so did the other girls, but
then when it arose one day while he was out of the office and we compared notes, I found
they, who were both senior to me by six months and a year respectively, were under much
more intrusive ‘inspections’ than I was. Mine began to get more and more indecent as the
weeks and months passed and eventually he even undid my blouse and slipped his hand inside
to cop a good feel of my otherwise naked breasts.
I stood there in utter shame and humiliation, desperately wanting to brush his hand
aside and to angrily tell him to keep them to himself but I didn’t dare. He had made it
painfully clear what would happen to my father if I did. And it was the same with the
other girls. The father of one of them was also in a highly paid position in his
household but the other one had been caught stealing and he had intervened in her case,
promising the authorities that he would employ her and house her on his estate if they
would drop the charges but her freedom was conditional and that condition hung over her
like the sword of Damocles.
Thus all three of us were in a similar position. We either accepted his fondling
of our flesh or terrible things would happen either to us or to our families.
Of course it just kept on getting worse. He took to ordering me to remove my
blouse as soon as I entered his office and to strut around with my shoulders back and my
breasts thrust out while he watched — and later felt the pair of them with his big hands.
It was awful.
I had to stand there with them openly exposed while he cupped them, felt them,
pressed and squeezed them, teased the nipples into erection and then caressed them some
more. Then he would walk around me, delighting in my shame and mortification, knowing how
much I wanted to fling his job in his face and to hell with the consequences but knowing
my loyalty to my father wouldn’t permit it.
This went on for more weeks — he only advanced his disgusting practices little by
little but then he took to lifting my skirt — to inspect my upper thighs, he called it.
It was a natural progression that he ultimately called on me to remove it entirely.
“Doesn’t serve much purpose, my dear,” he said as his cold blue eyes raked up and
down my naked upper body and rested on my still covered middle, at which I blushed even
more for I knew now it was only a matter of time before I would be stark naked before
him.
I removed the skirt, very, very reluctantly and now his eyes glittered as they
moved up and down my whole body but now concentrating on my well-muscled thighs and of
course the barely hidden pubic mound between them.
“Such an athletic physique, my dear,” he murmured as he stood there, not three feet
from me, looking me up and down appreciatively. Of course I had known this was coming.
Mary and Phyllis had already reached this stage, Mary a long time ago, Phyllis only a
month or so past. We exchanged notes whenever he was out of the office — not when he was
in there for he could listen to us through his intercom any time he liked. I didn't
know if I could stand it but they both assured me I could — and would.
Worse was to come of course. Mary now had to strip right off whenever she entered
his office and I think he might actually have already been bedding her. She didn’t say so
but I think that was because she was just too ashamed of herself to admit she had
succumbed this far.
Anyway, I removed my skirt as directed and from then on had to take off my blouse
and skirt as soon as I entered, folding both neatly and placing them in the drawer of the
little sideboard he kept by the door for this purpose. I had then to advance in only the
thong, that tiny silk garment that was a mere three inch triangle at front and rear, held
up by an almost invisible skin-coloured elastic that went around my hips and between my
legs and disappeared into the crease of my cheeks at the back.
Then, as he sat back in his executive chair, I had to go through a routine he made
us learn, displaying my body by moving my torso, arms and legs in the pre-ordained drill
until he got up, came around and began his horrible inspection, always pretending it was
purely a physical examination and ‘inspecting’ every part of my flesh although at this
stage he never touched my mound. Everywhere else, though, came in for a thorough going
over before we got down to the dictation or whatever else it was he had summoned me into
his private office for.
Once that was over, I was then permitted to don the two garments and leave to get
on with my work, for we really did work in that office. We had the accounts to keep, the
maintenance of the estate records, the planning of future developments, interviews with
his tenants, rent collection, etc, etc, etc. And he demanded we do it all very
efficiently, too. We weren’t just his office floozies although you might be forgiven for
thinking so from what I have already said.
Then, one day, he told me he had a new nether garment for me to wear. “I don’t
like the straps around your hips, Angela. Take off the panties, please …”
I blushed. Even though I had worked for him for the best part of a year now, I
still couldn’t come to terms with this so indecent stripping of my body every time I went
into his office. I was of course naked except for the thong, even the sandals had to be
discarded at the door but now it was to be a total denuding of my flesh.
During his so intimate discussions on my boyfriends and what I did with them, my
personal hygiene and all the rest of it, he had asked me how closely I trimmed my vulva.
I had blushed of course and said that because I wore fairly brief bikinis, I had kept it
well trimmed and even clipped the remaining hair quite short — but then he knew that
already for the thong was so small at front it would have been readily apparent if I
hadn’t.
Now, though, I had to strip off that last guardian of my modesty and stand stark
naked before him. I contemplated refusing, as I did with each of his new demands against
my personal morality but then I sighed. I could not be a party to my father’s summary
dismissal and so I put my thumbs into the waistband and pushed them down off my hips,
stepping out of them to stand up naked at last before him.
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