Preface
The actual existence of Ironwood, or a place very much like it, has been hotly debated
among a small circle of scholars and students of arcane history. There are those who
believe Ironwood can be traced to a certain Mrs. Walter Smith who once presided over a
House near Clifton which showed remarkable similarity to the establishment described in
the Ironwood journals. Others, with a certain authority, contend that Ironwood is a
legendary place, like Camelot, Brigadoon, or more aptly, perhaps, like the fabled pleasure
dome at Xanadu, a place shrouded in myths, kept alive like memories of some ancient past.
The Master of Ironwood is a back to-the-future tale in which that timeless place is set
in our modern days, times in which, in some odd ways, unparalleled sexual freedom is
coupled with heightened bigotry and close-mindedness — the virulent intolerance of those
who wrap themselves in the virtues of their moral and political correctitude. Through the
ages, Ironwood lives!
Don Winslow
Copenhagen
Chapter One
Ironwood Yields its Secrets
Even a casual glance at the map could show one how, in another age, the Estate must have
sat imperiously wrapped in its own splendid isolation, tucked away in what was then
Somerset’s thickly forested countryside. By Nineteenth-century transport, it might well
have been a day or two’s carriage ride south of Bath. But now, after the automobile and
the steady march of urban sprawl, the old manor house seemed not all that very far from
the modern city’s creeping suburbs. I could see where, to the methodical mind of Commander
Hamilton Sterrett, the location seemed ideal for his purposes — not terribly far from
Bristol, close enough for an extended holiday in the country, while retaining that certain
remoteness, a feeling of isolation reinforced by its present-day inaccessibility. The
Ironwood Estate was almost, but not quite accessible by the A39. One had to know about the
necessary turn offs, and then find a winding country lane, nondescript, and all but
forgotten as it wound its way through the hills to the Manor.
Ms Ludlowe, the estate agent, tried, without very much success, to hide her glee when I
rang up to inquire as to the particulars of the old place. Of course there would be no
problem in my being shown the estate; a unique example of a Classical Manor House, vaguely
Georgian, with several lovely Italianate touches, my new-found friend breathlessly
informed me. It simply had to be seen to be appreciated. She would be only too glad to
arrange her affairs to accommodate my schedule; no trouble at all! She offered to drive me
up to look the place over; tomorrow, should that be convenient. Not wishing to appear too
eager, I deferred our date, settling instead on meeting a few days hence for a leisurely
drive into the rolling countryside, and my first view of that timeless place called
Ironwood.
Ms Ludlowe turned out to be a thin-faced, rather pretty, grimly determined young lady.
The plastic tag she wore prominently pinned to her small left breast, informed me that her
name was “Anne”— a fact immediately confirmed by the girl herself, who stuck out a slim
hand while looking me squarely in the eye. I paused to admire her youthful figure, so
neatly trim in the mustard-colored company blazer she wore. She took my hand in hers while
maintaining that honest, trustworthy look, lips curling in something that never quite
became a smile. It was a confident handshake she gave me, one between equals, firmly
executed with a frankness that once would have brought to mind the phrase “man-to-man”.
Young Anne was a thoroughly modern businessperson.
We headed south, with my earnest companion occasionally consulting a map she kept
half-folded on the seat between us. From time to time, I glanced over at my fair-haired
chauffeur. She sat erect, close to the wheel, intent on following the unfamiliar curves of
the winding road. I studied those clear alert eyes, the neatly-chiseled features, the soft
fringe of even bangs that layered her brow. It so happened that the hem of her skirt had
ridden up and now lay well over the rounded prominences of her knees, leaving uncovered an
delicious inch or two of choice nyloned thigh for my perusal. Our Ms Ludlowe didn’t seem
to notice; she certainly made no move to correct the errant hemline, but chatted on
blithely in a kind of professional prattle I was getting quite used to.
The contemplation of fair Anne’s slender young legs in those darkly-tinted pantyhose,
brought a smile to my lips; I only half-listened to her rattling on about Ironwood, a
subject upon which she seemed to be not terribly well informed. Her knowledge of its
history was really quite sketchy.
As far as she knew, the place had most recently been a kind of exclusive girls’ school,
the sort of finishing school for young ladies one can only read about nowadays; all quite
proper and of course, hopelessly old-fashioned, my informant couldn’t help adding the
last, with a smugly superior curl of the lip. The events surrounding the school’s demise
were shrouded in mystery.
Apparently, there had been some sort of scandal. One of the more audacious rumors had it
that the “school” had merely been a front for a House of ill-repute, while even more
outrageous speculation hinted darkly at some sort of White Slaver ring! My companion
tossed off this last piece of incredible intelligence in that laughingly dismissive way
the newly college-educated have in speaking about the silly ignorance of quaint local
folks — simple folk, the ones who actually believed that such a thing was even possible in
this day and age. In any event, an aroused citizenry, flush with the righteousness of
their cause, and grimly determined to protect their children, demanded the authorities
take immediate action. The school was rather hurriedly shut down and padlocked, amid the
swirl of rumors and the hasty departure of the staff. Ms Ludlowe assured me, with that
vaguely superior curl of her lip, that it was all a bunch of nonsense, no more than
village gossip.
And so Ironwood was abandoned, decades ago; allowed to fall into a state of disrepair. A
picture gradually formed in my mind. Another pile of stones: one more of those
magnificent, if shabby, big old houses that dotted the countryside; its tangled affairs
hopelessly caught up in the arcane rituals of a string of solicitors, and somewhere far
away, an eager heir trying desperately to unload the place, praying only to be allowed to
escape the heavy, inexorable hand of the Inland Revenue.
***
My conscientious guide had somehow managed to miss the turn off to the entrance road,
but after a few minutes of puzzling over the map, supplemented with a hand drawn sketch
with which she had been provided by a helpful colleague, we were able to find our way up
an overgrown gravel path, cautiously following its serpentine ascent till we came at last
around the final bend and first beheld, safely behind iron park-railings and overgrown
hedgerows, the imposing Manor House — a massive edifice of weathered, buff-colored stone,
situated smugly on the prominence of what once must have been a rolling lawn.
My first view of Ironwood confirmed the picture of genteel, if shabby, elegance I had
built up on the long drive. It was obvious that the House still retained some trace of its
once gleaming magnificence. In spite of its rather ramshackle, run down appearance, it
somehow managed to look almost pristine, bathed as it was in the late morning light of
that fair June day. It reminded me of some Lady dowager of reduced circumstances, seated
in old-fashioned dignity, nodding off in the late morning sun.
The place was still quite firmly padlocked; Anne struggled to get the key to work. But
finally, the heavy oak door was swung back, and we stepped across the threshold and into
the dark coolness of Ironwood, to be immediately surrounded by the special feel of the
place, that almost hallowed, museum-like quality of vacant old rooms, redolent with age,
dust suspended in time in slanting beams of pale light that filtered through dirty
leaded-glass windows, many of which were in definite need of repair.
For a moment we could only stare about us in awestruck wonder. The place was huge; the
grand hallway, its magnificent staircase still intact, was high-ceilinged and
cathedral-like. The staircase led to the dormitory-style rooms on the second floor where,
according to the plans I had seen, the place might have accommodated as many as two dozen
schoolgirls.
Mentally I re-arranged things according to the plans for Sterrett’s design. The upstairs
dormitories would be converted to a series of private rooms set along either side of the
hall. They would make ideal accommodations, each with its own private bath. Kitchens and
dining rooms would be fully restored to serve their former roles; other rooms would be
refurbished and somewhat modified to meet the Commander’s peculiar needs. We strolled
through the house to the West Wing, where we entered the spacious indoor gymnasium with
its the generous communal showerbay, and then beyond to the indoor Olympic-sized pool,
that opened, through sets of double glass doors, onto a terrace leading to now hopelessly
overgrown gardens. I made a mental note about getting immediate help with the landscaping.
Such thoughts were going through my head as we made our way through the many interior
rooms, my guide trying her best to soften the obvious need for expensive repairs and
renovations everywhere one looked. I didn’t tell her she needn’t have bothered. I just
nodded from time to time, remaining noncommittal. Anne Ludlowe didn’t know, nor would she
ever find out, about Commander Hamilton Sterrett. She was still trying hard to sell me on
the place, quite unaware that her sale had already been made, her sizable commission
assured months ago.
As we meandered through the dust-filled rooms, I drew ahead of my escort who had, for
some reason, lingered behind in the kitchen. And so I found myself alone and lost in
thought, in what must have been the main salon. It was there that I was surprised by a
sudden wave of horniness that swept over me. In its wake, it left an unsettling feeling: a
vaguely weak, ineffable sense that quickly grew to shape itself into a definite feeling…of
sex in the air! I felt a familiar deep-seated stirring in my groin and my thoughts turned
toward my attractive girl guide, who seemed so eager and was smiling, and trying so very
hard to please. Suddenly I turned, and there was Anne, standing silently at my side, her
gaze following mine out over the rolling hills. Was it the sudden whiff of her perfume
that made me acutely aware of her presence? The girl seemed flushed; avoiding my gaze, she
mumbled something about how hot it seemed to have gotten in the closed house.
It was an awkward moment, but one from which she quickly recovered to take up her
official duties once more, offering to continue our tour with the garret. I dutifully
followed, climbing each step in synchrony with my high-stepping guide, so that my gaze
rose steadily while staying fixed on a pert, skirted bottom that churned with such
exciting promise just inches from my wondering my eyes.
We emerged onto the top floor; there to make an interesting discovery. Although the
House had seemed devoid of all furnishings, we were surprised to find, tucked under the
sloping mansard roof, piles of old furniture sitting under heavy cream-colored dust
covers. Uncovering our discovery, we found a slate chalkboard, a massive desk, several
chairs and stools, and row after row of old fashioned school desks, all classroom
furniture neatly stacked, as if for later use. These were the old-fashioned sort of desks,
hinged flat tops fronted with a wide panel of varnished oak boards, braced at either side
by the intricate filigree of ironwork which formed legs and trailed down to flanged feet —
feet that could be bolted to floor rails to provide a sturdy platform. Anne made some
comment about “antique value,” but my thoughts had turned to rows of trimly uniformed
schoolgirls all lined up at their desks, with freshly scrubbed faces, eager and attentive
to begin their lessons.
It was in that dusty attic that I became once more aware of the closeness of the woman,
as another wave of that same, incredibly sexy feeling struck me, leaving me weak in the
knees. Here we were, two unattached adults, alone in this quiet, big old house; quite
isolated from the world outside. I wondered: did this girl feel it too?
Anne broke my reverie by announcing that she needed to get some pictures of the place,
and would I mind if she took a few photos while we were here? While she went out to the
car to get her camera, I strolled through the barnlike rooms of the attic, idly poking
about, till something in a far corner caught my curiosity. It was in a sort of alcove
where the several floorboards seemed to a have left a gap where they ended just short of
the wall. Kneeling down I carefully slipped my fingers into the crack. Although they
looked like the other planks, I found these boards were not of the same tongue-and-groove
construction for they could be eased up. Once displaced they revealed a hidden cache
between the rafters, and in that hidden space were, what appeared to be, several oversized
books or folios. Lifting them out and into the light I found they were obviously
scrapbooks with large padded covers embossed with gold stampings. I carefully removed each
one from its hiding place, most eager to see what this treasure had to offer.
Sitting on the dusty floor, I laid the first scrapbook across my knees and opened it up,
to find a display of old photos, a bit yellowed around the edges, yet each one still quite
clear; once could sense the keen eye of the professional in their careful composition.
They were of the most delightful girls, adolescents, perhaps, although judging by their
faces and especially their nicely curved bodies, they might have been young women dressed
as schoolgirls. Sometime singly, sometimes in combinations of two or more, these girls
were lovingly posed in various states of undress! A few of these teasing photos showed the
fully uniformed schoolgirls complete with white knee socks and skirts so short that they
would never have passed muster at any respectable girl’s school. In the initial photo,
these charming ingénues were caught in the act of removing jackets and blouses,
while pictures later in the series showed the same women reduced to their underwear. The
progression continued, as brassieres were removed, young breasts casually bared for the
camera. Then there were the nude photos, posed with youthful breasts proudly displayed, in
what seemed an astonishing lack of inhibition, wearing nothing but the half smiles of sly
vixens saucily showing themselves off for that unseen photographer of long ago. Some of
the photos were designed to be more obviously seductive: the girls scantily clad in silks
and satins; alluring pieces of lacy feminine finery that revealed far more than they hid.
One particularly memorable picture was of a flaxen-haired lass, who might have been a
schoolgirl, although not one as young as her dress seemed to suggest. She had been dressed
in a little girls’ party dress complete with puffed sleeves and an absurdly short skirt.
She was caught innocently bending over to adjust an ankle sock and, in the process,
exposing her plain cotton panties. She looked over her shoulder and smiled at the camera
with an impish grin. The lickerish pose brought forth an immediate erection; my penis
surging up to eagerly press demandingly against the front of my trousers.
My trembling hands rapidly turned page, after surprising page. I was burning with
insatiable curiosity, my heart racing with the excitement at finding this amazing treasure
trove, the photos of each page becoming more provocative. What I had discovered was a
veritable cornucopia of porn! Eagerly I went on, to find still more pretty girls, their
trim young bodies clad in the most exotic, scanty outfits. A tall, sleek-breasted
raven-haired beauty looked out from under a helmet of dark hair, to stare directly at the
camera with an arresting look of brazen defiance. The narrow lines of that lean body were
sheathed in a tightly-fitted bustier of gleaming black leather, smoothly curved haunches
left exposed, and long slender legs encased in shiny black nylons. Her sleek calves were
fitted into snug boots with exquisitely tall heels. She stood with one booted leg thrust
boldly forward, gloved hands on hips, as though daring the camera to take liberties with
her. One look at that erotic vision instantly sent my penis into full blossom.
The second volume promised even more of the same, but there was one noticeable
difference. Here the photos were arranged to follow a sequence; the portfolio of a
selected model who had been picked to play the starring role. A strip of paper had been
pasted, centered at the bottom of each page, bearing the name of the subject of that
particular photo study, neatly inked in a fine hand. I opened the page to one marked
“Sarah” to find staring back at me, a lass whose straight narrow figure suggested a
budding adolescent, although her age could only be guessed at. In any case, her youthful
good looks were enhanced by the way her dark mane was pulled back from a face with
delicate features and large dark eyes, to be pinned up over her ears, the excess allowed
to fall in two angel wings that flanked her small impish face. Young Sarah regarded the
camera from over one shoulder, with a gaze that was not all that innocent. For its part,
the camera lovingly lingered over the slightly-built girl in her uniform: the trim jacket,
the crisp white blouse, and striped tie; a lithe figure with long supple limbs, and a
beguiling sense of her own sexual allure.
Now those limbs were arranged sprawled out in a most un-ladylike manner, as the slovenly
girl sat with legs loosely parted, tilted back in a chair, as though having appropriated
the teacher’s desk. The flat heels of her strapped, patent leather Mary Janes rested
spread wide apart on the broad desktop, the little skirt lay pulled back on those slack,
girlish thighs. It was the brazen pose of a slut, the girl allowing the camera to see up
her rucked up skirt all the way to her panties, if not perhaps deliberately, then
certainly without the slightest compunction.
In the next photo, a tall feminine figure, dramatically clad all in black, had stepped
in to confront the negligent schoolgirl. The woman’s full-figured body was magnificent in
a black turtleneck sweater, and tightly-fitted riding pants. She was a severe looking
blonde, with short bushed-back hair, tall and imposing, and several years older than the
others in the pictures. Her already impressive height was extended by the high heels of
leather riding boots, and the fingers of one gloved hand held a flat wooden paddle loosely
at her side. In the next photo the inevitable confrontation took place: the chastised
schoolgirl standing with head bowed submissively, hands behind her back, while her
instructor loomed over the slightly-built girl, apparently caught in the act of berating
her pupil. Sarah’s punishment had been lovingly recorded for posterity!
Suddenly, I heard the unmistakable click of high heels on the wooden stairs. Anne had
noticed my absence and was coming to find me! I reacted swiftly, moving to hide my illicit
treasure. But then...I abruptly stopped myself, struck by the intriguing thought that it
might be interesting to see just what my favorite estate agent would make of my findings.
A twinge of arousal shot through me. In a rush, I gathered up the oversized folios, and
placed them in clear view on the instructor’s desk. I opened the first volume just as Anne
came through the doorway. As she came over to the desk, I invited her to see what I had
found, turning the page to Sarah’s punishment.
Anne stood beside me. We were close enough to touch, yet not quite touching, as she
leaned over to study the pictures I had left arrayed before her. Unsure of her reaction, I
held my breath while she bent over the opened book, waiting in silence a full minute or so
for the lascivious effect of the erotic pictures to fully register. Her gaze followed the
pictures; her eyes widening. Then she gave out with a hushed “Oh my,” as it fully dawned
on the girl that she was looking at decades-old porn. “This is...” she began haltingly.
“Pornography. Yes, I know,” I helpfully reassured her, edging closer till my lips were
just inches from her ear. I lowered my voice. “It seems the rumors of fun and games at
Ironwood were not entirely unfounded, after all.”
Still sporting an awkwardly stiff erection, I slid around behind her and quickly sat
down at the desk, pulling up a second chair beside me. Anne never took her eyes from the
fascinating page as she slowly lowered herself to sit next to me. I watched in silence as
her eyes followed the sequence. Under the desk, I eased my left leg over, bringing my knee
to hers. She didn’t pull away when our knees touched.
Sarah had been stripped of her jacket, and in shirtsleeves and skirt, had been ordered
to a take up a position that was obviously mandated for discipline. Stepping up till her
loins were pressed against the flat front of a school desk, she draped her lithe body down
over the desktop, and reached down to clutch the open ironwork at either side. The
black-clad instructor took her time, arranging the thin, bent-over girl in just the right
way, undoubtedly aware of the exquisite pictures that would be produced by the on-looking
camera. Now she stood behind her victim, placing a flattened hand between the girl’s
shoulders to press her firmly down against the desk. Next, the brief skirt was raised up
in back, to reveal Sarah’s coltish legs and a pertly rounded bottom that was tightly
packed in pair of thin white panties. The big blonde carefully folded the skirt up over
the girl’s bent back, and then ran a hand over the jutting rear end, meticulously
smoothening out the wrinkles in the tautly-drawn panties, tucking a straying cheek back
under its elastic leg band, before stepping back to allow the camera to dwell on that
nicely-presented, snugly pantied bottom.
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