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.

Anne sat perfectly still; the right knee that touched mine under the desk had significantly not retreated, which I took as an encouraging sign. I glanced over at her, and she tried to give me a little half-smile. It was what I was looking for, quite enough to prompt me to reach up and turn the page of the scrapbook.

We were now confronted with the next shot, which showed the girl's panties being lowered in preparation for spanking. The bunched underpants had been drawn down the backs of her tautly-stretched thighs to be left binding her opened knees, baring a delectable girlish bottom to the camera's all-seeing eye. While the girl turned to look anxiously over her shoulder, the stern disciplinarian took up her position behind and just to the left of the bending figure, carefully placing herself so as to give the camera an unimpeded view. Widening her booted stance, she raised the paddle, bringing it up, to just lightly touch her vulnerable target, tapping those cringing cheeks, as it to take their measure for the more decisive stroke that was sure to follow. Then she hauled back, and swung!

One could almost feel the solidly satisfying thud of the thin wooden blade as it whacked that impertinent little bottom; almost hear the yelp of the victim as she shot up on her toes, arching back, when the hard paddle smacked into her pliant cheeks to send a reverberating shudder through her rigidly-held young body.

It was time to turn the page again, and once more I looked closely at my fair-haired companion. She sat tense; small white teeth biting down to indent her curled lower lip. She seemed a bit bedraggled. Somehow an extra button at the top of her blouse had become undone, exposing a sliver of the pale pink bra she wore. She brushed back a stray tress of collar-length hair that had fallen forward, passing her hand over a cheek that seemed a bit flushed, though it might have been the heat of the attic; it was hard to tell. Burning with curiosity, I found myself probing for her reactions.

"Rather unusual photographs, don't you think, Anne?" I asked, trying to keep my voice casual, as though seeking a technical opinion, even as I pressed my knee firmly against hers, and felt the surge of lust expand my already raging erection.

Anne nodded her head in agreement, and tried to get out a few halting words.

"Yes, quite...eh..quite nice," the girl managed in a whispered voice choked with emotion, her fluttering eyes avoiding mine.

Emboldened by her obviously unsettled state, I moved in closer and slipped a hand under the desk to lightly touch her on the knee. Anne sat rigid, not reacting at all to my audacious move, so I let my palm rest there, lightly cupping her knee, while reaching up with the other hand to turn the page.

The next series showed the actual spanking, the paddle swinging in a flurry of blurred motion, repeatedly striking that choice young bottom, flattening the springy cheeks and rebounding back in steady, relentless rhythm. I let my hand creep up onto Anne's skirted thigh, holding my breath, anxiously waiting to see if there might be a point where she would judge that I had gone too far. But to my great joy the delightful girl simply leaned over to snuggle against me, her eyes still on the open book before us, while I stroked her by sliding her thin skirt up and down her the nyloned length of her warm thigh in a slow, languid circle.

We were to witness young Sarah's spanking in each of the photos on the page. Only on the next page did we find that the dominating woman had finally lowered her weapon, pausing to examine her handiwork. She ran a gloved hand over the smooth twin curves, caressing those well-punished cheeks - cheeks that showed up in the black and white photos as shaded with the blush that had been so recently applied. Next the girl was ordered to straighten up before the imposing disciplinarian. With head bowed, she obviously was required to thank the dominatrix for the justly deserved punishment, and undoubtedly to promise to mend her ways. This was followed by a shot of the girl on her knees, head bowed, submissively kissing the proffered gloved hand of her imperious mistress.

Feeling the warmth rising up in me, I eased Anne's skirt well up her thigh, and slipped my fingers under the hem, nosing upward under the tented skirt, savoring the feel of that warm, firmly-packed nylon. Anne stirred; but it was only to wiggle closer to me, pressing cozily against me. I had no doubt the pictures were a powerful turn-on for my pretty estate agent when I felt her hand under the desk come up to rest on my leg; her touch was burning me through my trousers, sending a shot of arousal powering through my already painfully hardened penis.

In the last picture our chastised miscreant is standing erect, her face pressed to one corner of the room, with fingers laced together, and hands placed on her head. She still wears her blouse, white knee socks, and shiny Mary Janes, but now the pleated skirt has been raised up and held in place with the hem being tucked under the thin leather belt that encircles her trim waist. This pleasing arrangement leaves the girl's chastised rump on display, blatantly exposed to serve as an object lesson, one supposes, for any of her classmates who might be so bold as to contemplate straying from the straight and narrow of Ironwood's rigid rules.

With my hand ensconced well up her skirt, I turned to Anne, who looked up at me with uncertainty in those big hazel eyes. Her face was flushed and warm; her brow, and the very edge of her loose bangs, were damp with perspiration. Her moist lips parted with her heavy breathing, and when she tilted her head back, silently offering up those lips, I slid my hand to the very top of her leg, squeezing her there while strongly and decisively kissing the girl on her up-tilted lips.

She surprised me by immediately opening her mouth; her tongue thrusting into mine. I moved the hand I held under her skirt, slid it down the elegant curve of that smooth thigh to explore between her slightly-parted legs. And there I felt her inner heat, the burning warmth of her mounded sex through the damp crotch of silken pantyhose, as her legs slowly fell open in welcoming to me. The kiss grew more passionate, and when we finally we broke for air, she pressed against me almost knocking over our chairs in her growing excitement. My fingers curled up into the moist folds of her softly yielding sex. I held the girl by the cunt, fondling her through her panties, as I kissed her damp warm cheeks, trailing my way down her arched neck, kissing and licking my way lower while the now aroused woman strained upward to meet me, her eyes closed in rising pleasure.

"Ohooo...., Mr. Harrington,..we shouldn't," she mumbled breathlessly, her breath hot against my ear, her hands clutching my shoulders as she clung tightly to me. Undeterred by her half-hearted admonition, I continued down her craning neck, kissing and licking my way to plunge into the inviting vee at the front of her blouse. She arched back as I nuzzled into her modest cleavage, planting a kiss there, just between her small mounded breasts. It was then that the softly yielding Anne Ludlowe moaned one of those pleading invitations, low and breathy, the kind certain women issue when warmed with the first flush of passion; the sort of invitation that no man could possibly refuse.