Bramblewood Hall 9 - Real Feel

Sir Roger engages his erotic fantasies on the ever accommodating Miss Pugh, but goes a little too far this time.
Book 9 of the Bramblewood Hall Series

Real feel
Four lazy fingers of golden light slanted down through the sash windows, past the black damask curtains, and gently stroked across the Wilton carpet which adorned the oak floorboards. Sir Rodger Masterson lifted the broad paddle of the carpet sweeper and flicked up the maid’s dress, revealing a pair of silky, black panties she was wearing especially for him. They do go jolly well with the curtains he reflected. She knelt on the carpet, her hands bound behind her with a black silk stocking. He lazily flicked the paddle and she convulsed at the stinging smack and gasped appreciatively. He would have to do something about the noise: the servants might start to talk. He adjusted the electronic controller and the device began to flutter as she squirmed against it. An uninitiated observer might not have known it was there, apart from the tell-tale bulge in her little black panties, which emerged from between the gentle curve of her buttocks. Her smooth cream thighs continued down, contrasting sharply with the silky, black stocking tops which encased them. He could see her wide blue eyes peep from between the blonde ringlets and glance at the ticking clock on the mantel above her. Her mouth pursed as she tried to resist the fluttering and her eyes half closed. He had suggested a little arrangement where, the longer she hung on, the more crisp notes she would earn. He would do his best to ensure her bonus would be a modest one. He flicked the controller up a notch and administered another stinging smack. The muscles in her thighs tensed and she half rose from where she knelt, straddled on the carpet, but the fluttering possessed her, her silk stocking-clad knees slipped on the carpet and she collapsed helplessly down again. She arched her back in a vain attempt to evade the fluttering. She would have to at least try to relax: it would be such a shame to have it all over so soon. Sir Rodger cranked down his controller and let her rest. He sat back in his comfortable armchair, smiling smugly and sipping a rather excellent malt whisky from a crystal glass, which sparkled in the afternoon sunshine. However his neglect was something of a mistake: Miss Pugh’s whimpering was growing less intense by the minute, as she had cunningly contrived to evade the fluttering fingers.
“Well soon put a stop to that little game, Miss Pugh,” he insisted, administering another slap with the carpet beater. She collapsed again, squirming on the carpet, but it wasn’t long before she had resourcefully wriggled her thighs, to evade the fluttering. “This calls for a change in tactics I think!” snorted Sir Rodger contemptuously and pressed another little switch on the controller. A cheerful whirring began, prompting Miss Pugh to writhe on the carpet. However, she continued to resist his attentions, the clock’s minute hand crawled round past the hour and, by crikey! He was another ten pound note out of pocket. “This will never do,” muttered Sir Rodger, looking up at the faded portrait of his great grandfather, which glowered down disdainfully at him from above the marble fireplace. “I wonder what Sir Percy would have done?” Truth to tell, he knew exactly what Sir Percy would have done and it had nothing to do with electronic appliances and the fact that half the nearby village bore an uncanny resemblance to Sir Percy, gave substance to the rumours.