A Gentleman's Property

  Title Page

  A GENTLEMAN’S PROPERTY

  By

  Toby Abbott

  Publisher Information

  Published by Silver Moon

  A Gentleman’s Property

  Published in 2012 by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright © Toby Abbott

  The right of Toby Abbott to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Prologue

  The naked, wildly wriggling bottoms approached the two gentlemen across the expanse of carpet.

  "Trussed chicken race I call it, Sir Roger," said Mr Morimoto, turning to his guest. "A good name, would you consider?"

  Sir Roger replaced his drink on the low table between the armchairs, stroked his grey beard judicially, and fixed his attention on what was visible of the two girls. Buttocks were much their most prominent parts, but as these jerked from side to side he could see beyond them that their legs had been pulled back viciously and forced behind their shoulders, and that their ankles were cuffed together at the backs of their necks. The girls’ arms had been draped across their doubled-back knees, and the hands forced between their thighs and bellies before being cuffed together below their breasts. In this stringent position their doll-like faces were propped up on their heels, where Sir Roger could view them only half obscured behind their jerking cunts. One girl was making painful progress straight for Sir Roger; the other was aimed rather more towards Morimoto's chair. A tall pink feather, waving vigorously, emerged from the cunt of Sir Roger's girl, a yellow one from her opponent's.

  Morimoto suddenly gave a sharp command, which Sir Roger's military Japanese enabled him to interpret as "To the right, yellow!". Rather like the Boat Race, he thought. Morimoto's girl began to edge further away from pink cunt, but it was a slow process. The girls could only inch forwards, or rather backwards, by wriggling their trussed bodies and scrabbling with their toes, which could barely reach the carpet. This was one occasion, Sir Roger thought, where an English girl would have an advantage, with her larger feet. He had no trouble calling to mind numerous English girls he would love to see in this position.

  "A very appropriate name, Aki. I will ask the stewards to add it to the programme for the next club sports. Ideal as a deck game, especially on a hot day. These two contestants seem very enthusiastic. What is the incentive?"

  "Reward for the winner, for the loser punishment."

  "Ah yes, the tried and tested is usually best, after all. Put your back into it, Pinky! You don't want to be punished, do you? Do they understand English?" he added as an afterthought.

  "Perfectly good. Before their retirement they competed many times in America."

  "I don't know how perfect that would make their English, old boy. But retired? They only look about nineteen."

  "Twenty and twenty-one. In youthful days they were gymnasts."

  Sir Roger now understood how the girls could maintain such a position without complaint - for they were not gagged - and achieve so much momentum. They were still wriggling and rocking with abandon, and had crossed half the large room already. A dark line showed their wavering course across the pale carpet like a fading vapour trail. Now that she was closer it was easy to see the stream of sweat running down Pink's crack and being flicked off her coccyx by each jerk of her shoulders. Yellow had been slightly delayed by her adjustment of line, which gave Pink the lead. Grunts and groans issued from the wide-open mouths, but not a word of Japanese or English.

  "Why don't you gag them, Aki?"

  "It is hard work. They must breathe easily."

  "But why don't they beg to be released? Or at least say something to relieve their feelings?"

  "Because I have told them not," said Morimoto simply, and Sir Roger was filled with new respect for his host's legendary training methods. Friends in the intelligence world had whispered that during the recent war those methods had been used on captured British and American nurses; but as Akio Morimoto had been a fellow-clubman and business associate since the 'Thirties Sir Roger chose to disbelieve it.

  "Where did you acquire these treasures?"

  "Their father is manager of my factory 46."

  "Sisters? But do all your managers pay you this maiden tribute? It seems too good to be true."

  "Some ambitious ones do. Daughters, wives. And secretaries who want to be managers offer themselves for a course of special training."

  "Miss Peabody on a special training course!" mused Sir Roger, more or less to himself.

  "But this case was different. The father of these girls was complained of by four typists for touching them under."

  "Under what?"

  "Under their skirts. It is an American phrase, Sir Roger. You have not heard it?"

  "Very expressive. So what happened?"

  "Sacking was the original recommendation. But now that the girls' father has shown his loyalty to the company the typists are to be punished for slander."

  "Punished how?"

  "Their manager will decide."

  "And how long do you keep the daughters?"

  "One year. When they are fully trained I will choose suitable company husbands and pay a dowry."

  "Will it be easy to find them husbands after their experiences?"

  "Very easy, even without the dowry. They will be skilled in all sex practices and very passionate, yet still virgins."

  "Virgins?"

  "Of course. Their cunts are sealed against accidents. The feathers are inserted in the seals. Yet such lascivious virgins never were seen. When they came to me first I gave them a full diet of orgasms, as many as they could take. Since then the stimulation has been more constant, but not so intense. They want release all the time, they rarely get it."

  While Morimoto had been expounding, Pink and Yellow had arrived within a few feet of their goal. Pink had retained her narrow lead despite a spasmodic effort from Yellow that was tiring even to watch. Her eyes were bulging, breath whistled through her nostrils, and saliva ran in streams from the corners of her gaping mouth. It was too late. Sir Roger opened his knees wider, and leant forward like a swimming judge to signal when Pink's flailing buttocks bumped against the front of his chair. He was able to raise his arm a full three seconds ahead of Morimoto. Looking almost directly down on Pink's heaving chest and exhausted face, while her fluttering cunt feather tickled his nose, Sir Roger flashed her one of his deceptively kindly smiles and said "Well done, girl! What is her reward to be?"

  "She will tell you. Speak up quick!"

  "Please, Master, tickle me with my feather till I come."

  "Tickle what, girl?" said Morimoto sharply. "I can change the result if you forget your English."

  "My clitoris, Master. Please tickle my clitoris till I come!"

  She had trouble with the word, and pronounced it in a charmingly garbled fashion, but it passed muster.

  "Can an English gentleman refuse such a plea from a woman, Sir Roger, even a slave woman? Please bestow the reward while I gi
ve this lazy slut her punishment."

  He showed the way by pulling Yellow's buttocks higher, throwing most of her weight onto her toes. Clamping his knees against the girl's waist to hold her steady, like the tom-tom drummers Sir Roger had seen in nightclubs, he took two riding crops from the table and began to lay sharp alternate strokes on the buttocks below his nose.

  "Tickle, tickle," he cried, "the beating will stop when the orgasm does."

  Sir Roger plucked the feather from the seal that secured Pink's chastity - it bore the famous emblem of the Morimoto Corporation - and pulled his girl into the convenient position demonstrated by his host. He peeled back the hairless, sweat-soaked lips and found the clit already swollen and throbbing. Her sister's punishment will soon be over, he thought, if I go straight for the bull's-eye, so he began with some gentle twirls around the tempting moue of her back passage, and then tried some dusting motions across her taut perineum. But while Sir Roger was glancing across to study Morimoto's excellent technique in close quarter cropping the cunning Pink snuggled herself more tightly against his crotch, and thus brought her clit into direct contact with the idly waving feather. It was enough.

  Even under the relentless assault of the crop Yellow had managed to restrain herself from making any articulate sounds, but the gasps and screams that marked the explosive passage of Pink's orgasm were succeeded in the afterglow by an endless stream of happy, cooing Japanese soliloquy. Even Morimoto's announcement that she had earned two punishments - for influencing the course of her own orgasm, and for talking without permission - could not penetrate her blissful trance.

  Sir Roger was to begin his journey home in the morning, so after the sisters had been removed the two men sat up late discussing club business, and in particular Morimoto's new protégé: a protégé who did not yet know of the honour intended her.

  "She is so beautiful, a goddess. You remember the poem you read me, 'Miss Joan Hunter-Dunn'? That is her. And then to see her as Beauty, kissing the Beast! I wanted to be that beast. I will be that beast!"

  'Typecasting', Sir Roger thought. He said, "Very well, Aki, I will approach your actress, if I can find this God forsaken hole she is playing. Tootin' or somewhere?"

  "Do not fail, my friend. Offer any price. What name will you use"

  "Oh, my old favourite, I think."

  The Proposition

  The stage door of the New Theatre was rarely besieged, and on this damp night there was only one caller. The elderly, grey-bearded man in incongruous evening dress pulled two pieces of paper from his note-case, one large and crisp and crackling, the other small and gold-embossed.

  "Doorman,” he said, "please donate this on my behalf to some worthy theatrical charity of your own choice..."

  "Glad to,” and the note vanished into baggy trousers with surprising speed.

  "...and present this to Miss Katherine the Shrew with my compliments, and ask if she can spare me a few moments of her time."

  "Miss what?"

  "I beg your pardon. Miss Mary Bowdler."

  " 'X.Smith, London' ,” read the doorman, bringing the card close to his good eye. "Talent scout?"

  "Talent scout?" said Mr.Smith, evidently amused, "yes, you could say I'm a talent scout, after a fashion."

  The star's dressing room was small and dirty, but Miss Bowdler was far from either. 'Betjemanesque' was indeed the only word for her. She was seated before a mirror in an all-enveloping dressing gown, removing the last traces of make up, and her face looked eerily fresh and healthy in this fly-blown atmosphere.

  "May a veteran of the dress circle venture to congratulate you, Miss Bowdler, on an exquisite performance? I have never heard Katherine's great speech delivered with such sincerity. So many ruin it with an attempt at irony. When you said

  'I am ashamed that women are so simple

  To offer war where they should kneel for peace'

  one felt sure that you meant it."

  "That's very kind of you, Mr.Smith, but this is 1959, after all, and I am an actress, so you may safely conclude that I'm not quite so submissive as the character I play."

  "Play most beautifully. I was only sorry there were not more people here to see you. Have the notices not been kind?"

  "The only notices we expect are from the management, probably at the end of the week. The theatre is dying, hadn't you heard."

  Mr.Smith rose at this, and closed the dressing room door, outside which the doorman had been loitering with a prop broom. Mary Bowdler was not in the least alarmed, as she was forty years younger than her visitor, and nearly a head taller.

  "I am sorry to hear of the impending death of the theatre," he said, "though I may remark that it has been shilly-shallying with the question since I was quite a young first-nighter. But at the same time I am glad, because it may make you the readier to listen to the proposition I have been empowered to make."

  "A play?"

  "Not a play."

  "Television?"

  "Certainly not,” said Mr.Smith, rather nettled.

  "Oh, a film. Do say it's a film."

  "Some filming may be involved, but only peripherally. No, Miss Bowdler, it is none of these things. Before I reveal the nature of the engagement, may I ask you a question? Your name does not, I trust, indicate any hereditary tendency towards prudery?"

  "Does your name indicate any hereditary taste for secretiveness?"

  "I will candidly confess that Smith is not my most regular name. But please answer my question."

  "One can't live backstage for long and remain particularly modest, and I was brought up in the country, 'Mr.Smith', and you know what they say about country matters. You're not from the Windmill, are you? What a lark!"

  "Not from the Windmill, no, but I am glad to hear that the thought does not shock you. I will lower my voice, in case our friend with the broom is still busy outside, and explain." The mysterious visitor leant over Mary's chair and whispered in her ear, "I have come to offer you a year's engagement as a slave."

  Mary jumped up with the intention of striking Mr.Smith, but he looked so frail, and small, and harmless, that she settled for a cold suggestion that it was time he left, as she was anxious to dress.

  "No doubt you have many similar calls to make in the neighbourhood," she could not resist adding.

  "I quite understand that it is not your usual line of work,” Mr.Smith continued in the same tone, apparently quite unperturbed, "but such histrionic talent as yours would certainly be an asset in the career I have suggested. In any case it is a good rule of life never to turn down an offer until you have heard the terms."

  "I'm not interested in your filthy money. Now get out!"

  Mr.Smith's voice sank lower still, and Mary found herself, all unwillingly, straining to hear him. What she heard, or thought she heard, was "one hundred thousand pounds".

  Her only reply was a hearty laugh, which carried with it echoes of a childhood full of horseplay and practical jokes. "I ought to be very angry, Mr.Smith, but as you have provided more amusement in two minutes than our play did tonight in two hours, I suppose I must forgive you, and write you down as a harmless lunatic."

  "You don't believe my offer?" Mr.Smith reached into an inner pocket and produced an envelope. "May I trouble you to examine this?" he said, handing it to Mary.

  "It's money."

  "How much?"

  "About a thousand, it looks like."

  "Exactly one thousand pounds, Miss Bowdler. May I have it back?"

  "I've told you I don't want your money," she snapped, but he thought he detected a moment's reluctance to part with the notes.

  "More than you earn in a year, I would imagine."

  "Perhaps, but then I have an annuity."

  "Not a very large one in these hard times, no doubt. In any case this represents a
substantial sum of money in your eyes. Not in mine." With which words Mr.Smith placed the envelope in an old saucer that served as an ash tray, and set fire to it with a gold lighter.

  "Alright," said Mary, "you're a rich lunatic."

  "What I am, Miss Bowdler, is a founder member, and in this matter the emissary, of the Millionaires' Club."

  "The Millionaires' Club!"

  "A name chosen, I might say, with traditional English under-statement. Not that we are at all restricted to English, or indeed British, members. That might have been practical when the club was founded, but not any longer. Why, the man who nominated you for associate membership is Japanese, though a charming fellow for all that."

  "And what on earth is an associate member?"

  "Locking up in five minutes, Miss Bowdler," shouted the frustrated doorman from the corridor. "Got to save electricity, you know."

  "May I explain associate membership to you over dinner, Miss Bowdler? There is one tolerable restaurant in this town, I believe."

  "But it's all crazy."

  "Maybe so. But it can do you no harm to listen, especially if I lodge this second envelope with you - you will see that it has similar contents to the last - as a proof of good faith. Keep it whatever the outcome of our discussion. All we are asking for is a year of your life, which at your age you would almost certainly waste. Accept our offer and you can return to a fortune, and for the rest of your days do just exactly what you want. If you refuse, there are, as you have suggested, similar calls that I can pay, if necessary."

  "I had not realised," said Mary Bowdler, after a moment's thought, "that there was even one good restaurant in this dreary suburb."

  The week that followed her dinner with Mr.Smith was a busy one for Mary. The disbanding of the repertory company saved her the trouble of resigning, but there were her possessions to put into store - for she would be allowed to take nothing with her, except the outfit chosen by Mr Smith - and her friends and her few distant relations to convince that she was accepting a year's engagement in Australia. There was the interminable contract to study, setting out in precise and frequently most embarrassing detail the liberties she was permitting the members of the club to take with her body during the prescribed term - the blows they might strike, the orifices they might penetrate, the holes they might puncture. After reading long into the night she decided that it would have been simpler to have said 'all' in each case. If the contract had been presented to her at first she never would have nerved herself to sign it, but by that time she had already, in her imagination, spent the hundred thousand pounds in a thousand ways, and could no longer consider her future without it. Then she had to find a trustworthy agent to act as her purse-holder. Obviously the family solicitor would not do.