The Young Governess

• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Envoi
  

Safe Sex is essential: your very life may depend on it. Please remember that some of the sexual practices that are featured in this work of fiction (written in an era that pre-dates lethal STDs) are dangerous and they are not recommended or in any way endorsed by the publishers; by the same token, we do not condone any form of non-consensual sex for any reason: it is reprehensible and illegal and should never become a part of a person’s real life: rather it should remain firmly in the realm of sexual fantasy.

E
r
Books

Past Venus Press

First published London, 2006

eBook created 2012

Past Venus Press
is an imprint of E
r
Books

www.erbooks.org

© 2006 & 2012 MacHo Ltd, London

ISBN : 978-1-904989-19-5

eBook ISBN : 978-1-904989-83-7

No part of this publication may be reproduced by any means without the express written permission of the Publishers. The moral right of the author of the text and the artist has been asserted.
While every effort has been made by PVP to contact copyright holders it may not have been possible to get in touch with certain publishers or authors of former editions of some of the titles published in this series.

As the train pulled into Windsor station, Katherine Spencer could not resist giving in to a girlish impulse. She lowered the window down a couple of notches on the broad leather strap so that, by craning her neck only a little, she could lean out (taking care not to touch the grimy brass sill) and enjoy a fine panorama of the platform’s busy throng as it glided past. The scene did not disappoint her. There were travellers of all shapes and sizes, porters, guards, and plenty, it seemed, from that curious class of person that inhabited stations for no obviously good reason, the loafer. The train slowed to a halt and, amid clouds of steam and acrid coal smoke that billowed up to the glass and iron roof, the very air seemed to shake with the repeated slammings of heavy carriage doors as passengers stepped down from the train and, gathering up their luggage or seeking a porter, made their way towards the ticket gate. To most this noxious blend of steam and smoke was no more than the necessary stench of modern transport, but to Kate it was the sweet smell of liberty, yet another confirmation that her dearest hopes and aspirations were well on their way to becoming realised.

When she herself alighted it was with the purest thrill she thought that here, on this very platform, the Queen’s dainty feet had also trod, albeit on a fine red carpet reserved for the occasion.

“Fetch yer luggage down, Miss?”

Kate smiled graciously at the florid-faced porter who seemed to have materialised from nowhere, and she pointed to her luggage on the rack with a gloved finger. It was a warm June day, and the porter’s male sweat caused Kate’s nose to wrinkle slightly as he emerged from the compartment with her valises and heavy portmanteau and proceeded to load them on to his barrow.

As Kate, the porter and her luggage weaved through the crowd towards the exit, her impassive demeanour gave away little of her inner thoughts; in fact her mind was in turmoil, oscillating between the irrational anxieties of the unseasoned traveller and the heady excitement of a grand adventure.

Handing her ticket in at the barrier, she started to rummage for her purse in the pocket of her light travelling cloak, but a tall, elegantly liveried coachman stepped in between Kate and companion and said, “Miss Spencer? I’ll take care of that, Ma’am,” smoothly slipping the perspiring, expectant porter a reward that seemed to be, judging from his gap-toothed grin, on the generous side of adequate. She looked from one man to the other. Her rescuer was handsome, she thought, clean-limbed, blue-eyed and square-jawed. Mentally, she chastised herself for this rather too nice observation. Handsome young coachmen were all very well, but it did a young lady no good at all to assess their physical attributes in such a way when she was the first to admit that she aspired to more suitable male company.

Kate followed her rescuer to his carriage, where a similarly attired, older man stood by the horses. As they arrived, the second coachman gave her a little salute by raising his fingers to the gold cockade of his black top hat. He bent down to release the landau’s steps while his partner secured the luggage. Kate placed her small, neatly booted foot on the lowest rung and climbed gracefully into the carriage. She had time to glance at the discreet coat of arms on the shiny black lacquered door and, once seated, she could also appreciate the gleaming brass work and the immaculate leather and cloth upholstery. The carriage, its coachmen and its occupant moved off at a gentle trot down Windsor High Street, eliciting the occasional curious glance of a passer-by; Kate settled back to enjoy the ride; she felt almost as grand as the Queen herself. She glanced up at the Castle walls on one side and the smart shop fronts on the other. Crossing the Thames at Windsor Bridge she looked down upon the flurry of boating activity on the river where every sort of river craft, from humble skiff to elegant steam launch, seemed to be out that day.

Soon they left the busy hum of town far behind and as they followed the meandering road through lush meadows and fields of green corn, Kate had time to loosen the bow of her bonnet, tilt her head back on the plush seat and reflect on the unhappy circumstances that had thrust her into this entirely new episode of her relatively short life.

Upon his death, her long-ailing and beloved Papa had left Kate all but destitute – and an orphan, so to speak – since her mother had died when Kate was a child. It had been two years ago, only weeks after her twenty-first birthday, and at first Kate was inconsolable, but she had been fortunate enough to be taken under the wing of a neighbouring family. Her neighbours, the local magistrate and his wife, had been kind towards her. As the highly educated daughter of a retired schoolmaster, she had been able to tutor their two young children in return for bed and board. George Belfont had recognised both a spark of ambition and a streak of determination in their young guest, and as soon as her period of mourning was over, he had quietly reminded her of the choices of career that her none-too-promising wealth and status of an impoverished, genteel spinster accorded her: village school teacher, lady’s companion or governess. He pointed out that the latter seemed to offer the most direct path towards a fourth, and certainly more desirable, career for a pretty, intelligent and competent young woman: that of matrimony.

* * * * *

Marriage was certainly something of an ambition for the pretty young governess. And this ambition had come about in a rather unorthodox way. As an only child whose mother had departed this life shortly after Kate’s second birthday and whose father, though a loving and conscientious parent, was more often than not preoccupied by his work, she was much given to wandering the streams, fields and hedgerows that surrounded their village. Especially fascinating to her was a patch of common woodland, with dense and almost impenetrable undergrowth. A keen naturalist and budding ornithologist, young Kate would often set off across the fields to this location in order to bring back specimens of natural history to show her father or, if he were busy, their housekeeper, Mrs Proctor.

This kindly, intelligent, widow had looked after her for the past ten years and was more substitute mother than servant to Kate, more elder sister than housekeeper. Her knowledge of country lore was considerable, and she was always happy to help Kate identify the specimens she returned with.

One summer’s afternoon, a little before Kate’s sixteenth birthday, she found herself in the small space formed by the junction of two hedgerows, an almost cave-like bower; she had come to look at a blackbird’s nest she had discovered the previous day, to see if the bird was still sitting. Just as she found the four greenish blue, brown-speckled eggs, she heard laughter and voices. She immediately recognised them as belonging to Joss Witherspoon and the butcher’s daughter, Rosie Jebb, a pretty lass, whose curly golden tresses possessed a hint of red that complimented her creamy, freckled complexion to perfection. She was a wild, spirited girl, only a couple of years older than Kate and had a reputation of being ‘fast’ with boys, although were she to be truthful, Kate wasn’t really sure what this meant. And Joss, with his dark, gypsy looks, who sometimes came to tend their garden, was a respectful, pleasant enough lad, always dressed in a patched, ragged jacket, breeches tied with twine, his collarless shirt sometimes open so that Kate had once seen the way that the dark hair on his chest went all the way down to his navel. She wasn’t certain why, but this had given her a guilty little thrill of excitement. Now, peering from her hidden shelter, she could see that both Rosie and Joss’s clothes were loose and open: Joss holding his trousers up having undone the twine belt that held it up and Rosie’s pale, pink-tipped breasts bursting out from the tight confines of her unbuttoned russet dress.

“Are you going to do me here, then, Joss?”

Rosie’s voice had a gently mocking lilt to it.

“Reckon I will, Rosie. Here’s as good a place as any.”

There was a sound of the tall grass being beaten down into a makeshift bed.

“Come on now, off with yer dress, and down with yer drawers, there’s a good girl.” And there was laughter in his voice, too.

To her mortification, Kate realised that not only were they within a couple of feet of her secret bower, but they had blocked its exit, too, and she had no way of leaving without declaring herself. She was trapped! She would have to stay until they had finished whatever it was they were going to do. And what were they going to do? ‘Off with her dress and down with her drawers?’ Was Rosie about to answer the call of nature in front of Joss? She most certainly hoped not – it would be too embarrassing for words! Now she could see Rosie, as she stood facing her hiding place.

With hands on hips, head lowered and brow knitted in a mock-serious frown, Rosie gave her taller companion a playful look through long, fair eyelashes as an unruly strand of golden hair fell across her brow.

“Reckon I’ll be doing that for you, Joss,” she answered, tossing her head and blowing the strand off her face, and then followed on more sternly, “but you’ll have to kiss me again first. And kiss and squeeze my titties. I likes that. And I likes it better still when you kiss my cunt, and all.”

Spooning! Kissing! So that’s what it was all about. Kate smiled to herself for she had seen courting couples come this way, arm in arm, stealing kisses when they thought no one was looking, but she was puzzled, too, she had never heard the word ‘cunt’ before and she wondered what it meant.

“Now let’s see that fine John Thomas of yours. I’ll give it a suck, if you like, here… Oh, that’s nice, that is… I wants that inside me I do… but don’t you dare forget now, to pull out and spend on my belly. And don’t you do that until I’ve had a chance to spend meself!” and she giggled in a way that Kate thought was quite foolish for a grown girl.

Kate, quite hidden, was beside herself with frustration and curiosity. None of what she now heard made any sense to her. They had shifted again, and Joss – tall, good-looking, dark Joss – stood with his back to her, clad only in his shirt now, feet planted wide apart, while Rosie knelt in the flattened grass in front of him and was doing something she could not see.

Hardly daring to breathe, she moved her position silently so that she could see through another little chink in the thicket. Rosie had dispensed with her dress and undergarments and knelt in front of young Joss entirely nude: her breasts, belly and her sex, were all exposed to the more innocent girl’s spellbound gaze. She was so hairy down there, thought Kate. Not like my downy little patch, but a great reddish-gold bush with her blushing nether-lips showing so clearly, all swollen and pouting. But what made Kate’s eyes widen in pure amazement was the long fleshy stalk that sprouted from the tangle of black hair at the base of Master Witherspoon’s flat belly. It was as thick and as long as the biggest pork sausages that Rosie’s father sold in his butcher’s shop… and… why Rosie had the end of it in her mouth! As if she were actually sucking it… so, of course, this must be Joss’s ‘John Thomas’ that Rosie had talked of!