I just knew that an evening in the company of Sebastian St-John fforbes-Whitely was going to be dull, from the moment that I saw his weak jaw and his foppish hair. The bumbling, Hugh Grant-style of supposedly amusing conversation wasn’t an improvement either. But, a girl must do what a girl must do. I’m wasn’t getting any younger, and the pool of eligible bachelors that were of the correct social standing for the third daughter of an earl’s youngest brother was getting smaller by the year. So when he invited me to dinner, I thought it best to accept, even though he is at least ten years younger than me. At least.
The restaurant was very select, the food was magnificent and the ambience discreet. But the conversation was so, *so* dull. As we sat in the haze of the candlelight, he held forth, self-deprecatingly, about his various massive failures and minor achievements. I glazed over several times. All the while, his young eyes seemed fixed to my cleavage. Not that I objected: it’s good to know that I can still give a young man the hots, not matter how uninteresting he is.
Then he started on about his school days at St Crispin’s Preparatory School and then at a minor public school. He hadn’t been a shining star. In fact he was the dunce of the class land so of course just played the fool or, as he put it, playing the ass. He built up a solid reputation of inane behaviour and gormlessness which, matched to his lumbering clumsiness on the rugger field led to his enduring nick-name: ‘Donkey Whitely’. It was when I asked if he was given the cane for his misbehaviour that the evening took a turn for the better. His eyes glistened as he acknowledged that he received frequent beatings for his stupidity or his idiotic pranks. As he again brazenly surveyed my cleavage, I pressed a scaldingly hot teaspoon hard against his hand. He didn’t flinch but did look me in the eye at last. Recognising what I saw, I dug my stiletto heel hard into his foot and again he didn’t react other than to hold my gaze.
I knew we would get along just fine.
The drive home in his Daddy’s Bristol Blenheim went smoothly. We turned into the estate and, once we had passed the lodge gates we were soon on the long curving drive through the woods. I demanded we stop at the first layby. We sat for a moment until I said, with a tone of impatience, ‘I’m waiting.’ In a flash, he understood and was out of the car, opening the door and handing me out. We stood for a moment in the moonlight and then I leant back against the car. I raised an eyebrow and at once he was on his knees. I slowly lifted my dress at the front and for once his eyes forsook my cleavage to feast first on the tops of my stockings and then on my neatly trimmed pussy. I just love having a man on his knees and young Donkey Whitely discharged his responsibilities admirably.
—
Later that evening, as Arabella indulged herself, sitting astride Sebastian’s very impressive manhood, she felt at last that her happiness and contentment were now complete. This young man’s interests fitted with hers, hand in glove and the icing on the cake was that, to her total astonishment, he was hung like the veritable donkey. She smiled to herself at the nickname as she looked down on him, seeing him still ogling her fine breasts.
As they lay together in their post-coital haze, she found herself talking about, of all things, her troubles with the staff. In particular, the most junior of the staff, Emily the housemaid, was proving very annoying, with her sniffy manner and insufficient respect. Suddenly, they were cooking up ways of putting her in her place. ‘These village girls,’ Arabella drawled, ‘only understand one thing. If my father were still alive, he would have thrashed her within an inch of her life, and she would have said “Thank you, sir” when he had finished. Changed days, sadly.’
The next evening, she and Sebastian were able to make use of her secret: they spied on Emily as she had her shower in the staff bathroom. Not only that, but he mounted her from behind as, on hands and knees, they peered together through the spy hole. ‘Look at the dirty little tart,’ she whispered, successfully stifling a gasp as Sebastian’s full length shafted into her, her dress up around her waist. Gradually, a plan dawned on her, which made her grin, just as she reached orgasm.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/ibenu7/the_hon_arabella_hamiltonsmythe_in_need_of_a