From private diaries recently unearthed, Dated December 26 1869.

It was good to be back at Waresley Park for the Yuletide festivities with family and guests. We had a great time shooting pheasants and other game, although I would have much preferred shooting peasants, as well as fox hunting and ravishing the local working-class girls in the village. Unlike my elder brother, I modelled myself on my late father, the 7th Earl to be a bit of a fast-living hard-drinking gambling hell-raiser.

Of course I was pleased to see the Countess, my mother, but our relationship was perfunctory. She had very little to do with my childhood, handing me over to Nanny as soon as I was born and wanting little to do with me until I was old enough to engage her in intelligible conversion. I was then packed off to boarding school and then Eton. Now 20, I had just left Oxford and was living the life of leisure to which I was entitled as well as looking at exploiting new trade markets to make lots more money. Mother was in her 50’s and stood around 5’2” tall in bare feet compared with my 5’6”. With an attractive small oval shaped face, longer than it was wide, slender hazel eyes gazed out in a captivating manner from beneath lighter eyebrows. A sleek long narrow nose drew attention to a wide slim-lipped mouth above a shallow chin. There were lines and creases from her age, but her good looks attracted suitors although her often abrupt manner dispelled them. I however found her a regal bore.

For the traditional Boxing day banquet, prepared the day before by the servants who had the day off, Mother’s long black hair had been laboriously styled so that it was pulled up from her swan-like neck and broad shoulders into an elaborate creation with a large bob above the back of the head and held in place with clips. An expensive lush satin ball-gown imparted a sleek silhouette to her otherwise thick sturdy build, and was long enough to cover the ankles yet permit dancing. In a bright red seasonal colour with a green leaf motif, the sleeves were long without lavish decoration to avoid accidents at the dining table. Her shoulders and the upper part of her chest were bare with a deep lace flounce of at least 6 inches trimming a daring plunging neckline which was draped with a number of horizontal bands of fabric pleats. Likewise flourishes adorned the off the shoulder sleeves that only covered the middle of her rather thick upper arms. Her forearms, sheathed in long tight gloves, were also notably thick and somewhat brawny. These unflattering attributes were a result of both my parents being sporty, athletic and very competitive people who partook in all manner of physical activities at which they excelled. After father passed away, Mother maintained an active lifestyle and was, amongst other things, a superlative horsewoman and unbeatable shot with a rifle and archery. Underneath that dress would be layers of underskirts and a cage to give that billowing bell-shape. There would also be a corset to make her waist small while accentuating her broad hips and pushing her ample bosom to form large rounded mounds above the low neckline and a long deep cleavage that many of the men stared at in open lust. On top of all of this, she was bedecked with large expensive jewellery; earrings, necklaces, rings and bracelets made from the finest gold and gems plundered from the colonies.

During a plentiful multi-course meal I sat opposite Mother and next to my brother Robert with some of my friends. With good food and plentiful wine I was enjoying myself.

“Go steady on the drink James,” Robert urged.

“I am not a child! I will drink what I want.” My friends cheered to that, much to Mother’s disgust judging by her snooty expression. Somehow the conversation turned to boxing and the new Marquess of Queensbury Rules that mandated the use of padded gloves. Mother proclaimed that these mufflers made the sport more accessible to the upper class, after all King George had enjoyed the noble art of boxing, and thus they could now train effectively without damaging their hands, faces and opponents.

“Did you know that the Neanderthals believe Boxing Day is so called because it is a day for fisticuffs between family members?” I shared my wit with the table which was well received by my friends with great hilarity. Mother just glared at me with an irritated look.

“I am sure that many of the lower classes know that ‘Box in Day’ is when tradesmen are given Christmas boxes of money or presents as thanks for good service throughout the year, and when we permit our servants to visit their families giving a box to each to take home containing gifts, bonuses, and sometimes leftover food,” she lectured.

“I’d rather give them both barrels of my shotgun,” I exclaimed to laughter from my friends while Mother just rolled her eyes. “You know those barbarous peasants encourage their hideous women to participate publicly in bare knuckle boxing while showing off their bloomers and bare breasts!”

There were exclamation of horror from some of the more sensitive ladies who seemed on the verge of fainting.

“My sincere apologies for such scandalous imagery,” I quickly put in. “But I am afraid it is the truth of the matter.”

“Hold your mouth, James,” Robert urged quietly.

My Mother spoke loudly and sternly.

“The truth of the matter is that my younger son does not know how to hold his drink and no doubt has watched such brazen brawling for the titillation of seeing women’s breasts in the flesh.”

My cheeks burned red at being publicly humiliated in this fashion.

“Boxing is a good sport for a lady to learn. It imparts fitness and athletic powers, develops strength and gives her fearsome pugilistic skills for self-defence allowing her to take on and lay out men and women alike, without the need to rely upon a man.”

“I don’t think so,” I stated. “Female boxing is only suitable for circus and freak shows”.

“Your father was a great boxer and I enjoyed sparring with him as an equal which we did bare-fisted as was the practice in those days.”

“Now steady on, Madame” a shocked uncle exclaimed while I scoffed.

Mother leaned forward on the table with a heated expression and I quickly averted my eyes from the large amount of bare bosom dangling opposite to her face.

“Do you find amusing the notion of an upper class woman capable of boxing a man, holding her own in a match and capable of knocking him out?”

“Please James, apologise gracefully and let things be,” Robert advised.

“I’m sorry Mother but it is scientifically proven fact that men are the stronger sex,” I scoffed.

“James, no!” hissed my brother urgently.

“God did not create women to box but to do horse-riding and croquet for exercise so they don’t get hurt.”

“I see your education is sorely lacking so it is left to me as your mother to put that right,” she spoke in a measured yet authoritative tone.

“Mother, please. It is only the drink talking. He did not mean it, let him rest and sleep it off.”

“Silence Robert!” she barked. “Unless you wish to take his punishment in his stead.”

My brother fell quiet by my side and an unsettling smile appeared on her lips.

“I thought not.”

“Punishment? I am not a child, Mother, to be spanked,” I protested.

“Indeed not. Strip down and show everyone how well you fare at boxing your mother. Show me your stronger sex or are you too afraid to back up the words that your fists cannot cash?” she sneered while her companions laughed. “We will wear mufflers so you do not get your pretty face battered and bruised,” she added in a scornful tone.

I have never hit a woman before and felt unease at doing so now, especially my own mother. Because the bullying old harridan had challenged me in public before family, friends and guests my reputation was at stake and I could not back down. The women clustered around Mother to help her to get into something more appropriate for physical endeavour while I began to remove my jacket, tie and waistcoat. Robert was still begging me not to fight her as he helped me with the gloves.

“It will be alright, I will not hurt her,” I reassured him. “Well, not too badly,” I quipped and my friends laughed.

“That is not what I am worried about,” he told me. “You know how obsessed Mother is at excelling at all sports she turns her hand to, like Father also was.”

“I shall referee,” Uncle George spoke up pompously, stepping forwards. “Marquess Of Queensbury Rules.”

“Nonsense!” Mother exclaimed from the middle of a circle of women. “A good old fight to the finish with fists, kicks, knees and elbows. Gloves, yes but no referee, no rounds and none of that silly counting out nonsense. The fight ends when he is flat on the floor and out cold.”

The women squealed with a strange delight at that.

“Please Madam!”, Uncle George exclaimed. “We are cultured people, not savages like the lower classes.”

I agreed along with numerous others until Mother had to concede the point.

Shocked gasps, ladies swooning and exclamations of outrage drew my attention and I was shocked to see Mother in only her under-garments like a lower-class whore! A plain white linen chemise with no sleeves, showed off firm heavyset arms with big rounded shoulder caps and almost manly rugged forearms. The hem was tucked into the waist band of voluminous drawers covering thick upper thighs but shockingly ended above her knees exposing thick black stockings. These showed the shape of her lower legs and were worn with brown soft leather dance shoes. I had never seen Mother so undressed before and it was a shock. Never having seen any part of her legs before, I couldn’t help noticing how unfeminine her thick calves were with dense wide slabs of unseemly hardness. As the chemise also had a wide and low neckline, the tops of her breasts and an obscene amount of cleavage was still on show. However more immoral was that without a corset there was an enormous wide and low hanging bundle at the front which seemed heavy and swung and wobbled in a most disturbing manner. It was if she were carrying a sack of potatoes in there! They swung with a disturbing motion with every move she made causing unhealthy stirrings in my loins. Turning to the side to receive help putting the gloves on, the size of Mother’s bust was staggering as it thrust out over what appeared to be a fairly flat belly. I quickly averted my gaze as my cock lurch stiffly.

The sight of my own Mother, scantily dressed with boxing gloves on her hands was disturbing but I put that to one side for my honour and indeed for all men was at stake. The hard stern look she gave me was anything but motherly as she led the way into the ballroom. I couldn’t help but observe her large manly calves as she walked before me. It was shameful to see a woman’s ankles in public let alone the whole of her lower legs even wearing thick black stocking for their shape was enough to give a more fragile man palpitations. They were too large and hard to befit a lady yet I was fascinated as they turned from large rounded and shapely masses into big rugged looking slabs of solidity. There was something mesmerising and almost erotic in how they ebbed and flowed from smoothness to brawn as she walked.

“I am very much looking forward to this boxing match,” she announced in a cold voice as her austere elegant face stared at me with a smouldering intensity that was so unnerving that I momentarily considered backing down and apologising.

As she directed family and guests to line up to form a large square area in the middle of the room within which we would spar, she stared at me again with those hard eagle-like eyes with no sign of motherly love.

“Be prepared to be humiliated by your mother in front of all these people who know you.”

I was stung by her cruelness and became determined to continue with this match to teach her a lesson.

“I did do boxing at Eton and Oxford, Mother, and rather good if I say so myself.”

“Excellent,” she declared with her hard uncaring face and her mouth in a pout that was almost sensual in nature while eager anticipation showed in her eyes. “Then let us get started,” she announced, raising her gloves.

It was unnerving that Mother held her hands in a basic guard position with her left hand near her chin and the right out in front, offering quick defence and offence with her chin down and eyes staring at me. She even had a slight bend in her legs with one slightly forward and her rear foot out to the side for balance. Then I remembered that she was Father’s sparring partner. I was only intending to give her a few firm punches to her gloves to shake her up but now realised that I might actually need to hit her before she backed down.

“This is going to hurt you much more than it will hurt me,” she said with bravado.

Circling her with my gloves at the ready, I looked for an opening then realised with surprise that my mother was doing the same. Her big bust was heaving as she moved tempting my cock but I dared not get distracted and give her the opening she needed.

“Are we dancing?” she sneered drawing some merriment from the onlookers.

I took that moment to move in quickly to throw a punch towards her head but was stunned as her right glove rushed towards me. Flinging my left hand up to block the blow, I saw her do the same and felt a hard juddering impact in both gloves as they clashed with hers. Taken aback by the strength of the impact, I broke away but Mother came after me with a heaving bosom that threatened to overspill her dress. With a furiosity I did not expect, her right glove sped towards me again but was too close to block. Quickly ducking, I winced as a hard blow slammed across the back of my shoulders. Hurrying back out of reach, I realised that she was not holding back which meant neither could I.

With her fists still raised and scarily looking quite capable, Mother glared at me fiercely like she really wanted to beat me to death with her fists. Oddly the sight and thought caused a disturbing lurch in my manhood. Before I could wonder why, Mother hurled herself at me again. I launched another punch while raising my guard and our gloves thudded together as we once more punched and blocked at the same time. Again, I was surprised by the strength of the impact and immediately broke away. Squaring off again, I was astonished by her hard sensual pout that bordered on sensual excitement. I also felt concern about her thick brawny forearms that projected a disturbing strength and a strange hard bulging around the middle of her upper arms. Senses alert, I saw my buxom mother tense before launching herself back at me like a hell-cat with an exciting dramatic heaving bust. Again and again our gloves clashed as her fists kept flying at me at a tremendous rate while she bore a savage focussed glare of determination to hit me. I actually felt worry as her punches were so hard and forceful, I had to work hard to block them but unable to get in any of my own. In alarm I found myself backing up to create some space to strike back but she kept steadily advancing, driving me backwards across the room to the amusement of the onlookers. Mother’s punches were shockingly strong and her stamina unyielding, her big heaving bust a constant reminder of her sex and causing unwanted lurches of my cock. I caught glimpses of unsettling brawny swelling in her upper arms as her rugged forearms kept pounding her gloves against mine with unceasing energy. Again I tried to ignore the disturbing stirrings of my cock. My hands, on the other hand, were tiring under the constant pounding of her fists and I was ashamed to find myself wholly on the defensive from my aggressive mother while the huge bundle on her chest bounced with hugely distracting momentum.