Much Beating About the Bush
by Publandlady
Copyright© 2026 by Publandlady
Erotica Sex Story: Dorset, 1926. Young, wealthy and afflicted by a profound boredom, a recently orphaned gentleman drifts through life with little enthusiasm for anything. Only his conversations with his loyal butler, Wilson, offer a spark of interest. When an unexpected discussion about human desire leads to a startling discovery, master and servant find themselves bound by an unusual understanding that will quietly reshape both their lives.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Historical Sharing Spanking Exhibitionism Voyeurism .
AUTHOR’S NOTE
When I conceived the idea for this little historical story it was immediately obvious that it would only work if I told it in the first person and from a man’s point of view (that was far more difficult than I thought). I will leave it for you to decide how successful my temporary transition has been. It should go without saying (but I feel I have to anyway) that in all of my stories any views that my characters express are their own and not mine. When a drama takes place in the past, I tend to adopt a tongue in cheek view of the attitudes of those times.
I am a gentleman of few interests. To be more accurate, I am a gentleman who has little interest in anything. My ennui has followed me ever since I can remember.
At school, I did what was needed and no more. I played what sports I had to so as to not be considered an odd fellow but I gave none of them any dedication.
Academically, I barely scraped into Oxford. I failed to obtain an English Literature degree due to my lack of application. While there I did the usual undergraduate pursuits. I got drunk, played a little lawn tennis, had sex with the odd barmaid in the town and was masturbated in my lodgings by my Scout (mine was a particularly jolly woman who couldn’t clean for toffee but I suspect could get sperm from a walking stick). All of these things only left me feeling that life had little to offer.
In my final year my father died, within four months my mother joined him; I’m sure she succumbed to a broken heart.
At twenty-two, I am the owner of a substantial portfolio of investments, a moderately sized house in a village not far from Wimborne Minster in Dorset, and most importantly, staff. Just eight years after The Great War it is nearly impossible to find and keep servants.
My parents were most fortunate to retain a faithful married couple. Wilson acts as butler and general factotum while his wife takes care of the cooking and housekeeping. They are supplemented by a stick insect of a young girl from the village, who helps with the cleaning, and an old chap who takes care of the garden.
Mrs Wilson is about fifty years of age and is an excellent cook. She has the apple shaped face common among women in this area with the generous bosom and backside that goes with it. Wilson is a trifle older. He has a calm efficiency about everything he does.
Each Monday morning Mrs Wilson discusses her proposals for the coming week’s meals. I rarely disagree with her suggestions.
Every morning Wilson brings my newspaper to the dining room. While he serves my breakfast he keeps me up to date with the local news that never makes its way into the newspapers. Which farms have been sold and to whom. Whose daughter is to be married and to whom and so on. He knows that I have no interest in it whatsoever but he is aware that it is better than a silent breakfast.
Occasionally, he would introduce wider matters. “I see that the Lord’s Test Match was incredibly high scoring, Sir, but it still managed to end in a draw,” he said.
“Really,” I declared. I had played a little cricket at school but never excelled.
“The Australian chap, Bardsley, nearly struck a double century,” he added.
Trying to show some interest I said, “Slow track, obviously.”
“Quite so, Sir.”
With all the time in the world on my hands and absolutely no need to make my living I had to find some way of filling my days.
The only things that had any appeal to me were walking and reading.
During the day I would drive my motorcar to some point in the county and then walk for an hour or two. After luncheoning at a country Inn, I then rambled back again.
In the evening, I read.
I have an on and off love affair with English Literature. At times I feel a real connection. I had been fortunate enough to meet Mr Hardy on a couple of occasions. He was only ever willing to discuss his poetry. He claimed that he had always been a poet at heart. His novels were only ever a source of income.
At dinner, Wilson and I talked a little more deeply. I asked him about his life, how he and Mrs Wilson had met, which other houses he had worked at and so forth.
In return, with delicacy and respect, he enquired about my life.
“I suppose at some point I suspect that you will take a wife, Sir?” he suggested.
“That hadn’t really crossed my mind.”
“Quite rightly, Sir, you possibly have many wild oats still to sow.”
“The ladies have always been something that I can’t find much enthusiasm for.”
“With respect, Sir, I understand that homosexuality is rather popular at the universities these days.”
I had to laugh. “No, it’s nothing like that. I’m not batting for the other side.”
“I’ve had quite a few sexual encounters but nothing really excites me,” I added.
“Ah yes, you have yet to discover your particular niche, Sir,” Wilson said knowingly.
At breakfast, Wilson gave me the benefit of his opinion on the third test match at Headingley. He obviously thought that I’d shown sufficient interest previously.
There was a fine drizzle in the air so I donned my raincoat and, forsaking the motor car, I walked as far as Kingston Lacey. This took a little over an hour. On the way back I stopped for luncheon.
During the walk my mind was set free to ponder Wilson’s remarks from the previous evening.
After dinner that evening Wilson and I exchanged banalities. Then I broached the subject that was bothering me.
“Last evening you mentioned discovering my niche,” I said.
“Niche, Sir?”
“Yes, you suggested that I hadn’t found my particular niche, in the area of sexuality that is.”
“Oh, do forgive me, Sir. I fear I may have spoken out of turn.
“I have placed your brandy and cigar in your study,” Wilson concluded, leaving the dining room.
The following day, I had some business matters to go over with my solicitor in town. I do so hate going to London. I stayed at my club overnight but caught the train back the next day.
I was quite pleased to talk to Wilson that evening. The fellows of my own social class are such boors. At least Wilson knows when I don’t want to talk and when I don’t mind chatting.
“Wilson,” I said, “I know that you feel that you may have overstepped the mark but I would be grateful if you would expand on the subject of my niche.”
“If you insist, Sir,” Wilson said rather reluctantly.
“Each man has a particular practice of a sexual nature, you understand, Sir, that ignites something in his brain.
“You could never look at a chap and say what it is. Often he doesn’t know himself until the circumstances arise.”
“So, you’re saying that something, say a particular way of copulating, would resonate with a man when a more normal practice would not?”
“Not necessarily copulation, Sir, but often what leads up to it,” said the butler.
“Can you give any specific examples?” I asked.
Wilson started to reply, “Well, your father...
“Oh, Sir, forgive me. I spoke without thinking.
“Your brandy and cigar are ready in your study, Sir.”
With that he swiftly made his exit.
Nothing was said the next day but I sensed a little embarrassment in Wilson’s demeanour.
During my walk, I couldn’t quite shake free from the contemplation that my parents indulged in some less-than-conventional love-making. Normally, a chap doesn’t like to acknowledge that his mother and father ever had congress; although it was obvious that they must have had.
After dinner, Wilson talked at some length about the upcoming Dorset Agricultural Show.
When he finally paused, I seized my opportunity. “Wilson, forgive me but I am going to put you on the spot.”
“Sir?”
“The other night you suggested that my parents had one of those niches that we have spoken about.”
“Oh, goodness no, Sir. Not your mother, Sir. She was a lady of high breeding. I didn’t mean to suggest that she ever thought of things of a physical nature,” Wilson said. Obviously he was extremely agitated.
“I’m sorry, of course you didn’t. You didn’t mention her. I just presumed.
“Nevertheless, to avoid any further misunderstandings, we should have a frank discussion, man to man.
“You must start by telling me everything about my father’s niche, as you call it.
“I want you to sit next to me and treat me as your social equal. Just for this evening, you understand? Act as if I were some stranger you’d met in a pub,” I concluded.
“As you wish, Sir. But I would never speak of these things in a public house.”
“Quite so, but you understand what I’m saying. Speak freely.”
The man sat at the table but didn’t make full eye contact.
“Well Sir, your parents were a most loving couple in every sense. But, as is usual in a better class of household, they kept separate bedrooms.
“Your father, being a gentleman, would wait until he was invited by his wife to join her in her boudoir,” explained Wilson.
“Nothing unusual in that,” I said.
“As you say, quite normal, Sir.
“In order to ensure that he gave the best account of himself in the marital bed he would employ his niche,” said Wilson.
“Damn it, man, you still haven’t told me what the bloody niche is,” I said angrily.
“Forgive me, but please no more beating about the bush. Just tell me,” I added.
“Well, before he went upstairs, your father would come into the kitchen where Mrs Wilson and I would perform a demonstration for him. This would always arouse him. It was his niche.”
“Oh, I think I understand. Yes, I understand,” I said, but nevertheless not fully understanding.
There was silence for a few moments while Wilson got over his embarrassment and I took on board what he had told me.
Eventually, I spoke, “One wonders, I suppose, if a man’s niche could possibly be inherited? Because, to be frank, I feel that that could be something that would appeal to me also.”
“I couldn’t say, Sir.”
Another awkward silence followed.
“I completely understand if you feel that it’s not a good idea but is there any possibility that you and Mrs Wilson might be persuaded to lay on one such demonstration for me?
“At least in that way we know for certain,” I added.
Wilson took a deep breath before answering, “I see no reason why not, Sir, if that’s what you would like.”
“Excellent, would Saturday evening be too soon?” I said, trying but failing to hide my keenness.
“As you wish, Saturday it is, Sir.”
After dinner on Saturday I retired to my study to partake of my usual brandy and cigar. Normally, I would only have one of each but poured myself a second drink.
Having left sufficient time for the kitchen to be cleared, I made my way in there.
Slightly to my surprise Mrs Wilson was already bent over the table. Wilson said, “Good evening, Sir. With your permission we will conduct the demonstration exactly as your late father preferred it.”
“By all means. I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I agreed.
“I am right-handed, so it may afford you the best view if you sit on that chair by the range,” Wilson went on.
I sat in the indicated seat.
Wilson then lifted his wife’s skirt and pulled down her bloomers. Her white backside was every bit as ample as I had imagined.
Lifting a tea towel that lay to one side, Wilson took hold of what appeared to be some sort of black leather paddle. He shook it up and down a few times to show that it wasn’t completely rigid but had quite some flexibility.
Assuming a sideways stance a little to the left of Mrs Wilson he made one gentle practice stroke. This produced the faintest of sound as it made contact with her buttocks.
Wilson then took a fuller swing which resulted in a loud crack as it found its mark. The resultant ripples across her backside resembled a mill pond on a windy day.
“Thank you,” said Mrs Wilson.
Leaving an interval of about twenty or thirty seconds, Wilson swung the paddle again. Once again the sound reverberated around the kitchen.
“Thank you, but could you try just a little harder, Mr Wilson?” came the voice of Mrs Wilson.
Another heavy delay was followed by Wilson responding to the request.
“Thank you,” said Mrs Wilson.
After the first full stroke I had felt my penis twitch but now it was painfully constricted in my trousers.
Wilson waited and then swung again.
“Thank you,” came the familiar response.
And again.
“Thank you.”
During the next pause, Wilson parted his feet slightly.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.