The Initiation of Phoebe Read online

  The Initiation of Phoebe

  by

  Regina Green

  Copyright 2014 by Regina Green

  For Gina, David, Mytrae—whose feedback all helped enormously. This grateful author thanks you.

  ONE—Ben

  Cheltringham, England

  1882

  He let me have her first.

  That’s what I remember most about the April day when we met Phoebe. The sun had come out, there were a few rain showers, but the air was sparkling clean and the warmth of the spring was rising. I saw pink and yellow roses in bud as Jake and I walked up the path to her father’s Tudor-style public house.

  Saxon, her father, was a nice elderly gent—I’d spotted him a few times before and Jake always paused to have a word with him. This time the old man looked a bit down. I pulled off my tweed cap and went and sat with the other lads, other coachmen and field workers, the usual mix, and had a pint. Jake was in another room, a cozy private space that places like these always set aside for aristocratic visitors.

  Jake was Lord Jacob Burlington, you see. I’d worked for him for five years, and we’d become closer than I ever expected, so I’d lost perspective on him. But I noticed others’ eyes dwelling on him with approval and respect, whether it was because of his title, his bulky, muscular appearance, or his unexpected friendliness. Jake wasn’t the least bit haughty. He had a nice smile. He was very dark, clean-shaven, and his hair curled slightly. Women blushed slightly when he looked at them. Men were flattered when he took an interest.

  I knew Jake so well. I knew that he could get away with whatever he wanted. He always had.

  And he had a way of putting things. He told me later that when Phoebe served him that day—old Saxon’s daughter—there was an instant spark between them. This dark-haired girl with lovely pale skin smiled at him and leaned over with his foaming pint. Her breasts were full, almost spilling out of her bodice. They exchanged a few words. Jake always knew what to say, what not to say.

  He asked her how she was and she told him that she’d been keeping well, but it had been a difficult winter, because her mother had died suddenly. I remembered the mother, a nice, tired-looking woman, younger than her husband.

  It was a good sign when they confided in you, Jake always said.

  He expressed sympathy and concern and asked if there was anything he could do.

  “No,” she’d said with a sigh. “I suppose I’m stuck here looking after Father and a million men every day! And that’s it.”

  He’d paused. And then he’d inquired innocently, as if it just occurred to him, “I wonder if you’d consider looking after a couple of men instead of millions? It might be a nice rest for you.”

  She’d raised her eyebrows.

  “You see, we’re short-staffed at the house. There’s only Cook, Ben, and myself. Ben’s my coachman,” he added, when she looked perplexed.

  “I see… there’s no Lady Burlington, then.”

  “I’m just a bachelor, Phoebe, like your dad.”

  They exchanged a smile at that. Of course he was nothing like her father, I’m sure she was thinking. At this point, I’d wandered away from the group I was in and was watching them from a distance through the half-open door.

  I was always torn when I watched scenes like this. Jake always had a proposition, and he always meant well: he was a fiery, impulsive sort, and he genuinely liked women. But I knew what it would be like for this girl if her father was foolish enough to take up Jake’s offer. Though I doubted that he would be. Of course Jake would phrase it carefully and make it seem like he was doing Phoebe a big favor. But she’d never been in service, and once you were in… you soon lost the capability for any other kind of life.

  And service meant a lot of things. I’m not sure if Phoebe knew this, having grown up, unlike me, with a nice mum and dad and having her freedom and modest pleasures, but once you were under their thumb, as much as you grew to love them and be loyal to them, there was always a tension. Most maids ended up getting rogered by their master or someone in their master’s family. It’s just how it was. And as a young man, you weren’t out of the woods either, so to speak.

  I don’t think Phoebe knew any of this as she stood blushing and smiling next to him, nervously wrapping the rag she was holding around her finger. She didn’t know that Jake liked young, dark-haired, voluptuous women, and that I’d seen him over the years with many of them. Some were prostitutes, some were women he took briefly as mistresses. A few were married. Jake had done it all up in London, while keeping a reputation in the village as a nice young gentleman and a good landlord. Down here he’d been the soul of discretion. It had to be that way, he said. But he also liked the country, liked walking with the dogs, going to church on Sunday, foxhunting. He liked those rituals.

  But he had other rituals, too. I’d watched the carriage shake on many a dark London street as Jake had his woman du jour. I’d stand and smoke a cigarette (one of his) and it would be hard to stop thinking about what Jake was doing, about his powerful body driving into them. Quite often he’d open the door when he was done and I would enter. The women never minded; they’d be lying half-naked with this look of dazed pleasure on their faces. They’d smile at me sleepily as I unbuttoned my breeches and slipped inside them, my cold cock seeking their hot, wet core. Jake would playfully slap my buttocks and then, once me and the woman in question were particularly caught up in the moment, so to speak, he’d enter me from behind. I’d come to love his heavy body lying atop mine, but I’d never admitted it to him. The admission was there in the fact that I let him do it, let him take me. After, I felt so calm.

  * * *

  I stepped away from the door as Phoebe ran out, still blushing, and obviously quite excited. She gave me an odd smile as she passed—she couldn’t place me. I smiled back, liking her innocence. I wondered what would become of her at Burling Abbey if old Saxon said yes and agreed to give up his daughter. Would she stay pretty and young and fresh like this? Jake had strange tastes—and I’d experienced some of them. I was 23, but I didn’t feel young, particularly. Nor had I ever had a sweetheart of my own. My whole life was centered around Jake, around his needs, demands, and movements.

  Phoebe’s hair smelled nice. I knew that if I ever got to embrace her, it would be fleeting, and I would have to watch Jake have her—many, many times. He was not a monster, but one of the most sexually driven and insatiable men I’d ever known. Sometimes I wondered if all rich folk were like that. You couldn’t tell from the outside, from their bluff and jovial manner. I’d seen Jake and his friends do shocking things, then brush it off and be the soul of politeness the next day as they chatted to some nice elderly lady at church. There were always mothers and aunts to placate, it seemed, in their world. But Jake had lost both parents very young, just at the time he left school. He’d said to me once that loneliness had driven him to do the things he’d done and look for companionship in strange places.

  The odd moments of vulnerability made him wonderful and, God knows, he was good in bed. But I had to stay in my place, which was to always be his coachman above all else. I didn’t know what he had in mind for Phoebe. Perhaps she would be allowed to share his bed, after he put her through certain tests and ordeals first. He’d never marry her. That was certain, and I knew the thought would never cross her mind. The most she’d be expecting from him would be flirtatiousness, a stolen kiss now and then. But that would soon change.

  It did actually cross my mind to warn the girl. Jake would be furious with me if he knew. He might even sack me. But I liked Phoebe, and I felt slightly queasy at what Jake was proposing to do. To take someone into your house and under your pay with the express purpose of making them your mistre
ss was bold. But then when he hired me he might have had an ulterior motive as well. I wasn’t sure, looking back. I was just a stable boy and was told by my master that a gentleman friend of his was looking for a coachman. It had all happened very fast and had seemed like a great windfall at the time. Also, the money attracted me. He paid well.

  Mr. Saxon was talking to Jake and he was getting animated. Phoebe stood nervously at the door, practically wringing her hands.

  “I’m Ben,” I said softly, at her shoulder.

  She turned around with a gasp. “Oh, Ben! You’re his coachman… That’s right. It looks like I might be joining the staff at the Abbey if father says yes.”

  “The staff is tiny,” I remarked.

  “Oh, I know,” Phoebe said, nodding, her eyes a deep blue. “That’s all right. Fewer people to notice my mistakes. I’ve never served as a housemaid, you know. Does Cook really do everything now, all the dusting and beds and so on?”

  “I suppose so,” I said. “I’m not inside the house much myself, as I live above the stables. Jake has us moving around so much, going up to London all the time.”

  That surprised her, that I called him Jake. I cursed myself for the stupidity.

  “Lord Burlington, I mean,” I said quickly.

  She smiled quickly, glancing at me. Women were sharp, even inexperienced girls like her. I wonder if she sensed right there that her future employer and myself enjoyed a more than platonic friendship. Jake never seemed too worried about what people said. He often put a hand on my shoulders in a friendly way while out in public, even ruffled my hair. My youth made it more easy for him to treat me like that. And, I supposed, as I got older he would get more distant in other ways as well. But so far that hadn’t happened.

  “Phoebe,” her father called out, red in the face and stuffing Jake’s cheque into his waistcoat pocket.

  “Yes, Dad?” She crossed the room rapidly, almost skimming across the worn boards.

  “Phoebe, Lord Burlington would like you to join his staff as a housemaid. I hate to lose you, but you can come back in a year if you like. I know this house has been depressing for you lately since your mother’s death.”

  She nodded quickly, her eyes warm.

  “Who will keep house for you, Dad?”

  “There’ll be someone, don’t worry,” her father said with a sigh.

  “When should I leave?” Phoebe asked.

  “Go get your things,” her father said.

  It was a very final moment. Looking at them, I thought: something has happened, there’s some reason he doesn’t want to keep her around. Maybe she’s a little too flirtatious with the village lads. Maybe he’s afraid she’ll get pregnant. I wouldn’t have let my daughter go away with Jake if I’d been in old Saxon’s shoes. But that’s just me.

  * * *

  It was hard to be up in the driver’s seat and not know what they were talking about. It was about an hour’s drive back to the Abbey. I knew Jake moved fast and unpredictably. I expected that once I got to the Abbey and stabled the horses that he would have made some play for her.

  We’d come to a little wood and the horses moved slowly down the narrow, solitary path, eyeing the nice green grass hungrily.

  Jake leaned out the window and told me to stop at a small clearing up ahead.

  I pulled off the path obediently and tied the horses.

  Silence. Then Jake opened the door and hopped out.

  “In you go,” he said, smiling. “Phoebe would like to see you.”

  I wasn’t sure what to expect.

  Phoebe lay back on the carriage cushions, her pale breasts bare, her eyes fluttering.

  Had he made her drunk? Looking around, I noticed a discarded whiskey bottle on the floor.

  “Phoebe,” I said gently. “I won’t bother you if you don’t want me to.”

  She reached out and clutched my hand, holding it to her breast. God, her skin was silky and beautiful, the rosy nipples stiffening.

  “He touched me all over,” she said, giggling. “He made me feel so queer, Ben. He wants you to go first…”

  First! This was a novelty.

  “Are you really sure, Phoebe?” I asked, a little incredulously.

  She nodded, reddening. “Please Ben,” she said. “If you don’t go, he says he won’t go. And I really, you know… want him to.”

  So that was it. I understood her, though. I understood how Jake could get you going.

  “Spread your legs, love,” I said. I was going to be gentle with her even if Jake wouldn’t be.

  I took off all my clothes. Being on top of her felt right. Kissing her voluptuous lips felt so good. I played with her breasts a little, sucking, until she moaned again, “Please…”

  I moved inside her. She was wet, but tight, and I had to push. I’d thought she was a virgin and this seemed to confirm it.

  I braced myself above her, looking down. She was probably the most innocent girl I’d ever slept with.

  She stared dreamily into my eyes. The carriage was getting hot. I continued to rock slowly and she whimpered.

  Then I felt Jake’s hand on my shoulder, whispering “off.” It seemed cruel of him not to let me finish inside Phoebe, but of course he had other plans. He made Phoebe take me in her mouth, which she did with a surprising eagerness. Leaning against the far door now, I closed my eyes, enjoying the sucking. When I opened them, Jake was deep inside her rear-entry-style while she arched back against him.

  “My God, her arse. Did you notice, Ben?”

  I had indeed noticed her beautiful heart-shaped bottom, which his hips were slapping against merrily in pursuit of his pleasure.

  I hated him just then and said nothing. Phoebe, though, as I had both expected and feared, was screaming. Throaty screams of pleasure, they were.

  “Jake, she’s a virgin, go easy,” I murmured, thrilling to Phoebe’s delicious sucking, which admittedly was not the performance of a green girl who’d never sucked a fellow’s member before.

  “Virgin, my foot!” Jake said gaily. “Why, her own father whispered to me that she was getting a name in the village. She’s had at least three men that he knows of, haven’t you, my dear?”

  Phoebe laughed. “They were all drunk, though. They barely lasted five minutes, any of them.”

  “Well, you’re in luck,” Jake said. “I happen to be one of the longest-lasting men in this county.”

  “In England, probably,” I added satirically. I was close to finishing, but still wanted so badly to be inside her. Jake’s big, stiff cock was touching places in Phoebe that she’d never experienced, I could see that. She kept dropping my cock to moan, then dutifully picking it up again, then moaning like crazy.

  Jake finished with a shout. He seemed so careless, and I supposed that to him this little fuck was nothing special. Phoebe, though, lay face-down panting and recovering, her hair damp with sweat, her face pink, her eyes bright and happy.

  Jake gestured to me, getting up, and still hard, I lay back down on Phoebe’s bare back, embracing her, my cock gratefully pushing inside.

  This time she buried her face in the cushions, pumping back against me with heat and urgency. Her cunt clenched me. Jake simply caressed me from behind, his thumb slipping into my hole. He didn’t do anything more. It was the best come of my life.

  Deeply inside one of them, with the other pushing gently into me, I felt calm, soothed, and wanted.

  Outside, the horses steadily cropped at the new grass.

  TWO

  Then I didn’t see either of them again for three days.

  It was the hardest time of my life—and I’ve had a few of those. As I lay dully on my pallet in the coach house above the stables listening to the horses, Ned and Meg, whinnying below, my mind slipped back to my youth in a small town outside London, where we rented a cold little cottage. I remembered the dreary cobbled streets, the bad air, the lack of anything to do except wait for my father, a driver for a stagecoach, to come home and toss me a few shillings t
o buy food. When he was home he hit the bottle, taking to his bed for days. He taught me the tricks of the trade while letting me have a few years of schooling, but expected me to leave home by 16 to earn my own keep.

  Mum, a quiet, sad-faced, dark-haired lady, had been dead a few years by then—so I was glad to go. Service might have been drudgery for some, but the first master I had was more polite than I expected, and I liked eating at the servants’ big table and being the butt of the joke, more often than not, as I was the youngest. If I was ever upset or lonely, looking after the horses cheered me up. I liked feeding them, grooming them, taking them out for a bit of exercise. It all made sense, that life, like being part of a large family.

  This felt different, now—this waiting for something to happen, this terrible ache in my chest, not knowing how I fit into the picture anymore. I don’t know what it was, but I tried to puzzle it out. It was the fear that I wouldn’t get to be with Phoebe again. Maybe that was it. And it was also the fear that Jake was changing her, that she’d be different when I saw her again, more cold and standoffish, unhappy. He was grooming her, too; I knew it. In ways I could only guess at and that I couldn’t quite understand.

  I suppose I want her to be my friend, above all. The thought of this almost brought me to tears the first evening, when I returned to my room after eating supper with Cook. When I eagerly asked about Phoebe’s whereabouts, Cook just shook her head, her eyes slightly lowered, and said, “She’s with Master Jake.” Since I barely talked to Cook usually, I didn’t know what to say next. There was an agonizing silence at the big, worn kitchen table as I ate my beef stew and chunk of bread and drank my pewter tankard of ale down. Well, it was painful for me. Cook actually looked quite pleased with herself, as if she was amused by my agitation and by what was happening to Phoebe.

  I never knew what to make of Cook, who was officially called Mrs. Hendrick. She’d been there for years, Jake told me, since he was 18. He’d hired her just after his parents died and the rest of the staff, all doddering, had been let go. She would have been in her early 30s then and I could still see traces in her of the dark and voluptuous beauty she must have once been. But her figure had thickened and her face had hardened. She looked stern to me in her starched apron over her black dress, her bosom big and hard and untouchable, her hair scraped back. Her hands were always floury and I disliked looking at their coarse, flushed skin and stubby fingers. But she was a formidable woman with the confidence of someone who’d traveled abroad and been, as they say, enjoyed by many men. Now, in her early 40s, she had a follower in the village called Mr. Tootle, and every Sunday afternoon she would leave Burling Abbey after lunch and return in the late evening with a smug look. Tootle had a little grocer’s shop, with a bed above the shop, and as everything was closed on Sundays in the village, the gossips swore they could hear his bedsprings squeaking for hours. They wouldn’t say it to her face, but they called her shameless. People wondered out loud why she wasn’t Mrs. Tootle already, but Cook would just smile and say she couldn’t leave Master Jake.