Hot Summer Weather

A hot and steamy story from Blushes 72

A hot sun shone out of a clear blue sky over the whole of southern England on this June afternoon. It had been hot for several days now, prompting people to ask each other if it was going to be another of those long hot summers which the English climate does not normally bring. When the heat does things, not just to the cereal and potato crops for instance, but to people’s minds, their lives. Their minds affected by the unaccustomed weather so that they do things they would not normally consider. Could a summer like that be on the way? A summer of sun-madness as one might say.

In Lady Sylvia Grantley’s drawing room in the Grantleys’ country place in Wiltshire where Lady Sylvia is taking tea this afternoon with her friend Mrs Miranda James the weather has indeed been referred to. Sylvia Grantley has been wondering if her roses might not be suffering in the heat and has expressed slight misgivings as to the competence of her new gardener who is called Minter. Miranda James has agreed in a perhaps distracted manner that it is very hot.

Not that it is unpleasantly so in Sylvia Grantley’s charming drawing room with the long dusty-pink draws partially drawn. The two women are of a similar age; Sylvia 40 and Miranda 39. Is that a dangerous age for a woman? Nowadays of course 40 is regarded as still young: a woman in her prime. Both Sylvia and Miranda certainly appear in their prime; both are still young-looking and very attractive: Miranda a shapely redhead and Sylvia taller and blonde. But a woman at 40 or close to it can have those little doubts.

That is probably why Mrs Miranda James has no knickers on at this moment. Under her pretty yellow-and-green flowered frock, with a slim white belt emphasising her still slim waist, there is a white slip and a white suspender belt attaching her beige stockings. But no knickers. And the reason for their absence is not the heat but because at 39 a pretty woman can have those little fleeting fears.

Miranda is inevitably conscious of the state of things under her skirt as she sits across from her friend. Because she is not accustomed to being fully dressed except for knickers at four o’clock in the afternoon. Her somewhat distracted manner betrays this — or would betray it if one knew the reason. Sylvia is vaguely aware of Miranda’s manner but of course does not know the reason. No. Sylvia has assumed that perhaps it is the heat.

Sylvia is going on to talk about her daughter, Clare. Clare will be coming home shortly from college but Sylvia is not sure how long she will be staying. Sylvia does not approve of some of the people Clare apparently associates with at college.

‘One does not wish to be snobbish but some of the, well, I’m afraid they’re certainly not our type, Miranda.’

Miranda smiles a little ruefully. Daughters are a problem. Her own daughter, Annabel, is doing a course in Art Appreciation in London and will also be back for part of the summer. But Miranda James cannot concentrate on the problems of daughters at the moment. Not when she is sitting here with no knickers on and very shortly when she leaves…

Miranda moves one hand up to nervously pat her glossy chestnut-red hair. It is just a little hot, even here in Sylvia’s cool room. As she thinks…

----//----

Ron Minter should probably be checking on Lady Sylvia’s roses at this moment and if not actually watering them in the full heat of the afternoon sun there are no doubt other jobs he should be attending to in the grounds of Brantford Manor. But he is instead in the back room of Little Brantford’s sole garage, proprietor R J Lampert as the sign proclaims on the forecourt. He is sitting with Bob Lampert and a third individual called Arthur. Ron, thirtyish, has a somewhat raffish look with shoulder-length dark hair and a moustache. The other two are older, in their fifties, and of more conventional appearance.

Coincidentally the subject of conversation is the same as that in Lady Sylvia’s drawing room. Clare Grantley that is.

‘She going to be back for the summer then, that Clare?’ Bob Lampert has asked.

Ron says he thinks so. He has not actually met the daughter, being new at the Manor and coming from a village a few miles distant.

‘Lovely,’ says Bob. ‘A really fancy piece is our young Clare. Lovely tits and bum. And a real looker too. Just like your Lady Sylvia, only half her age of course. Ain’t that right Arthur? She’d be a really marvellous fuck. Nineteen! Fantastic. And probably giving it out to half the young blokes at that college she’s at. Well these young girls do nowadays.’

Arthur grins. ‘No different from the older ones. Not with the gentry leastways. Their women can be hot as mares on heat at any age. Your Lady Sylvia; she’s had a bit in her time. And still hot I bet. Eh Ron?’

Ron laughs. ‘We’ll have them all when the revolution comes. The toffs’ women will be shared out. And I’ll have Lady Sylvia and maybe that nifty friend of hers: Mrs James. I don’t know about that Clare though.’

‘You’ll go bonkers about young Clare when you see her,’ Bob says. ‘But she’s on my list. Mine and Arthur’s, eh Arthur? We’re going to have her turn and turn about. She needs an older bloke to show her what’s what.’

Arthur nods in agreement, then looks at his watch. He gets up. ‘Well I must be going. We’ve got to keep going, never mind the heat.’

He turns to Ron. ‘So you haven’t had a bit from Lady Sylvia yet? Don’t worry, you will. Especially if this weather continues. It makes ‘em even hotter.’

----//----

Sir Roger Grantley is in his study at Brantford Manor on this hot afternoon. Sitting at his desk and looking at a glossy magazine which is devoted to the spanking and caning of girls. Teenage girls and young women in their twenties mostly. It contains excellent, razor-sharp photographs in colour and black-and-white with accompanying stories. It is a first-rate magazine. Sir Roger is aware that Miranda James is taking tea with his wife this afternoon and he will probably look in a moment to say hello, when he’s had a bit longer studying his magazine. Miranda James is a lovely woman, a more mature female than the girls in the magazine of course but she would nonetheless make an excellent model for some of the action. Her splendidly ripe bottom bared for the cane. Bent over the arm of a chair, or up on the desk top. Upside-down on her back with those marvellous nylon legs high in the air as her gleaming ripe buttocks suffer the cane’s excruciating kiss.

Yes, Miranda James is a most desirable female. And so of course is her daughter. What will she be — nineteen? Something like that. Annabel James would make a fantastic subject for the magazine. Or of course for a little private real-life session of this sort. That would be fantastic Could there be any chance of that? He should perhaps investigate. Maybe if she were in a little spot of bother. Short of cash perhaps. Young people frequently seemed to get into problems with cash. Yes.

Roger Grantley glanced at his watch. Thinking now of the maid, Julie. Julie Lampert, daughter of the local garage owner. Julie who is also possessed of a most attractive face and figure. Has he got time for a quick session with Julie? Or should he go down and pay his respects to Miranda James? Life is full of decisions, and this hot weather doesn’t help. But the hot weather does perhaps make the juices flow more freely. Yes.

Sir Roger reaches out to ring the bell for Julie.

----//----

Clare is with her boyfriend Eric. Saying goodbye to Eric in his flat. It is really awful saying goodbye even if it is for only a few weeks. It would be super if Eric could come home as well but unfortunately Clare’s mother in particular does not approve of her relationship with Eric. Eric is from the working classes, his father a lorry driver. Clare thinks this is rather wonderful. Very romantic. But unfortunately her mother does not share this view.

But it will only be for a few weeks, Clare reminds herself. They are on Eric’s bed. Eric, on top of Clare, is vigorously screwing her. Clare can feel herself coming. She will come… and then come again. It is so fantastic, being screwed by Eric. He is the only one she has screwed; her only man. There was that chap in Italy last summer, before she met Eric, but that wasn’t the real thing; they didn’t do the whole thing. Although naturally he really tried to persuade Clare. No. She held his thing though, the first time for that. To realise for the first time how big men’s things were. When they were stiff. Erect. Holding it in her hand. Stroking it. Pumping it. When it happened for the first time it was a real shock. And she wasn’t ready. It spurted all over her dress. Naturally Clare hasn’t told Eric anything about that. Anyway it was just a learning experience.

----//----

Ron is to meet Clare at the station. The hired help sent to meet her young ladyship in the ageing Daimler. Sir Roger and Lady Sylvia are both busy and nowadays they do not want the additional expenditure of a chauffeur. So the gardener, their only male servant, must take on any chauffeuring that is required. It will be different when the revolution comes Ron tells himself. Not that he really objects to a change of routine and anyway he is keen to see this Clare after the build-up she has been given by Bob and Arthur. Is she really as fantastic as they claim? Ron pictures himself driving her off somewhere before he returns with her to the Manor. A nice friendly fuck somewhere out in the country, to get acquainted. Or if not that then on some pretext taking her knickers down and spanking her lissom bare bottom.

Actually the one Ron would really fancy doing these things to is Lady Sylvia. He really has the hots for her ladyship, and his desires have been spurred on by claims by Bob Lampert that Lady Sylvia was screwing the last gardener. Sir Roger finally objected to this which was why the previous man, one Alec Mullins, had to leave. Ron is not sure how far he can credit this story. As for himself he thinks he has perhaps seen certain looks in Lady Sylvia’s eye, though it has to be said no unambiguous come-on as yet. But she is really something. Those ripe full tits and that swaying arse in her tight skirts and those even tighter trousers Lady Sylvia wears. Some of those slacks are like a second skin, the stretch material glove-tight in the crack of her gorgeous backside.

The daughter is something though, no doubt about it. A scrumptious young thing with big blue eyes and honey-blonde hair; plus really nice tits and gleaming long legs beneath her shortish skirt. And quite friendly too it seems.

Yes. Because doesn’t Clare have that working-class boyfriend whom she is so desperately smitten with? Ron doesn’t know this yet of course; but this new gardener she sees as almost a kindred spirit. He might even have a lorry-driver father just like Eric. And perhaps therefore he can be an agent against her mother. He is also, incidentally, quite romantic looking with all that long hair, although of course Clare can have no interest in any other male beside Eric. But she is going to want an ally. Because Clare wants to get to see Eric and of course her mother won’t allow that if she knows.

A girl has to make a snap decision on something like this, it is the only way. So halfway to the house Clare tells Ron to stop: she has something important to say. Ron, though surprised, is quite willing. Why not? He pulls off into a little lane.

Clare, slightly embarrassed, fans herself. This heat! And then begins. Ron listens, eyes narrowed.

----//----

Well this is a turn-up and no mistake. Ron can forget about Lady Sylvia, for the moment at least. Those stunning tight trousers must take a back seat as it were, at least temporarily, in Ron’s head. While his mind instead centres on young Clare. Because here is a real chance of getting something from this lovely young lady. In exchange of course for what she wants: which is his cooperation in getting out to see this young bloke. Oh yes. It seems that lovely Clare is hot to trot — for this one young bloke at least. Hot to be tapped it seems. Although naturally she doesn’t put it quite like that.

Clare no doubt has no plans for giving something in return for Ron’s cooperation; she has some sort of idea of lower-class solidarity, a lovely romantic notion. But Ron’s mind unfortunately does not work like that. Oh no. His mind can at times seem to be situated between his legs. Though no doubt Ron Minter is not unique in this.

Ron is not going to tell anyone about this. His sudden stroke of wonderful good fortune. No. Not Bob or Arthur. He is going to keep it all to himself. Well maybe afterwards he might tell. After he has taken his pleasure.

The weather continues hot with warm sultry nights. It is after just such a night that Ron sees Clare to collect his first reward for services rendered. Yesterday he drove Clare on a supposed visit to see Annabel James but actually for a meeting with her boyfriend Eric. Meeting Eric at the station and then driving the young pair out for a tryst in the woods. To do what young lovers who have been parted for almost a week are desperate to do. To fuck, that is. Ron knows Clare and Eric did this, engaged in the sexual act, because once they had left the car he wandered off himself. Locating them and clandestinely observing their frenzied coupling.

That was yesterday and now this morning Clare must make a little payment. Ron told her while driving back home yesterday: she must have just a little punishment for her action. Nothing excessive and he certainly isn’t going to inform Sir Roger or Lady Sylvia, but something. Clare’s big blue eyes widen in questionment. A punishment? But surely Minter the gardener, whom she now knows familiarly as Ron, is keen to help her; her romantic affair with a fellow member of the great working masses. Yes, Ron is of course. But at the same time… In the car he squeezes Clare’s knee reassuringly. He is going to come and see her early in the morning. In her room.

Clare’s room is in the west wing, not close to her parents’ rooms, nice and secluded. Ideal, for a clandestine early morning visit that is. Ron lets himself quietly in. It is nice and early, six o’clock, but Clare is awake. She has not slept very well at all. It has been a hot night for one thing and there is too the lingering excitement of seeing Eric yesterday. That heady delight out in the woods. But even more has been the prospect of Ron Minter. A punishment? Clare thought at first he might be joking. There was still a chance he might be. Until she now hears the quiet click of her door.

In between the sheets Clare has on her pink silky nighty. She might well have been sleeping in the altogether on a hot night like this but with the prospect of an early morning visit… Just supposing he wasn’t joking.

Clare shivers as Ron pulls back the covers. Wide-eyed in the half light, she grips the gown down around her flinching body. But Ron, looming above her, indicates that she is to let go. When she does he simply slides it up. To reveal everything. All of her. Pale girl-flesh gleaming soft and vulnerable in the thin morning light.

Clare’s breath shudders out as Ron’s hand slides back down. She makes a whimpering sound. She knows now what he wants. Or thinks she does. What he has come for. As his hand, causing a violent lurching of her heart, takes hold of her pussy. Yes. Ron has just come for what he can get. With his blackmailing knowledge. Which she will have to give. Her pussy. He has come for her pussy.

That is what Clare thinks. The thought of it making her head spin. But it is not that. Or at least not first of all. First of all… Clare has to be over Ron’s lap. With her pretty blonde head down and her bared bottom up across his thighs.

‘Keep nice and quiet,’ Ron sensibly advises. For of course neither of them wishes to cause any disturbance, to awaken the rest of the household. Ron is going to spank Clare’s bare bottom but she must keep quiet, take it nice and quietly. No wild yelling out. The actual crack of hand on bottom will hopefully not carry to the further reaches of the house.

----//----

Does Sir Roger hear it? The rhythmic sound of flesh meeting flesh. Or is it his imagination? As he lies in a sort of halfway state between sleep and waking his mind is anyway reviewing a similar scene to that taking place at this moment in the west wing. But Sir Roger’s scene involves himself and Julie Lampert, the maid. He has Julie over his lap and is spanking her choice rear divisions. This is no mere fantasy of Sir Roger’s of course, it is a real live pleasure he not infrequently engages in. Spanking Julie’s ripe rear cheeks. And then the other. After there has been sufficient of the rhythmic crack of male hand on girl-flesh which even now he can hear in his head. After that a little bout of the other. Exercising his seigneurial rights. Mounting the maid.

As Ron is likewise now preparing to engage himself. Not seigneurial rights of course, gardener/chauffeurs certainly have no such rights. And it is not of course the maid. It is Sir Roger’s own fair daughter. But that is what Ron is about to do. Clare bending now over the side of her bed. Lying over it, face down. To expose, to make available, her womanly parts. Yes. Ron rampantly erect, is now… making contact. With the succulent parts. Effecting penetration. The recumbent Clare shudders. A shuddering groan. But not making a struggle… against what is happening. Not struggling… against what is now sliding in and out.

----//----

It is still hot. You could say we are already into one of those long hot summers. When in the heat people can do strange things, out of character. Throwing caution to the winds. Well, some are indeed already doing just that. Clare Grantley for instance.

Clare does not seem quite so desperate for Eric now. Could she perhaps then be getting some relief for her enforced separation? Surely without this heat Clare would not dream of such a thing. And then there is Sylvia, her mother.

Lady Sylvia is feeling somewhat restless. It is undoubtedly this hot weather. Clare seems to be less of a problem than she had expected, settling down quietly at home, but Sylvia herself… She is wondering a little bit about the gardener. Minter. He is not really her type, with all that hair, but he is an available male. Males of the lower classes can be a stimulating diversion. Like Minter’s predecessor. And Roger wouldn’t need to know.

Sir Roger no doubt would not notice, not unless he actually stumbled across them engaged in the act. He has got the maid of course but even more than the maid there is now Annabel James. He has made considerable progress with Annabel. She is quite a revelation. Yesterday afternoon Sir Roger met Annabel for a drive in the Daimler, during which she proved remarkably accommodating. Permitting various intimacies.

‘Not the whole thing,’ she giggled. ‘You can’t do the whole thing.’ But was prepared to sit on Sir Roger’s lap with her knickers off. And not seriously object to Sir Roger’s fingers. Which she allowed at last to work her up to a big orgasm.

So Sir Roger can’t wait for their next meeting. This afternoon. It is the heat, of course. An entirely respectable girl like Annabel James would never permit such advances were it not for this heat.

And as for her mother? Oh yes. Mrs Miranda James has had her knickers off quite a lot recently.

Miranda can’t think what has got into her. It can only be the hot weather. She would never have got into such a thing otherwise. It is madness. She is seeing him almost every day now. A hot clandestine fuck almost every day. Madness. Someone is bound to find out. Stephen, her husband. Or Annabel. What would dear Annabel think? Oh Christ.

Arthur Faxby. Arthur Faxby who always makes Miranda meet him with her knickers already off. So that she is immediately available. Ready for it. His big stiff thing, hot and urgent. Oh Christ. It is madness. Summer madness. Sun madness.