Being Lord Melrose means that I have certain strings that I can pull. A few, such as being the judge at the Miss Melrose Beauty Contest, are worthless. However, my title, as Lord Melrose, does open doors for me in the local social circles.
One of these doors happened to be the one that allowed me to take a tour of the Commercial Dairy Company. They happened to still respect titles and wealth. Which was a good thing sense I was not as wealthy as I would like to be! Still it was nice to see certain people in society respecting the upper class. Nevertheless, let us move all.
The Company was a small, family run business that had been around for about five hundred years, give or take a few wars, and they were very proud of that fact. The guide was hyperactive in his willingness to explain all stages of the operation, from the care of the dairy cows to the final shipping of the many fine products that they produced. He used the term ‘many fine products’ about as many times as soldiers used the term ‘about face’.
I was shown where they kept the cows. Did you know cows supplied 90% of the world’s milk? No? In addition, I doubt you cared. Nor did I, but I nodded and grunted and acted very interested. I learned about milking parlors and refrigeration and waste removal and more than anybody ever wanted to know about milking cows.
By the time we got to the end of the tour, and yes, they had a gift shop, I was ready to go. But I had come to do a job. An important job.
“I noticed you have kept the business small,” I pointed out while examining a piece of cheese.
“Why yes,” said my guide, Edward, “we believe slow and steady wins the race. We prefer to keep our growth slow. Build a solid foundation. You understand?”
“Surly,” I said as I tapped a bottle of Grade A milk with my cane, “you could expand easily. Such a fine operation as this should have no problem with growing to twice its size within a year.”
“Well,” said Edward, looking a tad uncomfortable, “while local demand has increased greatly in the past few weeks, it is our policy to move slowly. While we have received orders from as far away as London, we prefer to check any unwanted inroads into other regions.”
After a few more minutes I realized a couple of facts.
The first was that the company truly preferred to keep things slow and steady. They kept a large amount of their funds in liquid form - in other words in the bank - for emergencies. Sometimes the money was used to buy up a few cows, upgrade some equipment, but that was it. They were looking very long term indeed.
Another fact was that Edward did not drink milk. He was well mannered, and seemed to enjoy talking to a Lord, but when it came to the facts of investments and business he refused to give an inch. The Company was NOT going to take over the nation’s dairy production. For a simple guide he was, frankly, somewhat knowledgeable about the business and enjoyed telling me every tiny detail that he had buried in that balding head of his.
Of course, I decided it was important for the business to grow. I asked if there was anyway I could meet the upper management types, as I wished to invest, but still had some questions to ask.
Edward was more than happy to set up a meeting, that DAY, no doubt images of promotion and sugar fairies dancing in his head.
Lucky for me, everybody else in the Company, at least those in the upper levels, drank milk. They had bottles of it right there in the meeting room as I explained to them how their future policies were going to be changed.
My idea was simple. Important men of state, leaders of business, and a few people I hated, would be invited to take a tour and enjoy free samples of fresh, wholesome, milk. Of course, I would supply the names and the funding needed to carry out such tours.
Of course, it could fail. I have yet to figure out the mechanization of how the milk turned people into willing, submissive, happy individuals. If could be that something happened AFTER the milk left the dairy. Alternatively, maybe something in the bottling machinery changed the milk after it was processed.
When I arrived back in the old manor, I was feeling much better. The Commercial Dairy Company was waiting for my list and I was one step closer to running my life the way I wanted to run it. Well, I was also one step closer to destroying my enemies, being rich beyond my dreams, and having power over who lives and dies, but I decided I did not want it going to my head. Egos have a habit of destroying one’s future and I knew I needed to keep my ego in check.
Therefore, when I ran into Kathryn my first thought was not how young and pretty she looked. My first thought was, why was she in the library again? To me, as I have pointed out, my library was my castle. While Erika was known to enter it, borrowing a few books, finding my stepdaughter within was somewhat a shock.
“Hello dear,” I said, trying not to shake my cane at her. “May I ask why you are in the library?”
“Hey, pop,” she said, looking up from one of the books she was holding in her hands. “Erika suggested some improving books for me to read.”
“Nothing about socialism I hope?” I stated, somewhat alarmed.
“No, pop,” she replied, showing me one of the titles she was looking at. A book on the history of India. A solid read if I remember right. A tad boring in parts, but a good read if you needed something to think on. Like, why India? Why bother to invade such a nation? Outside of getting all those spices.
“I see,” I said while sitting down on my favorite chair. “Well, enjoy it.”
She started to leave and, once again, I noticed her lack of grace and sighed.
“Dear, one moment,”
She turned at the door, books in her arms, waiting. It was amazing how much she looked like her mother. The same figure, lovely hair, bright eyes. Yet she seemed to be dim when compared to her older version, like a light bulb that was on the last second of life. Like one of those new age paintings, with dark shadows and red highlights, that they show at the art shows with lots of French wines and cheese.
“Dear,” I said, carefully running over what I was going to say in my mind. “You are half your mother. You are also my stepdaughter. I want you to act it. Be cheerful and friendly when around me. Think of your duties to me, as your father and as Lord of the Manor.”
“Yes, pop,” she said, smiling at me like a demonic clown.
“Yes, well,” I responded, trying not to twitch at her expression, “not that cheerful. And in private, call me Lord.”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Good, now, run along.”
She left, a slight change in her posture. Not at the level of her mother, but there was a touch more grace in her movement as she exited the library.
Then it hit me. Half her mother. Which made her half my wife? Yes, the thought of incest hit me in the face at that moment. I tried to fight it off, but the logic weighed down on my defenses, crushing them. She was a STEPDAUGHTER. Not related to me by blood, not a real daughter. A stepdaughter.
Her mother was my wife and she was a product of her mother, therefore, could I not also treat her as a younger version of my wife?
I tried to fight it, but the thoughts of a younger, more energetic Francine in my bed overwhelmed my barriers. Maybe both of them at the same time…
I grabbed a bottle of Scotch and tried to drown the idea but as you can guess, booze does not help one’s thinking. By the time dinner came around I was tipsy and horny. Which is harder than you think.
All through the dinner my wife smiled at me, in a new, sexier smile, in a revealing outfit. Moreover, her daughter smiled at me, in an innocent, sexier way, which made me come to realize that if I pushed her in the right direction, I could have her as a second wife.
Then I looked at my daughter and wondered how I could make her more like the others. Well, we would have to work on her face. We would also have to teach her about make-up. Also, one of the others would have to help her with her fashion sense.
As you can guess, being drunk also meant my thoughts were wandering about like the village drunk, touching a topic here, reaching for a subject there, tripping over an issue and falling into the gutter. The ethics against my future behavior was there, in the background, trying to get my attention. However, like a drunk who ignores the cop trying to help him, I continued on my way down the pathway towards passion, lust, and power. And who would not do the same?
After dinner I asked my stepdaughter to meet me in the game room. It was a more comfortable and, frankly, fun atmosphere, and I was in a fun mood. Also drunk, horny, and maybe a tad confused.
So when she came in, my commands were not at ALL well thought out or even badly thought out.
“Undress and do it slowly,” I said as I sat on one of the couches, drink in hand. “Slowly like a stripper. I want you to smile and blow kisses and feel yourself up as you do it. On the pool table…yeah, on the pool table.”
She climbed onto the pool table and started to undress. She did a good job at it, suggesting she had either done it for a past boyfriend OR maybe she had fantasized about it before. Sadly, her undergarments were not the sexy, exciting push up bras and leather panties you see in the bars. So I have been told. No, I don‘t mean they were ugly - they were nice. Made from cotton, they were the kind of things that women enjoyed but men thought tame. Her bra was designed to hold up all the weight and did so with great skill. But a girl with such fair skin and blonde hair needs to wear red lingerie.
Still, she did a good job of smiling and feeling herself up. The way she played with her nipples was very well done. I started thinking of school outfits, corsets and high heels. All the things a pretty girl like her needed. Maybe ropes…
By this time my cock wanted air. So I felt no reason in keeping it under wraps any longer. Kathryn did not seem to mind at all. She was in stripper mode and, I guess, she had decided that strippers don’t have problems with clients jerking off in front of them.
I think that was a large part of the whole way the suggestions worked. Ask somebody to strip and they strip in the only way they know. Maybe they seen it before, in a movie, or once had a book with such a scene in it. Or maybe…
“Dear, do you have a boyfriend?”
“No, Lord,” she said as she bent over; tossing her hair over her own face, while pulling on her breasts.
“Every have one?”
“Yes, Lord,” she added, running her fingers over her thighs before peeling down her panties.
“How many?”
“Two, Lord.”
I nodded. Maybe that explained it. Maybe one of them asked her to role play. Or maybe she dreamed of it but they never asked. Yet the desire or knowledge had planted itself into her mind. Waiting. Eager for a trigger.
Or maybe she was just obeying me. Oops, I forgot about how careful I had to be with commands.
“You enjoy stripping for me,” I stated, feeling a tad upset at my own stupidity.
Her smile became a tad racier and her movements more naughty. She even slapped her ass, hard, with her right hand. What kind of stripper was she? Or what kind of stripper did she think she was?
I was trapped between watching her and, as my mind started to sober up, wondering how the human mind worked. Oh, and I was also manhandling my penis. It was hard and started to leak pre-cum.
“Dear, how do you feel?” I asked as she ran out of things to peel off.
“Good, Lord.”
“Sit on the edge of the pool table,” I commanded, “and spread those legs. Yes, just like that. Now finger fuck yourself and talk dirty.”
As she gave me a show I jerked hard and faster. I was too busy enjoying myself to think of anything.
So when my wife came into the room my brain pretty much locked up, like over heated gears.