Lincoln House Chapter 1

South Birmfield sprawled across the lush Spring fields far below the grandiose gaze of Lincoln House. The ornate and beautiful carvings of the Victorian building housed the two equally ornate, but slightly less chiselled, Lady Delores and Lady Monica. The grand old building reverberated with excitement, for today was no ordinary day in Lincoln House, it was the day that was to end with a soiree attended by certain Gentleman of renowned social standing.

"Monica Dahrling ......... our new corsets have been delivered. I can feel a Rogering in the air !"

"Roger? Roger? ........ is that his name? I thought it was Sir Clarence Proudfoot Flatcher. Does that mean we'll get F...F...F..."

"Flatched? It's a distinct possibility my dear girl !!" Delores quipped.

Monica's fingers traced longingly across the taffeta and lace package and glanced up to be greeted by Delores' playful smile.
"Yes, I know", Delores grinned, "You can't wait can you?"

"Ohh, c'mon Delores, I've haven't been laced up since Colonel Ernest Rowbotham and his Amazing Performing Ponies stayed last year."

"Well my dear Sister, you'd better breathe in deeply because I sense I've been caressed by the spirit of the Head Mistress today!!"

Their usual graceful and demure demeanour, much admired in South Birmfield, vapourised in that instant. A flurry of petticoats and stockings chased their laughs through three reception rooms, the library, the drawing room, up the marble staircase to their boudoir, where the shimmering corsets ambushed them amidst a cloud of gasps and fumbled knots. Four minutes and thirty seven seconds later two svelte and trim Ladies descended the stairs expectant of the arrival of Sir Flatch.

"I hear he's an incorrigible rogue beneath that suave, debonair exterior Monica."

"Ohhh Dahrling, a girl can only dream !" Monica announced breathlessly.

The sound of hoof on gravel sent their feet racing faster than their hearts. They saw Sir Clarence from the window, resplendent in his gleaming military attire.

"Ohhhhhhhh, Delores, the gleam from a helmet like that could bring a girl to her knees!"

"Ooooooo, and I can almost discern his religion his jodhpurs are so tight!"

Sir Clarence Proudfoot Flatcher swished into the dining room sharper than his riding crop cracked the buttocks of his mount, twinkling eye atop enormous moustache, whip clasped firmly in leather clad hands.
"Shall we begin Ladies?", he declared firmly.

The riding crop rose into the air, quivering above the attentive girls for what seemed like an age, and then carved its familiar path ...............
"One, two, three ............."

The trio began singing in unison around the old grand piano.

"We love choir practise", the girls smiled happily.

"Indeed" said Sir Flatcher as he passed wind boldly like a true Knight of the Realm.

Monica and Delores ran from the room to powder their poor abused noses ...."Flatch? Flatch?" they screamed, "Flatch-ulent more like !!!"