Nathan, my black lover, forced George to wear a humbler last week and he hates it. George tells me it’s agonizing for him. I don’t care though. It’s really no-one’s fault but his own. He shouldn’t have acted so insolent and tried to woo me. Men like George aren’t supposed to get ideas above their station. He should have known that I am far too good for him. Nathan says that the discomfort will help George to properly learn his place, and I’m inclined to agree.
My name is Veronica, and although I’m only 23 I’m the owner of Harwood Hall. My father is Viscount Harwood. My official title is the Honorable Veronica Harwood, but Ma’am will normally suffice. While the Hall is in my name for tax purposes only, my father spends much of his time in London and I am the de facto manager of the entire estate.
The Hall and the surrounding lands is by far the largest private property in the district, and my ****** has been the area’s prominent landed gentry for countless generations. We still employ a sizable staff. The Harwoods are used to being shown respect.
The local village is one of those picturesque rural English settlements where nothing much has changed over the centuries. It’s based on an agricultural economy, and my ******’s income is supplemented by rents from the village cottages. Some crops are still harvested by hand, and villagers are expected to doff their caps when they encounter the gentry or the hunt passes them by.
Sometimes I long for the golden age of servitude, when the lady of the house could have a servant whipped for insolence. Today, far too many villagers fail to treat their betters with the proper respect. On numerous occasions I have caught men from the village staring at me lecherously instead of looking down at the floor as is expected of them.
In those bygone days, forcing a lesser man to wear a humbler was not an uncommon practice in certain upper-class circles. It was expected that the gentry would punish the transgressions of the lower classes as they saw fit. And there’s nothing more humiliating than forcing a man to wear a humbler, as poor George is now discovering
For those who are *******, the humbler is a device consisting of a testicle cuff that clamps around the base of the scrotum. This cuff is then mounted in the centre of a thin wooden bar that passes behind the thighs at the base of the buttocks. Thus, the man’s testicles are trapped behind the bar and fully exposed. This position forces the wearer to keep his legs slightly folded forward in a subservient position. As any attempt to straighten the legs pulls hard on the scrotum, causing considerable discomfort. When the wearer of the humbler stands, he must always keep his knees slightly bent. Any attempt to fully straighten his legs results in excruciating pain to the testicles as they are pulled hard against the bar.
Thus, the man wearing the humbler must adopt a servile posture at all times, on his knees or walking with his knees bent to avoid severe discomfort. He can still do chores, he can still walk, albeit like a bitch, but is incapacitated in that he cannot run, he cannot fight, and if he is insolent a stiff kick to the buttocks will knock him down and have him shrieking in pain. And it’s even worse for the poor man if his hands are cuffed behind his back too.
Well George is now forced to serve his lady and her friends in this position, which is a far cry from when he actually thought he was my equal and propositioned me.
I developed a taste for black men as a teenager when I attended ladies’ finishing school in Richmond, Surry which is now basically a suburb of London. If you have a mind you can be in the fleshpots of the West End within half an hour, but my girlfriends and I preferred to visit East London – Stoke Newington, Dalston and Hackney - where the more aggressive, streetwise black men were to be found. I enjoy fucking a lot, and as a very attractive young lady I can pick and choose my lovers. I need to have sex daily, and if truth be told, I much prefer rutting with aggressive, masculine black men. They usually have far greater stamina than white men, and are very direct in their approach. They have many assets that a sexy girl appreciates.
Eventually we were in touch with a couple of gangs and on the weekends my girlfriends and I would simply make a phone call, then send a car to the East End to collect our black lovers, often five or six of them. We’d go out to the smart bars of Richmond or Twickenhan, and I must admit, we sometimes caused a bit of a stir. The black guys, you see, thought it was hot to see us posh hot girls be bitchy to white men. We got up to all sorts of antics in those days. We did all kinds of things we shouldn’t. I developed a taste for the naughty lifestyle where hot white girls chat up and tease weak white men before publicly rejecting them in favour of superior hot black studs who show up in the bar later that evening en-cue.
Anyway, after I finished school I delayed my career. Daddy is the local Tory MP, and his parliamentary duties were taking up much of his time. He asked me if I would care to return to Harwood to manage the estate for a period, and I readily accepted. London was fine, but servants were in short supply and the traffic meant that I was forced to ride the busy train often, which is as bloody awful as it sounds.
It was when I was back at Harwood Hall that George developed his “thing” for me, as he put it. I must admit, I had previously encouraged his gaze for a little sport, wiggling my jodhpur-clad arse as I walked by, smiling and often chatting amiably with him. I even listened to his idiotic “bright ideas” about the management of the estate. But of course, although I enjoyed his gaze, I didn’t need sex from him. I’d started to hold discreet parties at the Hall for my old school friends and black lovers, partying hard as George and my other servants were toiling hard in the stables or the fields.
It was about six months after I returned to Harwood that George was impudent enough to think that he was my equal. He ”confessed his feelings” for me no less. The poor weak man told me that he simply "couldn’t get me out of his mind”.
He had been on quite familiar terms with my father, I must admit. I think George had rigged up some kind of spreadsheet system for my father’s office, and they had had a drink together one time. But in my opinion George was getting ideas way above his station. George works in the fields, he’s basically a field hand, a general house help and a lackey. He may have an education, but the bottom line is that George is our servant, as his father was before him. He was 34 at the time, and I was 22. Despite his low class and ugly appearance he really thought he had a chance with me, if you can believe it. Thinking back, he must have been lusting after me for months.
Well it happened when I was back in the stable after a ride. George asked me to sit down and speak with him about "something important." I was in my jodhpurs, my muddy boots and riding jacket and was eager for a shower, but I consented to hear him out.
“Could I have a quiet word with you in private Veronica?” he said. I noted the use of the familiar term, but said nothing. He has used it before, but I had let it pass then. I had smiled and encouraged the oaf to speak, tolerating but noting his lack of respect.
He gestured for me to sit down beside him on a bale of hay, which I did.
“Veronica my dear, do you believe that love has no notion of time, no age?” he began.
“Why yes George I do” I said, and gestured for him to continue.
And no….no social class?” he almost whispered.
“Go on George...” I said.
“Veronica, I’m sorry, I just can’t hold back my feelings” he said. “I have been in love with you forever, and forever will be. Please Veronica, please just hear me out.”
“Wealth and privilege isn’t everything“ George said ”We are all born the same, and we all die the same. And we all have a destiny. Ours is to be together Veronica, I know it.”
"I’m still young, virile, with a lot of drive” he continued earnestly. “I know I could make you happy Veronica. I would work so hard for you. I would make you my Queen.”
I was shocked that he had the gall to proposition me like this, but I was still curious to hear him out. I guess George had no idea that I’d already fucked three different East End black men that very week
Inside I chuckled at his claim that he would be a good lover, as he had implied. Fucking virile? That low breeding stock didn’t know what virile meant. For prime alpha white women like me, virility meant the superior bodies and cocks of black men.
Well, the twit had it all planned out didn't he? We should “escape” together and “go see the world”. Go backpacking, if you please. He had been saving and had almost two thousand pounds in the bank, he said, adding almost incredibly that we didn’t need a lot of money if we “had each other”.
Well, I was about to point out to him that I’m from an aristocratic ****** and we are taught to aim higher, not lower but then I thought it might be amusing to lead him on for a while longer. I simply told him that I was flattered by his advances and would consider his offer. I couldn’t resist sticking out my jodhpur-clad arse and wiggling it sexily as I strode out of the stable,
I was all for giving George a good taste of the crop for his insolence, but Nathan, who knows a bit about discipline, suggested we put him in a humbler. He and a couple of brothas had arrived at the Hall with my friends Pip and Jem, and after a swim, a couple of lines and a drink I told Nathan about George's confession. Nathan was one of these black power guys. Basically, I think his lifestyle consisted of disrespecting and robbing white men and fucking their bitches.
It was so funny. The black guys made us girls wait in the house while they marched right over to George’s quarters and forced the poor guy to put on the humbler. Right at the very time the fool must have been agonizing over whether I would accept his laughable proposal. Well now he knew. Idiot. I wonder what he thought when those aggressive black men started hammering on his door.
Well, us girls couldn’t see what happened, but after about twenty minutes Nathan and the boys marched George back to the Hall. He looked terrified as he was marched in. He was fully dressed, but his knees were bent slightly and his back was bowed. He was shuffling as opposed to walking. What had happened was George had been forced to attach the humbler to himself before he was allowed to put back on his trousers.
“Hi George” I said as he was marched in. I was sitting on the sofa facing him. Pip and Jem were there too. We;d been drinking a lot of champers. We were all dressed hot and sexy for our men. Pip and Jem were giggling and I kind of was too. George looked hilarious, walking like a little bitch.
“I’ve been thinking about your offer George,” I said. “And guess what. I’m going to respectfully decline”
"Actually, I don’t want to escape anywhere with a penniless ugly lowlife bitch like you George,” I said.”
“Now boy. You’re gonna wear this until we sure you showin’ our bitches some proper respect” Nathan barked at George. “No get to work cleaning the fucking house boy. Get to it bitch!
Nathan then kicked George hard on the buttocks. Or at least his target appeared to be George’s buttocks but the screech of pain that emitted from George's lips told us otherwise. George collapsed in a heap at our feet, his face grimacing in pain, while Nathan stood over him with his arms folded.
“What did I just say boy?" Nathan growled. "Get up and get to work cleaning. da house boy. Start with the kitchen. Get to it of I'll be kicking your ass again!”
Well, we partied and had some fun with George that night, but to be honest I thought he had suffered enough after three days. But Nathan wanted him to wear the humbler for the entire week. Whatever the duration of his humiliation, it’s pleasing to see that George has adopted the type of obedience and devotion as was evident in the golden age of servitude, when inferior men like him knew their place.
(Heavily inspired again by the brilliant Lutherian Maid, cheers for the concept bud)
My name is Veronica, and although I’m only 23 I’m the owner of Harwood Hall. My father is Viscount Harwood. My official title is the Honorable Veronica Harwood, but Ma’am will normally suffice. While the Hall is in my name for tax purposes only, my father spends much of his time in London and I am the de facto manager of the entire estate.
The Hall and the surrounding lands is by far the largest private property in the district, and my ****** has been the area’s prominent landed gentry for countless generations. We still employ a sizable staff. The Harwoods are used to being shown respect.
The local village is one of those picturesque rural English settlements where nothing much has changed over the centuries. It’s based on an agricultural economy, and my ******’s income is supplemented by rents from the village cottages. Some crops are still harvested by hand, and villagers are expected to doff their caps when they encounter the gentry or the hunt passes them by.
Sometimes I long for the golden age of servitude, when the lady of the house could have a servant whipped for insolence. Today, far too many villagers fail to treat their betters with the proper respect. On numerous occasions I have caught men from the village staring at me lecherously instead of looking down at the floor as is expected of them.
In those bygone days, forcing a lesser man to wear a humbler was not an uncommon practice in certain upper-class circles. It was expected that the gentry would punish the transgressions of the lower classes as they saw fit. And there’s nothing more humiliating than forcing a man to wear a humbler, as poor George is now discovering
For those who are *******, the humbler is a device consisting of a testicle cuff that clamps around the base of the scrotum. This cuff is then mounted in the centre of a thin wooden bar that passes behind the thighs at the base of the buttocks. Thus, the man’s testicles are trapped behind the bar and fully exposed. This position forces the wearer to keep his legs slightly folded forward in a subservient position. As any attempt to straighten the legs pulls hard on the scrotum, causing considerable discomfort. When the wearer of the humbler stands, he must always keep his knees slightly bent. Any attempt to fully straighten his legs results in excruciating pain to the testicles as they are pulled hard against the bar.
Thus, the man wearing the humbler must adopt a servile posture at all times, on his knees or walking with his knees bent to avoid severe discomfort. He can still do chores, he can still walk, albeit like a bitch, but is incapacitated in that he cannot run, he cannot fight, and if he is insolent a stiff kick to the buttocks will knock him down and have him shrieking in pain. And it’s even worse for the poor man if his hands are cuffed behind his back too.
Well George is now forced to serve his lady and her friends in this position, which is a far cry from when he actually thought he was my equal and propositioned me.
I developed a taste for black men as a teenager when I attended ladies’ finishing school in Richmond, Surry which is now basically a suburb of London. If you have a mind you can be in the fleshpots of the West End within half an hour, but my girlfriends and I preferred to visit East London – Stoke Newington, Dalston and Hackney - where the more aggressive, streetwise black men were to be found. I enjoy fucking a lot, and as a very attractive young lady I can pick and choose my lovers. I need to have sex daily, and if truth be told, I much prefer rutting with aggressive, masculine black men. They usually have far greater stamina than white men, and are very direct in their approach. They have many assets that a sexy girl appreciates.
Eventually we were in touch with a couple of gangs and on the weekends my girlfriends and I would simply make a phone call, then send a car to the East End to collect our black lovers, often five or six of them. We’d go out to the smart bars of Richmond or Twickenhan, and I must admit, we sometimes caused a bit of a stir. The black guys, you see, thought it was hot to see us posh hot girls be bitchy to white men. We got up to all sorts of antics in those days. We did all kinds of things we shouldn’t. I developed a taste for the naughty lifestyle where hot white girls chat up and tease weak white men before publicly rejecting them in favour of superior hot black studs who show up in the bar later that evening en-cue.
Anyway, after I finished school I delayed my career. Daddy is the local Tory MP, and his parliamentary duties were taking up much of his time. He asked me if I would care to return to Harwood to manage the estate for a period, and I readily accepted. London was fine, but servants were in short supply and the traffic meant that I was forced to ride the busy train often, which is as bloody awful as it sounds.
It was when I was back at Harwood Hall that George developed his “thing” for me, as he put it. I must admit, I had previously encouraged his gaze for a little sport, wiggling my jodhpur-clad arse as I walked by, smiling and often chatting amiably with him. I even listened to his idiotic “bright ideas” about the management of the estate. But of course, although I enjoyed his gaze, I didn’t need sex from him. I’d started to hold discreet parties at the Hall for my old school friends and black lovers, partying hard as George and my other servants were toiling hard in the stables or the fields.
It was about six months after I returned to Harwood that George was impudent enough to think that he was my equal. He ”confessed his feelings” for me no less. The poor weak man told me that he simply "couldn’t get me out of his mind”.
He had been on quite familiar terms with my father, I must admit. I think George had rigged up some kind of spreadsheet system for my father’s office, and they had had a drink together one time. But in my opinion George was getting ideas way above his station. George works in the fields, he’s basically a field hand, a general house help and a lackey. He may have an education, but the bottom line is that George is our servant, as his father was before him. He was 34 at the time, and I was 22. Despite his low class and ugly appearance he really thought he had a chance with me, if you can believe it. Thinking back, he must have been lusting after me for months.
Well it happened when I was back in the stable after a ride. George asked me to sit down and speak with him about "something important." I was in my jodhpurs, my muddy boots and riding jacket and was eager for a shower, but I consented to hear him out.
“Could I have a quiet word with you in private Veronica?” he said. I noted the use of the familiar term, but said nothing. He has used it before, but I had let it pass then. I had smiled and encouraged the oaf to speak, tolerating but noting his lack of respect.
He gestured for me to sit down beside him on a bale of hay, which I did.
“Veronica my dear, do you believe that love has no notion of time, no age?” he began.
“Why yes George I do” I said, and gestured for him to continue.
And no….no social class?” he almost whispered.
“Go on George...” I said.
“Veronica, I’m sorry, I just can’t hold back my feelings” he said. “I have been in love with you forever, and forever will be. Please Veronica, please just hear me out.”
“Wealth and privilege isn’t everything“ George said ”We are all born the same, and we all die the same. And we all have a destiny. Ours is to be together Veronica, I know it.”
"I’m still young, virile, with a lot of drive” he continued earnestly. “I know I could make you happy Veronica. I would work so hard for you. I would make you my Queen.”
I was shocked that he had the gall to proposition me like this, but I was still curious to hear him out. I guess George had no idea that I’d already fucked three different East End black men that very week
Inside I chuckled at his claim that he would be a good lover, as he had implied. Fucking virile? That low breeding stock didn’t know what virile meant. For prime alpha white women like me, virility meant the superior bodies and cocks of black men.
Well, the twit had it all planned out didn't he? We should “escape” together and “go see the world”. Go backpacking, if you please. He had been saving and had almost two thousand pounds in the bank, he said, adding almost incredibly that we didn’t need a lot of money if we “had each other”.
Well, I was about to point out to him that I’m from an aristocratic ****** and we are taught to aim higher, not lower but then I thought it might be amusing to lead him on for a while longer. I simply told him that I was flattered by his advances and would consider his offer. I couldn’t resist sticking out my jodhpur-clad arse and wiggling it sexily as I strode out of the stable,
I was all for giving George a good taste of the crop for his insolence, but Nathan, who knows a bit about discipline, suggested we put him in a humbler. He and a couple of brothas had arrived at the Hall with my friends Pip and Jem, and after a swim, a couple of lines and a drink I told Nathan about George's confession. Nathan was one of these black power guys. Basically, I think his lifestyle consisted of disrespecting and robbing white men and fucking their bitches.
It was so funny. The black guys made us girls wait in the house while they marched right over to George’s quarters and forced the poor guy to put on the humbler. Right at the very time the fool must have been agonizing over whether I would accept his laughable proposal. Well now he knew. Idiot. I wonder what he thought when those aggressive black men started hammering on his door.
Well, us girls couldn’t see what happened, but after about twenty minutes Nathan and the boys marched George back to the Hall. He looked terrified as he was marched in. He was fully dressed, but his knees were bent slightly and his back was bowed. He was shuffling as opposed to walking. What had happened was George had been forced to attach the humbler to himself before he was allowed to put back on his trousers.
“Hi George” I said as he was marched in. I was sitting on the sofa facing him. Pip and Jem were there too. We;d been drinking a lot of champers. We were all dressed hot and sexy for our men. Pip and Jem were giggling and I kind of was too. George looked hilarious, walking like a little bitch.
“I’ve been thinking about your offer George,” I said. “And guess what. I’m going to respectfully decline”
"Actually, I don’t want to escape anywhere with a penniless ugly lowlife bitch like you George,” I said.”
“Now boy. You’re gonna wear this until we sure you showin’ our bitches some proper respect” Nathan barked at George. “No get to work cleaning the fucking house boy. Get to it bitch!
Nathan then kicked George hard on the buttocks. Or at least his target appeared to be George’s buttocks but the screech of pain that emitted from George's lips told us otherwise. George collapsed in a heap at our feet, his face grimacing in pain, while Nathan stood over him with his arms folded.
“What did I just say boy?" Nathan growled. "Get up and get to work cleaning. da house boy. Start with the kitchen. Get to it of I'll be kicking your ass again!”
Well, we partied and had some fun with George that night, but to be honest I thought he had suffered enough after three days. But Nathan wanted him to wear the humbler for the entire week. Whatever the duration of his humiliation, it’s pleasing to see that George has adopted the type of obedience and devotion as was evident in the golden age of servitude, when inferior men like him knew their place.
(Heavily inspired again by the brilliant Lutherian Maid, cheers for the concept bud)
