LORD BRAMBLE'S REHABILITATION
By Damon Peters
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
This book is a work of adult erotic fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published by Amazon, Kindle.
Contents
PROLOGUE. Captain John Wells.
CHAPTER ONE. Isabel and a maid.
CHAPTER TWO. A new nurse for Lord Richard.
CHAPTER THREE. A calming stroke.
CHAPTER FOUR. What to do with Lilly.
CHAPTER FIVE. Isabel has a visitor.
CHAPTER SIX. Lord Richard's treatment.
CHAPTER SEVEN. Sir Oswald arrives.
CHAPTER EIGHT. Giving Isabel the news.
CHAPTER NINE. Punishing Isabel.
PROLOGUE. Captain John Wells.
Captain John Wells sat in his wheelchair and looked out along the manicured gardens of the private hospital to the woods on the horizon. It was quiet and idyllic here in the rolling hills of Kent, and it was a full two years since the last shell had fallen in France. The war was over and a distant past for many - for most, anyway. The 1920s beckoned with great promise for industrial wealth and development. But not for Captain John Wells, not while those trees remained, reminding him of the Belgium countryside that morning, before the battle began. Mortars crashed all around him as he strode through long grass towards the woods on the gentle slope and the German positions just in front of them, hundreds of men lined up behind him, stepping forward with grim faces set in lines of resolve.
He had crawled back over them, through puddles of mud and blood, crying out for support, weeping as he ordered the ghosts of his friends and comrades into one more valiant rush.
That had been the beginning. The beginning of two years of trench warfare that had ended in another puddle of mud and blood, now much of it his own.
His breath quickened. That was the first sign and Nurse Debora Carr noted the change and rushed to his side to take his hand. "John? John? It's all right John," she murmured. "The war is over John. Over; do you hear me?" she asked more firmly.
His teeth ground together and he began to quiver, his eyes fixed on the horizon, pupils contracted into tiny points.
The nurse knelt, still trying to coax him back with words even as her hands drew the blanket from his lap and her fingers expertly undid the fastening of his trousers.
"John? John?" she urged, taking his soft organ between her fingers to begin pulling on the warm and pliant flesh. "Stay here John. The war is over John. Over!" she told him, willing his organ to get hard enough for her to drop her head and take him into her warm and liquid mouth.
"Come on!" she begged, looking down at his soft penis, flesh concertinaed behind the helmet created by his circumcision. "Yes!" she crooned excitedly, feeling his organ respond, even as his quivering grew worse.
The slight swell of his penis was good enough and the nurse dropped her head into his lap to take the organ into her mouth and immerse it in her hot saliva. Lips squeezed the shaft behind the bulbous head to feel it respond and harden, and her tongue swirled over the warm flesh, bathing it and caressing it, promoting sensations that had it swell in her mouth.
She couldn't talk to him - not with her mouth full, but she crooned around his now erect manhood and savoured the taste of him, sliding her lips along the shaft to complete the hardening and stretching of his cock.
His shaking eased and his quivering changed its nature, becoming the result of physical excitement as opposed to mental anguish. His rapid breathing changed too, and a hand rose to rest on her hair as he slid partially down in the chair to aid her in her work.
The nurse crooned once more and reached down to cradle his balls, knowing how much he liked them squeezed when he came. Her lips slid more urgently along an inch of throbbing organ and her tongue lavished her hot saliva on the domed head, the tip tickling the shorn underside, where he was most sensitive.
"God!" he gasped.
Nurse Debora Carr slid her mouth to the tip of his cock and let her hand pump his organ in her mouth's stead. It left her free to receive the spurts of seed that followed, her squeezing fingers emptying him of all he had to give. She could then lift her mouth and swallow, savouring the distinctive taste of semen while smiling into his dazed but contented smile.
"Thank you Nurse," he murmured, covering himself with the blanket.
She blushed and rose. Most of the nurses had favourites, and John was hers. Not all their patients thanked you afterwards, but John always did. He was nice that way.
"Your visitor will be here soon," she reminded him, wheeling him around the house.
"Stop!" he told her. He put his hands on the wheels to hold them still. "I want to walk," he explained, pushing the blanket aside.
"Wait!" she told him, rushing round to the front. "Wait until I do up your trousers again, else you'll be shuffling round with them round your ankles!" she giggled, attending to him before stepping back to wait for him to stand.
John rose, his long and angular face set in hard lines as he concentrated on his balance. He had just turned twenty-eight years of age but looked a decade older. War had done that to many men, Debora reflected as she smiled encouragement. The man was still thin, even two years since the end of the war, gangly even. If she had to imagine him in a profession then it would be as a school teacher in some stuffy old school, and wished she'd had someone like John as a teacher. She would have lost her virginity a lot sooner if she had, she thought with a grin.
"Shall I take your arm, and you can promenade me around the hospital," she offered, taking his arm anyway, knowing he'd not have the strength to last very long. As it was, he lasted longer than she had thought, and was still walking when the messenger came to tell them john's visitor had arrived.
The elderly man in the heavy woollen suit was not what John had expected, any more than John's firm grip in a handshake was what Sir Oswald had anticipated as he watched the pretty nurse bring the ex-soldier into the library.
"What can I do for you Sir Oswald?" John asked, getting comfortable and watching the older man watch Debora pour the tea, the nurse bending forward to do so, the curve of her bottom appearing in the cotton of her skirt. John had learnt not be too possessive of the nurses who gave so much of themselves to see that their patients got better, but it was harder when an outsider looked at them with more than professional interest.
"I am here in Lord Bramble's request," he explained, turning back to John.
"Richard," John murmured, remembering the Major from the trenches, sharing a shelter for hours on end while the Germans tried their best to obliterate them. You got to know those about you quite well in those circumstances. You got to know them and trust them far more closely than just about anyone else in the whole world. "How is the Major?" he asked. He'd not seen the man for several months, not since his last visit to the private hospital, the one in which he had pulled strings to have John sent to - after hearing of his lack of progress at his original hospital. "I've not really had the opportunity to thank him for having me sent here," he said, accepting the cup of tea from Debora.
Sir Oswald took a sip of his own and set it to one side. "I'm afraid the old boy is not well," he explained. "Had a stroke. He's in a wheelchair now. Can't speak, can't feed himself, poor man. Doctors say he might get some use of his limbs back, but none can tell you how much, bloody doctors!" he said, scowling so
rrowfully.
"But that's terrible news!" John sobbed, remembering their days in the trenches, sharing fond memories of home while waiting in the tense silence for the whistle that would send them over the top and back into that rain of deadly lead.
"John! John!" Debora called, rushing to kneel at his side, her hand on his.
John blinked and looked at her, the memory cast aside for the present. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked Sir Oswald, patting Debora's hand to let her know it was alright.
"He asked for you," Sir Oswald told him, and went on to explain. "It's in his will; that should anything befall him to stop him being able to run his estate or look after his family, then you should be contacted and asked to act on his behalf in all things pertaining to him and his estate. At least until his daughter is safely married and over the age of twenty-five. That's still a good six years away I'm glad to tell you."
"Me!?" John gasped, remembering the old man's love of life, his ability to find mirth in the middle of horror. He had saved John's life innumerable times, though the old man often told it the other way round, and neither of them had seen the war through to its end, both having been struck down within an hour of each other, the Major to a number of bullets in the thigh that left him with a limp, John to shrapnel across his trunk and upper thighs from a nearby explosion.
"If you think yourself up to it, of course," Sir Oswald murmured, sipping his tea once more.
John licked his lips. The hospital had become something of a haven for him and just thinking of walking down a London street made him shake with nervousness. Loud or sharp noises startled him and threatened to bring on another of his seizures, although the doctor was forever telling him that those would ease with time, and the love of a good woman.
He turned to look at his nurse, questioning her with his eyes. "Would you come along with me?" he begged.
The Crossley drove steadily along the long drive from the gates to the manor house allowing John a moment to collect himself, his hand gripping his nurse's as if his life depended upon it. She smiled, a smile that promised him a long bout of pleasure if he managed to control himself through the difficult process of meeting Lord Bramble's family. Thoughts of how and what she might do kept the darkness at bay, yet he felt as if he were madly trading water as he stepped out of the car to gaze up at the impressive manor house, built some two hundred years before by the then Edward Bramble with money he had acquired from the Americas. The title had come some hundred years later for 'assistance to the Crown'. Richard had appeared ill at ease speaking of it and John had never pressed. Wasn't his place.
Richard was wheeled out by a stern looking nurse. His hand rose to waver unsteadily in the air while wordless grunts came from between his tense lips. John took the hand and knelt, the better to look into the old man's eyes.
"It's all right Richard. I'm here now," he told him, gripping the hand as he tried sending some of his own strength into the frail form.
There were others to meet, most notably Richard's daughter who looked at him with unconcealed dislike. "I hope you don't think to change anything," she warned him. "You'll not be around for long; I've already got my solicitors to annul father's instructions and return the estate to our own control," she told him, cigarette holding in one hand, a heavy ruby bracelet dangling from her wrist.
"Just ensure your business with your solicitors are not conducted on the estate. I would hate them to be shot for trespassing," he told her, and smiled into her angry scowl. Circumstances like her he could deal with. It was sharp and loud sounds and landscapes similar to those if Belgium that would cause him to come apart. Nonetheless Debora was there, watching him with keen eyes, ready to step in a do the necessary should he have need of her.
He took the wheelchair from the stern nurse and wheeled his friend into the house, stopping in the large hall to meet the staff. Isabel, the daughter, was already half up the stairs, stamping loudly on each one as she made her way to her room.
"Hello everyone. I am Mr Wells. I am not Sir, nor a lord. Just Mr Wells. I don't anticipate making any changes. If I do, you will hear it through those you normally report to and take instruction from. I doubt some of you will ever hear or see me again. Those of you who took instruction directly from Lord Bramble; I will see you in the library in ten minutes. Thank you," he told them.
He wheeled Richard into the library and positioned him where he would feel the sun on his back and could enjoy the view out of the window. The nurse followed them in, a disapproving scowl still on her face. Debora meanwhile glanced at the books along the bookshelves, stopping along the way to giggle and fetch down one of the books and casually turn the pages.
A half dozen staff entered to stand subdued but relaxed in front of him, watching him with varying expressions of nervousness and distrust.
"None of you know me, or of me. Lord Bramble and I met in the Great War and fought together for over three years. There is not a thing I would not do for this man. I would give my life if I thought it would return him to fitness. You best believe that, because I am here to see to him, his kin and everything that is his and ensure the best for it.
"I will meet with each of you individually during the rest of the day. Bring your accounts and ledgers and be prepared to discuss what you are about and what difficulties you are currently engaged upon, and what you envisage occurring over the next three months. I will see those in command of the house first, then those in command of the estate," he told them.
The nurse moved forward to take Lord Bramble away and John stopped her.
"He needs his afternoon nap," the woman complained angrily.
"He needs to listen to these meetings and voice his concerns," John told her.
"His nap time is also my break," she complained.
"Then you can go. My nurse can look after him as easily as can me," he told her.
He turned to Debora when she had left and grunted in dislike. "Can you ask O'Connor to provide us with another nurse?" he begged. "Someone with more relevant skills in bringing him back to alertness?" he asked.
Debora smiled and nodded and strode out to find the telephone she had noticed in passing. Doctor O'Connor would know the right nurse, she was sure of it.
Back in the Library, the butler and housekeeper stepped in, the ledgers in their hands. Slowly, over the course of the hour's meeting, their reservation was drawn from them as they discussed problems with the plumbing and leaks in the roof, and their main difficulty; Miss Isabel.
CHAPTER ONE. Isabel and a maid.
Isabel Bramble paced her spacious room, arms crossed beneath a bust left to move tightly on her chest by the silk teddy she wore beneath her fashionable dress. She was angry, furious in fact, her dreams of having the freedom to act on her own wishes having come to a stop, all because of this unknown man who had stepped into their lives.
And who was he, anyway? she wondered, pacing the room as angrily as ever. Some soldier her father had met years before, who had never visited the house, whom she had never met, never been introduced to. And he looked frail enough to be blown over in a strong wind. Then there was his companion; who was she and what was her role? They weren't married; neither wore a wedding ring. Surely her father wouldn't allow them to share the same bedroom.
Isabel stopped her pacing, her anger evaporating at the thought of an unmarried couple sleeping within the hallowed rooms of the manor. Exciting as it might be to one part of her, the very thought of it becoming public knowledge filled her with dread. She would never be able to show her face in society again!
She paced once more, now in consideration. She had no family to turn to, but there was always Sir Oswald, her father's staunch ally and good friend, a regular guest at the manor. Perhaps if she penned a discrete letter to him to let him know what was going on, perhaps hinting her father may have lost some of his senses during the stroke. He may get her better terms. Certainly nothing so bad as that which she faced currently.
She sat at her dressing
table and pulled a sheet of paper from the drawer. She would have to be lurid, but not too lurid. Perhaps a comment on how the young woman looked at him, clearly besotted by his wiles.
She wrote quickly, one thought cascading to another and another. Stealthy kisses leading to embraces and then more. Activities reserved for married couples being played out in their best guest rooms. Her cheeks burnt with some of her thoughts and towards the end of the letter she pulled the push button that had replaced the old bell-pull, her heart racing with the indecent activity she could imagine occurring whenever the two were alone together, every opportunity, every location in the large and old house taken to consume their base passions.
Lilly came in and curtsied, her cap a little askew, her uniform a little creased.
"What took you so long? Where have you been?" she asked, irritated by the delay in her maid's appearance.
The meeting with Mr Wells. It's put everything askew Miss, honest it has," Lilly told her, her face pale but with a ghost of colour still in her cheeks.
"You're lying," Isabel told her, and placed the letter into an envelope while the girl squirmed. "You've been dallying with the stable-hand again, haven't you Lilly?" she said, scrawling Sir Oswald's name on the envelope. It wouldn't need an address for it to reach him. All the messengers knew how to reach Sir Oswald, whether he was in his London or his country residences.
"We weren't doing nothing Miss," Lilly complained.
"Yes you were. You were doing something I expressly told you not to do; talk to him. Now take off that uniform and get ready for your punishment!" she spat, opening the large bottom drawer to survey the stack of implements she had gathered since her father had finally allowed her to chastise her maids when she felt it necessary.
He probably wasn't aware of the leather implements. He probably still thought she used her hand or her slipper, implements that would hardly cause a tear to be shed, especially from the likes of Lilly, a girl who had spent several years at various houses before coming to theirs.
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