Gloria Day - House of dark pleasure

She sighed. There'd probably be lots of applicants, and there was little chance that she'd be selected. Nevertheless, Doris wrote a careful application, enclosed a snap (Bruce had taken it during the summer) and mailed everything off.

Two weeks later, when she had almost forgotten about her application, she got a reply.

And what made this reply different was the fact that a money-order to cover her train fare with an extra ten dollars for expenses was enclosed with the letter.

I'd like to meet you, Mrs. Wynton had written, and if you like Romily and everything else is satisfactory, then…

Doris had read the letter very carefully, then decided that a trip to Maine, all expenses paid, would not be a bad idea, so she'd phoned – as Mrs. Wynton had also suggested then made the journey on the Saturday following.

She was met at Romily station by a George Bateman, her employer's chauffeur, and was driven to Romily Manor.

The Maine countryside had looked wonderful after the noise and dust of New York, and the manor itself was one of those delightful early American residences that never seemed to change.

"There really isn't a great deal of work involved," Mrs. Wynton had said. "And since my husband died several years ago, I've managed everything myself – but now I feel I'd like to have someone take charge of everything for me." She'd laughed. "Maybe I'm getting lazy in my old age…"

Mildred Wynton didn't look so old, Doris had thought, though her manner was that of a much older person.

What she'd learned of the job, Doris had liked. There were a dozen or so houses on the estate which had been rented to the same people for years – and half a dozen more which were rented out seasonably.

When Mrs. Wynton mentioned the salary, Doris' eyes had opened wide. It was higher than she was getting in the city – and all her living expenses would be taken care of here, too!

"Do you have any family?" she had asked, hesitantly, thinking that there might be more work involved.

"Just my young son," said Mildred Wynton.

"Oh!" Doris had wondered. Young son! Would I be expected to baby-sit, too? Is that the fly in the ointment?

"How-how old is your son, Mrs. Wynton?" she had asked, wondering if she was being too bold.

"Twenty-five…" Mrs. Wynton had startled Doris by answering. "He's very delicate and stays in his room most of the time."

Doris had nodded. If she has an invalid son, that could explain why she wants someone to help with the estate; it could also explain why I haven't seen any other members of the family.

She had told Mrs. Wynton that she would think about it; thanked her for the pre-paid trip and promised to call her, but by the time the train had rolled from lush countryside to the unprepossessing outskirts of the city, Doris had already made up her mind.

She had phoned Mrs. Wynton on Sunday, given her notice at the office on Monday, and by the following week was ready to make her move.

George Bateman met Doris again, touching his cap respectfully when she alighted from the train, then carrying her meager luggage to the waiting Chrysler.

It was an old car, Doris realized as they drove toward Romily Manor. Old but well-kept – then she glanced at the back of the driver's head. It would be hard to say how old George Bateman was, Doris decided; he could be anything from thirty-five to fifty. His skin was tanned, and his body, short but well-muscled, looked tough and durable like the countryside they were passing through.

Doris frowned. He looked out of place behind the wheel of the ear – he seemed more like an outdoors man.

"Do you work for Missus Wynton full-time?" she asked now.

He jerked his head as though he was surprised at being addressed, then: "Yes, Miss…" he slowed at a crossing, then went on: "I work on the grounds as well as drive."

She nodded. It was as she thought.

"Miss – it's Miss Dainton, isn't it?" the driver asked.

"Yes," she told him, "Doris Dainton." She smiled.

"Did you…" he asked very slowly, "… meet young Mister Wynton when you were here before?"

"Why no," she said. "He's an invalid, isn't he?"

George Bateman made a sound that could have been a laugh, then: "He's all right sick, but…" his eyes flickered to hers in the driving-mirror, "he's not exactly an invalid."

"What's the matter with him?" Doris was startled.

George shrugged. "He's like, well backward…"

Doris' eyebrows went up. "You mean – retarded?"

George didn't answer for a while, then: "You'll find out soon enough, Miss." He swallowed. "Missus Wynton wouldn't want me to talk about her-her son!" And he finished the drive to the manor in silence.

The massive front door of Romily Manor was opened by a buxom woman of some thirty years.

"Welcome to Romily," she said to Doris, her pleasant face smiling. "I'm Mabel Williams, the cook – Mrs. Wynton is resting and she asked me to show you to your room."

Doris smiled in reply, murmured a few words, then followed the cook through the high, spacious hall. George Bateman followed with Doris' luggage.

The wide stairway curved in a majestic sweep from the back of the hall to the mezzanine. Doris', room overlooked the carefully manicured grounds at the back.

"This is a beautiful room," said Doris, surveying the deep pile on the floor, expensive drapes and the invitingly soft modem bed.

"You have your own bathroom," said Mabel, opening a door at the side of the room, revealing a fully equipped bathroom.

Doris nodded with pleasure, then asked: "And is this a closet?" She indicated another door at the side of the bathroom door.

The cook shook her head. "That's just a spare room – the door is always locked," she said briefly.

Doris glanced at the door casually, noticed the transom above – curtained from the other side, then turned away, dismissing it from her mind.

On the other side of the door, Willis Wynton stood on the seat of a chair, peered through a small chink in the curtains. He licked his thick lips when he saw Doris' curvesome figure, then waited, wriggling with impatience, for Mabel and Bateman to leave the bedroom.

When the door had closed behind the two servants, Doris dropped onto the satin-covered bed and let her body sink into the softness.

Willis' body became tense. Doris' brief skirt had worked up while she was squirming on the bed, and he could see the thin silk of her pantyhose straining across her crotch. A glimpse of darkness, like brunette pubic hair, was visible through the silk. Willis' hand slithered down to his crotch.

Suddenly, Doris slid her legs off the bed, then scrambled across to her luggage and dragged a suitcase onto the bedside chair.

She opened it, took out a dark-green dress and looked at it quizzically. After a moment, she threw the dress onto the bed, snapped shut her suitcase and started to unbutton her blouse.

Willis' lips became dry, and he slid out his tongue, wet them with jerky, excited licks.

Doris' flesh looked soft and smooth as she shrugged out of her blouse, then she unhooked her brassiere, threw it onto the bed and cupped her braless breasts.

Willis could see the pink tips of her nipples oozing between her fingers. He swallowed with an effort.

Doris had moved in front of the full-length mirror; now, she stared at her reflection as she gently caressed her milky-white mounds. Her lips pursed into an expression of pleasure as she felt the satiny-soft flesh squirming under her fingertips.

Reluctantly, Doris slid her hands off her breasts, reached to the waist of her skirt, unzipped it and slid it off.

Willis held his breath.

Her buttocks were tightly encased in the silk of her pantyhose, then she slipped her fingers in the waistband, slithered the silkiness of her hips and limbs.