Old School Ties

Nanny was sitting on my bed facing me.

Her dark hair was held in a plaited bun at the nape of her neck. She was wearing the navy blue tunic with the white puffed sleeves. The collar was unbuttoned down to the silver buckle of the white elasticated belt. Her ample bosom was exposed. The white nursing brassiere was unclipped at the left breast and the fulsome mound of lily-white flesh was held aloft by Nanny at my flushed face. The hem of her tunic was pulled up at her thighs revealing the shiny clips of the corselette attached to the tan stockings.

“Close your eyes and open your mouth, David,” Nanny whispered.

I did as I was told.

She pushed the plump pink nipple into my waiting mouth.

“Suck it,” she instructed, smiling down at me.

I latched onto the swollen teat just as she had taught me.

“Good boy,” she said, and she patted my head.

I was cradled in her arms, suckling at the warm milky breast that smothered my face.

Nanny slipped her free hand inside of my stripy pyjama bottoms and grasped my erect penis.

“Suck harder,” Nanny told me.

I sucked harder on the succulent nipple as she rubbed my stiffy up and down.

As I swallowed the spurts of milky at Nanny’s teat, she squeezed and pumped my throbbing penis, gently but firmly.

It took but seconds before I squirted my milky into her hand.

“Good boy,” she said, and then she kissed my damp blonde hair as I lay drained and panting in her arms, gazing up at her brown eyes and red lips.

I think that this was the moment I fell in love with Nanny. I was eighteen years of age.


I first met Nanny when I was summoned to the meeting of the Board of Trustees of the Spencer Estate on the eve of my eighteenth birthday in order to receive my inheritance.

The six board members, in their starched white collars and three-piece tailored suits, sat on leather upholstered chairs at the highly polished mahogany table. Their faces wore sanctimonious expressions decorated with wire spectacles and grey whiskers tweaked into moustaches and beards. They reminded me of living museum exhibits of life from a bygone era.

Perched on that little wooden seat in the centre of the room and dressed in full school uniform as instructed, I felt more like a naughty boy about to be punished than the sole heir to the Spencer family estate.

As soon as the meeting ended, the tailcoat would be binned and I would never again wear a tie, I decided.

I could barely breathe in that mausoleum. I longed for fresh air and a cigarette.

I let out a great yawn and followed it up with a stinking fart, startling the trustees from their paper shuffling. Six sharp looks of disapproval were cast at me across the table. I managed to stifle a giggle and mouthed ‘sorry’ instead.

Really, I wasn’t at all sorry for disturbing the dead in these hallowed quarters.

I looked at my watch for the umpteenth time. It was 11:55. If I were to have arrived on time then I would have been kept waiting here almost an hour. However, it would soon all be mine and then I could tell the old buggers what I really thought of them.

I fully expected that the Board had my future mapped out for me–some charity work in Africa before Oxford and then on to a career in The City.

Personally, I planned to party.

I was eighteen years old and like any right-minded eighteen-year-old boy with no sense of purpose and raging hormones, I wanted to lose my virginity, party like a rock star, and squander my inheritance.

I fully intended to spend my formative years getting absolutely wasted on champagne and cocaine, falling out of exclusive nightclubs across Europe, wrecking high performance cars, and having sex with porn stars.

Finally, at 12:00 on the dot, the chairman cleared his throat and, with the voice of ancient authority, he proclaimed, “The meeting of the Board of Trustees of the Spencer Estate is now in progress.”

He looked about the table and acknowledged each member with a nod of the head.

He eventually acknowledged me. “Thank you for joining us, David.”

“I had no choice. I was summoned,” I replied. “I would have preferred a cheque in the post.”

He raised his eyebrows at my retort but continued nonetheless in the same monotone voice. “Well, let’s get down to business, shall we?”

“I agree,” I said. “How much do I get exactly?”

“Hold on, young man,” he responded. “It’s not that simple.”

He shook his head and sighed at my impudence.

“The inheritance comes with conditions. Your stepmother decreed the conditions of the trust fund and it is our duty to detail and enact those conditions here today.”

“Conditions? No one ever mentioned conditions to me. What conditions?” I demanded as I shifted nervously on the hard wooden seat.

“Quite simply, that in order for you to receive the inheritance, which is, as you are aware, the entire Spencer Estate of property and assets, you must first prove yourself worthy of such a privilege.”

He paused.

I nodded my head rapidly, urging him on, my anxiety mounting.

“To that end, it was your stepmother’s stipulation that a guardian be appointed to govern your progress in this matter.”

“What?” I exclaimed. “A guardian!”

“Yes, a type of guardian … A nanny, actually.”

“A nanny!” I yelled. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No, David. This is not a joke. This is all very serious indeed.”

I shook my head in disbelief.

The chairman’s expression was grave. “It is my duty to inform you that you are to have a nanny, David. You will be in the care and control of the nanny until you are twenty-one years of age.”

My eyes darted from one trustee to another, in frantic search of some support in this nonsense. Instead, I was sure I recognised sneers and smirks emerging from their old wrinkled faces.

How dare they treat me like this! I shot up and rushed forward. With clenched fists, I banged hard on the boardroom table.

“I’m not a child! I’m Lord Spencer,” I hissed at them. “And I want what is rightfully mine. Now, give it to me!” I cried.

The chairman shook his head.

The only sound in the room was my laboured breathing. I stood before them trembling with rage.

There was a barrier of silence.

“I won’t do it. You can’t make me,” I stated through gritted teeth.

“I’m afraid you really have no choice in the matter, David,” the chairman explained. “Your stepmother has been most emphatic in this. The nanny is the key to the inheritance. No nanny, no inheritance.”

He motioned for me to return to my seat.

“From today, the nanny is in charge and our hands are tied. It is for the nanny to decide whether you should inherit or not, as the case may be, on the eve of your twenty-first birthday.”

“There must be something…” I pleaded.

“Be warned, David, if you try to contest this or if the nanny decides you are not fit to inherit, then the estate is divided between the Salvationist Church and a donkey sanctuary, and you will get nothing.”

I sat down heavily, in shock, running my hands through my hair, trying to think of a way out of this bloody nanny madness.

“There is a letter from your stepmother, which I must read now. Sit back and listen very carefully as your future really does depend on its contents.”

I didn’t argue. I felt faint and nauseous.

The chairman removed the letter from the envelope and placed its many sheets in a pile on the table before him. He took a sip of water, cleared his throat, and with a final look down at me, he began to read the contents of my stepmother’s twisted mind.

“My dear boy, I imagine you are feeling quite upset, perplexed, and angry even. But, through your tears, do try to understand that what I do now is for your own good. It is in the age-old tradition of being cruel to be kind. And I know that one day you will thank me for it.”

My stepmother was right about the angry tears, stinging my eyes, and threatening to betray me in front of the trustees. I was biting my lip hard to stop that childish indignity at least.

“So, before we get to the nitty-gritty of exactly how much you get, so to speak, which I know is foremost in your mind, first a little more about me–your dearly departed stepmother, speaking to you from beyond the grave that you do not visit.”

I flinched at that comment but it was true. I do not mourn the death of my stepmother, or the housekeeper, as I prefer to call her. The woman had no right to rest in peace alongside my mother and father in the family tomb. She should have been buried in the churchyard with the other commoners.

“As you know, I came to Spencer Hall to take up the position of housekeeper some ten years ago. Following the untimely death of your mother, your father was in need of a mature and commanding woman to take charge of the household and, indeed, of him. You were a child of eight then and away at prep school but your brief holiday visits served to confirm my suspicion that you were a spoilt little rich boy who would be much improved by a sound spanking. Unfortunately, an only child such as yourself is often indulged and an only child who has lost his mother at such a tender young age even more so. But what a boy really needs is a firm and guiding hand not mollycoddling.”

A spectre flashed into my mind’s eye of the first time I saw the striking figure of Miss Smith, the housekeeper; the woman who would become my stepmother just a few years later. She was a tall and trim lady with a sharp face and greying hair. Her constant attire was a long black dress with a high neck and puffed sleeves. A large set of keys hung from a silver chain belt at her tightly corseted waist.

To a young boy, Miss Smith was a haunting vision that had escaped from the confines of an ancient book of supernatural tales.

As a young man, I now know for sure that my step mother really is a phantom and she has risen from the dead to haunt me.

“David, or Lord Spencer, as is now your title, you are well schooled in the nobility of your forefathers; however, you are quite ignorant of the heritage of your stepmother.”

Know not and care not, I thought.

“Of course, you are aware of my humble yet respectable background as a clergyman’s daughter. But my father, John Smith, was not at all the type of minister who would come to tea in a fine house such as Spencer Hall to sip from a china teacup and exchange pleasantries about the village fete. No, my father was a Salvationist, a preacher of the Low Church, with no regard for wealth or pomp and ceremony.”

I was so glad that I had not met this common little man, John Smith. He would have bored me to tears. Though I would have liked to have watched him say grace and then slurp his tea from the saucer.

“My father was a simple man with a simple faith and a fundamental belief in salvation and damnation. He tramped about the Yorkshire mill towns directing the word of God to those who were more often than not at worship in the public houses of Leeds and Bradford; those God-forsaken cities. He worshipped God and he worshipped my mother, Mary, and he obeyed the law of each in equal measure.”

To my way of thinking, saying one’s prayers and going to church on Sunday were necessary but dull routines–akin to brushing one’s teeth and visiting the barber for a haircut.

“My mother, my dear formidable mother, possessed the smile of an angel and the will of wrought iron and, along with her trusty tambourine nicknamed ‘The Siren’, she led both the congregation and my father on the right and proper path to salvation. From my infancy, she taught me that if we have bread on the table and wood on the fire, love in the heart and book in the hand, then were rich indeed. We had all of that and so, she instilled in me, we were the privileged ones and it was our duty to guide the lives of those less fortunate than ourselves. She also taught me that discipline maketh the man as administered by the firm guiding hand of a good woman.”

I inwardly and outwardly groaned at this sentimental drivel.

“I grew up grateful and content with my life and work at The Tabernacle and the Chapel School, and spinsterhood suited me very well indeed. But then, in my fortieth year, I came across your father. It was in Halifax that we Salvationists stumbled across the pathetic figure of Lord Spencer lying in the gutter. Recently bereaved of your mother, floundering in his new role as master of Spencer Hall, and with gambling debts hounding him; he was the worse for drink, collapsed outside a hostelry.  He was a lost soul in desperate need of care and discipline. And so it came to pass that in the spirit of a missionary, I left my home to take up the position of housekeeper at Spencer Hall. Over the years, I did indeed improve your father and the estate with the firm and guiding hand I inherited from my mother. I am proud to say that I earned my status and title of Lady Spencer.”

Finally, this was confirmation that the bloody woman had taken advantage of my father to get her hands on the family silver. She was nothing but a common thief.

“David, you are an Eton boy, as was your father. You were sent away to boarding school in the mistaken belief that it would make a man and a lord of you. Behind the arrogance, I see in you what I saw in him–a silly and selfish young man wallowing in self-indulgence, and who is in dire need of a strong dose of discipline and a sense of greater purpose in life. An Eton boy is indeed highly educated and indeed dreadfully spoilt.”

I could remain silent no longer. I desperately needed to release the tension built up in me.

“Ah! The dulcet tones of my stepmother, Miss Smith, the housekeeper, the witch, the bitch…” I laughed out loud.

The chairman paused until my manic laughter faded away and then he continued reading the final passage of ‘The Curse of The Stepmother’.

“It is my conviction that a boy never really outgrows the need for a nanny. Not a happy-clappy modern nanny but a strict nanny of the old school. I believe that it is the nanny that maketh the man and that to spare the rod is to spoil him. And, just as I did for your father, it is now the time to provide you with a finishing school experience according to the principles of the lady of the house. This is the very special legacy that I bequeath to you now, David. Her name is Nanny. You are in her care and control from this day forward.”

The chairman lay to rest the final page of the letter. He removed his spectacles and set them on top of the paperwork. A heavy silence fell upon the room.

After a minute or two the chairman asked me, “Do you have any questions, David?”

“Yes, I do, actually,” I responded. “Is this claptrap legally binding?”

“Yes,” replied the chairman, without hesitation.

Throwing my balled handkerchief across the table, I yelled, “No! You work for me. I’m Lord Spencer now. You do as I say.”

The board members tutted and shook their heads at my outburst.

“The nanny will be here shortly to collect you, David,” the chairman advised me.

“Nanny, my arse!” I spat at them as I stormed out of the office.

I slammed the door behind me and headed for the exit. I felt better already. I was out of that boardroom and all the nanny madness was behind me now.

And she was, quite literally.

For as I stood waiting for the lift doors to open, there she was, standing in the corridor looking directly at me. It was the nanny; my nanny.

The cut of the navy blue woollen coat was vintage in style with a high collar and puffed sleeve; a matching brimmed hat, and a pair of black leather gloves and lace-up boots completed the nanny ensemble. Her auburn hair was cut in a shoulder-length bob and it framed her green eyes and smiling red lips.

“Bitch,” I snarled.