Downton Grabby


I was invited to perform at an Erotic Fan Fiction event at The Wheeler Centre on Thursday, 4th October 2012 alongside Benjamin Law, Angie Hart, Briohny Doyle and hosted by John Leary. I had way too many dirty thoughts about way too many characters before I settled on these. I thought I might do Game of Thrones, but it is already so riddled with incest and paedophilia, ordinary sex seemed tame. Then I wondered if a story about Hamish doing Andy in a pillow fort would be appropriate? Perhaps not, given we have the same employer. I'm sure there's something in the staff handbook forbidding erotic fan fiction about the Friday drive show. Then I wondered if something from the world of Doctor Who might be appropriate, with Dalek suckers being utilised in all sorts of profane ways. That seemed altogether too bizarre. In the end, I opted for Downton Abbey. There is one relationship in that show that has always baffled me, because it is never explained just what their deep bond is. So I have imagined one. In keeping with the style of Downton, it takes AGES to get to anything even remotely juicy.

WARNING This story contains very graphic sexual content, and is almost definitely NSFW, or anywhere else for that matter...

Downton Grabby by Adam Richard.

Isis bounded ahead of him, disappearing into the encroaching twilight. The labrador's sandy tail began to wag more vigorously as she faded from view. They were nearing the kitchens, where Mrs Patmore was no doubt diverting some of this evening's roasted joint into Isis's greedy jowls. He had long suspected that Mrs Patmore was the reason his faithful companion had never managed to lose her puppy fat, in spite of her encroaching years.

A stiff breeze licked at his ears, and Lord Grantham sighed. Another summer was succumbing to autumn chill. Soon the leaves would turn and fall, and the sweet smell of cut grass would give way to savoury smoke. The smell of burning leaves disturbed him still, so much so, he contemplated spending autumn in the city. Seeing the columns of smoke climbing into the sky around Downton reminded him too keenly of the war, the smouldering farmhouses of the Boers as his troops herded their families into concentration camps.

Lord Grantham tried to push the war from his mind. Dwelling on his days in Africa could sometimes overwhelm him, cause him to fall into a melancholy, from which he may never emerge. If not for Bates, if not for his companionship in that long and bloody conflict, he might not have ever returned to Cora’s loving arms.

Lord Grantham finally caught up with Isis. As he suspected, the dog was loitering around the servant’s entrance. She was not, however, in the thrall of Mrs Patmore and her uneaten roast, nor the scullery maid, Daisy. It was his valet, Bates, whose thick fingers dug affectionately into the fur at Isis’s neck. Bates had not yet seen him, he could divert himself toward the grounds, avoid an awkward encounter, but it was getting dark, and soon it would be impossible to distinguish just where the trees were. Lord Grantham didn’t want to feel awkward with Bates. They spent so much time in each other’s company, it would be unseemly for there to be anything between them but a professional courtesy. The war, however, had changed them both.

“Your lordship,” Bates spoke softly. He’d looked up to find Lord Grantham staring past him with that far-away look he sometimes had. Haunted, some might call it, as if his mind were not in the present, but some dim dark past. It was improper of him to speak to the Earl of Grantham without being spoken to first, but when his lordship started to drift, the liberties of his valet seemed to be the only thing that could bring him around.

“Is there something troubling you, my lord?” Bates grabbed onto his cane with both hands, pushing himself upright from the the crouched position where he’d been patting the dog. His hand slipped slightly, and he was forced to put weight on his bad leg. A tiny wince was the only indication of the sudden terrifying ache in his leg, but Lord Grantham saw it. Lord Grantham also saw that Bates was on the verge of losing his balance and dashed quickly to grasp his elbow. He took the weight of his unsteady valet, helping him into an upright position, and even when Bates assured him he was no longer in danger of falling, Lord Grantham held fast to his elbow with one hand, the other supporting his shoulder.

“Bates. This damned war in Europe. All it does is remind me of what we endured in Africa. What you did for me there, man, there are no words that could describe it. You were the dawn on the darkest of nights. My debt to you shall never be repaid, my friend.”

“Is it just the war, my lord? You don’t seem yourself.” Bates started walking toward the darkness of the trees, away from the house. Lord Grantham kept a slow pace beside him, so as not to shame his hobbled servant.

“No, Bates. Not just the war. It’s Cora.”
“Lady Grantham,” Bates corrected him.
“I’m sorry, Bates. I shouldn’t be so familiar about her ladyship. There is nobody else I can discuss this with, please indulge me. Lady Grantham, you see, has become preoccupied with this war, and doing her part. So much so, I feel as if I have become somewhat surplus to requirements.”
“I see,” Bates replied, simply, as the darkness of the grounds engulfed them.

Bates knew that things here at Downton could never be what they were in Africa. His services as valet were nowhere near as extensive as those he served as batman to Lord Grantham during the last war. One of those services could never be spoken of, but Bates thought of it often. He wanted Lord Grantham to know, that should he require those services again, he wouldn’t think twice about fulfilling them.

Later that night, before bed, as he started loosening the Earl’s necktie, he felt his lordship’s hot whisky breath on his cheek. It would be so easy, to turn his head, as he had done so often during the war. They never spoke of it. Never acknowledged it. It was just what needed to be done on those long lonely nights, many of which felt like they could be their last. It was hot, dusty, and women were half a world away.

Lord Grantham must have felt the same. As his white necktie unspooled, he took Bates’ chin in his hand, and lifted his face. As their eyes met, the warm whisky breath was no longer something he could feel, but taste, as Lord Grantham’s lips pressed against his. The Earl’s tongue pushed forcefully into Bates’ mouth. He returned the kiss, his own tongue probing, flicking across his lordship’s teeth.

Bates deftly released his lordship from his garments, letting his trousers fall to the floor. It would mean long hours of steaming to get the creases back in his thick woolen suit before the following night’s meal, but it was worth it not to lose the impetus, the passion that they once shared. Lord Grantham grasped his shoulders, his fingers digging into Bates arms, pulling him onto the chaise. Bates ignored the screaming pain that shot up his leg as he fell awkwardly on top of his master. He shed his jacket as he tumbled onto the soft velvet. He gasped as Lord Grantham tore off the buttons on his waistcoat. He could add a spot of darning to his long morning of steaming.

Soon, their clothes were strewn across the room, and Lord Grantham began kissing Bates on the neck, making his way down to his chest, before gently nibbling on the nipples of his manservant. Bates stifled a moan as his lordship grasped his thick erection firmly. He squeezed it, and it sprang back in his hand. His lordship dropped to his knees and took Bates into his mouth, holding it there, not moving, letting Bates feel the warmth, the moisture. Then he moved his lips down the short, fat cock, the thick pubic hair tickling his nose, as he felt Bates push into his throat. The groan of pleasure coming from Bates spurred Lord Grantham on, vigorously moving his mouth up and down the shaft, flicking the head with his tongue. Bates’ thick, workman’s hand rested on his lordship’s head, and he breathed, “Please, your lordship, slow down.”

Lord Grantham released Bates’ engorged member, and returned to kissing him. Deeper, more forceful than before, and Bates pushed back, pulling on his lordship’s lustrous hair with one hand, his other, reaching down to touch his lordship’s phallus. It was as he remembered. Harder than he could ever have imagined. It felt as if it would burst, like a sausage splitting its skin on Mrs Patmore’s stove.

Bates was about to brave the pain in his leg to get on his knees, and take the thick, shining rod into his mouth, but his Lordship had already anticipated his desire. As Bates sat on the chaise, Lord Grantham stood up, and stepped onto the couch. Bates reached out his tongue to touch the purple tip, a small drop of juice dripping out of the single winking eye on its end. As Bates opened his mouth, Lord Grantham pushed gently into it. Bates opened wider, and Lord Grantham began to fuck his face remorselessly. Bates knew his lordship could never unleash this kind of raw sex on the Countess, and he was happy to oblige.

Lord Grantham withdrew his raging erection from Bates’ mouth and began to pleasure himself. Bates took his engorged scrotum in his mouth, his tongue sneaking out and licking at his master’s perineum. Bates masturbated himself, while he sucked on his lordship’s ball sack. He felt the scrotum shrink slightly in his mouth, the loose skin tightening, becoming thicker. His lordship was about to explode. He was close himself.

Lord Grantham grunted; a guttural, visceral sound, wrenched from deep within him. With his spare hand, Bates reached up to caress his lordship’s buttocks, and they clenched, becoming hard, like a marble statue. Bates didn’t see the ejaculate flying through the air, but he could imagine it, as he himself came to a breathless, shuddering climax. Lord Grantham dropped to the chaise beside Bates, and they held each other, quietly for a moment. Bates stole the occasional kiss, before rising and going to his lordship’s wardrobe. He removed Lord Grantham’s duck egg blue pyjamas, and held the trousers out for his lordship. Lord Grantham stood up, and soon, the old friends were back to their old routine, as if nothing had happened.

As Lord Grantham tied up his dressing gown, Bates looked over at the chaotic arc of semen on the curtain. He’d have to take care of that before Mrs Hughes and her housekeeping staff noticed it. Lord Grantham stepped out of the room and Bates set about redressing himself, and picking up his lordship’s clothes.