DOWNTON GRABBY
Dawn broke over the meticulously maintained grounds of Downton Abbey. The handful of rich white people were still asleep as dozens of poor white people rushed around like crazy, doing an insane amount of work to pamper their birthrighteous overlords. In the kitchen, Mrs. Patmore was barking orders at sweet, innocent Daisy and the rest of the kitchen staff while the footmen Thomas and William sat at the long staff table reading the morning newspaper. Thomas said something cunty and everyone let him get away with it. If you watch this show, and have a similar temperment to myself, it's infuriating to you that nobody gives this prick a swat across the face for his attitude. It was at this point I was going to say something dirty about Mr. Bates and pretty maid Anna, but their love is precious and will not be mocked by me or anyone else if I have anything to say about it. In the back room, Mrs. Hughes was giving Mr. Carson the sloppiest of blow jibbers because he was tense as always and told her it would be right and proper to do. Being right and proper is seemingly the only thing that has ever been important to anyone ever according to these people. Once he grunted a deep barritone grunt, indicating that despite his advanced age and stress level he had indeed managed to issue his seed, he walked out into the hallway without so much as a glance to Mrs. Hughes and shouted, "Well? What are you all waiting for? Let's go take care of the Granthams"
Upstairs Lady Mary awoke to fresh flowers beside her bed, warm scones filling the air with a sweet, buttery smell and her clothes for the day freshly pressed and on her dressing table… To the untrained eye, Lady Mary was a woman on vacation at a luxurious spa or someone who liked to pamper themselves by doing a great amount of work the night before to ensure that she was awakened as pleasantly as possible. But the reality was that simply because she was expelled from the correct womb, she was deemed deserving of this treatment every morning of her life. Mary, an incredibly fit specimen of a woman in her early twenties, stretched and yawned as she got out of bed and took a bite of scone. She was doing whatever the 19-teens version of washing up was when maid Gwen walked into the room with fresh linnens because god forbid this rich twat sleep on the same sheets two nights in a row. "Oh, mah goodness, I beg your pardon, Lady Mary. I thought ye was still asleep" Gwen said in a scottish brogue thicker than Liam Neeson's cock. "oh it's quite alright, Gwen" Lady Mary said as if some impropriety had actually happened. As Gwen laid the linnens out on Lady Mary's bed, she noticed a small wet spot in the center of the sheets. She knew that Lady Mary had had a nice dream about some stuffy British gentlemen and had committed an impropriety in her bed. "Lady Mary, it would appear you've committed an impropriety in your bed during the night" Gwen said with a sly grin. Mary looked flustered and stammered very Britishley, "Oh, oh, oh… well… my goodess… how inappropriate. What ever shall I do, Gwen?" Lady Mary pleaded. "Well, milady, you must have your ladyhood serviced" Gwen said matter of factly. "But Gwen, I must be a virgin when I am married to someone for purposes of business and property and title" as if that was an even remotely reasonable thing to ask of someone at any time in history… ever. With no word or warning, the smokin' hot redheaded maid put an arm around Lady Mary's waist and laid her down on her super fancy bed. Gwen wasted no time, since unexpected interruption is commonplace at Downton and after a passionate but quick kiss, ducked her head under Mary's nightdress and clocked in at her Georgia O'Keefe lady parts. "oh… oh dear… oh my… how terribly… in…in…inapropriaaaaaaaate!" she howled as she came with the force and might of the once great British empire. Gwen didn't even wipe Mary's noble juices off her face as she immediately set about changing the bedding. With a blush, Mary muttered, "Thank you, Gwen. That'll be all" and swept away.
In the library, Lord Grantham was pondering how retarded the impending pissing contest between Germany and Britain was going to be. A barely noticeable Archduke had yet to be assassinated by Yugoslavian nationalists, so for now the powers of Europe were just staring at each other like a couple of douchebags at a bar on the cusp of getting into a fistfight over the drunk girl in the corner. Except in this case the drunk girl was Serbia, and the fist fight would crumble four of the era's most powerful empires. Literally, the Russian, German, Austro-Hungarian and Ottoman empires were all collapsed during World War I. It would be like your uncle slapping your mom at Thanksgiving dinner because your cousin Douggie really wants to sit at the adults table. Except instead of a slap, your mom and uncle would send 9 million military personnel and 7 million civilians to their deaths over the matter. Lord Grantham banged his head on his ornate mahogany desk at the arrogance, cavallier attitute and downright feckless manner of those who rule over others. He then came to the realization that King George the 5th of England and Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany were actually first cousins, and switched the head banging to poking at his forehead with an ivory handled letter. He would later regret his inappropriate reaction to an actually quite inappropriate time in history. Okay, back to the boobies…
Lady Edith was busy moping in some…uh… like a veranda or some such… something that rich people have… when her gran, The Dowager Countess walked by and asked, "*ahem* my dear, why is the ugly duckling of our high born family acting so inappropriately in the… umm… veranda or some such?" and gave a knowing look as she is apt to do in every scene she is in, because… acting. Edith was constantly being reminded that she was the ugly duckling of the Grantham family, even though nobody with eyeballs would ever think this girl was ugly. Let's just call her, TV ugly. Edith mopily replied, "well gran, I just don't know my place here at Downton. Literally nobody likes me, every man that comes through here has eyes for Mary, and because this is the nineteen teens there's not a single dildo to be had in the entire estate. Also, washing machines with a spin cycle won't be invented until 1937, so my gooley bits are gathering more dust than our classes concern for anything other than making sure our wealth stays only with us." Lady Edith finished and then realized that The Dowager Countess had walked away, uninterested, in the middle of Edith's tirade. Alone she moped, when suddenly a whooshing, like, whistling… pulsating… kinda hard to describe noise filled the air and before her a big blue box materialized out of nowhere. Edith gaped at what was happening in front of her, when the door opened and a tall handsome man in a snappy blue suit and brown trenchcoat stuck his head out of the door, looked around, noticed Edith and in a charming scottish accent said, "Ah, back in a tick, luv" before ducking back into the box. Her face flushed with excitement, her average bosom beaded with sweat, she beamed a huge Anglo Saxon toothed smile at the box as she fixed her hair and adjusted her dress. Had her dreams finally come true? Would this man take her on a myriad of wonderful and dangerous adventures? Could he stand her for more than 10 minutes when nobody else seemed capable of that task? The door was flung open and the man poked his head out. He looked around as if Edith would have somehow moved and seemed almost surprised to find her again. With a big smile he asked, "What's your name, dear?". "E-e-e-Edith" she replied. Standing up in anticipation of his asking her to run away with him, she was startled when he tossed her something. She caught it and looked down at her hand, finding a device that looked like a plastic banana with an odd little rabbit on top of it. The man gave her a wink and jubulantly said, "Nice to meet you, Edith. Now, fuck for your life!" and slammed the door shut. As the whoosing, whistling, pulsating noise came again and the box started to disappear, Edith looked down at the contraption that was capable of giving her the pleasure she so desired and with a sly grin skulked back into the… umm… let's just call it a veranda.
Wrapping up this overlong story, Lady Cora's maid O'Brien and her evil sidekick Thomas were sharing a smoke and being cunts as per usual. O'Brien, a woman in the throes of menopause was wildly hormonal at the moment and taking the opportunity grabbed Thomas by his fancy lapels and dragged him into the carriage house. Thomas was shocked, but not wanting to expose his potentially embarassing sexuality (he suffered the indignity of not only being gay in the teens, but gay and british in the teens) he went along with it. Her groping, open mouthed kisses had the warmth and softness of french kissing a stale box of Triscuits. Her hands felt like he was being rubbed by the hands of a hard working mummy. Still going along with the charade, Thomas let her lay him down on a pile of hay in the nearest stall.
Side note: In romance novels and period dramas, we often see two people doin' it in a pile of hay in a horse stall. While this may seem on the surface to be a passionate interlude partaken by two forbidden lovers, or those who succumb to their wild desires so completely that they can't make it to a more suitable environment for love making, in reality these people are just plain gross. Horses eat, sleep, piss and shit on that hay. Salmonella and Ringworm aside, you're succeptible to Campylobacteria, Cryptosporidium parvum and Leptospira. Especially in the time periods most of these ribald stories take place, the antibiotics that would save you from these deadly bacteria hadn't been invented. So, fuck away, young lovers, you're only strengthening the gene pool. You're fucking disgusting.
Standing over him in the stall, O'Brien lifted her many skirts to properly mount her much younger and barely consentual partner. Gazing at her vagina, Thomas instantly became ill. He didn't become ill because he was gay and about to have sex with a woman, he became ill because did you honestly expect this horrible swamp witch of a woman to have a nice, or even slightly below average, vagina? Wiping the chalky bile from his lips, Thomas indignantly declared, "Jesus, O'Brien, your twat looks like a raw chicken that got run over by a tank tread!". "I am as the good lord made me" O'Brien said in a huff before tucking her labia back into her bloomers and storming off. Thomas lit up a cigarette and jerked off thinking about Archaologist Howard Carter, the man who discovered the tomb of King Tutankhaman in 1922. Fin.