by Candy Quinn
And Surrey is beautiful, I realize as my train passes through the last bit of countryside before reaching the train station. It’s an idyllic scene of English countryside, something I’ve been taught to shun my whole life. But seeing it now, the wintery cold casting a chilly pallor over the otherwise rustic beauty, I feel a shiver of excitement run up my back at the idea of watching the English winter pass from the warmth of some old rich guy’s manor.
Alastair Delaney. That’s a name from old blood if I ever heard one. The name rings a faint bell, but the English have so many lords and bloodlines that not even historians can keep track of them all, more often than not.
As I pull my light luggage up to the street, I see a gentleman standing by a rather nice sedan holding a card up with my name on it. I brighten up, hurrying towards him. “Hello there, I’m Maisie! I do hope I’m the Maisie Kent you’re waiting on?”
“Only if I’m the ride to the Delaney estate you’re looking for,” the man says with a gruff smile. He’s a bit of a stiff, I can tell, but he’s trying. He’s a paunchy man in his fifties, easily, and he has the look of someone who’s been in service his whole life. I know the type. “Right this way.”
I clamber into the car with him, looking about nervously as he gives an assuring smile, and we pull off. His name is Calvin, I learn after brief introductions, but he goes by Cal, and he’s worked for the Delaneys all his life.
“How are they to work for?” I venture, desperate for a little information about my new boss. “Alastair especially, I mean — I assume he’s the only one I’m going to be serving?”
“Oh, it’s not a job for just anyone,” Cal says as we drive, his voice a vague tone that makes me suspect this is going to be more trouble than I bargained for. “But Lord Alastair is the only one who tends to the estates, for the most part. His brothers are off at all corners of the earth.”
“Right,” I say, a little uncertain.
“A few things you should know, though,” he says, glancing at me with meaningful eyes. “Ground rules. Lord Alastair is quite strict about following commands.” Commands? This really must be an old-fashioned gig. “Wear precisely what he instructs you to wear, leave nothing off and add nothing to the uniform unless he tells you to, and he may.” I scrunch my nose. This is giving me a weird feeling. “You must be punctual — the staff assemble to be inspected every day at noon, so we’ll be arriving just in time for you to get changed in your quarters. You’re free to leave the grounds, but Lord Alastair has your number, and that leads to the most important rule of all.” He gives me a deadly serious look.
“If Lord Alastair tells you to come, you come.”
My face goes a little red in the cheeks, and Cal chuckles, backpedaling a little. “Don’t worry, though, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“Mmhmm,” I say, my voice a little quieted. “Thanks.”
My jaw drops at the sight of the manor. Cal chuckles at my shock. “Careful there, don’t get too swept up at the sight of it.” But I can’t help it.
It looks like something out of a Jane Austen novel. The Victorian manor looms over wide, rolling hills of the estates, lines of hedges accentuating the dark colors of the stonework as it stands out on the horizon, outlined by the gray English skies that always threaten to rain.
It’s breathtaking, yet I feel a chill of nervousness run through me. It’s almost like a vampire’s castle, so big and ominous. I can almost imagine bats flying out at night. Still, there’s a certain charm to it that makes me excited.
We pull up, and Cal helps me unload my luggage. “Don’t forget,” he says, checking his watch, “Down in the main hall at noon sharp. Someone will meet you inside to take you to your quarters to change.
“Um, thank you, I-” I start, but Cal is already getting into his car and tipping his driver’s hat.
“Take care, Maisie. And remember what I told you,” he says, leaving me alone at the doorstep, bewildered.
As if on cue, the doors creak open, and I’m greeted by a face that looks refreshingly cheerful for the dour estate.
“Oh, hello there, dearie!” chimes an older woman. She’s dressed in traditional maid’s attire, complete with the black-and-white color scheme, though her uniform is somewhat faded from use. She has blonde hair that’s going white, a plump figure, and a warm smile. “I’m Beth—welcome to Rookswood! You must be Maisie, the new maid.”
“Why yes,” I say, a little taken aback by her warmness. “Pleasure!”
“Yes yes,” Beth says, ushering me inside and gesturing for me to follow. “You too, but we’ll have to catch up later, I’m afraid. Oh, I wish Cal hadn’t brought you so punctually, but Lord Alastair insisted you be here before noon. He’s a bit possessive of his staff, you see.”
I’m a little put off by that. I’m getting a more sinister mental image of a bitter old man who has nothing to do but torment his serving staff. “Right,” I say, a little dazed.
“Don’t worry,” she assures me as she reaches a door up the stairs of the entryway and off to the east. The interior is as lavish and haunting as the outside—old, dark wood, polished marble floors, high chandeliers, and the scent of food baking are the only things bringing life to this gothic manor. “I’m sure this all seems a bit, well, intimidating, and I’ll admit, it’s no cakewalk! But dearie,” she says in a thick Yorkshire accent, “if you come from good domestic stock, I’m sure you’ll do well!”
Stock?
I bite my lip as she pushes me into my quarters, and before I can answer, she chirps, “Your outfit’s on the bed. Noon sharp, meet down at the bottom of the stairs! I’ve got to tend to the scones.”
And just like that, I’m left alone.
I step forward to the four-poster bed, admiring the furnishings of the place. I have to admit, they really didn’t cut costs on the servants’ quarters. This place looks like a luxury hotel room! Then I turn my eyes to the bed, and my heart nearly stops.
The outfit on the bed is hardly a uniform. It has the general colors and cut of a French maid’s uniform, but it’s much...frillier than what Beth was wearing. There are a pair of black stiletto heels on the floor, and thigh-high white socks trail up from them, ending in lace hems with a pink bow at the front of each. The skirt hardly covers...well, anything, and I know there’s no way it’ll cover the white panties I’m wearing today if I ever have to bend over. As I fit the top on, I notice the push it gives my breasts, and the collar plunges down to show off more than a little cleavage. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whisper to myself as I pick up the little cloth tiara-hat that goes with the ensemble.
I squeeze my narrow frame into the outfit, and I instantly feel myself questioning my life choices as I look myself over in the tall mirror in the room. This isn’t a uniform; it’s lingerie with a maid motif. There are black bows down the front of my corset, which has my breasts nearly spilling out the front, and the stockings do wonders for my legs, but I can imagine my mother having a heart attack at the sight of me.
There must be some mistake, I decide. I cannot strut out in front of all the other domestics in this. Maybe it’s a joke? Of course. Some other domestic is probably seething over the thought of some nobody Welsh girl getting a cushy, well-paying job at this place, and this is how I’m going to get fired. I tear the room apart looking for another outfit, but before I can get anywhere, I hear the bell starting to chime, and my heart sinks. It’s noon.
I look at my travel outfit desperately, but it’s even less suitable for presentation. At least this looks put-together. Under different circumstances, maybe with the right guy, I’d love to wear this, but right now…
No time to decide. Cursing, I slip the heels on and awkwardly make my way out the hallway and down the stairs.
The other staff are already lined up, standing at attention. None of them look over at me. Shit, they’re all in on this prank, aren’t they? Well, I decide with a burning face, if I’m going to get fired, I’m going to do it with my head held high!
A man at least ten years older than me steps forward, piercing blue eyes surveying the assembly at the bottom of the stairs. And they come to a rest on me, narrowing coldly as my heart skips a beat. He’s tall, looming over the staircase like a gigantic bat, clad in a dark suit that’s immaculately tailored. He has stubble on his face, and his dark hair is combed back, making him look like winter itself in his dark, powerful beauty. There’s muscle under that suit, that much is obvious by his build alone. He has a chiseled jaw that stays immobile as he regards me, and I feel so exposed, so self-conscious that I feel my knees start to shake.
Folding his hands behind his back, he steps slowly down the stairs, glaring into my very soul like a vampire putting me into a trance. There’s no way I’m not about to get sacked. His steps are slow, deliberate, and powerful, and as he draws near me, I can tell just how much taller he is than me.
As he reaches the bottom of the stairs, I notice the rest of the staff either bowing or curtsying, to my confusion. This is 2016, how is that still a thing? It’s only once everyone stands up again that I realize I’ve conspicuously failed to follow suit, and Beth casts me a sidelong glance.
But before I can correct myself, the man—Lord Alastair Delaney, I realize—steps up to me, those paralyzing eyes on me again. He’s stripping me with those gorgeous blue eyes that look as sharp and cold as ice, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
“Follow me to the study,” he says, his voice deep, tone practiced, naturally authoritative. I know exactly what Cal meant when he referred to them as ‘commands.’ “I will teach you how to behave in my presence.”
With that, Lord Alastair turns and starts to walk up the stairs. I glance to Beth for help, but she gives me a meaningful look to follow him, and I swallow before my heels clack up the stairs after him.
He leads me wordlessly through double-doors down a private hallway, lined with tall, old portraits of what I can tell is a dynasty of British blood. I feel terribly alone as his heavy footsteps lead me, and I get the sense that I’m being led to my execution. I say nothing as we reach a heavy door that he pushes open, and I cautiously step in behind him.
And my jaw drops.
It’s a library, a huge, sprawling study with bookshelves lining every wall from floor to ceiling. Two spiral staircases lead up to a balcony in the center of the room, where a heavy desk is situated overlooking the whole place, and ladders sit perched against the bookshelves at each wall. The balcony extends all along the library like a second floor, and below where the desk sits is a warm, crackling fireplace flanked by statues of lions. I’ve always been a reader, but this? This is breathtaking. Lord Alastair steps in, and the door closes behind us with a dull thud, leaving us in silence.
I swallow. “Lord Alastair-” I start, but he calmly holds up a hand, his back to me.
“Master,” he says, and I blink, taken aback.
“I don’t…” I start, but he cuts me off again.
“You will refer to me as ‘Master’ from here onward, Maisie Kent,” he says, and my name is like the deep and haunting notes of a masterwork organ on his tongue. I blush. The way he looked at me on the stairs already had me on edge, but ‘Master?’ A shiver goes up my spine. Just what did this man hire me for?
He turns his head ever so slightly, and I realize he’s waiting for an answer. Shit, shit, what do I do? Something about all this, the outfit, the looks, commanding and controlling what I do and how I speak, it all feels so predatory. But then, there’s something almost supernatural about the way he commands my obedience, and I find the words spilling out of my mouth:
“Yes, Master.”
Finally, he turns, striding towards me slowly with those penetrating eyes. “Good girl. I will forgive this one mistake of yours.”
He can read the confusion and uncertainty in my face, and he reaches down to my skirt. Before I can stop him, he hooks a finger around my panties, his hand a vice on the thin, soft fabric, and I can feel his fingers on my bare skin as I look at him with widening eyes. His gaze hasn’t changed at all, a steely gaze that holds me immobile.
“This is not part of your uniform,” he says, his voice dripping with dark authority. Slowly, he withdraws his hand, praying he didn’t feel how wet this is making me.
I can’t help it, and I hate myself for it, but something about this terrifying man who has me cornered in his library is making my heart beat faster. I should have listened to my mother and stayed home, but this is such an unforeseen rush.
“I…” I squeak, but I should be livid, shouting at him for violating me so personally. But I can’t find it in my to do that. Before I can form any words, he steps forward and takes my face in his hand, bringing me forward and looking me over thoughtfully. Then his thumb swipes across my small mouth, and I feel warmth between my thighs getting warmer. Those blue eyes are so hard to read, but he’s looking at me like he might look over a piece of jewelry, and it’s driving something within me wild.
He makes a thoughtful noise, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he looks at me, and his hand lowers from my face.
“Remove it,” he says simply, and I don’t know what to say.
When I don’t respond instantly, he glances at me, such an iron vice in that glance that I feel my body impulsively going to my skirt, reaching under to the edge of my panties and pausing there a moment. Am I really doing this? Is this happening? Is he making me do this? No, I could walk out right now, but instead, I hook my fingers under the elastic and slowly, so slowly bring it down. I’m a proud woman—I’m not going to whip my panties off in a nervous haste, even if there’s something intoxicating about his commands, like a sweet poison I can’t get enough of.
And those eyes watch me closely as I bring the fabric down my thighs, across the white of the frilly stockings, then down to my heels.
Without his asking, I then stand up and hand the underwear to him. He pauses a moment before extending his hand and taking it, bringing the front of the simple white fabric to his nose, never breaking eye contact with me.
For the first time, I see an almost cruel, mocking smile cross his lips, and he balls the underwear up in his fist before he tosses it aside. “You desire me,” he states, a simple truth whether I want to argue it or not. “You will learn quickly. Apologize for your mistake.”
My breath is caught in my throat. This is petrifying, and I’m like a deer in the headlights for a moment. He slowly raises an eyebrow, like a teacher waiting for his answer from a petulant student. But if it’s going to cost me my job, then fuck me, I’ll be the best student ever. But I can’t pretend that the job is the only thing on my mind when I look at his terrifying, gorgeous figure looming over me.
“I...I’m sorry, Master,” I say, looking up at him demurely as I fold my hands in front of me, not forgetting to include the last part. It’s subtle, but I can tell he likes that. There’s so much on my mind. How did he know my name? How much did he know about me before I even set foot in here? Was I sent here just to...to be his…
“Good. I do not tolerate deviation among my staff...unless I direct it,” he says, his voice like silk. “As for your punishment,” he says, taking a step back and folding his hands behind his back, and I feel a chill run down my spine. Punishment? For wearing panties? Is he serious? But his even gaze tells me he is deadly serious. “Strip for me, Maisie.”
I swipe my tongue across my lips, cheeks furiously red. The audacity of this man! I’m just a domestic, how can he expect me to jump at his orders like some slave?
“Lord Ala- er, Master. I-I-I worry there might have been some mistake,” I said, and his cold gaze tells me I never should have spoken at all, but I press on. “I took this job thinking I was to be a m-maid, not a...a…”
“A what, Maisie?” he asks, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. “Did you not come here knowing you would be asked to follow my exac
t orders,” he says, fury just below that dark exterior. “I won’t ask again, Maisie. Take your clothes off.”
I look absolutely helpless, but there’s something in me spurring me on. The aura about this man is enough to overwhelm a girl, and I feel my heart racing at a mile a minute. Finally, I swallow all my pride, all my defiance, and I let something more base come to the surface. Why am I doing this? I don’t know, but something burning under my skin compels me.
I step out of my shoes first, feeling even smaller in front of him as I push them aside, leaving myself in stockings on the cool floor. I reach behind my back and unfasten my corset slowly, and he watches hungrily as my body relaxes into its natural shape.
The freckles on my shoulders look all the more prominent against my pale skin in this light. I have a small, round face that people have called pixie-like before, but nothing about the way Lord Alastair is looking at me feels half so whimsical.
I let the corset fall to the ground, leaving my breasts exposed to him, the cool castle draft chilling them and making my nipples stiff. My instinct is to reach up and cover them, biting my lip, but Lord Alastair gives me a look that almost forces my hands to redirect and go to my skirt, slowly pulling it down over my legs and letting it sit at my feet before I step out delicately.
“Good,” he says, a single deep note in the chamber as he starts to step towards me, apparently not minding my stockings, and on reflex, I start to step back towards one of the bookshelves as he makes his way towards me. I’m gripped by fear, something that both terrifies and excites me all at once. I’ve just exposed myself to this man who’s got at least ten years on me, my boss. What am I doing?! I’m just some American girl raised British in way over her head, but come so far now, and my heart is trying to force its way out of my naked breast.
“Now, Maisie,” he says as I bump into something cool and wooden—a library ladder, firm and solid, and I put a hand on it for comfort as I look at him, nearly trembling, but so fucking hot I can’t stand it, the lips of my pussy so wet and needy. “Why did I hire you?”
