by D. L. King
“Patience,” Hannah tells her, and May blinks in surprise to hear her desires so directly addressed.
“I’m sorry—”
Hannah taps the crop against May’s thigh, hardly enough to make a sound, but more than what May needs for goose bumps to erupt across her skin.
“Serve.”
May moves with caution. The cup and saucer first. The biscuits next, and the empty plate to accompany. May knows well this service, used at countless teas and luncheons. She has seen them since she was a little girl. She knows just as well that Hannah takes two sugar cubes, set without sound into the cup with impractically tiny tongs sized only for that purpose. There is an order and a form, in every turn of wrist to spread the offering before her mistress, and in every muscle that tightens up the stretch of bare thighs to her ass. Grasping the teapot, May pours a steady stream that seems to mirror the heat running through her veins, rising to steam on her sigh as she sets it back in place. A tip of milk is added, blooming pale—no more than that.
It has been a lesson hard learned, over stolen afternoons when they are free enough to play. May’s skin aches with the memory of stripes and slaps that have left their mark to ensure the ritual is flawless, without effort, though it takes every part of her to make it seem so.
With a sleek slip of one leg over the other, Hannah brings the crop again to touch May’s inner knee. There it rests, and May thinks she feels it tapping a quick tempo, only to find that Hannah holds it motionless and it is her own pulse rising instead.
“Is something wrong, madam?”
“Tell me what you want,” Hannah answers, a curl of amusement in her words.
May presses her tongue between her lips to wet them, mouth dry.
“To serve, madam.”
Flat leather finds the inside of one thigh, and then the other, pressing insistently. May works her heels outward, toes following, to widen, farther and farther. Still hovering bent across the tea service, she fears that if she continues to spread her legs, she will spill out her whole being onto the floor. The warm air cools her thighs, revealing how damp they’ve become, and a fierce blush blossoms unbidden over the swells of her body.
“Stop,” Hannah says, and May shifts not a muscle beyond her hammering heart. Not until a snap of the crop against her leg curls her fingers against the table, not until a quick flick against the other forces her to swallow the moan that begs to break free. “Answer properly. You know better.”
“I wish to learn how to serve you, madam,” May breathes. Head bowed, her sable hair hangs in curls around her face, unbound, released from the tidy braid that normally holds it tamed. When a gloved finger slips a lock behind her ear, it is as shocking as a strike, and every bit as tender.
“Tell me why.”
“I wish to learn how to serve you, madam, because you are wise in the ways of service and generous to teach me,” May breathes, all at once like a breeze that lifts the curtains to nearly the ceiling.
Hannah strokes the backs of her knuckles, clad in kid-leather, down the knobs of May’s spine, and as if by doing so fills her lungs with air, only to push it back out when her hand teases upward again.
“I am that, darling,” agrees Hannah. “I’ve not spent my days idle like some spoiled girls, who lounge about doing little and thinking less.”
May watches the woman’s boots grind against the carpet as she stands and circles behind her. Toes first, twisting slightly, to leave behind a halo of earth. May knows Hannah hasn’t been riding. She couldn’t have been, and certainly not with the whole assorted household out on the grounds. Another step flakes soil from the soft bend of leather, and this time, May doesn’t frown, but can’t stop herself from asking:
“Are those mine?”
May’s dark curls spill into the cruel grasp of Hannah’s fingers. Shoved downward with a gasp, May bends until her stiff nipples harden near to numbness, brushing the table. The crop presents itself once more against her thigh, only a touch but enough to make May whimper, and when she tries to close her legs again Hannah’s booted foot stops the movement.
The whisper of her breeches, the heat of her groin against May’s ass is enough to pitch her whimper to a moan when Hannah leans heavily over her back. Leather stings hot against her thigh and May shifts to her toes to try and stretch the quivering muscle, but there is no give between Hannah’s body and hers, hardly space enough to draw a breath.
“I’m sorry, madam,” May pleads.
“You are a brat,” whispers Hannah. “A spoiled, greedy brat.”
“I want to serve—”
“But you don’t—truly, you don’t,” Hannah says, voice lilting higher as she tightens her fist and turns May’s head aside. “Had you your way, you’d spend it sitting here, in my chair—”
A strike, for emphasis, makes May’s body rigid under her. The stripe of red tightens to a burn so hot it’s nearly cold, and as the numbness passes it sends static discharge prickling sharp beneath her skin. May moans, unbidden, and her voice reverberates against the ancient wood beneath.
“Whose chair is it, darling?”
“Yours, madam,” whispers May, her breath pooling pale against the table. Another clap of the crop lines her thigh. “Whose house is this, darling?”
“Yours, madam!”
Another, crossed over to the other side as if spurring a racehorse on to victory.
“And whose boots are these, darling girl?” Hannah purrs, ducking her head to sweep a kiss across May’s shoulder as she sobs in gratitude.
“Yours, madam.”
May’s fingers curl shaking against the table and she shifts her weight under Hannah. She stretches backward to meet the slow undulations of Hannah’s hips rubbing against her. She leans forward to find the fine hairs between her legs parted by a bit of intricate decor carved into the table. It’s enough to grind against, rocked slowly by Hannah’s steady thrusts. It’s enough that May’s cheeks, already ruddy, darken to a torrid scarlet when she feels a wet trickle down her thigh.
The bliss of unyielding contact against her clitoris dizzies her when she rubs against the table. A moan betrays her bliss but rather than dealing another punishing snap of the crop for May’s arrogance, Hannah’s hand settles against her hip instead. The glove is cold, a startling contrast over heated skin, and in Hannah’s palm the woven handle of the whip abrades, juxtaposed against gentle fingers.
“It is all mine. I am the one who has worked to make this place what it is,” Hannah says, her voice a purr like that of a great cat, a tiger contented but with all the potential to lash out at any moment. “The boots and the chair, the house and you,” she adds, and May does not need to see Hannah’s grin to hear it in her words. “You especially.”
“I am yours, madam.”
“My beautiful serving girl,” laughs Hannah. “My darling May.”
The crop is set on the table, as if in warning for further disobedience. May sighs rattling relief, and with abandon shoves her hips back against Hannah’s. Electricity twines sparking up her legs when Hannah’s touch seeks trembling thighs, and bursts white behind her eyes when Hannah parts May’s lips to stroke her fingers through her maid’s wetness.
Only a fingertip penetrates, a teasing little touch, not nearly enough to satisfy the coiling tension in May’s belly. Pressure winds sinuously from her pussy, shortening her breath and spurring her pulse, and May fears only distantly the return of others to the house. Hannah would not risk being caught this way, no more than May herself—indeed, the retribution that both would suffer would be unconscionable, and so May trusts, as she always has, in Hannah’s wisdom.
If she deems May’s service unacceptable, she will tell her.
If she decides that May is better bared or dressed, she will make certain that she knows how she prefers her to be.
And if there is time enough for this, then May can do nothing more than spread her legs a little farther in welcome and moan when Hannah works a damp, gloved finger inside of h
er.
Cold leather warms in the heat of her body. As if her fingers were a cock, Hannah grinds her hips forward and pushes deeper inside, opening May’s cunt. She is already wide with wanting, dripping embarrassingly slick over Hannah’s hand, and she looks across her shoulder to the woman mounting her. Freckles dapple Hannah’s cheeks in the sun, her hair unwound around her face from the effort of taming May. Lips swollen with desire, parted flushed and panting, she is lovely, and May finds herself as breathless in seeing Hannah take her as she is in being claimed.
A second finger joins the first, thrusting her enough to jostle the tea setting where it sits untouched. Whimpering, May lifts a shaking hand to Hannah’s in her hair. It loosens, their fingers join and May drags Hannah’s hand against her mouth. Her breath swells hot back against her lips as she groans her adoration into Hannah’s palm, nearly laughing when Hannah closes her fingers over May’s mouth, enough to restrict her breath but not to stop it. May’s legs shake under the rhythmic, rough fucking against the table; she pushes to her toes as if to join her body with the way her heart reels higher, faster, spinning to dizzying heights.
Hannah’s fingers curl inside of her, rubbing against the little bulb inside that would level May to her knees if not for Hannah holding her in place. Her voice rises, pitching into shorter gasps, until a helpless cry takes her and the tightness, rigid in her body, breaks. Like a rope pulled too tight, May snaps and uncoils, the reverberations of her release rocking her body in echoes that roll from her throat to her toes and back again.
Even when Hannah works her fingers free, May still ruts against the table, a mindless motion of joyous, animal pleasure.
She knows who owns her.
And just as May is certain she could not love Hannah more, she strokes her fingers across May’s damp, parted mouth and grasps her chin, to turn the girl to face her. Bare backside against the table, gloved hand between her legs again, May slips her arms around Hannah’s neck and nuzzles the stiff collar of her shirt.
“Keep me,” May begs her, delirious with delight and fondness both.
“Always,” Hannah promises. “Always, darling.” She smooths May’s wild curls from her face and claims her with a kiss.
When her family returns, her mother greets her first, as servants bustle past the dining room with the remains of their picnic. “Sweetheart, we missed you terribly. The weather was simply lovely. Your father resigned himself to reading beneath a tree, so he didn’t join us in croquet. More’s the better, as I was able to win without him knocking the balls off across the field.”
Brisk steps carry her to where May sits at the head of the table, dressed in a soft white cotton shift meant for sleeping.
“I’m just taking tea,” May responds, as her mother sets a hand to her brow.
“You’re not feverish,” she says, before pressing a palm to May’s cheek. “Are you feeling better?”
May offers a smile, and lifts the cup to her lips. The tea is cold but sweet, and not only because of the two cubes of sugar within. Past her mother, she shares a smile with Hannah, standing with the other maids and clad once more in her somber dark dress and white pinafore. She looks away only when Hannah grins, and May’s thighs ache in memory of being taught again who is truly in ownership here.
May’s cheeks warm, from a fever all her own.
“Yes,” she agrees. “Much better.”
CRÈME BRÛLÉE
Sacchi Green
“Hey Rory, somebody’s asking for you. Knows your name.”
I saw the sly grin on Audrey’s face, saved my spreadsheet and quit Excel. “I don’t think it’s a complaint,” she called to my retreating back.
I wasn’t focusing on the accounts anyway, just daydreaming. Remembering someone I’d never see again, didn’t want to see, because I’d never be able to resist her. The only person in years who could melt me inside the shell I’d constructed so carefully, and break right on through it. Just that one night, around this time last year…
And there was Raf, in the very solid flesh, seated in the same alcove overlooking the salt marsh. I felt her magnetism all the way across the dining room. Last year I’d bribed Audrey to let me wait on that table; this time I didn’t even bother to snatch her order pad.
The broad back, the granite-gray hair clipped short, could have belonged to any of thousands of guys vacationing on Cape Cod—or hundreds of women, this close to Provincetown. But I knew exactly who it was. Knew every line and curve and hollow of the body beneath the slate-blue jacket and white shirt, not to mention the gray slacks. I’d explored all of her well enough to make sketches from memory, and to chisel and polish her image out of pink Cadillac Mountain granite from Maine.
“Good evening,” I said, demurely, just as I had the first time. “I’m Rory. I’ll be serving you tonight.”
Raf kept her gaze on the menu spread out across the white tablecloth, but her mouth twitched and then expanded into a wide grin. “I’ll have my usual,” she said, and lifted those clear hazel eyes to me. I could barely keep my own lips steady.
“Two appetizers to share? Wellfleet oysters on the half-shell and ceviche of Chatham scallops?” I looked pointedly at the empty chair across from her. A year ago it had been nicely filled indeed by a voluptuous young thing trying to obey her dyke Daddy’s instructions to eat the raw shellfish whether she wanted to or not. I’d taken pity and told the girl that the lime juice in the ceviche more or less “cooks” the scallops. “And two entrées, the bouillabaisse and the cioppino? With the house white zinfandel, black coffee, no dessert?” I’d be damned if I’d ask about the girl. What was her name? Juliana?
“Actually, I was kind of looking forward to dessert.”
My blood had been simmering. Now it came to a slow boil, remembering how we’d gone at each other like starving wildcats in my studio at 2:00 A.M. when Juliana was safely asleep at their motel, exhausted after an evening of clubbing in Provincetown.
“But for the rest,” Raf went on, “just one appetizer and entrée, unless I can get you to share with me. Would your boss allow that?”
“I’m the boss tonight. Technically, the assistant manager.” Which didn’t guarantee that I’d get away with it. Audrey could be bribed, but there were six other waitresses, already intensely interested in what I was up to. Tough. It wouldn’t be easy to replace an assistant manager who also did the accounting. Not this late in the season. “And as the boss, I happen to know that the duck in beach plum-Cabernet sauce is especially good tonight. I’ll go for the oysters, but duck instead of bouillabaisse.” Raf already knew that I’m far from the submissive type, but the emphasis on choosing my own meal wouldn’t hurt.
I caught Audrey’s eye and motioned her to the table to take our order. Then I swept the room with a steely gaze that got the rest of the waitresses hustling the way they were supposed to.
“I went by your studio and the gallery,” Raf said, as soon as we’d been supplied with ice water and lemon slices. “I was hoping you’d be there, covered in clay dust like you were last summer.”
Daddy and girl had wandered from the co-op gallery into my studio, clearly looking for a corner just secluded enough to pretend no one could see them making out. The girl’s shorts had been so brief they revealed rosy traces of the proprietary bar code Daddy’s hand had imprinted on her naughty ass. They must have indulged in a bit of after-lunch action before taking a stroll through the galleries.
Juliana had pouted when they’d seen me there, but Raf had chatted, admired my stone and porcelain nudes, stroked a tempting set of smooth marble buttocks and probed a big finger down between the irresistible thighs. My crotch got wet enough to dampen the clay dust layering my jeans. When they turned up later at the restaurant where I work to earn the minimal living that art can’t provide, it felt like the truck that had hit me had stopped to take me for a ride.
The way Raf looked at me now in my conservative pantsuit made me sure she was thinking more of how I’d looked later that
night covered in nothing at all. Just the way I was remembering her.
“I’ve been working more in stone than clay since then. Still get covered in dust, though.”
“I noticed some of your new sculptures, there and in that fancier gallery up the hill.” She hesitated. “That piece in the pink-speckled stone…with the NOT FOR SALE sign…” Her sun-ruddy face got a little redder. She would never have seen herself from the angle I’d portrayed; rear view, recumbent, quarter-scale, with smooth flesh emerging out of a jagged granite base. Broad shoulders, the side-swell of a breast, head turned to the right, just a few details of face and brush-cut hair…the effect was on the verge of being abstract, but clearly inspired by a real person. And she knew it.
“That’s brought me a couple of commissions,” I said, with studied casualness. “Thanks for the inspiration. Who’d have thought anyone rich enough to afford it would want a stylized portrait of her lover in stone? Maybe I’ll be able to make a living with my art one of these days after all.”
The oysters arrived just in time to save Raf from having to figure out what to say. I enjoyed the hell out of her discombobu-lation. Let her wonder whether I’d been using her for my own artistic purposes rather than succumbing to pure lust.
But then I blurted out, “I’ll never sell that one.” So much for staying cool and detached.
“I’m glad.” Raf plucked an oyster on its half shell from the bed of ice chips and raised it toward me like a salute before tilting the sweet juice into her mouth. I did the same. We managed a simultaneous sliding of the oysters themselves across our tongues and down our throats, swallowing in perfect synchronization, then licking our lips. And grinning.
“The sauce is worth trying, too.” I spooned a bit of chipotle mignonette onto another oyster, then licked it slowly off before sucking the slippery morsel into my mouth.
