Lords, Ladies, Butlers and Maids

by Various

  His fingers slid lower, slipping into the wetness that seemed to spill from between my legs and coat my sex. I could feel the heat suffusing my face. Discomfited, I struggled harder to free myself from my skirts, but a hand pressed, then neatly splayed against my waist to hold me in place. Another sting and then his fingers slowed, dipping low, sliding down along the swollen lips of my sex, lingering and exploring its slippery crevices. A finger and then a thumb found a particularly sensitive bit of flesh and began to strum it. Even as I tried to scoot away, he kept coming, finding and teasing the deep wet place until a series of waves like a sustained shiver began to rise from the place where his fingers tarried. I shivered as … tremors and icy tingles rose, just there, and there, wherever he touched, moments of incoherence, tiny knots of delirium … and then a tremulous pulse swooshed, rushing upwards and through my centre. I closed my eyes and tightened my thighs, almost involuntarily, around his fingers as I tried to brace myself. Unable to hold it at bay, I buried my face in the silk upholstery and gripped the chair’s edge, my body twisted and tight as it crashed over and through me, leaving me tingling and without air to breathe.

  Still trembling in its aftermath, I managed to struggle up, my head finally emerging from its blanket of skirts. Suddenly, I was tumbling sideways and landing in a sprawl of lace and pink taffeta at his feet again. He took a step away, dodging the delicate fabric as I ended on my backside, my fluff of a dress modestly covering all but a long line of sheer silk-covered legs and daisy-sprigged garters. A smile crossed his lips as he glimpsed the garters; the tips of his fingers met his nose and he inhaled deeply. The familiar bulge at his thigh seemed to lengthen. Just as suddenly, the smile faded and he glared down at me.

  He watched me for another moment, and then he took a step backwards, pursed his lips and turned towards the door.

  ‘Let that be a lesson to you,’ he huffed. He did not look back as he stepped out into the corridor and pulled the door closed.

  *

  How had I come to be in such a predicament? I told myself that I had come merely to apologise for causing the last bottle of his favourite port to shatter. He’d been so crestfallen when it had crashed to the floor, and he’d been so terribly handsome when his full lips had made that astonished O, a dark lock of hair falling forwards as he glared down at the pool of ruby liquid. He’d looked up from the pieces of broken glass and frowned at me, a scowl that said I had deprived him of his final joy, but he quickly recovered his manners and turned away.

  ‘That was the last bottle! It cost more than a month of your wages,’ he had shouted rudely at the poor servant, who had immediately fallen to his knees and with a hastily retrieved napkin had begun to dab at the spreading stain on the carpet. ‘I shall take it out of your wages. Better yet, you are dismissed. I’m sure we can find someone who can get a bottle of wine from the cellar to the table without incident.’ The red-faced servant was still on his knees dabbing and carefully placing shards of green glass on a silver tray when his master had stormed out of the room.

  I hadn’t wanted him to punish the servant, as the incident had been my fault. Seeking refuge from one of my more ardent suitors, I had stumbled upon the bridegroom as he sought a moment of privacy in a comfortable corner of the library. He was quite striking standing there before the fire, his arm resting on the mantel, his head lowered as though he sought a moment to revive his wits after the rigours of introductions to his prospective in-laws, of dancing with matrons and charming the family patriarch. I had witnessed his charm, his easy laughter, and how it drew others to him. In my haste to flee my wayward thoughts of the brooding gentleman, I had blindly collided with the tray-bearing footman. In order to avoid trampling me, the servant had sacrificed the port.

  After assuring the shaken footman that I would placate his master, I’d gone in search of the angry bridegroom. I found the sombre gentleman sipping what appeared to be a whiskey, neat, in the solitude of an unused sitting room.

  ‘It was my fault, the wine,’ I stammered. ‘You mustn’t punish the footman.’

  He took his time assessing me and then he smiled and nodded. ‘Would you care to take his licks?’

  My damp hands grappled with the fabric of my skirts. I remembered the first time I’d seen him in Lady Latham’s garden. He’d had the young widow over his lap, her skirts rucked up around her waist, her bright pink bum in the air as his hand rose high and landed hard. I’d come bearing lemon scones, a particular favorite of Grace Latham’s. I wouldn’t say that she and I are friends, but we are neighbours and her conversation can be diverting. She and the bride are contemporaries and it was at one of Grace’s gatherings that the bride and groom were introduced. As I made my way through the back gardens, I had heard moaning, but nothing prepared me for the sight of the long-legged young man with his hand on Lady Latham’s naked bottom. Stunned, I tripped and fell on my backside, scattering scones. However, instead of fleeing, I had hidden, ducking behind the shrubbery to watch.

  ‘If it would save him from further punishment,’ I offered, wondering if he was teasing or being ironic. Then he sat up straighter, one palm splayed on the seat cushion of the armless settee, the other still holding his drink as he perused the length of me again before beckoning me towards him with a crooked finger. Taking one of my hands in his, he held it lightly as he placed his glass on the floor beneath the seat. Well, I had agreed to the punishment; what could I do? Before I could think twice, he had pulled me belly first across his lap and tossed up my skirts. After a cursory brush of warm fingers against warmer skin, he was spanking my bare bottom.

  I was all at once appalled, frightened and, yes, titillated. Images flashed before me of Lady Latham’s rosy bottom, of her squirming on his lap, of the intense look on his face, of the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips as his hand fell. I wanted to see and feel what he would do next. Would he touch me as he touched her? How far would he take it? How far would I let him? I liked the feel of his huge hand as it splayed across my bottom. I liked the sting and release, the way it made the lips down there twitch. I wondered if he really punished his servants in this way – maybe the females. I wondered if they did things, spilled the gravy on his shirt or failed to keep the fireplace in his rooms lit, so he would call them to task. I couldn’t imagine him doing this to the footman. But I could imagine my hand on his bottom, firm and round. I might slap it lightly unless he begged me to make it harder. My hand would sting and grow warm, and the sounds of his groans would make me wet. When he’d finally mounted Lady Latham, I had watched the way his backside rose and fell, the way his sac swayed as it hung heavy between his thighs. I wanted to touch him then, to slide my hand over his smooth arse, to cup his sac, but I just held my breath and watched.

  Maybe he’d chosen this method of punishment to humiliate me. Although my heart raced and, admittedly, I was a little frightened, I didn’t feel humiliated. I opened my legs slightly, just so, and hoped that he would touch me there, where I felt all wet and wanting. Even though I was certain that this was not the proper way to behave with one’s almost married host, I wanted to feel the slide of his fingers just so, just there, and he seemed willing to oblige. However, now he seemed truly angry, having left me crumpled on the floor without even offering me a hand up.

  My bottom was still tingling and the flesh between my legs was aquiver as I clutched at an armchair for support, then stood and went about righting my clothing. He was an odd one, and I couldn’t help but smile, as I had enjoyed our little sport. I had no doubt that our brief tryst would remain a secret between the two of us, as the soon-to-be-wed groom would be as reticent as I. I, of course, wished him and my cousin Ethel the best. She’d been on the shelf for several years and had finally given in and decided to buy herself a husband, a very delectable one at that, tall, dark and with very large and powerful … hands, and a strong will. I had to commend his restraint, as I was quite tempted to throw caution to the wind and my legs in the air. Although I knew Ethel was never one
to share, I hoped that there would be another opportunity to bare my bottom before her alluring fiancé. Meanwhile, I checked my face in the glass of a nearby watercolour, a still life of fresh fruit with bowl, fluffed my skirts and headed back into the fray of the engagement party.

  Hitting the Right Notes

  Rose de Fer

  Lily positions her fingers on the keys, gently, as though she is afraid of damaging them. She hesitates another second, then takes a deep breath and presses down. The piano responds, not with music but with a frightful racket. I wince, biting my lip.

  She quickly corrects her error but Mr Blackshaw is frowning.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she says softly, lowering her head. Her hands flutter to her lap like frightened animals and she presses them into her pinafore, every inch the demure little chambermaid.

  Mr Blackshaw is quiet for a moment. Then he simply says, ‘Again.’

  Lily straightens her back and lifts her hands, arranging them on the keys once more, stretching her fingers to reach what must be a difficult chord. This time it sounds more like music when she attacks the keys and I can tell she feels a little more confident. She finds her way into the piece and I listen as she plays. It’s soft and sweet, just like her. I’m no expert but to me it sounds heavenly.

  Mr Blackshaw, however, is unimpressed. He raps Lily smartly across the knuckles with his ruler. I gasp in concert with her and cover my mouth lest my own noise attract his displeasure. Fortunately, it all seems reserved for his pupil, who cowers beside him like a flower withering in a storm. Wisps of hair have come loose from her lacy mob cap and she smoothes them away from her face before making another attempt at the piece. But it’s no use. She’s lost the trick of it.

  ‘Appalling,’ Mr Blackshaw says. The room seems full of the stony silence that follows. Lily looks almost relieved when he tells her sharply to begin again.

  By this time her hands are trembling so much she can barely place her fingers on the right keys. She takes a deep shuddering breath but before she can start to play Mr Blackshaw finds fault with her posture.

  ‘And don’t slouch. Do you think Chopin imagined this piece played in such a fashion? By young ladies who can’t even be bothered to sit up straight and who clearly have no respect for his music?’

  Lily has no answer for that. She lowers her head submissively as he chastises her.

  ‘I’m trying to make something of you, young lady. Or don’t you want to be more than just a chambermaid?’

  ‘I do, sir, it’s just –’

  ‘I like to instil a sense of culture in my servants, to smooth out the rough edges. But it seems like I’m wasting my time with you.’

  Lily whimpers as though struck. ‘But sir,’ she protests, ‘I have practised, honest! It’s just … it’s a difficult piece.’

  ‘Of course it’s difficult. I’m hardly going to set you something easy to learn, am I? Or perhaps you’d prefer that? Some simple little nursery rhyme? Something you can peck out with two fingers like an infant?’

  ‘But I can’t –’

  ‘Stand up.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You heard me, Lily. Stand up.’

  I hear her swallow as she slowly rises to her feet, head well down, her face flushed with shame. My own face burns in sympathy but I wouldn’t take her place. I stand still, as I have been instructed, a silent witness to her disgrace. But her nervousness is infectious and my fingers pluck at the velvet ribbons of my gown. The brocade skirt rustles softly, earning me a warning glance from Mr Blackshaw. I stop at once and fold my hands in front of me, the perfect lady.

  Mr Blackshaw turns back to Lily. He taps the cushioned piano bench with his ruler and she gives him one final beseeching look before obeying the unspoken command. I press my legs together as she assumes the familiar position, gently placing first one knee and then the other on the piano bench. She kneels there like a penitent, her hands resting lightly on the keys as Mr Blackshaw raises her black uniform skirt and tucks it into the strings of her pinafore.

  Her undergarments barely conceal her as it is but Mr Blackshaw wants her fully exposed, humiliated. He unties the drawstring that fastens her pantalettes around her waist. They fall open like the petals of a flower, revealing her soft round bottom and the pink lips of her sex.

  The position forces her back into a graceful arch although I can see the strain in her thighs as she keeps her bottom raised up. She is not allowed to sit on her heels. Mr Blackshaw makes that clear with one warning tap from the ruler.

  ‘Now,’ he says coolly, ‘we’ll see if you can’t perform a little better now. You may begin when you’re ready.’

  I hold my breath while I wait for her to find the courage for another attempt. I know she’ll fail. Sure enough, she hits a wrong note in the very first chord. Bravely she tries to play through it but there’s no recovering from such a disastrous mistake. Eventually the notes trail away and she bows her head in disgrace.

  This time Mr Blackshaw doesn’t say a word. He steps purposefully to one side and lays the ruler against the smooth pale flesh of her bottom. A little shudder runs through Lily’s body and she holds perfectly still for him as he raises the ruler and brings it down with a sharp crack across both cheeks.

  I edge a little to the side so I may see her face as well. Her eyes are closed and she bites her lip to keep from crying out. Mr Blackshaw doesn’t like her to make a fuss.

  The second stroke elicits a whimper and she tosses her head with a gasp. Her fingers twitch but she knows better than to bang the keys in response to the pain. She wriggles a little and I can see two vivid pink stripes rising across her flesh, flaring and deepening. They might be the brush strokes of a painter.

  Lily tenses in anticipation of another stroke and Mr Blackshaw leaves her in suspense for several seconds before delivering it. This one is harder than the others. This one makes her yelp and she drums her legs on the cushion.

  My breath catches in my throat at the sight, at the shock of bright pain she feels in such an intimate area. For I am no stranger to it myself. My bottom tingles at the memory of my own such punishments. The slice of the cane, the kiss of the rod, the smack of a hard hand. All of it makes me squirm. All of it makes me wet.

  It has the same effect on Lily, whose pouting sex glistens with her own arousal as the ruler finds its mark again. I bite my lip, feeling lightheaded as I imagine myself comforting her, stroking her tender pink cheeks. Kissing her …

  But only afterwards.

  Now I must watch as she struggles to maintain her position. Her cap has come away and her hair falls in soft waves around her pretty face. I love seeing her in disarray, all her dignity stripped away, her vulnerability laid bare. My sex throbs in response as she whimpers and yelps, flinching at each stroke. When at last the punishment is over I have to remind myself to breathe.

  ‘Now then, Lily,’ Mr Blackshaw says, his voice a little kinder now that she has been corrected, ‘shall we try it again?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she whispers.

  Her legs tremble with the effort of holding her position as she arranges her fingers on the keys once more. This time she doesn’t hesitate. This time the music that comes forth is note-perfect. Beautiful. I close my eyes, listening, letting it flow over me. The lovely little song might be her cool hands caressing my naked skin, perhaps soothing away the pain of my own chastisement for some trivial misdemeanour.

  She brings the piece to an end and waits to hear his verdict.

  He is smiling. ‘Very good, Lily. Very good indeed.’

  She smiles too, her face radiant with pride at having satisfied her demanding taskmaster. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she murmurs.

  He takes her arm and helps her up. After kneeling for so long her legs wobble and it takes her a moment to find her feet. Mr Blackshaw doesn’t allow her to adjust her drawers or her skirt, however, and as she turns around I have a good view of the scarlet canvas of her bottom. The red is a startling contrast to the black of her skirt and
the white of her pinafore and pantalettes. She looks over at me and I blush as she gives me a lascivious wink, all her shyness gone now.

  I feel my nipples tighten beneath the heavy gown and I suddenly sense Mr Blackshaw’s eyes on me. His gaze might be a hand beneath my skirt for the wave of desire that overwhelms me. My sex pounds with need. Mr Blackshaw turns to Lily, who returns his look with a mischievous grin. Then they both hold out a hand to me.

  I step forward nervously, as though onto a stage, surrendering my hands to them. They lead me from the music room and up the main staircase. When we reach the bedroom Mr Blackshaw shuts the door and Lily goes at once to the mirror to admire her marks. She turns this way and that, wincing at the sight of her bright red bottom, touching it gingerly.

  ‘Does it hurt terribly?’ I ask.

  Lily smiles. ‘Oh, yes,’ she says in a silky voice. ‘Terribly.’

  Heat floods my face as she takes my hand and presses it against the flaming red skin of her cheeks.

  ‘And now it’s your turn.’

  I gasp. ‘But … But I …’ It’s all I can think of to say. I can offer no reasonable defence.

  Mr Blackshaw takes my arm and steers me towards the four-poster bed. The long skirt of my dress catches on the leg of a chair and for a moment I have the ludicrous fantasy that it might be enough to hold me back from their wicked intentions, that I might be trapped by the lavish garment and saved. But Lily tugs it free and gives me a firm push with a hand in the small of my back.

  ‘You enjoyed watching that, didn’t you?’ Lily says, her voice husky in my ear.

  I know better than to lie. My excitement is more than obvious. I am blushing all over, my breasts heaving within the confines of the tight bodice. I can hardly breathe.

  ‘We can’t have you swooning, my girl,’ Mr Blackshaw says, placing a hand against my chest. My heart races beneath his palm. ‘I think this dress had better come off.’