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‘The House Guest’ involves characters who appeared in my earlier offering, ‘The Discipline Begins’, and refers to events contained therein, but can be read as a stand alone story.
*
Florence Roberts’ pretty ever-so slightly retroussé nose had been put out of joint. Sir Richard had invited a guest to stay at the Manse: Marsha Williams, best-selling popular historian and sparkling panellist on light-hearted radio discussion shows. When Sir Richard had rung to summon his maid to be introduced to his elegant lady friend, he had assured her that Florence could be expected to show the same deference and respect to his guest as to himself. Dr. Williams, a small, slight woman, had remained seated as Florence meekly extended her hand. Lightly clasping the proffered fingers, the sharp-nosed redhead coldly surveyed the girl from above her horn-rimmed spectacles, taking in the deep ‘v’ of cleavage peeping from the crisp white pinny, the short navy dress that ended above the fishnets to reveal a glimpse of garter belt, and the black patent three and a half inch heels. Uncomfortably aware that the uniform her master had chosen for her was might be thought immodest, Florence found herself blushing, her eyes downcast as she wilted under the blue-stocking’s frosty appraisal. ‘You had best fetch my luggage to my room,’ the academic had said curtly.
The week that had followed had not become less strained. Dr. Williams had proved a distinctly demanding house guest, constantly finding errands for Florence to run, and never being satisfied with her execution of them. Inevitably the girl had responded to the constant sighing and head shaking by becoming sullen and unhelpful, worse when the older lady barked her orders the young maid found herself becoming flustered and unable to think, her fumbling efforts to obey only further trying the doctor’s limited patience. This, Florence thought angrily, was not how one got the best out of a maid. Mentally contrasting Marsha Williams’s constant carping and undisguised annoyance with Sir Richard’s sparing praise and courteous discipline, she found herself tingling at the memory of her master’s firm hand falling upon her exposed buttocks.
And that was not the worst of it. Since the ghastly Dr. Williams had come to stay her prim master had been observing the utmost decorum: not so much as a wandering hand had caressed his maid’s thigh, never mind smack her cheeks. Marsha Williams on the other hand was being thoroughly serviced, this much Florence could testify to from the constant changing of her master’s sheets, frankly she was surprised, and not a little impressed, by his sexagenarian stamina. To the devoted maid, who had never dared to aspire to grace her master’s bed, having had to content herself with the occasional absent-minded grope as she went about her chores, it seemed an injustice that he should choose to sire this sour old trout when her supple young body was so entirely at his disposal.
She smiled at the memory of how after he had spanked her for the first time, she had invited Sir Richard to unburden his load upon her upturned face. As she had gratefully licked away the semen that flecked her lips, she had rubbed her master’s cum into the flushed skin of her breasts displayed to him in the lacy quarter cups, her finger tips forming slow circles around the distended nipples. Afterwards Sir Richard had been embarrassed, the next morning he had struggled to meet her eye. He had found cause more than once to repeat the beating, but his cock had remained stiffly within his slacks. However, as Florence lay across his lap recuperating between sets of swats, he had taken to inserting into her slot a pair of probing fingers, testing her moisture in the knowledge that the greater the arousal the higher the pain threshold, so it was not as if her master could be in doubt as to her willingness to accommodate him. Presumably the courtly older gentleman preferred to preserve the proprieties of the master-servant relationship. He was such an old-fashioned thing.
Seething with resentment at her master’s imperious house guest, and deprived of discipline, Sir Richard’s maid was becoming increasingly sulky and impertinent. That morning as Florence was setting out the breakfast things, Marsha Williams had turned the page of her broadsheet newspaper and jogged the girl’s arm, causing the spoon from the marmalade pot to flick off the tray and onto the academic’s patterned silk dressing grown.
‘You stupid girl!’ the doctor yelped.
‘It’s your fault,’ Florence snapped back. ‘If you watched what you were doing…’
‘Florence!’ Sir Richard’s nostrils flared, his tone brooking no further dissension from his maid servant. For a moment Florence thought he might discipline her right there and then across the breakfast table, lifting her skirt in front of his annoying house guest. Mortified the maid was stunned into silence.
‘You really are the most clumsy child,’ the academic continued, wiping golden shred from the lapel of her gown. Florence looked to her master hoping for support, but the grey-haired gentleman had buried his face in The Times.
‘Perhaps, Dick,’ the doctor added waspishly, ‘You might bring yourself to consider employing a domestic with less in her bra and rather more under her bonnet.’
‘Marsha…’ Sir Richard warned softly.
‘I grant you she is ornamental, if slutty constitutes your notion of the feminine ideal, no doubt she would be a decorous addition to a middling-priced brothel. But where is the use in the girl? Were she some village dumpling in awe of the big house, it might be possible to hope for more from her in time. But look at her, all of life’s advantages, a good upbringing, a decent public school and, though I can scarcely credit it, a second in classics from Cambridge, albeit only Cavendish, and yet she seems incapable of the most simple household tasks! I scarce imagine how she struggles with her secretarial duties. Doubtless after the fashion of her generation she drafts your correspondence in textspeak.’
Florence, who was close to tears, bridled at this. She coped very well with her secretarial duties, Sir Richard had even asked her to help him with his research. It was just the household stuff she found a challenge, that and the gardening of course – there had been that time she put undiluted fertiliser on Sir Richard’s immaculately manicured lawn, her bum had smarted quite a bit after that, oh, and the chauffeuring — when she had jumped a light, Sir Richard had felt obliged to demonstrate the colour it had been upon her cheeks.
‘But look at the useless lump,’ the doctor went on. ‘Content to strut around in high heels and flash a bit of bare flesh, in the hope of ingratiating herself with… with…’
‘A foolish old man?’ offered Sir Richard, putting down his paper.
Marsha Williams had suddenly gone very pale.
‘Miss Roberts,’ Sir Richard sighed, ‘would you be so kind as to fetch our guest a damp cloth? Thank you.’
Florence turned to leave. ‘Close the door after you,’ Sir Richard added. ‘Oh, and could you give us a few minutes?’
Florence knocked softly on the door to the breakfast room. ‘Enter,’ came Marsha Williams’s crystal tones. Florence was not quite sure what to expect: Marsha lying sobbing draped across the table, she hoped, or perhaps kneeling face to the wall, her gown pinned up in expectation punishment. To the maid’s intense disappointment the academic seemed perfectly composed and in control of yourself, if a little more polite than previously.
‘Ah, Florence,’ Dr Williams smiled winningly. The maid bridled at the familiarity. Sir Richard, who used her given name only in moments of kindness, or of anger, would not be so disrespectful. But at least it was preferable to the doctor’s usual peremptory, ‘Girl, come here!’ It appeared that the insufferable old trout was making an effort to be friendly. Sir Richard it seemed had had words, even if he had presumably thought it a l
apse of hospitality to give his house guest the beating her scrawny old butt so richly deserved.
‘Here child,’ the doctor continued, ‘help me off with my gown’. The note of maternal affection came oddly from the lips of the waspish blue-stocking, but Florence, who had not given the matter thought before, realised that she was indeed young enough to have been the academic’s daughter. In a moment of insight she realised how threatened the older women must feel by the high-breasted brunette in the first flush of her womanhood. If only the poor doctor knew how little regard her ageing lover really had for his faithful serving girl.
Marsha turned her back to Florence, who dutifully slid the silk gown from off her shoulders, freeing her arms from out the sleeves, to reveal the thin freckled shoulders. As the robe slid down it dawned upon the maid that Doctor Williams was wearing nothing beneath. Perhaps six inches shorter than the young brunette in the high heels, the doctor was bony and angular, but plumper around the hips, bum and thighs. She turned to reveal small breasts and a slight potbelly, beneath which was a burgeoning bush of the same russet red as her wild frizzy locks.
Averting her eyes, Florence began wiping the gown. ‘I think it is coming out okay, ma’am.’
‘So it is. You are clever.’ The middle-aged doctor smiled ingratiatingly, seemingly oblivious of her nakedness. Florence found that her eyes kept turning back to glimpse at that outrageous bush.
Catching the direction of the young woman’s gaze the doctor looked down. ‘Yes, collar and cuffs match,’ she laughed.
Knowing her master’s preference for a well-trimmed mound, Florence wondered what Sir Richard made of such profusion. ‘Just because you are not expecting visitors, that is no reason not to mow the lawn,’ he would tell her, evidently he had not been able to bring himself to be so frank with the formidable author.
Feeling a sudden upsurge in warmth for her erstwhile tormentor, Florence wondered how she might tactfully broach the subject. ‘You have a beautiful pussy, if you do not mind my saying so ma’am.’ Florence had not seen many pussies but she was genuinely impressed with Marsha’s long, puffy outer labia. ‘The chestnut pubes set it off a treat.’
‘Why, thank you,’ the doctor replied, raising an eye-brow.
‘I do so like the natural look,’ Florence continued, warming to her theme. ‘But I am afraid the master insists I wear mine short.
‘Does he indeed?’
‘Oh yes, ma’am, the master is very particular about my appearance. In fact,’ she added, unable to keep the note of shy triumph out of her voice, ‘he trims my pubic hair himself.’ This was true, the first time at least. Sir Richard had taken it on himself to show her exactly what he had in mind.
This intimate information appear to dumbfound the academic. ‘Perhaps you had better show me,’ she said at last.
Obligingly Florence looped her thumbs over the elastic of her black satin panties, bringing them down to above her knees, before lifting the hem of her dress to reveal a strip of dark hair extending an inch either side of a central parting, thin sideburns descending to neatly frame her slot.
Donning her reading glasses, the doctor squatted on her haunches and peered intensely at the displayed muff. The carriage clock ticked loudly, and as minutes passed Florence wondered what could be so fascinating down there. Occasionally a finger would prod her mound, or stroke the trimmed fur, and as the redhead leaned in closer the younger woman could feel the warm air from the doctor’s nostrils upon her skin. Finally Florence felt a soft cheek rub against her like a cat, nuzzling her mound.
Standing abruptly, the doctor declared, ‘Yes, I like that.’
Florence, oddly relieved by the older lady’s approval, found herself smiling.
‘Thank you Florence. You may shave me.’
Florence curtsied. ‘Ma’am,’ she said, her smile becoming an open grin.
Florence eagerly set about fetching hot water, blunt-headed scissors, a razor, shaving brush, soap and towels, and on her return to the breakfast room found the hitherto frosty house guest perched upon the edge of the table, hands cradling her splayed knees. ‘Is this how you want me?’ the doctor asked.
‘Could you lay on your back please, ma’am, and keep your legs a little wider apart. That’s splendid thank you ma’am.’ The chestnut mane was at the perfect height for the kneeling Florence to work, and she set to with the scissors, pruning away great clumps of copper wire. This took some minutes, during which time the doctor appeared content to be worked on in silence. For her part the maid took in every detail of the older lady: the protruding navel, the mole with the single hair low on her belly, the light stippling of freckles, the slight orange-peeling of the inside of the thighs, the wrinkled hood and the leftward curl of the puffy lips.
Once Florence was satisfied that she had reduced the pubes to a workable length, she worked the soap up to a lather, and began slathering the suds over Doctor Williams’ mound. Lacking the confidence to use an unguarded blade as Sir Richard had done, she employed the safety razor in purposeful downward strokes, clearing the tops of the creased thighs, before reducing the outline of the trimmed bush to the shape preferred by her master.
Pleased with her handiwork Florence leaned forward, and in daring imitation of the thrilling kiss bestowed upon her by her master, she puckered her lips around Marsha’s clitoral hood, feeling as she did so the engorged clitoris push aside its cowl.
‘All done,’ she said, giving Marsha’s bottom a playful swipe, as Sir Richard had done with her.
Startled out of her reverie the doctor seemed momentarily inclined to take offence at the impertinence, but then began giggling. ‘Florence sweetie, your lip…’
Florence put her hand to her mouth, brushing away a small moustache of shaving foam. Unable to retain the semblance of reserve any longer she joined the freshly tonsured guest in her laughter, tears coming to the amber-flecked hazel eyes at the final release of the tension between them. Sitting up the naked redhead wrapped her legs around the young brunette in the maid’s uniform and leant in to kiss her, tenderly upon the lips. Surprised Florence did not respond, but then again she did not resist.
Drawing away, the doctor, still in her glasses, gazed at the maid appraisingly, her ringed fingers toying with the tips of the rich brown tresses. ‘Richard is right, but then of course he always is. I had taken you for a tart, out for what she could get. You are not, I see that now. Sir Richard thinks highly of you, so I think shall I. Please forgive me my behaviour towards you.’
Florence blushed furiously, stupidly grateful for this formidable woman’s approval. ‘I am sure there is nothing to forgive, ma’am.’
‘Sir Richard wants us to be friends. For my part I should like nothing better. ‘
Eager to be seen to do her master’s bidding, Florence gushed her new found respect and affection. ‘Oh ma’am, I should like that too. Ever so much.’
‘Sir Richard has also asked that I should be a mentor to you. Should you like that?’
‘Very much, ma’am. I am sure I could learn oodles from a woman of your reputation.’ Then as an afterthought, to express the gratitude she felt, she added, ‘And ma’am if there is anything at all that I can do to make you stay here more enjoyable please do no hesitate to ask.’ Sir Richard had indicated that she should show the same obedience to Dr Williams as to himself and henceforth she was determined to do just that.
Marsha slid down off the table, and stood with her hands upon her hips. ‘Your instruction and my enjoyment need not be mutually exclusive, dear, ‘ she said, a smile playing upon the rouged lips. ‘Go to my room and be so good as to return with the item you find beneath my pillow.’
Florence went upstairs as bid and returned ho
lding at arm’s length an alarmingly large and anatomically accurate dildo held in a black-leather harness. ‘You will have seen this before,’ the naked redhead upon the table commented matter of factly. Indeed Florence had, she had discovered it when unpacking Dr Williams’ case. It had puzzled her, but she had concluded that Sir Richard perhaps was partial to being pegged, though in truth this had seemed rather out of character. Only upon lifting the scented pillow had it dawned upon the startled maid that the doctor intended another use for the formidable instrument.
‘When Richard mentioned he had a new maid, I packed it, you know on the off-chance,’ the doctor explained nonchalantly. ‘Upon meeting you I had not thought I should be needing it, but happily child you are rising in my estimation.’
In a daze Florence made to affix the harness to the skinny redhead, but Marsha only laughed. ‘Goodness sweetiepie you are eager, later perhaps. But your barbering exploits have put me in need of a bloody good rogering. Give it here, right that buckles there, and then if I tighten there, a bit more, there that’ll do it. That’s right, try walking up and down in it a bit, get the feel of it.’
Still in her high heels, Florence found herself parading before the naked academic, the large black cock swaying alarmingly as it peeped out from beneath the hem of her maid’s dress. Marsha had the brunette perform some thrusting actions with her hips, and Florence began to feel that she might have some control of the monster.
Expressing her satisfaction, the distinguished historian resumed her former position upon the table, her legs parting eagerly in anticipation of the bemused maid’s latex phallus. ‘Well?’ she said, showing some of her old impatience. ‘Are you going to keep me waiting?’
Florence approached the gaping cunt uncertainly. She felt sure that Dr. William’s mature years and considerable distinction demanded the utmost deference, and under Sir Richard’s injunction she was bound to obey, but while she could see no harm in indulging the lady’s unnatural appetites, it did occur to her that a well-behaved house guest would not take such frightful liberties with her host’s servants.
‘Just stick it in girl,’ Doctor Williams commanded. ‘My snatch doesn’t bite.’ Manoeuvring the dildo through use of her hips as best she was able, Florence found herself poking unprofitably at the sticky opening, to the doctor’s growing annoyance. ‘Use your hand to guide it in you daft mare. Ah, that’s it, ow, gently does it. Don’t go pulling that face, this is as much for your benefit as mine.’
Though not entirely unwilling, Florence felt this was perhaps overstating the case. Her new mentor explained. ‘Too many of you young girls assume a feller is born knowing just what do with it, and give the poor chap no damn help at all. It’s time you had some masculine perspective. What sort of lover do you think you are you going to make if you have never played the boy’s part? ‘
Florence, who had been becoming frustrated at the intractability of the plastic penis, could see the sense in this. More patient now that her needs were being met, her more experienced lover encouraged her to experiment with different stroke rates, thrust lengths and rhythms. The first time that the black dong slid out of the slippery hole, Florence thought that the doctor would be cross, but Marsha only laughed. Blushing at her clumsiness Florence joined the laughter, and set to with renewed vigour, the slapping of the base of the dildo against her labia rousing in her loins an answering enthusiasm for the sapphic exercise. She found that without risk of the latex cock escaping its fleshy socket, she could lean in closer, her brunette tresses brushing the doctor’s small, freckled breasts, teasing the button-like nipples.
Looking down on Marsha, panting heavily in response to the increasingly deep, hard thrusts, Florence felt a tenderness for this woman more than twenty years her senior. Yes, she could be a cantankerous old trout, but there was an honesty in the totality of her abandon. This was a woman who took what she wanted out of life, and should she choose to take you, you could only weep with gratitude. Of course Sir Richard would want a woman like this for his bed, not some gauche girl barely out of her gym-slip.
Ofelia
- 18.12.2021
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