June would mark my fifth year of service at Blake Hall. As I’m told, this is no small accomplishment. Tucked away in a quiet corner of the country side, miles from the nearest town, most housemaids left after a year. Aside from the often bitter isolation I can’t understand why anyone would leave. As a child, my parents and I moved two maybe three times a year; I had no roots or structure and after my parent died, I had no one. Sad as it seems, the disciplined life in the house was as much choice as necessity. There’s comfort in routine; and at times there’s also impenetrable loneliness.
Ours was a small staff, two maids including myself, two footmen, a cook, and a butler. The butler, old Mr. Satran, and I were the only live-ins and Mr. Dermot was rarely in the country much less at home. In fact, I’d only seen him twice in passing. I remember him as tall, unsmiling, ruggedly handsome with dark neatly trimmed hair, penetrating hazel eyes, a strong masculine jaw, and a cleft chin. He had a very distinct smell, a strangely compelling mixture of fabric softener and clean male.
That same night as I lay in my tiny bed at the top of the house, I prayed he’d be gone when I awoke. Thankfully, my prayers were answered. Mr. Dermot set off before dawn, and we didn’t see him for over two years. In his absence, Blake Hall was cheerfully quiet. We went about our work, scrubbing floors no one treaded on. Making beds no one slept in. Polishing silver no one ate off. And adhering to 18th century traditions in the 21st century which no one cared about, save Mr. Dermot. He even regulated our attire. My wardrobe consisted almost entirely of gray and navy shawl collared housekeeping dresses and sensible shoes. Sensible shoes—I wasn’t thirty yet I wore sensible shoes. How tragic! Not that I had anyone to impress. No, thanks to Mr. Dermot’s forbidding authoritarian straggle hold on all social contact amongst the staff, we live-ins were starved for human interaction. I had no friends, no family, and life outside the tall gray stone wall skirting the expansive estate. What some would call an exquisite prison, I called home.
News came that Mr. Dermot was returning an hour after he walked through the door. From my hiding place on the second floor landing, I spied a gorgeous woman on his arm. She was wearing a full length sage green coat which played well off of her fiery red hair. They went into his study and didn’t emerge, not even for dinner. The rest of the staff went home for the evening and Mr. Satran went to bed. I commenced with my nightly ritual: dress for bed, grab a cup of tea, and sit on the stairs listening to the clocks tick in the vacant space. There were muffled sounds coming from the study, sounds we were expected to ignore but I was intrigued. I tip-toed across the cold marble floor, leaned against the paneled door jam, and slowly drew back the sliding door just enough to make out the image inside.
Mr. Dermot sat in the wing back chair I’d cleaned only hours earlier. He’d removed his tie and the first two buttons of his crisp white shirt were undone. The redhead was draped across his knee, the hem of her dress rested on the small of her back, her bare bottom exposed. My mouth fell open. Then he hit her. A hard slap clean onto her right cheek. She was too shocked to scream. She wiggled and tried to break free, but he held her tight around the waist as he brought a second slap down onto her other cheek. She yelped—moaned—and wiggled.
“Hold still.” He ordered, raining down a stream of slaps. Tears welled in her eyes but she bit back her sobs. One slap after another jarred her forward. She panted and gritted her teeth, forcing herself not to cry, I suppose.
Oh god, what was he doing to her?! The real surprise was the tingling response between my legs and I realized I’d been holding my breath. I loved the sound of his hand meeting her ass. Watching her squirm and eventually resign herself to being punished was intoxicating. Her gasps and moans turned to cries of arousal after minutes of continuous slaps. Mr. Dermot leaned close to the back of her head, whispering words I couldn’t make out but she responded yes—then he slapped harder and she leapt forward.
I rested my head back against the paneling; my breaths came in gasps as I watched her almost bursting to cum. I slid my left hand under my night shirt and rubbed myself through my panties. In my mind’s eye, it was me stretched over Mr. Dermot’s knee being punished.
“Harder?” He asked.
“Yes,” the redhead and I answered breathlessly. He obliged with slap after delicious slap. It was wrong. I shouldn’t be spying, I shouldn’t be aroused, but I couldn’t help it. I wanted him to spank me, punish me for some undetermined slight, and make me repent.
“Oh God, spank me.” I circled my swollen clit. “Spank me.”
“You want to cum?” he asked.
“Yes,” we replied. Another slap, then another.
“Rub your clit while I spank you.”
“Oh fuck yeah!” I screamed in my head. I could hardly stand as we rubbed ourselves to orgasm. Tears of confusion streamed down her cheeks and she screamed as liquid shot out of her pussy. My orgasm was no less intense.
This was so wrong!
The next day, the lady was gone and I went about my work as if nothing had happened and avoid the study. Mr. Dermot spent the day behind closed doors and showed no sign of emerging for dinner. The cook prepared his tray and asked me to deliver it to him. Luckily Jose, the footmen, was leaving for the day and agreed to deliver it on his way out. Though I’d fantasized about being at the mercy of Mr. Dermot’s hand, I felt a little ashamed. I shouldn’t have eavesdropped. This was obviously a private moment I wasn’t meant to witness. But deprived of physical interaction as I was, I wouldn’t have given anything to be standing completely naked and vulnerable, waiting for my punishment—to feel skin on my skin. My mundane and dull existence in that monstrous and dreary house begged for it. There were days I wanted to run outdoors, screaming just to feel alive, stimulated.
I heard the side door click. Everyone was gone and the house was ghastly silent. I ensured Mr. Dermot was in still in the study, and then went upstairs to his massive bed chamber under the guise of laying out his suits for the next day. I ran my fingers over the hangers and lifted the sleeves of his jackets to my nose and inhaled. They smelled like him, clean. I closed the closet, went to his dressing room, and quietly opened the closet used to store his formal attire. It was so rarely in use, I’d never paid it much attention. I nervously looked over my shoulder as the door cheeked open. It was filled with in tuxes, waistcoats, overcoats in various subdued colors. His spit-shined, perfectly laced shoes rest below. Folded above were white gloves and silk scarves. There was a small mahogany chest with four drawers each housing cufflinks, Rolexes, and ties. I sighed. This told me nothing of the man. Then I noticed a tiny silver latch at the top of the right-hand wall. I ran out into the room to make sure I was alone before daring to try my luck.
The latch gave way with ease and as I opened the secret compartment I had to remind myself to breathe. “My goodness.” I heard myself say as I eyed the wide array of reeds, crops, and leather straps neatly displayed like works of art. Indeed, many of them could have been. What sort of man would collect such things? Who was he? What had I walked into? My hair stood on end for a number of reasons, fear being one—anticipation and arousal being the others. The coolness of the leather pulsed under my fingertips and my thoughts returned to the night prior, watching Mr. Dermot spank his lady friend until she came. How I wanted to take her place, to feel his hand slap my round brown ass, to hear his gravelly voice demanding I rub my clit.
“Found what you’re looking for?” a deep ghostly voice came from behind and I whirled around.
Oh shit! Mr. Dermot stood in the doorway in his signature white button down and dark pant; unsmiling and unamused as ever. “Um,” I tried to steady my trembling voice and smoothed my skirt as he came towards me slowly. He stopped a hairs breath away from me. I jumped when he took my wrist, pulled me forward, reached over my shoulder and closed the secret closet door.
“You shouldn’t go looking for bones in closets. You might find some.” He put his finger beneath my chin and lifted my face so he could look at me. “Then what?” I raised a timid eye to him, not sure what to expect but fearing the worst. His eyes are mossy green with flakes of gold, and his expertly trimmed hair was as black as coal. The top of my head didn’t reach his shoulders. He had a strong face; a well cut jaw, and a straight nose. My gaze fell to his lips, they were full but held too rigid. He was terrifyingly handsome. I wanted to die. “What’s your name?” he asked. I felt his voice through his fingers still under my chin.
“It’s your bedtime, Serena.” He stepped aside so I could pass.
“Goodnight.” I gave a fake smile and hurried to my room, my heart pounding like a racehorse on the final lap! I fell back in the bed. “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!” I repeated with wide-eyed disbelief. What had I just seen? And, oh my God, Mr. Dermot caught me! He knew I know his secret! I rolled from bed, grabbed my laptop and began searching for a new job. But in my panties, when I squeezed my thighs together, there was the most amazing feeling on earth. I could still smell him and feel his looming presence.
In minutes, I began fingering myself as I imagined Mr. Dermot spanking me. My legs open wide, smiling up at him, our fingers lazily playing in each other’s hair, hanging on the other’s words.
I moan softly, feeling his cock brush my slit.
He kisses me and says against my lips, “You are so beautiful,” His eyes never leaving mine, he reach between us and trace tiny circles on my clit and etch invisible lines of infinite sweetness up and down the length of my pussy with the spongy head of his cock.
My arms encircle his neck…my fingers probe his hair…need and the prospect of him dipping into me swells low in my belly. The tension, the anticipation, the friction drives me insane. He slips ever so gently into my shallows. “Spank me.” rumbles in my throat as I arch towards him.
Our eyes are lock. Our breathing, heavy and expectant. I bite my lip at the momentary sense of loss at his retreat. He inflicts an endless dance of temptation. I yearn for more yet bask in the ambiguity of each passing moment.
My thighs tremble. My resistance falters; still he denies me, knowing the closer he brings us to the edge, the sweeter the fall. He teases me until the look in my eyes tells him my orgasm rest suspended on the slippery tip of his cock—until my hips undulate beneath him; insisting to be taken long and slow and continuously. “Spank me.” I grate eager to feel to the sting of his hand on my bare bottom. I rub my clit urgently and gasp as I imagine him flipping me over and plying slap after slap on my cheeks.
“Is that what you want?” He asks.
A raspy ‘Yes’ is all I manage before coming undone.
In the weeks which followed, I rarely saw Mr. Dermot and life slowly returned to the norm, boring and uneventful. Mr. Dermot’s extended stay and foul temper towards the footmen caused whispers amongst the staff. It was rumored that his business, whatever it was, was failing, and others said he was preparing to marry. Marry who, was the big question no one had an answer for; the lady he’d brought home hadn’t been seen since. And based on the account receipts found on his desk, business was better than ever. The one certainty was I was spellbound by him. He was my one constant thought, my obsession. Every night, I sat on the stairs and sipped tea, and waited to see the light from the study go out. He always took the backstairs to his room. Afterward, I’d return my mug to the kitchen and go to bed. He didn’t know I was alive. Or so I thought.
Night had fallen. Inside, it was dark. The windows were all shuttered against the cold. I dressed for bed, closed the doors to the front parlor and took a seat on the stairs.
“Serena?” The sound of my name cut the stillness. I sprang to my feet. “In here. Now.” Mr. Dermot ordered and returned to the study.
I descended the marble stairs slowly, my trembling hand steadied by the brass banister as they lead to the landing below. I paused at the door, placed my mug on the side table, and drew a calming breath. I entered. Mr. Dermot was paced slowly in the center on the spacious room.
“Why do you sit on the stairs every night?” he asked abruptly, coldly.
“I…” I searched for an answer. There wasn’t one. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it upset you.”
“Why do you follow me?” he stopped and looked through me.
I was never so nervous in my life! “I…I wasn’t following you….”
“Every time I look up, you’re there.”
Funny, I don’t remember seeing him. Fear kept me from mentioning that bit. “I’m sorry. I’ll…stay out…of your way. You won’t know I’m here.” Neither of us spoke. I felt myself becoming wet as he closed the distance between us. He’s eyes raked over me and I immediately regretted not wear any undergarments beneath my thin gown. He raised my chin as he’d done before.
“What have you seen?” he asked, snapping my chin slightly. “Don’t lie to me. What did you see?”
I swallowed. “I saw the things in your closet; the leather belts and riding crops and canes.” His hand was on the front of my left thigh left me breathless. It moved higher, taking the hem with it as I spoke.
“And?” His voice flat and deep.
“And I...” My head swam. His hand moved higher. “I saw you spanking the lady you brought home.” He didn’t flitch at my admission. His gazed deepened.
“What did you think? Did you like watching me spank her?”
“Oh God. Yes.” His hand was on my bare mound! “I wanted you to spank me.”
He stood there for a few seconds and watched me. “You don’t understand what you’re getting into. Maybe you think I’ll just give you a little romantic play spanking and then fuck you. Is that what you really after?” He took my hand and placed it against his erection. I almost fainted. “You wanted to get fucked.”
My lips parted to speak, but no words came out. I flinched when he demanded an answer.
“There’s my answer.” He searched my eyes as if to unlock my soul. “A prisoner facing the firing squad couldn’t look any more reluctant than you do.” he perceived my feelings with uncanny accuracy. His hand left my chin as he stepped away from me. “Leave. That’ll be all. Don’t waste my time.”
“I…I…don’t know what I want.” I replied nervously. He came back to me, his eyes fixed on mine, rendering me speechless. He slowly lifted my gown, his strong hands caressed my belly, then lower until the slick junction between my thighs rest under his palm. He slid a finger inside; seeking out my already engorged clit and rubbed it with long languorous strokes. I gasped.
“Sshhh” he urged. “Just once. This will be our secret.” He continued fingering me while his palm gently massaged my clit. It’s impossible to describe how hypnotic the tiny kissing sounds his finger induced became. I stood there as passive as he pleased and allowed him to finger me. “Like that?” He whispered seductively close to my ear.
“Yes.” I began seeing stars!
“Do you masturbate, Serena?” He slid a finger along my lips before returning to my slit. I nodded, and then he asked, “Do you think about me when you play with yourself?”
I nodded again, barely breathing. His damn finger was driving my insane. Oh, God, I wanted to suck him off! I placed my hand on his and shamelessly fucked it slowly as my orgasm build.
“See how wet you are?” He continued to stroke. “Is this because you’ve anticipated me spanking you or fucking you?” He cooed deeply.
“Both,” I groaned as quietly as possible, at the mercy of his hand.
“Which do you want the most? To be fucked off your knees or spanked til you cum?”
“Don’t make me choose.” I rubbed my hand against the front of his pants and felt him swell. I gasped for breath. “I’m cumming.” My words trailed off as I tightened around him and shook uncontrollably. I rested my head on his chest and he held me close whispering soothing words as my breathing returned to a less murderous pace.
“I think you need to find someone else to play with, little girl.” He said coldly as my breathing returned to a less murderous pace. “Find a nice, safe guy who’ll slap your beautiful little ass a few times then cuddle.” The tip of his tongue brushed my ear. “I don’t play games, Serena. Fuck with me, and I’ll change your life.” He withdrew his finger, licked it, and then shooed me out of the door as he returned to his desk. “Close the door on your way out.”
I wish I could’ve stayed buried in his scent and warmth a little longer.