Lords, Ladies, Butlers and Maids: Period Erotica in Private Houses. Alegra Verde

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,