A Fine Profession (The Chambermaid's Tales Part One) Read online

  As I entered the bedroom, I realised the curtains had not yet been drawn. The hallway light was on and cast a shadow across the corridor, but offered little light in there, so I simply crossed the floor naked and shut the drapes in my natural skin. I did not think anyone could have seen me, but I imagined somewhere in my subconscious, that perhaps a man was viewing me from a far-off location and had currently just put a hand to his crotch in anticipation. Another little tremor quaked through my womb.

  I saw the bed, made and untouched, looking so plain and miserable. I found a red, silk scarf to throw over the plain duvet cover and it instantly looked different; sensual, welcoming and warm. I was still quite temperate from my bath and felt reinvigorated. My skin seemed tauter and more supple, my limbs more relaxed and calm. I strolled around the other rooms like that, naked, and aware. I did not care whether a single soul saw the real me. In the living-room mirror, I caught sight of myself. My cheeks were flush and I seemed a hazy dream that was an improvement on the former me. I had to see more. I pulled the mirror from the wall and positioned it against the fireplace so that I could see my entirety. I stared and assessed. I decided this: that there might be bits of myself I was not quite comfortable with, that bulged or caused me havoc in the clothing department, but overall I had a great package. To see oneself in one's entirety was to see the beauty of the female form and everything it offered. Dwelling on the small imperfections was futile; seeing the glory of the whole thing, a more prosperous route. I smoothed my hands across my stomach, before turning around to admire my posterior. I sensed the dampness now emerging.

  I crouched on the floor to view myself and saw my vagina weeping with longing to be filled and caressed, nurtured and captivated, abused and tantalised. Its walls pulsed gradually as I stroked the clitoris with fine movements. Eventually, I lay on my back, hard nipples pointing upwards, moaning into the echoing darkness. I writhed on the thinly carpeted floor, thinking myself indulgent, but… it was practise. I turned over, placing myself on all fours, so that if I looked behind I could see myself in the mirror, all holes open and available. I noticed for the first time that there was a fine stretch of light downy hair between my buttocks. I probed my fingers inside and rocked back and forth, gratuitously mashing whatever met my digits. I rubbed my clean nipples with the nectar from that hole and gave myself the green light to make some noise. My own groans incited me more. Whenever I felt the clenching begin to become more rapid, I would stave off, attending to some other area to lengthen the sensations.

  Eventually, I was so damp that my whole hand was sliding around effortlessly, my pussy able to take whatever I forced into it. I repositioned myself in front of the mirror on my knees. I watched as I pleasured myself. I spread my legs as wide as I could manage. I thrust toward the mirror, displaying my clitoris to ensure it was being attended to. I rubbed my breasts with sticky fingers and saliva, rubbed them until they were sore. I could feel it rushing into my groin, this tumultuous, all-encompassing orgasm, unlike anything I had ever experienced before. I went with it. I moved as if fucking a man, grinding and thrusting, bouncing and wailing. My breasts jumped around and I left myself. This person was having too much fun to actually be me. However, it was too good to ignore. I fucked myself ragged and tried to make it last as long as possible, working with the chaotic spasms of my vaginal walls clenching. I stopped, sweaty and flush, panting in front of the mirror, my chin on my chest and my body paralysed by pleasure. I limply pulled myself up, wandered to the bedroom, and slipped into bed. I smelt my own fresh skin now mixed with the scent of my sex and felt deeply fulfilled. I breathed a few heavy, relieved breaths and sank into a lovely slumber that cascaded over my body in waves.

  In the night, I woke with the hunger and touched myself again, covered in the red scarf but with my sex spread open for the whole world to see. It was a magical night; it was my awakening.

  I found a few missed calls from Florence on my phone. I didn't call her back. I was a little perplexed about the whole thing. I really didn't know which box to place the incident in. The a) done it once, never again, though it was brilliant; b) biggest mistake of my life; c) what else have you got going on right now? I must have let slip to her where I worked because one day, I found a package on my desk, delivered by post but with her address on the back. It was full of books. Lady Chatterley, Sons and Lovers, Story of O, The Handmaid's Tale, Moll Flanders, Fanny Hill, The 120 Days of Sodom, Tipping the Velvet and The Colour Purple.

  A note attached read: Lottie, please take a look and see if anything grabs you. If not, you can bring them by my house, anytime. I'm always around. F

  I knew that I had been set up for another reeling. I had known that the first time round but I was so intrigued nonetheless. I quickly stowed the literature in my drawer and carried on with my day. However, the niggling curiosity was seated in the back of my mind and would not dissipate. It was the thought of that meeting with Florence being fated, or something. I don't know. I didn't really feel ashamed of what I had done. More, shocked how quickly it had all happened. I also knew that her lover must have been watching that whole time. It creeped me out and enthralled me in equal measure. It was new and exciting but also foreign and daunting. I felt as though I was discovering a dangerous side of myself that once hooked, might never be able to turn back after becoming accustomed to the ways they were used to. But then, I had resolved to never search for love and I had accepted that there weren't many other things in life that gave me joy.

  I took the books home and started reading them. Television went on the backburner. I rarely missed an episode of Corrie but all of a sudden it was inconsequential. I was drawn in so greatly by these tales and windows into different worlds, peoples and relationships. I grew to understand why some women sought the company of their own sex, after being abused and maltreated by their lovers. DH Lawrence demonstrated how love could change a person irreparably and shone clarity on simple human behaviour that nearly almost always went undocumented but was nevertheless so telling. I began to grasp that love existed in various forms. Marquis de Sade scared me beyond belief but the language was entrancing (though this still did not keep me from skipping a lot).

  I was reading in my office whenever I got a few minutes spare. I would have a book in my hand on the loo, in the bath, in bed, anywhere I had chance. I was suddenly obsessed. I didn't really realise why but it was Story of O that captured me more than anything else. I re-read it two or three times, and sometimes, certain passages had to be read over and over. The horror and brutality of her treatment was unbearable and yet O found some kind of romance, elevation or dignity from being used as a whore. I felt a connection with her. She felt shame for being sexual but within her bonds, she felt free, or released even, of her own desires. She gave herself to these men freely and could have refused at any point. In being the slave of one man or many, she was freed of the pursuit of sex, knowing she could acquire it and if not from her lover then for her lover's sake through another lover. I rolled her story over and over in my mind. It piqued my imagination. I wanted to know more. I finished the lot within three weeks, but was left sleep-deprived and square-eyed. I cycled to Florence's house with high expectations and a desire to acquire answers. This was perhaps about more than just bodily, chemical urges. It was about the fulfilment of some lateral yearning.

  At her house, she welcomed me with open arms, in the smock dress again. It irked me to know the real reason for such baggy clothing, but that kind of thing seemed to be her preference.

  We lounged in her living room, on large red sofas. She offered me a glass of lemonade and we chatted.

  “What did you think?” she asked.

  “I haven't been able to stop reading. I must confess, I did skip some bits of Sodom and Moll Flanders, but I read the lot.”

  “Really?” she asked.

  “Yes, I was captivated.”

  “Why do you think that is?” she asked.

  “I guess I had a lot of reading to catch up on.
I don't really bother unless someone gives me something they think I will enjoy.”

  “Which is not often,” she said.

  “Nope. And I guess I have more imagination than I ever thought!”

  “So, I have a suggestion for you.”

  “Go on.”

  “I have a group of friends you might like to meet. I am part of a kind of sexual cult, or whatever you want to call it. We share lovers. We keep it amongst ourselves so to speak. We just recently lost a member and are seeking another.”

  “Oh, I'm sorry–” I began.

  “Not dead, my pet, just someone who decided to move on. People do, of course, or even sometimes decide it's really not for them in the first place. There's no contract or anything like that.”

  “What is it you all do, exactly?”

  “We do whatever takes our fancy. We engage in group sex. We re-enact ideas from books. We dress in period clothes. There is a particular penchant amongst our group for the history of this area. You know of the Dukeries?”

  “Yes, it was a small area of Nottinghamshire that enclosed four houses inhabited by dukes. Their lands pretty much bordered one another's so that's how the name came about I guess, and the people from each house roamed between the estates quite freely I imagine. I have been to the museum but it all seemed pretty standard history. But what does that have to do with it all?”

  “Well, the four ducal seats in this area weren't alone. There were other houses that were connected. Other stately homes. But also, a place that was sacred to the lords of the area. A retreat to seek entertainments in, shall we say.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “I do not like to use the word prostitution because it wasn't a place for that exactly, more one of education. A finishing school for young bucks, one might say. To set them on their way. The women in the establishment, usually the best former whores from London or elsewhere, provided services unique to each client. We have a diary of one of the women who worked in that profession. She describes some of the acts and sometimes, we like to re-enact them.”

  “What like?” I asked.

  “Various pleasures, my sweet Lottie. Some things are ritual, others quite playful. I wouldn't want to spoil your fun by giving the game away before you even get started.”

  “Hmm,” I replied, totally unconvinced. “What if I just came to one of your gatherings, observed, and decided I didn't want to take part?”

  “Hardly ever happens,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Few resist the urge. Others know that once within our fold, there is little chance of escape. It's a way of life and one which many of us live, swear and flourish by.”

  “I don't fit the bill,” I insisted.

  “Of course you don't, that's why you're one of us.”

  “I mean, I'm not academic. I'm a housekeeper.”

  “A role that will entice many,” she asserted.

  I wasn't sure about joining what I considered a group of swingers. Yet, I was so intrigued. I wanted another chance with Florence's lover and others like him. I felt it wouldn't be too traumatic to get involved with them. What did I have to lose?

  I said I'd think about it but her expert fingers inside me soon did the convincing.

  “You'll wear only undergarments from now on, when you're with us, I mean. And, if I were you, I'd get practising your orgasms. I'd stock up on some toys. You're an object of desire and pleasure now. I'll give you two or three weeks to prepare.”

  “Okay,” I gasped. With the drug of love in my veins, I would have agreed to anything she said.

  * * *

  I decided that the underwear-only thing rather suited me. The only things I was really comfortable in were waist-hugging items, rather than the High Street sacks that did nothing but drown my frame.

  I withdrew £500 from my account and stashed it in my wallet, with a reserve of 500 more on my card if I needed it. It was time to blow a little. I had stashed plenty over the years, from scraping and wiping, vacuuming, fetching and carrying. For the first time in my life, I went for a bra fitting at one of the big department stores, instead of trying to guess at my size with various options to try on in the fitting rooms – none of which were usually any good.

  The woman exclaimed, “Well, 34D is way off the mark, way off. You're a 30FF!”

  Flabbergasted, I asked her to double check, and I knew I had an audience in the next fitting room who probably thought I was a complete idiot. The woman ran off to fetch me a number of items in my size that fit my requirements. I was just helping myself into one of the basques she had brought me when I twisted my arm in trying to reach one annoyingly agape hook and eye. I had to press the buzzer for help. She came in to help me, assessing the garment and seeing to the culprit of my discomfort. I looked totally different with underwear that actually fitted! The woman said it was a good fit and asked if I wanted help getting out of it. Why not, I said.

  She undid all the hooks, carefully picking them apart one by one as I held the front steady. When she was done, I gave her my thanks and said I should be fine from then on. But when she was about to leave, I lost my concentration and let the garment slip. My full cleavage was there for her to see and she smiled blushingly, before busying off. I locked the fitting room door, got completely naked, and fucked myself twice between trying on all the racy stuff. I might have had an audience. I imagined I might in fact, and it turned me on. I even left my juices on some of the knickers and smiled to myself as the cashier rung them through the till.

  I went to other stores, buying lots of things in various colours and styles, just picking whatever I wanted off the racks. I purchased basques and corsets, balconettes, ordinary bras that were see-through or lacy, suspenders, stockings in black, white and natural, lace tights in some distracting, creative patterns, heels, slips, silk dressing gowns, vests, camisoles, G-strings, thongs and French knickers, Bridget pants, lace shorts and all manner of other items I could not even describe to you! I did think about going to a sex shop and picking out some things for show, but they weren't things I wanted. I was trying to be me and be a real woman and be sexy. My opinion was that no man wants a woman with a split down the crotch of her knickers, unless she's only for a night. The thought of tearing those panties himself or pulling them to the side would be much more of an incentive. These men needed the memory of me to linger in their minds; real and tangible, like O. I chose high-end cosmetics and beauty products, plus a selection of perfumes from the same retailer. I needed all the scents to be as complementary.

  The stock of toys I required meant an online purchase. It would have been too impractical to walk into a shop and come out with bags or boxes full. Dildos in a range of sizes and colours, vibrators, bullets, rampant rabbits, nipple clamps, lube in various flavours, handcuffs, blindfolds, masks, strap-ons, aphrodisiac gel, a leather corset dress I couldn't resist, body stockings, ticklers, gags in different styles and a couple of paddles. I also wanted something authentic from an equestrian store so I went, asked for the product, and nothing else. The shop assistant must have had some inkling of my intention and smiled, repeatedly asking whether I required anything else. Modestly, I assured him that was all I wanted. It came packaged in a wooden box, laid amongst purple silk. It was of the highest quality and was another treat for myself. A riding crop: only the best. It was beautiful and soft, but I knew, a bit of wear and tear would shore it up as a threatening prop. I kept it at pride of place, on my dressing table, perfumes decorating the top.

  I might have spent upwards of a thousand pounds but my purchases made me so happy, and I hung everything in my closet when I got home, taking all my old clothes out and putting them in drawers instead. I had a perfect store for my sex toys at work – a laundry cart that I could keep in my office at the back, out of the way and out of bounds. I would take a few things at a time so nobody would notice. I would need to practise a lot.

  Chapter XII

  The Lodge

  Florence called m
e to her house ten days later with a view to me accompanying her and Mark to one of their secret meetings, only after they had been given chance to prepare me within the secretive confines of their home.

  I arrived to the flustered pair's welcome and was swiftly escorted into their chambers upstairs, which I hadn't seen before. They were spacious and exuberant, reminiscent of some French king's apartment, with everything in pastels or white. Every inch of the space was upholstered in delightfully extravagant velvet or fur and the bedroom's set-up was certainly geared toward playtime. Harnesses and BDSM equipment lay everywhere, amongst pairs of old knickers left stale and huge antique perfume atomisers that might contain any kind of lotion or potion. I was very jealous of Florence's walk-in-wardrobe and en suite bathroom, both of which were ridiculously exuberant.

  Mark saw my face and muttered, “Her dad…”

  Ah, so, Florence is moneyed, I decided. Containing her wealth in her private rooms made me wonder whether she was ashamed of what she had.

  Firstly, they plonked me in the walk-in-shower without asking and scrubbed me head-to-toe. They shaved me free of any pubic, leg or armpit fur. I remember Mark saying that a lot of men had a thing for little blonde trails of hair on a woman's body and I had plenty at my lower back, abdomen and little bits of down between my breasts which you might only notice if I were laid down. He was rather ecstatic at the thought of me pleasing his friends and the way he and Flo (as I had come to call her) scuttled around me excitedly, it was as if this was as much a part of their foreplay as all the other things that might take place that night.