London, the Bayswater Professional Enclave, March 28th 2010

 

Thrift stood at Lancaster Gate, feeling distinctly uncomfortable, and only partially because of her rectule, which was now heavier than before since she had been obliged to fill it with her papers and other essentials in the convenient facilities of the Department. Yet she would happily have attempted to accommodate one twice the size in return to not being dressed as a maid. It had been bad enough at home, and dishing out a vigorous spanking to the maid who had helped her get changed had done little to help, or to stop the girl giggling. Then there had been the look on her father’s face when she came into the drawing room. As Sir Blenheim Finch’s superior he knew what was going on, but he had still had to look twice before he recognised his own daughter, and given her appearance as reflected in her bedroom mirror, Thrift was hardly surprised.

Being outdoors was far worse. Nobody was paying her the slightest attention, but that only made it worse, because if her uniform made her to all intents and purposes invisible it also left her feeling oddly exposed. She was in a dress of plain, black bombazine, covering her from neck to ankles and complemented with gloves, spats and a veiled bonnet to ensure that not so much as a square inch of her skin was on open display to the vulgar gaze. That was all very well, but with only loose, split-seam combinations and a single petticoat beneath a corset that barely came down over her hips she felt as if every slightest puff of wind was going to lift her heavy skirts, part her drawers and treat the riders and strollers of Hyde Park to a show of her bottom and quim, bare. It was all thoroughly undignified, although the corset at least was of good quality, made specially to order and reinforced with Sheffield steel to give her bosom and waist a line that, while no longer the height of fashion, was still elegant. Her hair had also been done, in a simple bun she could manage without assistance. She had been photographed and given a passport in the name of Mary Jones.

Plucking up her courage, she stepped through the gate and out of the park into the Bayswater Professional Enclave, where the Fitzropers lived at Forty-Nine Wessex Square. It was not an area she was familiar with, and she would have felt more at home attending the most formal of Japanese tea ceremonies or even in a New Orleans hotel. Nevertheless, there was no denying the variety of sights on offer: citymen in their bowler hats and pinstripes, merchants in suits entirely respectable save for being of coloured cloth, even engineers in stovepipe hats and elaborate waistcoats. The women were more colourful still, excepting only those whose simple cut dresses of plain black, blue or grey cloth betrayed them as menials, her fellow maids included. Even not in uniform they would have been easily recognised, simply by the deference and lack of confidence in their manner, which Thrift attempted to imitate.

Wessex Square was easy to find, the house itself no less so. Black painted railings fenced off an area to either side of steps leading up to a Grecian portico and a bright red door with the number painted to one side. Thrift composed herself, ascended the steps and rang the bell. The door came open almost immediately, revealing a tall man in a black suit set off by a yellow waistcoat. He had an impressive nose, now tilted upwards as he regarded her with an austere expression. Thrift curtsied.

‘Mr Fitzroper, I presume? I’m Mary Jones, the new lady’s maid.’

His expression shifted from austere to disdainful.

‘The servant’s entrance is in the basement.’

Blushing and curtseying, Thrift retreated. The door closed once more and she was left to find her way through a gate in the railings and down into the area, where a second door opened into a gloomy space beneath the steps. Again she knocked, but this time it took some while before the door was opened, again by the same tall man. Realising her mistake, Thrift bobbed another curtsey, less full this time.

‘Come in, you stupid girl,’ the man said. ‘Don’t you know better than to call at the front door of a respectable house?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Thrift answered, too flustered to pick her words carefully. ‘I... I forgot myself.’

‘So it seems,’ he answered, his tone now one of open astonishment, ‘and also in matters of correct address.’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Thrift corrected herself hastily.

She had entered the main room of the basement, a large servants’ parlour painted a dull cream colour and equipped with plain but solid furniture. There were three people present in addition to the man she had now realised had to be the butler; a large, red-faced woman, presumably a cook or housekeeper, possibly both, and two girls of much her own age but in even cheaper clothes, evidently kitchen maids or tweenies. She curtsied to the older woman and smiled to the others.

‘I’m Mary Jones, the new lady’s maid,’ she said once more. ‘And yourselves?’

‘Hark at her!’ one of the maids giggled. ‘Ever so fancy, ain’t she?’

‘Be quiet, Agnes,’ the older woman snapped. ‘Speak when you are spoken to, and you also, Mary. Really, the very idea! I don’t know how things went where you where before, but this is a respectable house. You address Mr Winter as sir and myself as Mrs Melcher, always. This is Agnes, and this, Rachel. Now, do you have your things?’

Thrift held out the suitcase she had been given to hold her new possessions.

‘What do you expect me to do with that?’ Mrs Melcher said. ‘Take it upstairs, this minute!’

Thrift hastened to obey, scampering towards where a flight of stairs rose towards a door presumably connecting to the first floor only to realise her mistake, a moment too late.

‘The back stairs!’ Mrs Melcher exclaimed. ‘Really I...’

Mumbling an apology and more flustered than ever, Thrift ran for a door she assumed led to the rear of the house, tugging it wide to find herself in a tangle of mops, brooms, skylight poles and other domestic paraphernalia as it fell out of the cupboard she’d opened so suddenly. Behind her Agnes and Rachel dissolved into giggles, but Mrs Melcher gave a single, sour grunt and stood up. Thrift, all too familiar with domestic discipline, realised what was about to happen even before the big woman had reached her, and was babbling entreaties as her wrist was caught in an iron grip.

‘No, Mrs Melcher, please! That won’t be necessary. It was a mistake. I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I’m...’

Her words broke to a squeal of shame and fear as she was hauled across the housekeeper’s lap and the other servants arranged themselves for the show. Mr Winter looked stern, but the maids didn’t even trouble to hide their amusement as the wriggling, protesting Thrift was prepared for punishment. Locked tight in spanking position, her skirts and petticoats were hauled high, her split seam drawers spread wide to expose the full, pink globe of her bottom with the lips of her quim sticking out from between her thighs.

Thrift was spanked hard, slap after slap applied until her cheeks were dancing and her legs kicking. She was squealing too, like a stuck pig, in both pain and indignation for what was being done to her, but far more for who it was being done by, a housekeeper she wouldn’t normally have bothered to acknowledge, and in front of, a butler and two giggling maids. It was too much. She’d burst into tears before the first sting of the spanking had even begun to give way to warmth.

It was at least mercifully brief, each cheek smacked perhaps two dozen times before she was released to tumble onto the floor, flushed and snivelling. Her bottom was so hot and sore that she was unable to resist giving herself a quick rub before covering up, and to her relief she was not sent into the corner, but left to tidy herself up and retrieve her suitcase as Mrs Melcher gave her a brief but pointed lecture on the consequences of incompetence. Rachel was now holding the correct door open and Thrift followed her through to a kitchen and the scullery beyond. Only when they had begun to ascend the servant’s stairs did she dare speak.

‘What a frightful old harpy! Is she always like that?’

‘No more than is necessary,’ Rachel answered, surprised. ‘If you think she’s bad, you should have met Mrs Brown, who I was with first. She’d of done you a sight harder, and then me and Agnes for getting the giggles. Old Squelcher’s not bad, so long as you don’t mind her having a feel of your bum now and then.’

Thrift felt her face grown hot once more. Mrs Melcher’s hand had rested on her bottom once or twice during her spanking, but she’d been too concerned with her pain and indignity to suspect anything.

‘Who were you with before then?’ Rachel carried, oblivious to Thrift’s blushes in the gloom of the staircase. ‘Soft on you, were they?’

Thrift’s references supported a hastily prepared cover story, making out that she had been a maid in her own household, so she was able to answer the question.

‘I was with Sir Kincardine and Lady Moncrieff.’

‘Ooh, nobs!’ Rachel replied, evidently impressed. ‘No wonder you’re all hoity-toity! Here’s your room.’

They had reached the top of the stairs, which opened to a short corridor of bare floorboards and cream painted walls. Part of the ceiling was angled, and the door Rachel had pushed open was also set at a slant, while the tiny room beyond appeared to have been made up from space under the eaves. Thrift had seen larger convenient facilities, while the ancient iron bedstead and what little furniture there was looked as if it might very well date from the reign of King Albert. Under the bed was a large, porcelain pot, the implications of which caused her to grimace in distaste.

‘Don’t we even have proper convenient facilities?’ she asked.

‘Proper convenient facilities?’ Rachel echoed, imitating Thrift’s accent. ‘Hark at you! Yes, Miss Mary, we do have proper convenient facilities, one on every floor, for the use of the household. You use the pot, just like the rest of us girls, and I’ll give you a hint, for free. Squelcher doesn’t like girls who give themselves airs and graces, and nor does Mrs Titsgroper.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Thrift demanded.

‘Titsgroper,’ Rachel repeated. ‘It’s what we call them, on account of what he’s like when he’s had a few. Don’t let him get you alone, that’s all. Right dirty one, he is.’

Thrift made a face but thanked Rachel for the advice as she sat down on the bed, which gave a rusty creak. Setting her suitcase down beside her, she opened the lid to reveal the contents, mainly cheap cotton underwear. Rachel gave a delighted gasp.

‘Ooh, what lovely lace, and ribbon and all. Aren’t they lovely? I know this is a cheek, but would you give me the lend of a set, only I’m seeing my young man tonight, and you know how it is.’

Thrift could imagine and gave a shrug of acquiescence, telling herself that any friend was worth having in the appalling house, even one so ill mannered she giggled while watching a fellow servant get spanked. Rachel helped herself, selecting the set of combinations with a wide lace trim and decorative pink ribbons which had taken her eye and holding them up to the window as she continued to chatter merrily.

‘I’ll be the toast of the town! Not that anyone’s going to see them, mind, except for my Alf, and perhaps old Squelcher if I get back late. Anyhow, you’d best go down and present yourself, unless you fancy another bum roasting. Say though, you ought to have seen yourself, the way you struggled, like she didn’t ought to be doing you, what a laugh!’

Rachel left, taking the combinations with her. Thrift hastened to follow what seemed like excellent advice, tidying herself in front of the tall, narrow mirror on her wardrobe door before hurrying back down the servants’ stair. The first and second doors she tried opened onto empty corridors, both far better appointed than the one in the servant’s quarters, the third to the rear of a grand staircase that led up from a hall floored in rose patterned tiles. A moment of cautious exploration and she had located the drawing room door, to which she applied a timid knock.

The door was opened by the butler, who had evidently been waiting and gave her a disapproving look for no obvious reason. Thrift stepped inside, glanced quickly around to take in the expensive but somewhat vulgar furnishings and gave her best curtsey to the couple who sat to either side of the fireplace and were evidently Mr and Mrs Fitzroper.

He was a small, plump man, round of head and belly, his suit black but of a flamboyant cut, his bulging waistcoat showing a pattern of purple grapes and golden vine leaves, his neck surrounded by a cravat of purple silk, neatly tied but more like a workman’s neckerchief than a proper tie. His hair had receded, leaving his head a round, pink dome, while a small, prim moustache and a monocle completed an image of such comic absurdity that Thrift found herself struggling to restrain a smile. His wife was, if anything, worse, also small and round, so that she appeared to have been built from a number of different sized balls, with a lorgnette in place of the monocle and an enormous quantity of thick, auburn hair done in a bouffant style. Her dress was a voluminous creation of purple silk embroidered with gold thread and apparently selected to complement her husband’s waistcoat, or possible vice-versa, while on the very top of her extravagant hairstyle sat a tiny hat shaped like a pork pie, made of purple silk and decorated with a bunch of golden grapes. It was this last, absurd detail that finally caused Thrift’s resolve to crack, and she was unable to prevent her mouth twitching up into a small smile.

Both turned as one, to inspect Thrift through their eyepieces, a gesture that brought to mind two animated dolls she had owned as a child and which so thoroughly resembled the Fitzropers that she was forced to bite her lip. The expression on Mrs Fitzroper’s face, at first merely haughty, immediately grew hard.

‘Is something amusing you, Jones?’ she demanded.

‘No, not at all, Ma’am,’ Thrift said hastily. ‘Sorry, Ma’am.’

Mrs Fitzroper gave her a doubtful look, but carried on in a marginally softer tone.

‘You come with excellent references in any event, so I trust you will not disappoint me. Now then, we leave for France in the morning, so you will need to have my things in readiness. I am most particular as to my wardrobe, and will... Tell me, Jones, do you suffer from some sort of twitch?’

As Mrs Fitzroper has been speaking, her husband had begun to nod his head in agreement with his wife’s remarks, again reminding Thrift of her comic dolls. She had been nervous from the start, while her spanking had left her unsettled and a little lightheaded, making it almost impossible to control her feelings.

‘No, Ma’am,’ she said.

‘No doubt the poor girl is merely suffering from nerves,’ Mr Fitzroper supplied, in a voice sympathetic but so implicitly lewd that Thrift found the muscles of her bottom and sex tightening in involuntary reaction. She remembered Rachel’s rude nickname, just as Mrs Fitzroper spoke up.

‘Well I’ve no time for nerves. Really, such affectations, in a maid! I trust that you won’t prove an inconvenience, Jones?’

‘No, Mrs Titsgroper,’ Thrift answered and froze as she realised what she had said.

There was a moment of appalled silence before Mrs Fitzroper found her voice.

‘What did you just say, Jones?’ she demanded, her voice so thick with disbelief that it gave Thrift hope that the awful woman might actually be unsure what had been said.

‘No, Mrs Fitzroper,’ she repeated.

‘I rather think you did not,’ Mrs Fitzroper replied, now in cold fury. ‘Winter, kindly summon Melcher. She will know what to do.’

‘But Mrs Fitzroper!’ Thrift blurted out in panic, again knowing exactly what was about to happen to her. ‘You can’t! I mean to say, you... you... oh God!’

‘Insolence, lying, and now you take the Lord’s name in vain?’ Mrs Fitzroper demanded. ‘Why, I’ve a good mind to deal with you myself. In fact, I think I will. Come here!’

Thrift had given in, her head hung in shamefaced acceptance of her fate as she crossed to where Mrs Fitzroper sat by the fireplace. For the second time in the space of minutes she was placed in spanking position, and for the second time in front of a man, only this time not Mr Winter but Mr Fitzroper. If the butler’s aloof indifference had been humiliating, the master’s manner was worse by far, a feeble attempt to appear disapproving given the lie by a hasty adjustment of his monocle in order to ensure a prime view as Thrift’s clothes were disarranged and her bottom put on show.

Mrs Fitzroper tried to spank hard, but she was too weak and her hand too plump and delicate to have much impact on Thrift’s meaty cheeks. That did nothing to lessen the humiliation of being punished bare over the ghastly woman’s lap, while what was missing in power was made up for in duration. In place of the two dozen or so hard swats the housekeeper had dished out, Mrs Fitzroper seemed happy to continue spanking Thrift indefinitely, and to lecture her on her behaviour while it was done.

The result was as inevitable as it was shameful. As her bottom gradually grew warm once again, so Thrift’s quim began to juice, a little at first but quickly increasing until she could feel the wet between her thighs. She began to sob, bitterly ashamed for the state she was in but still clinging to the hope that while Mr Fitzroper certainly had a fine view of her bottom he wouldn’t be able to see between her cheeks. With that the spanking stopped and Mrs Fitzroper spoke again.

‘That will do from me, I think. Now get up.’

Thrift rose, as astonished by what seem an unexpected act of mercy as she was relieved, only to find Mrs Melcher standing in the doorway. Her mouth came open, but she was unable to think of anything she could say that wouldn’t make things worse than they already were, and it seemed impossible to imagine that simply because she had already been spanked by Mrs Fitzroper she would be excused the same treatment from Mrs Melcher. Her fears were immediately confirmed.

‘Take Jones away, Melcher,’ Mrs Fitzroper ordered. ‘Spank her soundly and then send her up to my room to pack. Leave her bare. It does them good to think on their indignity. Now, where were me, my dear? Ah, yes, the Le Gros garden party. They’re French, of course, and so have absolutely no understanding of...’

Mrs Fitzroper didn’t even bother to glance around as Mrs Melcher took Thrift firmly by the arm and led her from the room. Downstairs, she was once more upended and stripped for spanking, her bottom exposed without thought for her modesty and smacked, this time both hard and long. Mr Winter had come back downstairs, but only to fetch a decanter of sherry, while neither Rachel nor Agnes paused from their work for more than a moment, as if the sight of Thrift’s bouncing cheeks and winking anus had become too familiar to be worthy of any attention whatsoever.

For Thrift it was a very different matter, every smack a stinging reminder of the hideously embarrassing situation she was in and every second her bottom was bare to the world a keen agony. She’d also started to cream freely, adding the blatant evidence of her wanton nature to her woes, while if what Rachel had said about Mrs Melcher’s tendency to fondle the girls’ bottoms during spankings was true the consequences seemed more or less inevitable.

Sure enough, before too long the spanking slowed and stopped, leaving Mrs Melcher’s hand cupping one hot cheek, only as if to check the heat of Thrift’s flesh to see if she needed further spanking, at least the first time. Another volley of hard smacks and again the big woman’s hand came to rest on Thrift’s bare bottom, this time to squeeze gently. Thrift, her head upside down and her view restricted to a small area of the kitchen floor, could only manage a resentful grimace, not daring to speak up and trying to tell herself that it made sense to let Mrs Melcher have a feel if it meant a break in the spanking.

It was a lie, her body responding despite her anger and shame, so that as the gentle touches grew more intrusive it was all she could do not to stick her bottom up for more. Not that Mrs Melcher seemed to care, enjoying the feel of Thrift’s hot flesh for quite a while before suddenly delivering another set of smacks, treating herself to another feel and than once more recommencing the punishment. Thrift had been gasping and panting her way through the spanking, but she was struggling to stop the noises becoming moans as the pain began to give way to an urgent need for more.

Determined not to betray her secret, Thrift shut her eyes and clenched her teeth, trying to concentrate on anything but the warm, needy sensation in her quim and the way she was exposed, which had now become exciting. Even the knowledge that the two other maids could see now brought arousal as well as shame, and she found herself wishing they’d pay her a little more attention, at least enjoying the view but preferably coming over to take their turns with her bare cheeks, maybe hold her down while she was beaten properly with a wooden spoon or a cane, even push something up her quim as a final humiliation and leave her on the floor, spanked and penetrated...

She shook her head, fighting the awful thoughts, but it was no good. Mrs Melcher’s smacks had moved lower, away from the crests of Thrift’s bottom to where her cheeks tucked down to meet her thighs. Every slap now worked to jam the rectule in up Thrift’s bottom, making her feel as if she was being sodomised with short, sharp pushes, save only that her anus was still closed tight rather than agape on the shaft of a cock or dildo. With that thought she found herself wishing it had really happened, her bottom well spanked before the three women held her down over the kitchen table for Mr Winter to give her a good buggering. It was all too easy to imagine, first his cock rubbed in her face as she was ordered to suck it and spanked until she complied, then swelling in her mouth as the girls laughed for her plight and Mrs Melcher opened up her anus with a lard smeared finger, finally forced in deep up her slippery bottom hole.

Thrift screamed as she came, unable to stop herself for her dirty thoughts and the continuous fondling and spanking of her bottom. Her muscles went tight, her hips jerked as her cunt went into contraction and a spray of white fluid erupted from between the lips of her quim, splashing on the floor and soiling her clothes. She was already apologising as Mrs Melcher gave a gasp of shock and disgust, but the fluid wouldn’t stop, squirting out in jet after jet, into her drawers and down her petticoats, over the floor and onto the leg of the table beside which she was being spanked.