Chapter Ten

HIS LORDSHIP HAD said he would come in an hour. How long ago was that now? The bath seemed to have taken ages but in reality it could maybe have only been ten minutes. I couldn’t possibly kneel here, pussy wedged against this padding, neck forcibly high, for fifty minutes, could I?

I shut my eyes and tried to fill the vacant time with fantasies of what would happen when His Lordship arrived. Guiltily, I hoped he would bring his handsome chauffeur with him, though he had already said that he would be alone.

But the chauffeur’s blue eyes, crinkled at the corners, and his soft, commanding voice and the sandy-red hairline that peeked from his cap all stayed in my mind, and I found myself hoping our encounter in the car wouldn’t be our last.

I was picturing a scene on the back seat of the car with lord and chauffeur either side of me when the door finally opened, along with my eyes.

His Lordship surveyed me from the doorway for a moment while my cheeks glowed with the secret knowledge of my indiscreet thoughts and I tried to dismiss their after-effects.

‘Bottom,’ he said. ‘By name and by nature.’

He shut the door behind him, walked up to me and took off the nipple clamps. I saw stars and gasped while he pulled the kneeling device out from under me and ordered me to stand.

My legs felt shaky but I managed a wobbly kind of stance while he inspected the leather seat of his contraption.

‘My goodness,’ he said. ‘Soaked. You are a little whore, aren’t you, Bottom? I don’t know if anyone’s managed to get it this wet before.’

He smirked and put the thing aside before running his hands all over my body. My hands were still fixed on my head as if glued there – I wasn’t sure I’d be able to remove them now if he asked me – so he had an uninterrupted path along my body from armpits to thighs.

‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘Kat has done a thorough job. But I’m afraid you didn’t behave yourself on the journey, did you? I’ve spoken to my chauffeur and he said he had to spank you for excessive curiosity. Oh dear. So, before we can start on our training, there is a punishment in store for you.’

He tutted and shook his head for a moment before heading to that dreaded cupboard and retrieving another strange device – this one more like a stepstool with two padded levels. He placed it in front of me.

‘Bend over,’ he said.

But the chain was too short, and he had to let out a few links and refasten my collar first.

Once I was in position, arse high, head held up, he took some shiny black tape and wound it around my wrists, securing them in the small of my back, a few inches above my coccyx.

‘Once your training is complete,’ he said, going back to the cupboard and fetching a wide leather tawse, ‘I won’t need to keep your hands tied. You will be able to keep them there of your own accord. But for now, my concern is safety. You don’t want this falling on your knuckles, believe me.’

I wanted to ask him how many strokes I was getting, my stomach now coiling in fear, but I wasn’t sure it was wise. Would an unsolicited question add to my total?

‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ I say instead. ‘I didn’t mean to break the rules.’

‘Curiosity is natural,’ he said, laying the split end of the strap across my backside and flapping it gently over the skin. ‘But part of submission is subsuming your natural urges for the pleasure of another. It’s a lesson that needs learning, Bottom. If I spare you, I’m not really doing you any favours. Now, I’m going to give you twenty.’

I winced, then exhaled. Twenty was a lot with a heavy thing like that tawse, but knowing the number was still better than not knowing.

His Lordship raised his arm and let the tawse fall with a terrific splat that conferred an immediate sting and then a slow, deep blaze that made me suck in the air around me. It was going to be hard to take this, very hard.

‘You count the strokes when I chastise you,’ His Lordship explained. ‘And at the end of the session, you thank me for taking the trouble to administer discipline. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’ My voice was weak already and he’d only laid one stroke.

I remembered to keep the count, mostly. At seven I had to take a really long breath before I was able to speak. At 11, I begged him to stop, but I didn’t safeword, and only numbered the stroke when he suggested repeating it.

At 15, I forgot, and then he did repeat the stroke.

At 16, I could feel the sob coming.

At 18, it came.

At 20, I was crying, but it was a weird kind of crying, a sort of cathartic triumph, a falling away of tension while my body floated in fire. His Lordship had whipped the grouchiness of the day out of me and I felt purified by the pain, new and clean and ready for submission.

‘Have you forgotten something?’ he asked, his voice gentle. He crouched beside me and put a hand on my shoulder.

Had I? I couldn’t for the life of me think what it might be. In fact, I couldn’t think at all. Nothing existed in my life except my throbbing bottom and my need to be praised and petted by this man, because I had pleased him. Oh! That was it.

‘Thank you, sir,’ I said.

‘No, Bottom, you must look at me when you say it, and you must be clearer about exactly what you’re thanking me for. Try that again.’

I had to work up to looking him in the eyes. The words wouldn’t be easy, but the steadfast gaze was a cruel thing to demand. I had a feeling I might need a lot of training for that.

I twisted my neck and let my eyes glaze a bit, softening the effect of his piercing look.

‘Thank you for teaching me my lesson, sir,’ I said. ‘I will try to behave myself better.’

‘That’s a start,’ he sniffed, chucking me under the chin. ‘We’ll work on a more eloquent rendering next time punishment is required.’

He stroked my bottom with one hand, making the most of its heat.

‘I didn’t go easy on you,’ he said. ‘I had a feeling you could take quite a good thrashing, from what I’ve seen of you.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ I said, though it was one of the more bizarre compliments of my life. Perhaps I should add it to my CV. Grade Eight piano, Cycling Instructor Qualification, takes a good thrashing.

‘How do you feel now?’

‘Cleansed. And hot. And sore. And a bit … y’know.’ I squirmed illustratively.

He chuckled.

‘But do you feel the need for closeness, reassurance? Many submissives do. They want to be held. Don’t you?’

‘May I answer honestly, sir?’

‘Of course. Always.’

‘I want to be fucked.’

He chuckled.

‘That’s the other common reaction. And you haven’t come in such a long time, have you? Hmm?’

‘No, sir, and I’ve been so tempted, so often, but I held off.’

‘Well, such obedience merits a reward, I think. I’m not completely heartless.’

He reached down between my wobbly legs and began to move his fingers over and around my clit, fattening it up, dipping deep into my juices.

‘You won’t take long,’ he observed, delving, pressing, spearing my cunt.

His surmise was accurate – it had been so long since I had been touched there that I began to climax almost immediately. He had this way of manipulating me that spun the orgasm out, drawing wave after wave, moan after moan, commanding my body to perform against my will until I was finally spent and shivering under his hand.

Now I wanted the holding and the gentle words, now I felt the vulnerability that the whipping hadn’t induced. I tried to nuzzle into him, and he stroked my hair and bent to whisper into my ear.

‘Soon, Bottom, soon I can let you up and take you to my bed and feed you and take care of you. But first, there is one thing I must do. Be patient, sweet.’

He took the tawse back to the cupboard and swapped it for a bottle and an implement the length and width of a finger, made of pink silicone, tapering in at the bottom with a base in the shape of a heart.

I looked away quickly. It had to be a butt-plug.

‘We’ll take this slowly,’ he promised. ‘But it must be done. My submissives need to make all their orifices available to me – no exceptions. Are you ready?’

I had to be honest. ‘I’m not sure, sir.’

‘Well, you know the safeword. I’m going to trust you to use it if you need to. Try and keep relaxed.’

My wrists were still tied, so I wasn’t able to do much more than shudder and shimmy my hips a little when his hand descended on my scorched cheeks to prise them apart. I heard a squelchy, sucky sound, then I whimpered as something cold and greasy was applied liberally to my virgin orifice. He spent a long time on lubrication, working his finger around and around, smearing and slicking, making sure I was thoroughly coated around the tiny hole before he put any pressure on it. I imagined it, shiny and explicit, tight and closed, waiting for that first prod.

I screwed shut my eyes and held my breath.

The oiled blunt end of a forefinger was placed squarely on the target. He began to turn it in half-rotations, slowly at first, picking up speed, pushing so very lightly that at first I didn’t perceive it, but his motion gathered momentum and my muscles contracted in their first involuntary spasm, noticing rather belatedly that something was trying to breach them.

‘Good, good, you’re doing very well.’ His Lordship’s voice was a low murmur of reassurance. ‘Don’t fight it. You need this. It’s coming to you.’

I hadn’t realised that my spine was arched until he patted it down, leaving his palm flat on my back to hold me in position, arse thrust out as far and as high as possible.

‘Tell me how this feels,’ he said quietly, and then his finger had somehow wriggled clear of my protective muscular barrier and made its first ingress into my rear.

I tried to find descriptive words, but my powers of expression were not at their best.

‘Oh, weird,’ I whimpered. ‘Unnatural. Invasive.’

‘It will soon feel natural to you. It will be quite normal for you to have this area occupied when you are in my service. You will learn to offer it without question. Your arse, my dear, is mine.’

He screwed the finger further in, right up to the knuckle. It wasn’t painful exactly, nor was it entirely uncomfortable, but it just felt so powerfully wrong that my body couldn’t seem to adjust to it but continued to try and expel it despite my desire to please His Lordship.

He didn’t seem unduly concerned by this, however, and he certainly made no effort to withdraw the finger or pander to the regular spasming of my sphincter. Instead, he let it mimic the thrust of a cock, pushing it up and pulling it down for about half a minute until he was satisfied that my resistance was wearing down.

‘Good,’ he said again. ‘Now I am going to insert this plug – it’s the slimmest of my training plugs. You will be required to keep this in all night – I will give permission to remove it if circumstances necessitate, but otherwise, you are to retain it until morning. Failure to do so will incur punishment. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He removed his finger, replacing it swiftly with the sleek, cold tip of the plug, which slid in quite easily at first, being no wider than the lately-inserted digit – until it reached a halfway point, where it became clear that it flared out towards the middle before tapering off again. I let out a low moan, feeling myself stretch a little further, experiencing a pang of discomfort, but before it could register much more deeply, the moment had passed and the plug was fully seated.

I could not exactly ignore it – its presence would be an insistent sensation – but it could have been so much worse. In fact, my reading on the subject had led me to imagine an unpleasantly stretched and sore feeling. That’s what you get for reading on the websites I tend to frequent, though. It served me right.

The thorough job His Lordship had done of lubrication made me worry that the plug might even slip out without my noticing, but he prevented that eventuality by covering the base in bondage tape, so that a shiny black rectangle of the stuff must have interrupted the uniform redness of my bum, sticking the plug inside and making it absolutely obvious to any viewer that my arsehole was well and truly occupied.

He completed the job by smacking my bottom two or three times, hard, so that the plug jiggled inside me, letting me bask and bathe in the humiliation of it before slapping my thighs wide apart, unbuttoning his fly and penetrating my cunt with swift and unexpected vigour.

He fucked me without a word, slamming hard into me four or five times before coming and pulling out, setting himself to rights and bending to inspect the state of my pussy.

Our correspondence prior to this weekend had included comprehensive tests of our genito-urinary health and fitness, so I was unconcerned by the lack of a condom. The feeling of his juices, trickling down my thighs and drying there, added a deliciously shameful edge to my predicament, bound and plugged and visibly fucked for anyone to see.

‘I needed that,’ he panted behind me. ‘Never could resist a plugged bottom. Now, I think you must be hungry and ready for some less harsh treatment, am I right?’

‘Yes, sir.’ I heard the happy sighing quality of my voice as if from afar.

He bent to untie my wrists, then helped me to my bare feet, holding me against him for a moment, stroking my hair.

‘I have high hopes of you,’ he said, before leading me out of the room and making me walk with him, naked, plugged, scarlet-bottomed and dripping spunk, along the corridor and back into the Great Hall.

A head peered round a door before we made it to the staircase, but His Lordship clapped disapprovingly and the head disappeared. I recalled his promise that nobody else would be involved in my training today and drew a breath of relief.

The stairs seemed never-ending, but at length we arrived at the top floor of the house and I was ushered into a breathtaking suite of rooms, apparently decorated by the set dresser for Downton Abbeyor Upstairs, Downstairs.

Not sure if I had permission to speak, I simply goggled in the doorway while His Lordship untied his cravat and removed his frock coat.

‘While you’re in my rooms, we are equals,’ he told me, taking my hand and drawing me further in to the room.

I tried to listen, but my brain was busy absorbing its surroundings, so I might have missed a few things.

‘Are you listening?’ His tone sharpened, and I snapped to attention.

‘Sorry, sir. This is amazing.’

‘All right, I know it’s quite impressive.’ He rested on his laurels, pulling out a chair for me and waiting for me to sit – gingerly – before continuing. ‘What I was saying, Keris, is that here in this room, we are no longer master and submissive. Our time spent here is on an equal footing and gives us a chance to get to know each other as people. Unless we do that, the trust which is so vital in our kind of dynamic can’t be properly established, in my experience. Does that make sense?’

‘So I don’t have to call you sir? And I can say what I like?’

‘Exactly. You’re as unsubmissive as a naked girl with a plug in her whipped behind can be.’ He chuckled darkly and I squirmed on said whipped behind. ‘For a start, while we’re up here, you can call me Marcus.’

‘Is that your name?’

He raised his eyebrows at me. OK, maybe it was a silly question.

‘You look hungry,’ he observed. ‘For your first night, I’ll have dinner sent up and you can eat with me. It’s a privilege I reserve for my most promising beginners – it won’t be repeated this week.’

I watched him make a call, presumably to the kitchen.

‘How many staff do you have?’ I asked, once he’d put in his order for game terrine and a cold turkey platter.

‘It varies,’ he said. ‘This week, I have half a dozen house guests, so I’ve hired caterers for the week – non-kinky, but kink-sympathetic, if you catch my drift.’

‘So you don’t get to spank the chef if the meat’s overdone?’

‘No. But we have three maids, including yourself, and a couple of footmen-cum-stable lads. There’s my chauffeur, but he’s not submissive – he looks after my wife if she’s missing my firm hand.’

The food arrived, brought in by Kat on a trolley under a cloche. She didn’t even look at me, but kept her head bowed and left swiftly.

‘About your wife,’ I said, spearing the terrine and shoving it down my throat. I had forgotten all about being hungry, and now my stomach was reminding me with some insistence.

‘What about her?’ He regarded my famished behaviour with amusement.

‘Is she really and truly OK with all this? With you entertaining various random women in your bedroom and all that?’

‘First of all, they aren’t random. They’re very carefully selected. Second of all, we have an open marriage and always have had. It works well for us.’

‘So she can shag whoever she likes?’

‘No, she can’t shag whoever she likes. She can shag carefully selected partners who have been approved and tested for sexual health, as you have been.’

‘Is she a domme?’

‘She wasn’t, when we met. As the years have passed, she has begun experimenting with that side of herself.’

‘Funny, that.’ I chewed ruminatively. ‘I keep coming across these women who started off as subs and switched when they got older. Is the BDSM scene ageist, then?’

‘Ageist?’ He sounded surprised.

‘It’s just that I can’t imagine ever wanting to switch. Will nobody want to top me when I’m past thirty? Because if so, I’ve only got three years to cram a hell of a lot of submitting into.’

‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

His voice was cold and my hackles rose. I wondered if I’d unwittingly uncovered a big old flaw in this little scene.

‘It would be a shame,’ I mused, daring to pursue the theme, ‘if that were the case.’

‘It would be a shame if you wittered on about something you have absolutely no evidence for.’

Ouch. Acid splash. I abandoned the topic in favour of the cold meats and pickles.

‘How old is your wife?’ I asked after a few minutes of détente.

‘Thirty.’

I almost snorted into my wine.

‘How old are you?’

‘Fifty-five.’

‘What about your chauffeur? Is his name Damian?’

‘Yes, what about him?’ His Lordship, or Marcus, or whatever, seemed very curt now. I wondered if I ought to change the subject to something obsequious or flattering. But he had said I could say what I liked in here, after all.

‘He’s quite fit.’ I sipped my wine delicately. ‘Does he work for you full time?’

‘Yes, he does. Well, for me and others of my circle. You have an eye for him, then?’ His Lordship pursed his lips.

‘Just like I said – he’s good-looking. I bet he’s popular.’

‘Yes.’

‘Like you.’ I relented and released a bit of the flattery.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say –’

‘Yes, you would. Everyone says you’re like the superstar DJ of the dom world.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘You should. I know I’m very lucky. I feel I’m joining an elite.’

Mollified, His Lordship poured me some more wine.

‘It’s true. People come from all over the world to spend time here and avail themselves of my highly trained submissives.’

‘Do they? It’s like a kinky jet-set?’

‘Yes. Just this week, I have a couple from New York and some Germans. Most nationalities have been represented here at one time or another.’

‘Who are the kinkiest?’

‘I think we English, if I’m honest.’

‘Well, yeah, but this is England, so English people would be over-represented, wouldn’t they?’

He sighed and put down his glass.

‘I know I said you could say whatever you wanted in here, but I think I’m going to ask you, very nicely, to finish the meal in silence. And then I have a treat for you.’

‘Oh, sounds good.’

I was a bit annoyed at having to hold my peace – I wanted to ask how one becomes a dom of international repute, but it would have to wait. I didn’t want to mark myself down as a troublemaker on my first day.

So I downed the wine, scarfed a bit of cold Christmas pudding and tried to ignore the butt-plug, without success.

In lieu of an after-dinner mint, His Lordship’s treat for me was a massage, face-down on his four-poster bed, the oils sinking into my weary skin until, absolutely contrary to my plans, I fell fast asleep.

Before my eyes even opened, my first thought of the new day was what’s in my arse? I remembered as my eyelids unglued and put a hand to the taped-in flange, checking that it was secure.

Once I’d managed to get my head out of the covers, I saw His Lordship, fast asleep on the far side of the huge bed, and sighed contentedly, figuring that another hour or so of quality shut-eye was on the menu before I had to start bowing and scraping in unorthodox bodily contortions.

Maybe, I thought optimistically, burrowing back down, I would get to see Damian again today. Perhaps he would even take me for a drive that ended up on the back seat. I was contemplating this pleasant eventuality when my reverie was cut short by a wholly unexpected female voice.

‘Good morning, Bottom.’ The “Bottom” was spoken with such plosive derision that I sat bolt upright, regardless of the plug, and stared. It had come from the corner.

Sure enough, seated regally on a chintz armchair, was an Amazonian blonde of roughly my age, dressed only in a corset and those Victorian-style drawers. My eye was drawn to the luxuriant spillage of flesh over the top of her tightly-strung bodice, and the firm jaw. She was like a boudoir Boadicea. Or is it Boudicca? Never sure on that one.

‘Good morning, um …,’ I said.

‘Ma’am,’ she helpfully supplied. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Yes, I did, thanks … ma’am.’

‘Well.’ She stood and clapped her hands. ‘Time to get cracking. You have so much ground to cover today.’

Her clapping awoke His Lordship, who sat up and rubbed his eyes.

‘Darling, what time is it? It’s still the middle of the night, surely?’

‘Six o’clock – time for staff to be hard at work.’

‘You want to handle this?’

‘Yes, you go back to sleep, love. I can see you’re shattered.’ His Lordship lay back down and the woman – whom I presumed to be his wife – clapped her hands at me again, visibly annoyed that I hadn’t leapt up and started scurrying about like one of the three blind mice.

I put a toe out of the toasty warmth and shivered. The heating had only just come on and Ma’am couldn’t be warm enough in just her underwear.

‘Come into the bathroom and I’ll shower with you,’ she said, yawning. ‘Then you can dress me.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ I whispered, following her through a door.

‘Right, well, you’re the maid, so you’d better unlace me,’ she said.

She presented her back view to me and I got to work on the ribbons, wondering if she had been wearing this all night long.

‘I’ve been up all night,’ she answered my question. ‘Entertaining our German gentlemen. So I’ll set you off in service this morning, then I’m off to bed until at least noon.’

‘This is a beautiful corset, if I might be allowed to say so, ma’am.’

I laid it gently down on a footstool, then I pulled down the drawers and gasped.

Her bottom was a mass of mad red welts that looked as if they were pulsing.

‘They wanted to try out a birch,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Have you ever been birched, Bottom?’

‘No, never.’

‘Ah well, that pleasure will come. Maybe I’ll get to do it. Now, you’d better turn around. I’m going to unplug you.’

I hesitated, suddenly coy at the idea of allowing a complete stranger – and a woman at that – access to my most intimate area.

But she yanked me round by the shoulders, fingers digging impatiently into my skin and bent me over, ripping off the bondage tape so that the plug gave a rather worrying jolt.

I cringed as her fingers fished the long, slim invader out of my bottom with exquisitely lingering tenderness.

‘There, all done,’ she said, putting it in the sink and running the tap over it. ‘You can clean it up properly later. There’ll be a bigger one for you tonight.’

I can hardly wait.

She stepped into the wet room and turned on the jets, comfortable with her nudity and unconcerned at whatever my thoughts might be. She was rather magnificent, I thought. I could see why His Lordship had married her.

I stepped in after her, sighing with pleasure at the warm spray.

‘Here, girl, wash my hair.’

She handed me a bottle of shampoo, and I reached up to lather it into her head of long, thick hair. The obvious enjoyment she derived from my actions was pleasing, and I worked hard to sustain it, happy to wash her body too, sliding my hands over every curve of her body. Her breasts were bruised, so I was careful with them and, of course, with her sore bottom. When she parted her thighs to grant me access to her cunt, I was interested to see that she had pierced labia which could be linked shut if required. I was extra careful around the jewellery, trying to imagine how it must feel to have rings hanging down from such a sensitive spot.

‘You have a gentle touch,’ she said. ‘I’ve had three hefty cocks up there tonight. God knows what they feed them in Lower Saxony, but they’re like bullocks.’

‘May I ask you a question, ma’am?’

‘Depends what it is. Go on.’

‘Do you like dominating? Or do you just do it because you think you should?’

She was silent for a moment, then she said, ‘Tell you what. Why don’t you work it out for yourself? You’ll get plenty of clues over the course of the week, starting with drying and moisturising me.’

Drying was easy enough, but I’d never prepared another woman for bed, especially one who appeared so high maintenance. She led me out to her walk-in wardrobe and made me lace her into a frothy confection of old lace she claimed was a nightgown – this was a long and complicated process and my ineptitude resulted in a number of slaps to my bare behind and thighs which she apparently enjoyed dealing.

‘Useless slut,’ she snarled, laying on another when the laces slipped from my hands for a third time. I had to admit that perhaps I’d been off-base with my theory about her reluctance to dominate. Or, of course, she could just be venting her frustration with the situation.

By the time she was gowned and nightcapped, I was a living collage of handprints.

‘Finally,’ she sniffed, admiring her reflection in the pier glass. ‘And now I suppose we should get you dressed. You’ll have to come downstairs for that.’

I looked down at myself with some dismay. I was naked, damp hair coiling down between my shoulder blades. And it was freezing. Did I really have to trudge about the cold house in the nude?

It seemed I did.

I followed my mistress all the way down the stairs, back towards the little room in which I had been subject to His Lordship’s disciplinary attentions. But she didn’t take me in there – instead, she took me further along the corridor, to the end room.

Inside, three women were dressing and preparing for the day ahead.

‘Kat,’ said Her Ladyship, ‘get this one uniformed. You know what the newbies wear.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Kat smiled cruelly.

‘She’s to be given all the most demeaning duties today. Make sure you don’t let a single thing slide – she needs to be watched like a hawk. You have my permission to discipline her when necessary – please keep a note of each occasion for myself and His Lordship.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Very good.’

Her Ladyship nodded and left. Alone in the centre of the room, being sized up by six strange eyes, I suddenly felt more vulnerable than at any point since my arrival. What would I give for Damian the chauffeur to walk through the door now?

No sign of him, though – instead, Kat took hold of my hair and dragged me over to a large chest that lay at the end of the room, beyond the beds and drawers. She took out a tiny sheer white lace apron and told me to put it on.

‘This is my uniform?’ I picked up the insubstantial scrap and frowned. ‘Isn’t there more?’

‘Yes, there’s more. Shoes, stockings and suspenders. Plus your collar, of course.’

‘Right.’

The other women wore proper Victorian maid uniform – the only difference being the way their long black skirts were slit up the front and back. I longed for some of their coverage. This piece of woven air was hardly going to solve my goosepimple problem. I put it on, though, and tied it round the waist. The bib did nothing to conceal my breasts, gauzy as it was, and my bottom was completely exposed. I took the frilly suspender belt Kat offered me and clipped it to a pair of sheer black stockings, completing the look with high-heeled patent pumps. I looked nothing like a maid, everything like a whore.

The other maids lounged, smirking and watching, while Kat fixed my collar around my neck and buckled it tight. Next she rolled up my hair into a neat bun, pinning it into place.

‘What do we think, girls?’ she asked, twirling me around by the shoulders. ‘Is she ready for her lessons?’

‘Nice,’ they giggled in unison.

‘You’ve all done this?’ I asked them, on the verge of panic. ‘You’ve all been trained like this?’

‘Oh yes,’ said one, a demure blonde. ‘You’re the latest in a long line. Don’t worry, just enjoy it.’

‘Right,’ said Kat, ‘I think you’re ready. But one thing needs to be sorted out before you start.’ She reached under my apron and tugged at my pubic hair. ‘You need to get shaved. Damian will do it. Take her into the kitchen, Liv, and tell him he needs to get ready with the razor.’

‘What?’

But nobody was going to help me. The blonde girl, Liv, took my hand and led me out of the dormitory and along the corridor to the kitchen, where Damian himself sat with his feet up on the table, polishing his boots.

‘Well, good morning,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘Here’s our new girl.’

‘She needs your steady hand with the razor,’ said Liv.

‘Oh good. I was hoping for that.’ He winked at me and beckoned. ‘Come and sit on the table. I’ll just get my tackle.’

He was as gorgeous as I remembered, freckly and pale with the filthiest glint I’d ever seen.

I positioned myself on the edge of the table. Liv went over to the old-fashioned range and set about getting the kettle on. I tried to adjust my mindset, to view all this as normal, but it wouldn’t shift and everything remained obstinately bizarre. I’m not one for waxing – a neat trim is as much as I can manage when it comes to pubic topiary. I’d always been too shy to put my bush in the hands of a beautician – so it just seemed topsy-turvy in the extreme that I was now entrusting it to a bad red-haired man with a cut-throat razor.

He came back in with a bowl of water, a towel over his forearm and a blade that made me think of Jack the Ripper and screw my eyes shut.

He laughed at my fear, setting the bowl down on the floor.

‘I’m a dab hand at this, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. Raise your apron for me, doll, and spread your legs nice and wide. Here, lift up your bum.’

He slid the towel underneath me and waited until I was in position, wide-thighed with my apron bunched up in a fist.

‘Good. Now lie back. Think of England, if you like. Or think of whatever you want. Sex is always favourite.’

Oh, he was a cheeky bleeder, but it worked for me. My crotch tingled as I pressed my spine down on the hard deal surface and looked up at the ceiling.

The range was beginning to bring some much-needed warmth to the room and behind me Liv clattered about with pots and pans, preparing for the caterers, I supposed. Not that supposition-making was easy when a sexy man stood in your foreground, sharpening his razor blade on an old-fashioned leather strop. I wished I could take some footage of it, to be replayed at a less nerve-wracking, more leisurely time. I would be happy to watch it for hours.

But he put down the strop and the razor on the table, took a shaving brush and began to lather me up, circling the bristles from the base of my abdomen and down until the whole area was a mass of foam, even as far back as the crack of my bum. His brisk, firm appliance was performed by an expert hand – not a bubble of the stuff landed inside my lips, which I kept wide open for him.

‘That’s a nicely swollen clit,’ he commented, just at the moment that the caterers appeared, taking over at the range from Liv, who came to watch Damian’s handiwork.

‘She’s enjoying it,’ she remarked, bending forward to get a better view.

The caterers threw some bacon into a pan, oblivious. The sizzle coincided with the first careful stroke of Damian’s razor.

‘You know you have to keep very, very still,’ he murmured, holding a thigh steady with his unoccupied hand. ‘You don’t need me to tell you that, do you?’

‘No,’ I whispered.

‘No, sir,’ he reminded me gently. ‘Everybody here is Sir or Ma’am to you, whether guests or servants. Don’t forget, unless you want me to use my strop for something different.’

‘Sorry, sir.’

He scraped, slowly and diligently, the sides of my lips while I held my breath and tried to visualise perfect stillness.

He had moved up to the pubic triangle when Kat marched into the room, carrying a large glass of water containing the butt-plug.

‘Here’s your plug from last night,’ she said, banging it down on the side. ‘You’re to wash it when you’ve finished here, and then go and scrub the grates in the drawing room.’

She flounced out again, apparently annoyed about something, though who knew what.

‘Butt-plug, eh?’ Damian’s voice held a wealth of quiet amusement. ‘Are you new to backdoor fun then?’

‘Yes, sir.’ My face flared and my clit throbbed at the embarrassing subject matter.

‘Unusual – usually the girls who come here are pretty experienced on that score. His Lordship must be overjoyed – he gets to break you in. He loves that.’

Somebody behind me cracked a series of eggs into a bowl.

‘Must admit, I’m a bit jealous,’ Damian continued. ‘I wish I could claim that privilege.’

I kind of wish you could too. You’re about fifty times more attractive than His Lordship.

‘Maybe another time, sir,’ I said.

He chuckled.

‘His Lordship will want to keep that for himself, unless he gives permission. Shame.’

He removed the last of my pubes with a flourish and patted me dry with the towel.

‘There. You dare to bare. Nice job, if I do say so myself.’

He flashed me that filthy grin and winked.

‘I’d love to stay and, uh, chat, but you’ve got work to do, missy.’ He picked up the strop and flicked it lightly but stingingly between my thighs. ‘Get to it.’