Emily knelt at the fireplace, sweeping the ashes and cleaning the grate. The hour was still early and the great house was mostly silent, except for the muted hustle and bustle of other domestic staff quietly going about their morning chores.
She was dressed in a conservative black dress, her white apron and cap, and plain black shoes. Underneath she wore a chemise, and drawers that were split, partly to make using the privy a brisk process.
But the slit in her drawers was also to make Lord Osborne’s use of her a brisk process. The year was 1903 and, as an 18yr old maid, Emily had no choice but to put up with his Lordship’s regular use of her rear passage for his relief. It only took his Lordship a few minutes. Well, unless Lady Osborne was out for a ride, in which case he would indulge himself a little longer.
She finished cleaning the grate and began sweeping and dusting the corridors, listening to the sounds of the household gradually waking up. The noise of doors opening and closing, gruff voices, occasional female laughter. Eventually she heard Lord Osborne’s heavy bootsteps descending the main staircase.
She’d been summoned to his study within her first week. His proposal was non-negotiable. She would be dismissed for theft or she could keep her job and look after what he called his ‘needs’. She would need to be obedient and discreet.
Emily had no choice but to accept his terms.
She subsequently learned that Lord Osborne was 50yrs old. He had grey hair, mutton chops and whiskers, and a substantial belly. His wife didn’t ‘look after him’ so he told Emily that he felt no shame availing himself of a young maid. But to avoid any ‘unwanted events’, he would restrict himself to her mouth and bottom. Her maidenhead must remain intact.
He made use of her most days. One of her duties was to clean his study. It was a large booklined room, like a library, with a mahogany desk, several armchairs and a sofa. She would raise her woollen dress and present her backside to him. Then he’d part her drawers and prise open her buttocks with his strong thumbs.
The first time hurt terribly. And she wasn’t clean enough. He berated her and demanded that she keep herself douched. The second time hurt slightly less. Within a month she could absorb his prodigious member without too much suffering. He usually only required a couple of minutes to fill her rectum with his seed.
When her ladyship was out, he would allow himself longer. First, Emily had to kneel and put her mouth round his thing. He told her what to do; long slurping caresses with her lips and tongue, changing rhythm occasionally, and depth. He liked poking the back of her throat one moment and sliding his hardness along her gums the next. Eventually he would reach his climax. She had to collect his essence on her tongue and then swallow it down while he watched.
Then he’d dismiss her without one word of thanks.
Emily had picked up what the staff called ‘the facts of life’ from ribald conversations in the kitchen. Jess, the plump cook, was particularly rude. Powerful men often preferred mouths and bottoms so that there was no risk of illegitimate children and the gossip that went with it. Her candid revelation planted a seed in young Emily’s mind.
On that fateful day, at ten thirty exactly, she knocked on the door of his Lordship’s study. He was sat at his desk, reading the Times. He didn’t even speak. He simply gestured to her customary spot beside his chair. Emily knelt down and undid his breeches, easing them down his hairy legs.
After five minutes or so of laborious sucking and slurping, he cuffed her ear and pointed at the desk. She draped herself over the polished surface and felt him part her drawers.
“Nngh …” she grunted, as he penetrated her roughly.
“Shush.” He hissed, slapping her buttock as a warning. “If you want to keep your job.”
She grimaced and braced herself against his fierce thrusts. It wouldn’t take long. She’d counted the days carefully. Jess had explained about the female cycle.
“Ggrrrrrmmmmm …” she felt his last deep thrust and his warm fluid soiling her. He grunted and rested on her back for a few seconds.
When he’d climbed off her and returned to his chair, she clenched her buttocks together and straightened her apron and dress.
She bobbed an immaculate curtsey. “Thank you, your Lordship.”
He’d already returned to his Times newspaper. He didn’t reply.
Emily retreated and walked briskly to a broom cupboard in the corridor. Closeted inside, she put her arm under her dress and cupped her left hand under her buttocks. When she had a little puddle of his aristocratic seed in her palm, she smeared it all over her right fingertip.
Then Emily Seaman pushed her semen-coated finger as far up her vagina as she could.
To be continued in Part Two of three parts.