The Maids, The Butler, and The Housekeeper – Part II
Mr Bolton removed his jacket as he waited behind the door until he heard Alice’s shuffling footsteps fade to the end of the corridor, and then left the room, turning to the right and walking the few paces to the next door along the corridor. He opened it without knocking and walked in. Mrs Withers was standing by the fireplace, her face flushed, still clutching the glass which he presumed minutes before had been pressed against the wall so that she could listen.
“I take it you heard that.”
Her breathing was heavy as she nodded wordlessly.
“Was that to your satisfaction?”
“That needn’t have been necessary, you know, Mrs Withers. You could’ve taken her in hand yourself long before this point. She could’ve been better guided. That punishment was entirely avoidable.”
“Yes, Mr Bolton. I’m sorry.” her voice was quiet, breathy, laden with anticipation.
“Alice’s poor performance reflects badly on you and your negligence.”
“Yes, Mr Bolton.”
Without another word, Mrs Withers put the glass carefully on the mantlepiece and walked towards her single bed, leaning over it and resting on her forearms, her legs straight. With no further conversation, Mr Bolton walked towards her and lifted her skirts up over her hips, unlacing her drawers to expose her buttocks. He heard her draw a deep breath as he unfastened his belt and removed it from the loops on his breeches, doubling it over in his hand. Mrs Withers’ mature hips were relatively broad, and her bottom presented a smooth round target, her skin pale in the candlelight.
He took a step to the side slightly, judging the distance between himself and Mrs Withers with a practised eye. She held her breath as he raised his arm and brought the belt crashing down across her bottom. She neither flinched nor made a sound beyond a slight gasp, her thighs clenching slightly and then relaxing as she exhaled. Another stroke, and she responded the same way, with a careful breath. Mr Bolton rolled up his shirtsleeve and loosened his collar, before applying a third stroke, this time eliciting a faint and muffled grunt from Mrs Withers. A hint of a smile appearing on his lips, he delivered another stroke, and another, and another, with barely enough time for Mrs Withers to draw a slow breath between each one.
Her composure broken by the three rapid strokes, Mrs Withers gripped the bedsheets, pressing her face against the pillow and biting her lip so as not to cry out. The red stripes which had initially crossed her skin had merged to one bright red patch by now, and Mr Bolton continued his efforts, extending the blush to the tops of her thighs. He paused after that stroke, as she had begun to quiver, shifting her weight from foot to foot, her fleshy cheeks wobbling slightly. She stopped moving and straightened her legs before he needed to instruct her, and he raised the belt once more.
By the time he was finished, his own breath was as almost as heavy as Mrs Withers’, and he let the belt fall to the floor. She had cried out with each stroke towards the end – albeit into the pillow – and her skin was bright red, with some raised welts, from the top of her buttocks to halfway down her thighs, and he surveyed his work with some little satisfaction. For her part, Mrs Withers kept her face in the pillow, not quite sobbing, but her chest heaved and the pillow was damp under her cheeks.
“Thank you, Mr Bolton.” she murmured, just about audible through her ragged breathing, and as she did so, while remaining bent over the bed, she moved her legs a little further apart. Mr Bolton rubbed at his groin, feeling the tightness in his breeches, and the heat inside him which had been building since Alice had left his office. He took a deep breath, and fancied that he could detect a hint of the scent from between Mrs Withers’ legs. He instinctively reached out with one hand, and she tensed briefly with a slight shiver as his fingers brushed against her moist lips. He could feel her desire, her need clearly as strong as his own, and as his fingers explored insistently, pushing inside her, he began to unfasten his own breeches with his free hand.
She turned her head slightly from the pillow, with a half-smile of anticipation as she saw the shadow of his profile dancing slightly against the wall in the the light from the candles and the small fire in the grate, his breeches now around his knees and his member standing proud and erect as he reached for it, taking a step to position himself behind her. She felt him rub himself back and forth against her, and he sighed at the sensation of his hard shaft brushing over the coarse hair between her legs.
“Please…” she whispered hoarsely, “Oh, please..” and arched her back down a little, her hips moving back towards him, and her burning skin tingling as it met his.
Mr Bolton needed no second bidding, and taking his cock in his hand, he guided it between her lips, feeling her accept him inside her willingly. He did not stop, and continued until he had buried the full length of his shaft in her, and she gave a sigh of contentment as he lingered a while, before placing his hands firmly on her hips and withdrawing. He paused briefly to look down at himself, a smile of approval at the way his skin glistened with her juices, before plunging back into her again. This time she moaned softly and he began to slide himself in and out of her, slowly. She gasped and moaned with each thrust into her, and winced slightly each time his body brushed against her stinging bottom. That only seemed to spur her on, however, and she pushed back against him, feeling him deep inside, stretching her.
Her whole body felt alive, tingling sensations dancing over every inch of her skin, but she tried to keep her climax at bay for as long as possible, not wanting to interrupt Mr Bolton’s rhythm. She could feel his climax building in the way his shaft twitched and throbbed inside her. Eventually she could bear it no longer. She felt her body tense and shudder, clenching around Mr Bolton’s stiff cock, her incoherent moans muffled as she pressed her face into the damp pillow. She dug her fingers into the bedsheets, gripping them tightly as wave after wave of exquisite pleasure washed over her, finally receding to leave her breathless and sagging against the bed.
Mr Bolton withdrew his aching cock from her hole and took it in his hand, wrapping his fingers around it as he placed his other hand on the small of her back, as if to hold her in position. Stroking his hand back and forth, the glistening tip rubbing against her blushing buttocks, he felt his own climax rushing through him, a fire burning deep inside. His legs tensed and his toes curled as if to grip the rug beneath his feet, a long low moan escaping from his lips. Gripping his cock tightly, he held it still, and felt it pulse and twitch in his fingers, his spunk spurting freely over Mrs Withers’ reddened bottom. Creamy white streaks landed across her skin, shining in the candlelight, and she finally let herself sink the last few inches to lie on the bed, exhausted.
“Thank you, Mr Bolton.” she sighed through a contented smile, as she turned her head and watched him pull his breeches back up, taking the belt from the floor and threading it back through the loops.
“And thank you, Mrs Withers.” he replied, straightening his collar. He rolled his shirtsleeve back down and fastened the cuff, and turned to walk slowly to the door.
“I shall see you at breakfast.”
“You shall indeed Mr Bolton, bright and early.
And as she heard the door click shut behind him, her hand drifted lazily back between her legs, seeking a second climax.