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?”

Another nod.

“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.

The Maids, the Butler, and the Housekeeper

The glow from the gas mantles flickered as he entered the room and pushed the door closed behind him, making the shadows that lived in the corners shift and swing.  She pulled her arms closer to herself, as if to draw herself inwards, to make herself smaller, perhaps so that he wouldn’t see her waiting in his office.  But of course, he had seen her.  He’d known she was here, sent to wait for him.  Mrs Withers had sent her – she’d told him as much, and she’d told him why.  Mrs Withers liked to run a tight household and, firmly believing that discipline was the key to that, regularly called upon him to administer it.

She winced as he walked past her, and sat in the leather armchair in the corner of the room.  Seeming not to be paying any attention to her at all, he picked up a book from the table and opened it, reading a page or two as she stood, still trying to make herself appear as small and insignificant as possible.  Minutes passed, he turned a page, read some more, sighed, turned another page, and breathed in deeply before resting the open book in his lap.  He looked across at her then, and took her in.  She was ready for bed, as was always the way, in a simple white cotton nightdress that almost reached her knees, and her fair hair was tied up with strips of rag.  She held her arms across her chest, and her feet were pointed inwards, one slightly over the other, her knees touching.  She kept her face downcast, only turning her eyes to catch sight of him as he watched her from his chair.

“Mrs Withers sent you to me.” It was a statement, rather than a question.
“Yes, sir.” she replied, barely audible.
“Why?”
“My performance has been sloppy.” her voice still hardly more than a whisper.
“Sloppy?”
“Yes, sir.  Sloppy.”
“Sloppy how?” he raised one eyebrow.
“I don’t know, sir.  Mrs Withers said I’d been sloppy, and I was to report to you.”
“You take too long to lay the fires in the morning.  You don’t clean your hands properly afterwards and so you leave grubby finger marks on the table cloths, the bedding, the china, and practically everything else you touch.  You spill soup when you carry it from the kitchen to the dining room, you drip tea onto the tray from the teapot after you’ve poured it and you drop vegetables when you serve them.  You are supposed to be a servant, Alice.  Someone dragged in off the streets would do a better job.”
“I never said I could serve at table when I applied, sir.” Alice was abashed, her voice barely audible.
“Speak up!”
“Sorry sir.  I said I never said I could serve at table, sir.”
“It’s a given, Alice.  Do you know what that means?  It means that when you apply for a job and claim to be an experienced servant we assume that you know how to perform certain basic tasks.  It’s not as if you’ve been given anything complicated, Alice, and yet you consistently fail to carry out simple instructions effectively and quickly.”
She said nothing.
“Did you lie when you came to work for us, Alice?”
Still she said nothing.
“How many houses have you worked for before you came here?  Speak up girl!”
“One, sir.”
“One?  One?  When you applied, you told Mrs Withers three.”
“I.. I was desperate sir.”
“Am I to assume then, that you did not leave your former employer to be closer to your sick mother?”
“No, sir.” She was looking at the floor again, her voice almost lost against the sound the fire in the hearth.
“You were sacked, weren’t you Alice?”
She simply nodded.

The problem with Alice, as far as Mr Bolton could see, was that her general incompetence did not seem to be necessarily wilful.  The girl did try, she just didn’t try quite hard enough.  She was extremely personable, and had become popular with the rest of the staff almost as soon as she arrived.  But her sloppiness couldn’t be allowed to continue, and now it was clear that she’d lied in her letter of application.  None of this could go unpunished, Mrs Withers would be expecting it.

“Despite your lies, Alice, I think you have potential.  This is not a complicated job to learn, and I feel sure that if you apply yourself properly, you can manage it.  It will be hard work, but if you are prepared to put in the effort, then I will do what I can to help you.  Do you think you can put in the effort, Alice?”
Alice nodded.
“Very well.  We will keep your lies between us.  I shall tell Mrs Withers that you are going to pull your finger out, and you, in turn, will not let me down.  I will ensure that you are not placed to serve at table this week, and tomorrow evening you will come here for an hour, and I will show you how to serve vegetables without dropping them.  The fires you will have to just get quicker at yourself.  And be more careful about washing your hands.”
“Thank you Mr Bolton.”  Tears of relief were almost stinging her eyes.
“And in one month, if Mrs Withers does not feel that there has been a significant improvement, or if she has cause to send you to me again before then, I will have no choice but to let you go.  Do we understand each other well?”
“Yes Mr Bolton.  Very well.  Thank you sir.” her voice almost cracked.

“Nonetheless,” he closed his book and put it on the table “Mrs Withers has requested that you be punished for your incompetence.  In the light of your dishonesty, I am inclined to agree with her.  I shall punish you severely, Alice, for your incompetence and dishonesty, and then we shall see what we can to make sure I don’t have to punish you again.”
Alice felt her legs weaken, and she put out a hand onto the mantelpiece to steady herself.
“Go to the cupboard, and fetch my whip.” his words cut through the air like a razor-sharp sword.
Alice fought against her desire to stay rooted to the spot, dragging her feet across the hearthrug to the other side of the room, and, her hand shaking, opened the wooden cupboard.  There were two hooks on the back of the door, and on one of them hung a divided leather strap.  She knew the strap.  It was almost exactly like one her teacher had used on her when she was much younger.  It hurt.  The edges bit into the skin and it left bruises that would ache for days, but as long as she wouldn’t be sacked, she would endure it.  As she reached for it, his voice shocked her out of the memories of her youth.
“Not that.  The whip!”
She had been so fixed on the strap, and the memories of classroom humiliation, that she hadn’t noticed what hung next to it.  Her hand reacted to his voice and she took the whip from its hook without any intervention from  her brain.  It was long, and thin, and quite stiff, and her hands shook slightly as she handed it to him.

He stepped back from her, and swished it quickly through the air, the sound making her shiver and pull her arms around herself as she tried to shrink back against the wall.
“Take off your nightdress, Alice, and place your hands on the mantelpiece.
“Sir?  Off, sir?”
“Yes of course Alice.  Take it off!”
Mr Bolton was starting to sound impatient, and she hurriedly pulled her nightdress up over her head, and draped it across a simple wooden chair.  She kept one arm folded across her breasts, and used her other hand to cover her dignity.
“Face the fire, Alice, and place your hands on the mantelpiece.  Quickly girl.”
His voice was almost snapping now, and she did as she was told with no further hesitation.
“Now take a step backwards.”
Alice let go of the mantel and stepped back.
“Keep your hands on the mantelpiece!  Step back but keep your hands on the mantelpiece!”
“Sorry Mr Bolton.”  Alice stammered, and leaned forward, her arms outstretched and resting on the shelf above the fireplace, her hands either side of a modest mantel clock which ticked quietly.
“That’s better.  Now remain in that position, and do not let go, do you understand me?”
“Yes Mr Bolton.”
The fire warmed the fronts of her legs and her stomach, almost to the point that it was uncomfortable, but Alice was about to learn that the fire on her legs would be the least uncomfortable thing about this experience.

She heard the whip swish through the air a few times more, and each time she winced.  Then silence.  All she could hear was the clock ticking in front of her, the fire crackling softly, and the soft hiss of Mr Bolton breathing through his nose.  Suddenly, with no warning at all, the whip sliced through the air and landed across her exposed bottom.  Her reaction was instant – she let go of the mantelpiece, reaching around to grab her cheeks, and dropped to her knees.
“Aaaahhh!   Ahhh!    Aaaahhhh!” her breath came in short gasps as she curled herself up on the floor.
“Get up Alice!  I did not tell you that you could move.  Do you think that would be it?  One stroke?  I have news for you Alice, this is not nearly done, not by a long way.  Now get up and get back into position, or you’ll be back here every night for a fortnight!  I shall count to ten.  One…  Two.. Three..”

Alice could tell that this was no idle threat.  By the time Mr Bolton had counted to six, she was back on her feet, trembling, and by eight her hands were firmly on the mantelpiece once more.
“That’s better.  I will not tolerate disobedience, Alice.  I have tolerated quite enough from you, and I think anyone would agree that I am being more than generous just by allowing you to keep your job, let alone agreeing to conceal your lies, and to help you to actually succeed in your job.  Now, you will take your punishment without any more fuss, won’t you Alice?”
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes Mr Bolton.  Sorry Mr Bolton.”
“That’s better.  I’m going to ensure that you remember this punishment for a good long while, Alice.  Hopefully, it will inspire you to a more diligent attitude to your work.”

On his last word, the whip sung through the air once more, landing with a loud snap across her bottom.  Clamping her mouth shut, Alice tried to stifle the urge to cry out
“Mmmmf!  Mmmmmmmmff!”
Again the lash fell, the sharp sound echoing slightly off the nearly bare walls, and again, and again.  On the fifth stroke, Alice’s fragile resolve cracked and she was no longer able to keep her teeth pressed together.
“Aaaah!  Ahhhowwww!  Please, no more!”
“No more Alice?  No more?  I will say when there is no more.”

The pain spread out over her bottom as his whip crashed onto her skin again and again, with pinpoint accuracy.  She could feel the burning throb over her cheeks and down the backs of her thighs, and as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, she felt the soreness of the strokes which had landed right across the cleft at the top of her thigh and the pain shot all the way through her body.  Occasionally Mr Bolton would stop as she wriggled in this fashion, and wait for her to be still, but as he did so, she could sense his impatience, and would stop quickly.

Alice had no idea how long she’d been enduring her punishment.  It felt like hours, the pain was unrelenting.  She tried to squint to see the clock, but she hadn’t taken any notice of when her punishment started, and her eyes were now so full of tears that she couldn’t see it anyway.  She sobbed and sniffed and moaned uncontrollably between strokes, and cried out loudly, howling with abandon at each impact, her whole body shaking, but terrified of letting go of the mantel piece.  Eventually, Mr Bolton stopped.

“That’s good Alice.”
She tried to sigh with relief, but her body just shook and her breath came in gasps, coughing and sobbing.
“Just six more strokes to go.  Six more, Alice, and then you can go.
She whimpered, a long low moan.
“Noooooooooo….”
“Yes, Alice.  Six more, and you will count them aloud.”
He stepped back and swung the whip hard, catching her firmly across the centre of her burning crimson bottom.  Alice squealed and gasped, almost letting go of the mantel, fighting to gain control of her breath.
“One.”

Mr Bolton nodded approval, and flicked the whip again, hard.  Again, Alice cried out with pain.  She couldn’t work out whether to be relieved that she only had four strokes left to take, or wonder how she could possibly endure them.
“Two.”

By the fifth stroke, Alice was nearly incomprehensible, driven temporarily mad by the burning pain that threatened to consume her.  But in the back of her mind, the part of her that still had some sense reminded her – one more stroke.  One more, and it will all be done.  Just take one more stroke.  She screwed her eyes shut, the tears rolling hot down her cheeks, and bit the inside of her lip.  The swish that the whip made as it cut its vicious path through the air seemed to last for ever.  Every fibre of her body braced itself for the impact, and just for a moment, for the first time since her punishment began, she felt as though she was quite still.  That changed when the whip landed.  Alice cried out with complete abandon, incoherent and anguished.  Her hands finally left the mantelpiece  and she dropped once more to her knees.  Reaching behind to tentatively touch her burning bottom, she rolled onto her side, sobbing uncontrollably.
“S…s..six.” she managed to whimper through her tears.

Mr Bolton calmly walked across his room to put the whip back on its hook in the cupboard, and then returned to Alice.  Crouching beside her, he tenderly placed his hands on her heaving shoulders, and helped her back up to a kneeling position.
“That’s it Alice.  It’s done now.  You were quite brave.”  All the stern command had gone from his voice now, and it sounded like the firm reassuring voice she’d become used to.  His words made her feel as though she had indeed been very brave, and her sobbing subsided a little.  He helped her to her feet, and handed Alice’s nightdress to her, even giving her a little assistance to put it back on as she trembled in front of the fire.  She almost cried out as the hem of the cotton shift brushed over her backside and the backs of her thighs, and she felt as though she’d never be able to sit comfortably again.

“Now, away to bed with you Alice.  Don’t be late to work in the morning, make sure you do your best all day, and I shall see you tomorrow evening.  I’m sure we’ll have you serving at table without spilling soup in no time.  I’ll speak to Mrs Withers, and make sure she has someone else help at lunch and dinner until such time as you can perform properly.”

“Thank you, Mr Bolton.” Alice whimpered as she limped out of the room and let the door close behind her.  The servants corridors and the narrow staircase to the room in the attic she shared with Evie seemed ten times as long as usual, and every step sent burning pain shooting over her skin as her nightdress brushed against her, but by the time she’d got to the door, she had the sobbing under control, and she paused outside to dry her cheeks and straighten her hair.