The House of Elyot

1888 Part 10

Posted on: March 9, 2011

Naughty master, naughty maid.

 

Nothing in the first post, nothing in the second.  Florence moodily swiped up her book and hunched over it again, pinning all her hopes on the third postal delivery of the day.

 

“I’m sure you’ll hear from him soon, Miss,” offered Molly timidly, but her reward for these heartening words was a curt order to put an extra shovelful of coal into the grate.  The slight sting between her legs as she bent down to the coal scuttle brought a suppressed purr to Molly’s lips, so that Florence looked up sharply.

 

“Yes?  Did you mean to say something to me?”

 

“Oh, no, Miss, sorry.  ‘Tis just…the cold gets into your bones on days like this, don’t it?”

 

Florence grunted and began fidgeting with the clasp of her reticule, mightily tempted to reach inside and find the note from Jessie again.  The impulse won, and she unfurled the notelet, scribbled on the back of a Savoy playbill, that had arrived in yesterday’s post.

 

‘Darling, it was so wonderful to see you last night – my friends declare themselves all quite in love with you and eager to see you again.  Alex promises that he will write you himself soon, but as we know, poets inhabit a sphere outside the temporal norms so beware placing an interpretation on the word ‘soon’, for it will very likely differ from his!  He is quite taken with you and declares that you will be the subject of his next villanelle – should you like to read about yourself in print?

Much as I long to visit you at home, I’m afraid I would be unwelcome.  Would it be too impossible for you to arrange a trip to some ‘respectable’ entertainment?  I was thinking particularly of a museum or a luncheon concert – somewhere you can go by day without arousing too much adverse comment.

This renewal of our girlhood friendship has been such an unexpected blessing – I cherish it, and fear that I could not bear to lose it again.

Please contact me care of the theatre with ref. meeting once more.

Eternally your friend

Jess.’

 

Florence put it away again, looked cursorily at her book and fell into the same daydream that had been plaguing her for the past two days.  The clang of the bell, the announcement that ‘a gentleman’ had come to call on her.  Alex, bearing an enormous bouquet of hothouse blooms, falling on his knees before her and protesting that he was in a fever of passion from which he feared he could never recover until she consented to be his wife.  A grand society wedding (he seemed moneyed and had an aristocratic air, even if her attempts to find out his real status had so far come to nought), a beautiful Mayfair mansion, love and happiness and a household of her own, in which she could do as she pleased for the rest of her days.  Children, she supposed, however they were got.  Or perhaps they could travel, unencumbered, across the continent of Europe and on to more exotic climes.  Jessie had brought home to her just how stultifying her current existence was, and she thirsted for escape, as if she had spent her life in a windowless box and had only now been taken out and shown an endless vista of contrasting landscapes.  Could Alex be the saviour she needed?  Oh, how she hoped so.

 

Molly could see that her mistress was in no mood to keep company, so she took a square of cross-stitching from her apron pocket and sat on a footstool to continue with the sewing.  As she sat, the keen soreness could be felt once more and she wondered what Sir Rupert might be doing at that moment.  Did he think of her in the midst of his busy day of commerce and business?  Did he think of their secret rough and tumble, the tickly-moustache kisses, the brandy-scented promises?

 

She began to relive for the thousandth time their sudden descent into the hurly-burly of illicit amour.  She and Florence had returned from their secret night out, whispering and giggling up the stairs to Florence’s room, fumbling in the dark for they did not dare to take a candle.  She had attended to Florence’s preparations for bed, then tiptoed back down the main staircase to the servants’ quarters, avoiding the creaky steps for all she was worth.  Feeling her way with a hand on the banister, she had arrived on the first floor landing and had only two more flights to descend, when from the pitch blackness to her left, she had heard a voice.

 

“Up so late, Molly?”

 

She let out a small scream and fumbled in her apron for a box of lucifers, managing to light one with shaky fingers.  The smiling moustachioed face of Sir Rupert had been illuminated.  He was leaning on the balustrade, wearing a paisley silk dressing gown and soft leather slippers.

 

“Sir, I….”

 

“I hope you haven’t been up to anything you shouldn’t, my dear,” continued the baronet smoothly.  “Florence tells me she is devoted to you, but if you have been leading her astray…”

 

“Oh no, Sir, of course not!  It’s just…I’m….I couldn’t sleep.  I went for a walk.”

 

“A walk, you say?  Well, that’s one way to cure sleeplessness.  But I know a better one.  How about a little nip of my best cognac?  You seemed to enjoy it the last time.”

 

Molly hesitated before answering.  If she accepted, she was shrewd enough to realise that she was all but consenting to seduction.  On the other hand, if she refused, he may well find some reason to dismiss her in a fit of piqued rejection.  She needed to keep close to Florence and her friends if she were to have any hope of landing herself a decent future, and besides, it wasn’t as if she found Sir Rupert disgusting.  It was clear his marriage had turned to indifference and disappointment, and he would look after her if he made her his mistress, she was sure.  Perhaps he would instal her in her own rooms and she could be a kept woman until some better, more permanent prospect arose.  She could get herself some schooling, perhaps learn a craft or set up a little shop.  Oh yes, a rich man’s patronage might be worth the loss of such a silly thing as a maidenhead.  Molly was a working class girl, and she didn’t share the high and mighty morality of her betters; in her world, virtue and innocence were commodities, to be used in any way necessary to get that elusive foothold on the ladder out of the abyss.  Jessie Carter, only slightly better-born than she and with only a rudimentary Board School education, had clearly managed it.   Why couldn’t Molly Macaulay?

 

“That’s very kind of you, Sir,” she said, her voice a little husky.  She wondered how she should play her scene.  She did not want to appear too knowing, or too inviting of her fate; she knew that it was the corruption of purity that appealed principally to men like Sir Rupert.  He would not necessarily want a girl who seemed to know what she was about.  She would have to simper and feign shock, which was a bore, but needs must.

 

“You’ll find it just the thing,” he averred, indicating the drawing room with an inclination of his head.  “Please do step this way.”

 

Molly stood awkwardly, eyes downcast and hands twisting, while the drinks were poured.

 

“No need to look so frightened, sweet thing,” he crooned, passing her the glass balloon.

 

“I’m just…oh, Sir, I wonder if I should go directly to my room.  I’m not sure this is proper.”

 

“Nonsense, my dear.”  Sir Rupert took Molly’s free hand and led her over to a blue-striped satin chaise longue.  “What could be improper about a gentleman giving his maidservant a little…help along the road…to sleep?  Chin chin.”

 

He clinked their glasses together and drained his tot in one draught.  Molly took a tiny sip and turned the stem of the glass round and round in her fingers.

 

“Brandon told me you had retired early,” remarked Sir Rupert quietly.  “Both you and Florence had settled on an early night.”

 

“I couldn’t sleep,” repeated Molly stubbornly.  “I ‘as bad dreams.”

 

“Oh, little Molly!”  Sir Rupert’s enunciation was a langorous drawl.  “What bad dreams could there be in such a pretty little head?  Why, a sweet thing like you must dream only of…fairies…and flowers.”

 

Molly pursed her lips, trying not to laugh at his hyperbolic flattery.  She was a workhouse maid, not a pampered princess, if he hadn’t noticed.

 

“I had a harsh childhood, Sir, as you know.  Bad things happened.”

 

“Until I took you away from all that,” reminded Sir Rupert, taking her hand and stroking it delicately.  “Dear girl, you must allow me to take care of you.  I know the world can be a terrible place for a young woman, but here in my house you are safe.”

 

Molly permitted the tension of her spine to dissipate, leaning back against the buttoned cushions of the chaise and relaxing into her employer’s feathery finger touch.  She yawned and leant her head to one side, so that it fell onto Sir Rupert’s eager shoulder.  He pulled her closer with an arm around her waist and they sat like that for a few silent minutes, absorbing each other’s warmth.

 

“I’m very grateful to you, Sir, for taking me out of the workhouse,” said Molly dreamily.

 

“Gratitude is a very fine sentiment,” said Sir Rupert into her hair, noticing that it was still pinned up.  Surely she had not put her hair back up just to wander about the darkened house?  He smiled inwardly – it was obvious she had been up to something.  Spurred on by this thought, he moved his hand up to her chin, bringing her lips around until they hovered tantalisingly close to his, forcing her startled hazel eyes into his determined blue ones.  “Show me how grateful you are, Molly.”

 

“I’m a good girl!” protested the maidservant, but she knew it to be an empty plaint.  Sir Rupert would take her whether she wanted him to or not, or he would cast her out.  Either way lay ruin, unless she was able to work her seduction to her advantage.

 

“I know that, Molly.  I know you are a good girl.  Always an obedient and well-behaved little servant to your master.  Show me how obedient and well-behaved you are, you little vixen.”  And with that, he clamped her lips to his, pulling her lower half roughly on to his lap.  He had had his fill of picturing what lay beneath the black stuff dress and the flirty little white mobcap – now he meant to see it for himself.

 

Molly shut her eyes and tried to imagine how she would describe this sensation to her sister.  It was not nasty, though the brush of his moustache was a tad bristly and his lips quite hard; not the full lushness she might have expected.  His breath was over-redolent of the brandy he had consumed, lending it a sourness, but she enjoyed the male scent of him beyond that.  He was clean.  That was what she wanted, what she never wanted to go back to.  The filth, the smells, the rank rancidity of the slums and the workhouse.  She wanted this freshness, for as long as she could hang on to it.

 

His hands began to stray under her skirt, flapping away the extra petticoats impatiently, patting up the line of her scratchy cheap bloomers.

 

“Oh, Sir,” she managed to gasp, prising her lips away from his for a second’s respite.  “What are you doing?”

 

“I will make you feel nice, Molly,” panted the roué, half-mad with the softness and promise of this warm female body.  “I will give you pleasure; the pleasure you deserve.  Do you trust me?  Trust me, little one.”

 

Molly did not trust him an inch, but she did not express this thought.  Jen was right all along, she thought, with a pang of distress at the memory of her sister in the workhouse.

 

“Please don’t hurt me!” she pleaded, wriggling an escape attempt at the realisation that his hand had reached its destination inside the elastic of her bloomers.

 

“No, no,” he murmured, low and frantic.  “Not hurt you, Molly.  Please you.  Give you pleasure.  Open yourself up to it.”  Now his palm was flat against her mons, pushing down between her thighs, then the fingers were splitting her clenched lips, rubbing up and down avidly.  “Oh, yes, oh, Molly.”  And a finger was moving up, oh, it felt so odd; the pressure, the invasiveness.  Molly yelped in horror, desperately trying to shuffle off his lap, away from this rude finger, but he held her firm.  “Ah, as I thought.  A virgin.  Oh, Molly, oh yes!”

 

“Please don’t hurt me!” reiterated Molly, feeling the beginnings of a spread of soreness where the finger, now two fingers, continued to push and prod.  Yet the pain was alleviated by the continuous motion of his thumb between her fleshy inner lips – such a curious sensation, not quite the same as when she touched it herself in the toils of the night.  It was remarkable to have another’s hand giving her that clandestine pleasure, and the sensation was magnifying, distracting her attention from the rough poking of his index and forefingers.

 

“Don’t you like this, my little Molly?”  He covered her mouth with his again, confident of her growing pliability.  The saucy little minxes always played up reluctance, but they wanted it really, when it came down to it.  Little backstreet trollops with their curving bosoms and come-to-bed eyes, ripening in front of him like some provocative soft fruit – how was he expected to look away from it?  Never once did it occur to Sir Rupert that Molly was no older than his own daughter, nor could he see the incongruity of doing to this girl something that he would never wish for his Florence.  She was to be used, enjoyed, but not kept beyond the day her amusements began to pall.  Besides, these backstreet girls lost their bloom so young…one saw them everywhere; hatchet-faced, grey-complected, with shapeless bodies draped in shawls.

 

Molly squealed, finding herself pushed roughly down on her back while the Baronet crouched above her, frantically hoiking her skirts around her waist and pulling down her bloomers.  He seemed in a great hurry to get the thing done, pulling open his gown to reveal a cock in full engorgement, weeping with anticipation.

 

“Molly, you are driving me to distraction,” he muttered, jamming her thighs apart and unceremoniously shoving his impatient member up to the hilt, breaking through her hymen with shocking force.  Molly screamed and he pressed a palm against her mouth, roughly commanding her to shut up or the whole house would be roused.  She bucked against him desperately, unprepared for the stabbing pang that was radiating through her lower torso, wanting him out of her, away from her.  But he was thrusting effortfully, hissing obscenities through gritted teeth, his brow knotted and sweating, his face pillarbox-red.

 

“You are hurting me, Sir,” she gabbled, her words muffled by his palm.  But then, only half a minute at most after the initial penetration he suddenly held himself deadly still then surged forward one last time, grunting a final litany of fucks and cunts and whores before collapsing on to her crumpled chest.

 

Molly stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.  People ruined themselves for this?  Her nether parts were throbbing and she felt torn apart, and, save for Sir Rupert’s tactile attentions to the nub between her legs, there had been no pleasure to glean from the experience whatsoever.

 

Finally her…lover…arose, pushing himself up with his palms either side of her face so that he was peering down at her.

 

“Oh Lord, forgive me, Molly,” he mumbled, shame-faced.  Even his moustache drooped forlornly.  “I am but a man, and our urges overpower us.”

 

“Oh, Sir, I hardly know…what to say,” she whispered.  “How will I ever find a husband now?  No man will want me.”

 

“Molly, Molly,” soothed Sir Rupert, stroking damp curls from her forehead.  “I will want you.  If you will accept me as your…very true friend.  I will compensate you the crime I have committed against your virtue and reputation, I swear.  You need not fear on that score.”

 

Molly kept the flash of optimism leaping within her heart restrained.  Could she really find herself installed as his mistress – a lady of fashion with her own lodgings in Chelsea or Bayswater?

 

“Sir, I am aggrieved that I have lost my cherry.  I ain’t got much, but at least I had that!  But I would like us to be friends, Sir, if you want to be kind to me.”

 

“Oh, I want to be kind to you, Molly.  I want to be kind to you over and over again.  Let us keep this as our precious secret, my darling.”  He kissed her lightly and a slow smile spread beneath the damp brush of his moustache before he withdrew from her, frowning at the sticky emission that leaked on to the cushions as he did so.

 

“I’m afraid I seem to have spent inside you, my dear, but I believe that any…unwanted results…are unlikely the first time.  I shall be more careful in future, you need have no fear.”

 

Molly blinked, unsure what he was driving at, and smiled rather wanly.

 

“Now we must both get to our beds before we are discovered.”  He rubbed her shoulder complicitly and winked.  “Goodnight, my dear.”

 

And with that, the seducer strolled out of the room, tying his dressing gown cord as he crossed the carpet.  Molly frowned down at her still-nude thighs, smeared with light pinkish blood and another colourless substance, wondering how on earth she would remove the stain from the cushion her bottom had been perched upon.

 

Perhaps salt crystals, she decided, before pulling up her bloomers and tiptoeing off to bed.

 

 

4 Responses to "1888 Part 10"

Ah dear. Bad first times are always sad, and this situation makes it even more depressing!

Poor Molly doesn’t have many options, but I think she’s chosen the worst one.

Hey, Missus, just checking you got the most recent meet up emails?

I did, and I replied – but gmail is being very odd at the moment and I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t get it.

I’m going on a 10th wedding anniversary trip somewhere mysterious and exotic at the end of May, so looks as if the meet-up will be out for me, unfortunately. (Well, not unfortunate about the anniversary trip, but you know what I mean…)

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