To Serve Only Her

All characters are over 18. Some of them may even be over the age of 30.

This is a little long, but it is a single story with an ending. If you read to the finish, you will be rewarded.

Chapter 1

Let it be said that I do not mind hard work. Ever since I was just a girl, I found that I must keep my hands occupied. It is like a thirst, to sit idle and useless until a task comes that demands your attention. Then you are filled with purpose, you are given meaning in this world instead of being the empty vessel that is the human body. When I met my mistress that is how I felt, that I had been useless for too long, and she, with all her needs and demands, would fill me up.

Perhaps because I had no siblings to play with, I spent more time with my elders. My parents worked tirelessly from dawn to dusk; my father laboring as a cobbler and my mother as a seamstress. They would spend hours making a creation of perfection for all the nobles in our land, lauded with praise for their finery. When they died, I tried to follow in their craft, but found no one who would accept me into their guild.

Eventually I did what all desperate young women do, I put myself into servitude. My first master was a kindly old Lord, patient with all that I needed to learn, until he died from nothing more than age. I was inherited by his son, who was not nearly the man that his father was. Spoiled and restless, he was often displeased by everything I did.

When they announced the engagement of the Count to what would become my mistress, it was expected that all aristocracy would give them a wedding present worthy enough to keep their social standing, and keep them in the Count’s good graces. Never being that fond of the Count, my young master thought he was clever when he solved two problems by gifting me to the young newlyweds, saddling them with a “worthless wench”. However, what he saw as unusable became useful to the young Countess, and I happily serve only her.

It was an arranged marriage to secure land and allies as usual, the young Countess meeting with the Count only once before their wedding day. I wish I had seen the ceremony, certain that my mistress was the most beautiful bride to have ever graced the chapel of our people. When I met the Countess, I was both startled and conflicted by her striking appearance. Her face was innocent and unblemished, but it carried a maturity, a fortitude that surprised me. The strength was needed when her new husband would expect much of his fledgling wife, an expectation of competency in realms foreign to her.

Rather than flounder with inexperience and avoid her responsibilities (or pawning them off on those that served her), the Countess was fair to all. She showed her strength with forgiveness, she defeated jealous rumors with kindness, and she silenced doubt with every wise decision. The only fault my mistress has, quite simply, is loneliness.

The Count is off fighting a war against invaders that threaten our kingdom, dashing off to adventure and danger while his wife sits idly in the castle that is their home. She is kept busy with the affairs of the Count’s land and its people, and even then she sorts out most problems swiftly and easily. As her personal servant, I am allowed to attend court in the great hall adorned with banners of family crests, and watch the Countess as she levies decisions and decrees to men twice her age with such confidence. It is only when the crowd disappears and we are left alone, that I feel the emptiness ebb back in. Like me, she feels useless when she is idle, lost without purpose.

Today it was quieter than usual at court. Only one case to be settled between two villagers; neighbors disputing how a sheep got loose in the other’s garden and the sheep had eaten a hefty amount of his vegetables. The Countess listened to them patiently, giving each one a turn to speak their case, then suggested that the garden-owner erect a fence to keep out his neighbor’s sheep. His only objection to my mistress was that he did not have the wood for such a fence, nor did he have the money to buy wood. My mistress immediately offers a donation of wood, and the man is shocked by her generosity. He and his neighbor are both blubbering their thanks when they depart the hall.

Josef, the Count’s butler and keeper of the house, approaches my mistress. “Countess,” he begins in a flowery and formal voice which means he will be saying something unpleasant, “while we do have a small surplus of firewood, and the simplicity of your solution to the men’s quarrel is resourceful, we had allotted that surplus for our winter stores.”

My mistress nods her head in acknowledgement. “I did not doubt that you had another purpose for such a prudent surplus of wood Josef, should the winter be long enough to require it. However, there is a purpose in need of it now, and winter is still two seasons away.”

Josef crinkles up his wizened face, unable to argue with her sound logic. He is at heart always kinder than his stoic expression appears, something I have always liked about him. “I cannot argue with such optimism and generosity. I shall see to it that the wood is delivered to the villager in need.”

“Thank you, Josef,” she replies with a smile of gratitude. He is turning to leave when she adds, “And I appreciate that you are also thinking of what is best for the Count’s home and the people in it.”

A smile emerges from beneath his graying beard. “And what is best for our Countess’s home.”

He bows to leave, and my mistress nods at his deferent movement. She is smiling too, but not as jovially as Josef was. I know his statement was a gesture to include the Countess as part of the household he has served longer than anyone in the castle, to say that she is no longer an outsider. She married the Count well over a year ago, but to her and I, we are still newcomers to the life inside the castle.

After the conclusion of court, I escort my mistress from the great hall and head down the corridor to the dining room. The countess eats her supper alone, with myself waiting on her in the extravagantly over-sized room. She looks so small when she is sitting at the long table that stretches nearly the length of the room with herself at one end, surrounded by empty chairs. Sometimes we chat as she eats, discussing the weather or other simple things that she knows will not cause me embarrassment for my lack of knowledge.

Tonight, she is quiet. The young footman, Tomas, has noticed it too, his face a sad smile when he leaves us alone after bringing in the meal. The Countess eats in measured bites, almost forcing herself to eat. Only halfway through the meal, she pushes the plate away from her and calls my name.

“Lida, please tell the cook I am sorry that I cannot finish his supper. Do not let it go to waste, though,” she states as she sets her napkin down on the table.

I bow my head reverently as she stands to leave and escort her to the towering double doors of the room. I tell Tomas to clear the table and to feed the scraps to the dogs, and instruct him to leave a plate of bread out as my mistress may be hungry later. He nods and quickly scrambles away with the food, while I follow behind my mistress.

She walks with heavy steps for such a petite woman as she. Her shoes clatter along as we climb the winding stairs up to her chamber. It seems her steps get slower as we approach the high story, her long skirt of brocade sweeping the floor as she takes the last step onto the landing. She glances back at me, sighing deeply.

“I feel so tired despite having done absolutely nothing of exertion today,” she says with a shake of her head.

“Ruling your people is not nothing, Countess.”

She looks at me with a weak smile. “That is very generous of you Lida, considering all that you have done in one day.”

I curtsy, holding in the reply that I love to serve my mistress, and wait for her to walk ahead before I start to move. Traditional etiquette is to follow my mistress, but open any door that we come to. Always following, and yet somehow always being first. She prefers to walk with me, speaking as we go, and unsettling rules that mean less to her generation than mine. I am not that much older than my mistress, but it feels greater when I stare at my parched hands, then lessens when she speaks with such intelligence. When we reach her suite, I hold open the door, and she enters the small dressing chamber that adjoins the master’s bedroom and together we begin her nightly ritual.

First, I undress her, shedding the heavy ornamental robe and then her formal court gown, which must be unlaced. She patiently stands with her hands resting on her hips, breathing more easily as I undo the laces that crisscross her back. When she emerges from the substantial gown, my mistress is dwarfed by it, her slender body freed, nearly. Then there is her petticoat and her underdress. There is a method to retain her modesty as we do this; my Countess keeps her back to me and I always must stay behind her. I keep my head down and my eyes on the floor as she steps out of her last layer that is the underdress- a long, thin slip in white linen. I then turn to retrieve from the tall armoire her sleeping gown that is not much different in design as the slip, just slightly thicker and in a pleasing silk material. I kneel and hold out the gown for her to step gracefully into, then I rise and lift the nightgown with me, bringing it over her hips and up until I reach her arms. We carefully tuck her hands inside the sleeves, tug the sleeves up and over her shoulders, and she is covered again.

I can do all of this fairly quickly, eased by her ability to anticipate how she must move in order for us to not collide or impede my movements. Not all masters or mistresses would do this, forcing you to toil needlessly by turning them like a child who has no idea how to move their own limbs. My mistress is so refined with her movement that some days I wonder if she does not want to dress herself- or at least as much as she could within the limits of a noble woman’s wardrobe, but then again we have always chatted and discussed her day as we do this, another opportunity to fill her day with a little companionship.

Tonight she is silent as I work, a defeated slump in her normally proud shoulders when she sits at the small wooden dressing table that is placed against the wall. I begin to take out the ribbons and pins that hold her hair up in the tight bun, letting the thick mane of ebony fall over her shoulders. Her hair and eyes are dark, like her people to the north, but her skin is pale and creamy. She glances up as I brush out her hair, another sigh. I have barely brushed out all of the length of her hair which falls to her waist, when she stops my hand.

“That will do, Lida. Let us retire,” she quietly states. Immediately, I step back so that she may stand.

I follow her over to the door that leads into her bed chamber and open her door, bowing my head as she walks through it. She walks over to the colossal four-poster bed, hewed of a heavy wood that sits high off the floor, requiring she must step onto a stool to climb into it. I am taller than her by a hand, but even I need to stretch up to raise the covers for her while she climbs in. My mistress slides under the stark white sheets, then raises her hands up so that I may tuck the many blankets around her. It is still cold in the room since I have not started her fire yet, something I would normally do before she retired.

“I will get your fire lit mistress, take off the chill that’s in this room,” I tell her as I step away from her bed and turn to the imposing stone fireplace on the opposite wall.

She nods silently as I make haste to get her fire started, carefully stacking the wood and kindling, and within a minute there are flames spiraling up from the logs in the stone hearth.

I take a few steps back towards the bed, turning to face my mistress. I bow my head slightly, readying to leave when I see her sit up a bit more, her mouth opening. I keep looking at her, waiting for instruction.

“Please stay Lida, just for a while,” she states, gesturing for me to come closer.

I nod and step back over to the elevated bedside. “I will make sure the fire is going good and strong,” I say, trying to be conversational when I can tell something else is bothering her. “Can I get you another blanket, my lady?”

“No, no thank you,” she sighs. “The chill in this room will not be undone by blankets or fire.”

She glances over towards the empty half of the giant bed, eyeing the indentation that should be where her husband lies.

“Has there been any other word of his Lord’s progress?” I ask politely, despite knowing that there hasn’t been since I’m usually present when her mail is delivered.

“No,” she replies. “I have only been told that his garrison was following the river south.”

“They will send messengers when it is safest, his lordship would be sure of it,” I say, trying to raise her spirits.

“Of course,” she replies half-heartedly.

We listen to the steady crackling of the fire, and I turn back to face the hearth, hearing my mistress take a deep breath. A heavy breath that settles over her bed, then dissolves into a sniffle. I do not look back, but walk over to the fire, stoking the logs with unnecessary effort, giving my mistress the privacy to collect herself. I have only seen her cry once before, and that was the day after the Count left with his men. She has probably cried before, and simply managed to do so in privacy.

When I pretend to be satisfied with my busywork, I turn back to see the Countess discretely wiping her eyes, but she makes no pretense to hide the grim expression on her face.

“I must confess that I do not think he will return,” she says plainly, her brown eyes staring ahead at the fire. “I should not say it, and yet I cannot live in false hope. I try Lida, I try for all the people who depend upon his return, and it drives me mad.”

“My Lady-“, I start, taking a step towards her bed, but she cuts me off.

“No, please Lida. Of all those who speak to me, please speak freely to me, as you always have,” she says, her eyes wide and glistening.

I steel my nerve, and try to mend her heart. “My Lady, we cannot know what his lordship faces, or where he may be. We can only hope that he is returned to you. If he does not return, it will not be his failure, nor yours. It is only the wait that pains you so. Losing faith will not ease that pain.”

She smiles with some relief, her eyes glistening as she gazes at me.

“You are right Lida. It shall not do us any good to lose myself to despair.”

“Despair has its place when one is missing one’s heart. I cannot imagine your pain, my lady,” I offer, taking a moment to pat down the edge of the blankets near her feet. She shakes her head, seeming embarrassed at her lapse in judgement.

“I am sure you have your own pains, Lida, that I am none too generous to inquire about,” she scoffs.

“My lady is a very busy one, without time to worry about my pains,” I scoff back, taking a step away from her bed.

“Well I should be more inquisitive as you are just as vital to my life,” she says with a chuckle, leaning back into her pillow.

I try not to show my happiness at her statement, bowing instead as I back away.

“Thank you mistress,” I mumble, “May you have a pleasant sleep.”

“Thank you, Lida,” she whispers back, the sweet tone of affection in her voice. A tone that sends a flutter through my chest. “Goodnight.”

I keep my head down, not daring to meet her eyes as I reach the door, not turning my back on her until I leave.

“Goodnight my lady.”

Chapter 2

I retire to my room that is on the floor beneath my mistress. This is unusual, something Josef initially balked at, arguing it was unwise to have one servant sleeping floors above the rest of the castle staff. The Countess told him that she was in need of my services “as quickly and as conveniently as possible” and in order to achieve that swiftness I needed to be closer to her bedchamber. I was secretly pleased, knowing that I would have a private room, larger and warmer than anything in the servant’s quarters. My bed is still the narrow size that holds an unmarried woman, and my simple clothing scarcely fills the wooden armoire, but I have a window that overlooks the courtyard below. I can also hear my mistress’s footsteps when she walks across the floor, even as dainty as she is, the castle is old and creaks.

I have only been lying in bed for a short time when I know that sleep will not come easily tonight. I am too restless, too stirred up by my mistress’s troubles, too excited by her kind words. I try not to think of her face, I try to think of other things. I think of my duties tomorrow, which outfit I will pick out for her, which garments will need to be laundered or mended. These fleeting thoughts cannot compete with the way I feel for her.

My thoughts seem to have a way of coming true. I often accuse myself of causing trouble when my thoughts wander towards things unhealthy or unhelpful. I know I should not think certain thoughts, and just as I chide the gnawing ache that has started inside my body, I hear a sound above me. A little thud, and then a shuffle of sounds that travel diagonally across the ceiling and over to the hall.

My mistress is up- the thud is the sound of her stepping onto her little wooden stool and then her feet crossing the floor. There is a pause as she waits at the threshold of her door, likely sticking her head out to see if anyone will see her as she sneaks out of her bedchamber. The pause lasts only a few ticks of my heart, and then I hear the shuffle going away from my room, towards the staircase. She is coming down.

I leap out of bed and throw on my dressing robe, tightly knotting the heavy wool around me, then shoving my feet into the lovely slippers my mistress gave me for my birthday. I crack open my door and see exactly what I expected to see. My mistress is walking down the staircase, her dressing robe floating behind her like a satin ghost in the dim light, her dark hair alive with movement as she walks. I take the time to spy on her, taking in her image before I quietly tiptoe out of my chamber and head down after her.

I know where she is headed, remembering that she had only eaten half of her supper. She is going to the kitchen to scrounge up a snack. I hope that Tomas has left out the bread as I have instructed, and hope that she will be pleased with it.

She is not far ahead of me, and I could have caught up with her, but I selfishly choose to hang back so that I can watch her glide along the empty halls. I also do not want to frighten her with my sudden appearance, so I wait in the shadow of the hallway until she has gone into the kitchen. There are the quiet sounds of her movement, no doubt snooping into things to see what morsels she can find.

I slap my feet across the floor with exaggerated steps, trying to announce my presence. She whirls around as I enter, but her momentary surprise becomes a little grin.

“Did I wake you?” she asks, knowing quite well that I will always rise if I hear my mistress about.

“I wasn’t really sleeping,” I say, walking beside the long counter that stores the flour and sugar, the place where Tomas should have left out the bread. “And you didn’t finish your supper.”

“I know,” she answers playfully, “But there was more soup than I had room for in my belly.”

I spy the plate of bread just behind her elbow as she leans over the counter, peering into a large bowel covered with a towel.

“There is a dish just behind your arm, my lady,” I say, gesturing towards the plate.

She spins around in the other direction, missing the plate completely. I stretch over to reach the plate, leaning my body close to hers, close enough to have her hair brush up against my shoulder when she turns back around to face me.

“Lida…” she giggles, waiting as I hold the plate ceremoniously in front of her. “You are too clever for me.”

“Not clever, just knowing of my lady’s appetite,” I argue.

She grins at me with a twinkle in her large brown eyes, pausing before she takes the plate from me. I feel my body warm all over, the heavy wool stifling me even in the chilly stone kitchen. She goes to sit at the long wooden table scarred from years of heavy instruments of cooking being wielded upon it, and takes a bite of her bread. I have gone to retrieve some butter from the little cold jar that is tucked away to keep greedy fingers from thieving some of its precious contents, and bring back a generous dollop in a bowl. My mistress’s eyes light up when she sees the bowl in my hands.

“Cook will be angry at us for stealing her butter,” she whispers, taking the bowl from me.

“There is plenty more in store, and what use is it if not for eating,” I say, pouring a cup of milk for her and for myself.

“Thank you,” she replies when I set the cup in front of her. I sit down on the opposite side of the table.

“Are you hungry?” she asks as she smears the butter across her bread with her fingers, ignoring the knife I have set down next to her for the purpose.

I shake my head as I lift my cup. “I was thirsty.”

She smiles blithely and takes a bite of her bread, chewing with rebellious enjoyment. She is eating without the measured movements that every lady must display when dining, no matter who is present at her table. But here, in the rugged stone kitchen she is free. Here she is chewing loudly and vigorously, greedily slapping more butter down on her bread, relishing the unctuous flavor.

“The bread is very fresh,” she mumbles between mouthfuls.

“I could smell it cooking yesterday morn,” I comment.

“Would you like a bite?” she asks, holding out the bread to me, the bread that she has already eaten half of.

“My mistress needs to eat more than I.”

She frowns at me. “Nonsense, we should each be eating no more than the other.”

She extends the bread towards my face with an insistent nod of her head. I realize she is stretching out her arm to give me a bite, meaning she will hold it while I do so. I cannot help but tremble a bit, feeling her eyes on me, feeling a heat as she watches my lips close on the bread that she has just had in her mouth. The butter is sweet and rich on my tongue, gliding over the fluffy foundation of bread, but none of this is as delicious as the thought that her lips have been where mine are now placed.

She grins when I take the bite, and pulls the bread away as I start chewing. I try not to stare as I watch her take another bite, seeing her red lips now covered with a sheen of butter. She looks down at the little bowl and dips her finger in, trying to scrape at the last remnants at the bottom. It is a slippery endeavor wherein the bowl goes clattering away from her, loudly rolling across the table and into her sleeve. We both giggle childishly, and I stand to grab a rag to wipe off her robe. I stay on my knees as I clean off her sleeve, focusing on the task that brings me beside my mistress.

“I should be more careful,” she states, watching me work. “I seem to ruin a garment faster than you can mend them.”

“It is good practice for me to mend them,” I say, blotting up the oily residue with my rag, “and to clean them.”

She chuckles lightly, a sound that warms my heart. “I should learn to mend as well as you. I tried to embroider but could not manage my fingers. My mother was very disappointed at my lack of having the feminine skills as she called them.”

“My father could mend just as well as my mother,” I explain as I keep blotting up the stain. “He would stitch up his own shirt and breaches, nearly as well as he could mend our shoes.”

“I think that is commendable. To be so proficient and assist your household, and your wife,” she says with a wistful tilt of her head. “Your father sounds like just the man that created you, Lida.”

I try to smile demurely, only glancing up to see her watching me thoughtfully.

“Sometimes I feel selfish that I should have you all to myself,” she mutters almost to herself. The statement shocks me so that my hands come to a stop.

“I am grateful that I should have you, to keep me in your house,” I counter, feeling myself drawn to look at her, regretting that I will feel the ache in my chest but wanting so much to see her gazing at me.

The brown eyes are batting their long eyelashes, the red lips smiling tenderly. I know that this is a motherly affection, a bond that she has gained from my dutiful services, nothing more. But for one instance, there in the shadowed kitchen, as she gazes at me I feel a warmth that is different. She slowly takes the rag from me and sets it down on the table. I nearly panic as she stays idle, when she sighs with deep satisfaction.

“Let us retire, Lida.”

Chapter 3

I sleep terribly and wonderfully. My body rolls and twitches all night, while my mind drifts through fantasies I shouldn’t think of, but I cannot control my dreams. I relish in their debauchery, and awake feeling guilty. It cannot be helped, I tell myself. It is better to keep my feelings safely tucked in my mind for only a nightly viewing, instead of being compelled to act upon them. At least this is what I tell myself as I get out of bed and prepare for the day ahead of me.

When I go up to wake my mistress, I find her in a pleasant mood. She was cheered by our late night trespass in the kitchen, a smile on her face as we go into her dressing chamber. We are still joking about bread and butter, mindlessly chatting as I comb out her hair and wind it up. I am always happy when she is happy. It takes little effort to make her beautiful when she smiles, even when I struggle to coil up her heavy strands of ebony.

“My hair does not want to obey you,” she teases as I fumble to secure a ribbon around her bun.

“It is my fingers that do not want to obey,” I retort, garnering a giggle from her when a section of hair slips free and unravels down her shoulder. I wrap my fingers around the strands, trying to keep them tight in my grip and grazing the bare skin of her shoulder with my fingernails in the process. “Oh, I’m so sorry my lady!”

I release the strands, apologetically trying to soothe her skin with a balm I keep at her dressing table for sore ligaments.

“I hardly felt it,” she assures me, but lets me work the balm in, closing her eyes as I take a moment to rub the shoulders that must be burdened with heavy robes and heavier duties still.

I brush aside the loose section of her hair, wrapping it on the other side of her neck so I can now rub the other shoulder, working around the straps of her underdress. The image of her hair partially up, with a long strand of dark silk hanging over one shoulder, is beyond captivating. Her head is tipped back slightly, a contented smile on her lips while her eyes remain closed. I am glad her eyes cannot see me staring at her, the feeling she is stirring up as I caress her skin. And suddenly my thoughts get me in trouble.

She has tipped her head down, swaying a bit as I massage her shoulders. I continue to rub down and across the muscles, going along her collar bone. My hands work to please her, distracted when she sighs so deeply, the rise and fall of her chest pushing against the thin slip. I quickly look away when my eyes drift down to her breasts, the strand of hair twisting over them. I should stop and go back to fixing her hair, but my hands can feel her body undulating ever so slightly to my movements, I can hear how her breathing is changing. She turns her face and brushes her cheek against my arm, an accident, but stimulating nonetheless. Her lips are open, sighing again, but the sound is deeper and luscious, and the sound matches up with each stroke of my fingers. But then she pauses, and everything inside me clutches when she pulls away. I curse myself and my thoughts, wondering how I have done this when she stills.

Slowly my mistress straightens up, and I pull my hands away. I know to do nothing else but grovel.

“Forgive me, my lady,” I gush with a bow of my head.

A torturous moment of silence passes as she looks down at the coil of hair that remains loose.

“I think you should leave this disobedient strand free,” she simply states, glancing back to smile at me. “What do you think?”

The offense of my actions goes ignored.

“Yes, my lady. I think it will look quite nice.”

******

Despite the pleasant mood that my mistress awoke in, despite the strange but exhilarating moment we shared in her dressing chamber, the day descends into solemn arguments at court. Two farmers joined by their respective households have feuded so long that their families complain over the most trivial issue, a quarrelsome lot that is repeatedly warned to be silent when one member is speaking to the Countess. She calmly and wisely councils the farmers, then decrees a fair settlement to their problem. There is disagreement, which is nothing new, but when the noisy families are leaving an old woman rails against my mistress with abuse. She accuses her of favoritism and idiocy, and worse yet, blames her for being husbandless.

“It’s no wonder the Count isn’t here to see what a stuck-up woman he got- thinking she’s the lady of the land- when she ain’t got half a brain in her head!” the old woman bellows, slurring and spitting angrily.

“I am sorry you should feel that way when I have just saved your family from certain bankruptcy or worse,” my mistress states coldly.

“I ain’t sorry for nothin! Just another half-wit from up north who knows nothin’ about our goings-on!” she spits out before a guard shoves her out of the great hall, her voice echoing in the hallways as they escort her out.

My mistress sighs heavily as the sound of the heavy door slamming closed means that the old woman is finally gone.

“She was hideous,” I hiss under my breath. “But worse yet someone has to take her home with them.”

“Indeed,” my mistress chuckles weakly.

“Shall we have supper, my lady?” I ask, extending my hand to assist her up from her throne.

“I suppose I should,” she grumbles, and I lead her out of the great hall.

She eats a pitiful amount, leaving most of her meal on the plate after she’s poked at the food in a haphazard way. I once again ask Tomas to save her a plate of bread, and I escort the Countess up to her bedchamber.

My mistress fumbles as I undress her, uncharacteristically clumsy as I help her out of her court robes.

“I believe that woman aged me along with her,” she quips when I finally get her free of the heavy gown.

“She aged everyone in that room,” I joke back, garnering a light chuckle.

We continue to shed her layers, except that when I go to hold out her sleeping gown, she does not immediately step into it. My haunches start to burn as I stay kneeling, keeping my head down and my arms stretched out. I am finally forced to glance up, seeing her bare backside standing still, her head staring straight ahead.

“My mistress?” I ask, turning my head back down.

“Oh, I am sorry Lida,” she gasps, stumbling into the gown.

“You are tired, my lady.”

“Tired and apparently brainless,” she sighs.

I go to brush out her hair, taking care to not repeat my insolent move from this morning. She is silent, filling the room with a heaviness I know I cannot chat away, I can only proceed with my efforts to make her comfortable.

Once I have lit the fire and she is tucked in bed, I stay. Silently, we watch the flames flicker and grow, meanwhile I feel a knot in my chest. A knot that grows with every sigh of my mistress. I try to think of what I can say to ease her sorrow, to fill her heart with something other than misery.

“Is my lady warm enough?” I ask lamely.

“Yes,” she replies, “thank you, Lida.”

I nod as she turns her eyes back to the fire and I feel it is time to leave, except I do not. My mistress is still sitting up in bed instead of reclining into her pillow like she normally would, the signal that she is ready for sleep. Her hands are in her lap, fiddling with a thread in the blanket.

“Lida,” she begins in a small voice, a voice I have never heard before. “Would you stay here? For a bit longer?”

“Of course, my lady.”

I take a few steps back, coming closer to her bedside.

“Oh, please take a seat, Lida. You have been on your feet long enough.”

I shake my head, “I do not mind it.”

“Lida-”

I keep shaking my head.

“Lida.”

Her voice becomes stern when I keep refusing.

“I insist you sit.”

She gestures towards the bed, when there is another chair in the room: a bulky, leather chair that resides on the opposite of the bed for the Count’s use, and a matching leather foot stool. I go to retrieve the little foot stool when my mistress stops me.

“Lida, you may sit on my bed, it will not object to the weight of two women on it,” she states, more amused at my efforts to maintain the propriety of her stature.

I curtsy before hopping up onto the bed, staying near the end of it, clear of where her feet are. We both giggle at the poof of air I create with the depression of my weight on the stack of fluffy blankets.

“Thank you,” she states with a smile, meeting my eyes.

I smile back, glancing down at the fine silk trim of her sleeve. She follows my eye line down and also gazes at it.

“All this finery,” she mumbles, almost to herself. “And to what end.”

The crackling of the fire fills the silence, when she continues.

“My mother selected each piece of my boudoir. A careful selection of the finest slips and sleeping gowns that will only be seen by my husband, and my armoire.”

“And your dresser,” I add, trying to add levity. She weakly smiles at me.

“And now, only you,” she sighs, then adds with an almost contempt,”he has only seen my precious boudoir once.”

I am fairly certain what she is referring to, and try to think of how to respond. My mistress glances at me, and our eyes meet. Two women of age know of this pain, and I venture an almost bold response.

“His lordship did not think that it would take more than once to sire an heir?”

She snickers, giving me a mirthless smile. “It seems, he did not.”

I remember the way my mistress would prepare for the Count, the scented oils, the nightly baths. In the beginning she was filled with a nervous excitement, then it became a chore. Another pointless ritual that together, we endured.

“At least, in his absence, I have spared you the lathering of oils and the lotions,” I offer, garnering another small smile from her.

“It was not so bad, Lida, to be at least touched by someone,” she mutters, looking down at her hands again.

My heart is at once, filled with elation, and sorrow. I feel so much that I worry I will say the wrong thing, and I slip down from the bed. My mistress takes a deep breath, concealing a shudder of tears as she stares at her lap.

I take a step closer, and place my hands on top of hers, squeezing with reassurance.

“I am sorry, Lida,” she whispers with a catch in her voice.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, my lady. There is no woman alive that would not feel as you do, in his lordship’s absence. No one,” I state with a firm squeeze.

“I do not think-”

Her voice cracks with emotion, desperately trying to swallow back her tears.

“I do not think I can take another night in this room. In this bed that belongs to a husband I have not seen in so many nights that I am forgetting what he looks like.”

“My lady,” I hush, stroking her hands, watching her dissolve into tears that stream down her face, her shoulders shaking.

My heart breaks as I listen to the mournful sounds of her tears. I risk impertinence when I take a step closer so that I can stretch up and wrap an arm around her shoulder. Her emotions are flowing out, oblivious to me until she leans her head into my shoulder. I let her cry unabashedly, saying nothing, just holding her. My arm starts to ache from stretching up to reach her on the tall bed, when I finally make use of her stool and step up. I perch myself halfway onto the bed, beside her, one leg resting on the sheets while I lean against the sturdy bed.

Her crying lessens as I keep soothing her with my left arm around her shoulder and my right hand squeezing her hands. Finally she lifts her head slightly, glancing up at me, shame in her eyes. She flounders for words, and I shush her to silence.

“Close your eyes,” I say, squeezing her again. She does not argue as I scoot my bottom further onto the bed so that I can support her weight better, gently pulling her with me as I lean back into the wooden headboard.

She has laid her silky dark hair across my chest, her cheek resting just above my bosom, while she is curled into my left hip. Her body is lithe and yet soft, I can feel her heartbeat, I can smell the lavender that I use when I launder her garments. Suddenly, she takes her left hand and brings it up to rest it on a bony rib.

I listen to her breathing slow to a steady rhythm, and watch to see that her fist on my chest has relaxed. My mistress is asleep and I am wide awake. I cannot move a muscle without disturbing her, and even as my back aches I have no wish to leave her side, to selfishly enjoy the presence of her so near and intimate. I allow myself one small indulgence- I carefully tip my head down, brushing my chin over the crown of her head, filling me with a peaceful calm. My mistress, in my arms, sleeping blissfully.

Chapter 4

In the morning, I awake with a sore back. For a moment I have forgotten where I am, until I look down to see that I am still wearing my gray servant’s dress, still in my mistress’s bed. I carefully crawl down, which is easier since somewhere in the night she has gently rolled off to the side of me. I do not look back to see her lying so peacefully for I know that if I do, I will not leave. Instead I must keep moving, furtively returning to my room.

Thankfully I am witnessed by no one since dawn is just breaking, and I make haste to strip, wash off the pits of my arms and anywhere else that had perspired in my sleep. I make a note to replenish the water in my basin as I have used it all up in my cleansing. Then I change into a clean uniform, an older dress that has been mended too many times but kept just as a reserve, comb out the wiry strands of my mousey brown hair and secure it up in a tight bun.

Before I leave my room, I pause to look down at my body. There is something lingering inside me, a sensation that my body has somehow changed in the night. Something that changed when I held my mistress, when I felt her body pressed against mine. I try to leave the feeling in my room, and go back to being the Lida that I recognize, the one that my mistress relies on. Lida the dutiful servant, Lida the obedient one.

When I return to my mistress she is only just waking up, groggily sitting up and stretching her arms out. I keep working, going around the room opening curtains, sweeping up the ashes of her fire, anything to keep myself busy while she languidly gets out of bed.

“Good morning mistress,” I blurt with a bow of my head.

“Morning Lida,” she says with a lazy yawn. Just hearing her say my name sends a spark through my chest, and I remind myself to be of service.

I go to open the door to her dressing chamber and she has paused. I wonder if she will speak of my irregular presence in her bed, feeling a twist of my stomach until I see her staring down at herself.

“Do we have time this morning to draw a bath?” she asks, wrinkling up her nose slightly.

“Before court? I’m afraid not, my lady,” I answer. I am grateful this fact is true as I can hardly stand to look at her now fully clothed.

“After supper then?” she asks again, seeming to be self-conscious of a scent I have yet to detect. She sees my hesitation. “I know the kitchen hates porting all that water up at night, but it would give everyone tomorrow morn to rest instead.”

“I shall arrange it then with Josef,” I say with a compliant bow. I hope that I can gather my wits and control myself when the time comes this evening.

******

The day seems to pass far too quickly. I have kept myself busy with chores that separate me from my mistress, valid excuses but unnecessary when there is other staff dedicated to scrubbing floors and cleaning the stone hearth. But today I want to do these more menial chores. Today I want to be down on my knees, I want to repent for taking pleasure from what caused my mistress pain. I scrub each dirty surface until it shines like new, ignoring the simmering energies that the vigorous movements stimulate. I curse myself and my sickness that wants to feel this way, the way I hunger for such debasement.

Court is brief since it is a Friday, and the weather is fair. There is always less complaining when warm spring sunshine allows a long day of planting crops. I have managed to finish my punishing duties just in time to see Josef concluding business in the great hall. My mistress is pleased and is about to retire to supper when word comes that a man has come from afar to bring a message to her household.

Her face lights up. “Do not send him away! Let him in, Josef!”

Everyone scurries about to rush in this lauded messenger, my mistress going back to her throne while I fluff out her skirt and robe. I take my place away from the raised step of her throne, standing in the shadow near the doorway to the corridor.

The messenger is led into the great hall, a man no more than 30, his clothes covered in the dust from his journeys. He takes off his military hat and bows deeply in front of my mistress.

“My Lady,” he states in a rough voice, coughing to clear his throat. “Thank you for seeing me at such a late hour.”

“It is not that late, good sir, but only that I am tired from nothing so taxing as your travels. Please tell me what word have you to deliver?”

He is startled by her pleasantness as all new-combers are, his face darting up when he hears her melodious voice. I silently chide myself that even the sound of her words causes a reaction in my body, and remind myself to focus on this important messenger.

“His Lordship has reached Varad, and is days away from reaching the encampment of our enemy. They are making steady progress. He asks for more food and any men that can be spared.”

The man rattles out his message in rapid delivery, a message he has memorized rather than have it written on some parchment that could be lost or intercepted. He coughs again at its conclusion, then looks up at my mistress in a daze when she asks a question.

“Was there anything else?” she asks, her eyes wide with hope. “Any other message from the Count?”

The man stares into the distance, examining his memory. “No, my lady. That was all.”

When he sees her expression of doubt he adds, “His Lordship would not let me leave until he was sure I would not forget it. ”

My mistress lowers her head, her mouth tightens into a thin line. The room fills with an emotion so potent I feel it is about to burst forth with a howl of agony. Being a man wise and experienced in these delicate affairs, Josef quickly interjects.

“Thank you young man, you may take your leave now. The Countess will see to fulfilling his Lordship’s requests,” he promises, ushering the messenger out. The man tries to look back at my mistress, sensing her displeasure and worrying that he has caused it. I sympathize with the messenger; he has done nothing wrong other than deliver the awful truth. The truth being more than just the arrangements of war and battles, but a matter of the heart laid plain for all to see.

*****

Josef and I make haste to draw up the bath for my mistress while she eats her supper. I can tell she is relieved to eat alone, to have no one to watch her wrestle with her emotions. When I return to lead her up to her chambers I can see the way she clenches her jaw, the tight exhale of breath as she walks up the stairs. Every plodding step is one that she makes with an almost pain to go one more inch closer to the bed chamber she will sleep in alone yet again.

I am tired from hauling heavy buckets up the stairs, even when assisted by other servants it takes at least three of us to make our endeavor efficient enough so that the water will be hot for my mistress. I am glad to be fatigued, it helps to dampen the compulsive emotions of my body. I manage to undress my mistress without any complications, quickly covering her in a thin dressing robe and leading her to the bath that we have placed in front of the roaring fire in her bedchamber.

I stand aside, keeping my face turned away when my mistress removes her robe, then holding out my arm to assist her into the bath. The small metal tub is just the right size for her, allowing her to lie down with her feet at the very end. She steps in and I can hear the gentle splash of water as she lowers herself down.

“How is the temperature, my lady?”

“Good,” she answers quietly.

“Would you like to soak for a time before cleansing?” I ask, still keeping my face turned away.

She sighs, a fatigue to be asked another question. “Yes, not for long though.”

“Of course my lady.”

I turn to exit through her dressing chamber. I sensed that she may have been about to say something, but I am feeling my nerves unsteady. Quickly escaping, I close the door to her room and sit down on her dressing stool.

For a moment I want to cry. I feel her hopelessness, and it feels like an echo of my own hopelessness. I question why I have done this to myself. Why do I allow myself to be swayed by these thoughts only to make myself miserable. Why can I not control that part of myself? Why can I not be satisfied with my status and my value as her servant. Why do I long for things that can never come to be?

I sit in solitude and pray for strength. I pray to be strong for my mistress, and to be of service. Only when I have calmed myself and controlled my thoughts do I venture back into the bedchamber. I go close enough so she can hear my voice but not so close as to see her form beneath the water.

“How is my mistress? Is the water still suitable for your soak?” I ask in my most soothing voice.

She turns her head to the side, a deep sigh. “I am finished soaking.”

“Shall I assist you in cleansing?”

Another sign of her independence was Josef’s original instructions that I was to always ask before proceeding with this very intimate service. Rarely does she ask for help, and usually that is only to wash her hair.

She extends her hand, a sign that she is asking for her soap and cloth. I quickly hand her the hard block of soap, along with a small rag, and step back. I keep my head lowered as I hear the water splash, the sounds of liquid sloshing in the tub. The chafing sound of scrubbing comes next, a flick or splash as limbs are moved or lowered into the water. She is quick tonight, irritated. Soon enough, she calls for me.

“Lida, I am ready for you to cleanse my hair.”

I approach from the back of her figure that is sitting upright in the tub, and kneel behind her. I have already pushed up my sleeves in preparation, readying to dunk a small pitcher under water. I draw up the soapy water from the tub and gently pour it over the length of her hair. I start lathering the ends of her hair first, delicately rubbing the strands between the palms of my hands so that I won’t tangle them. I try to work quickly but gently, seeing the rise and fall of her shoulders as I work.

“I will rinse you now,” I say to warn her, feeling the water is only a tepid warmth now as I dunk the pitcher again to re-fill it. She nods in acknowledgement, and tucks her knees up to her chest.

I carefully pour water over her head, and down her back. She keeps her eyes closed, still flinching from the difference in temperature.

“I’m sorry my lady,” I cringe, continuing to pour over her huddled form.

She nods, waiting until I finish before she speaks. “The cool water helps.”

I reach for the thin sheet I’ve left just beside the fire on her wooden step stool, and unfold it. I stand beside the tub keeping my arms outstretched to cover my mistress as she stands and then steps out of the tub. I wrap her up in the sheet, brusquely rubbing her arms as water drips off of her, ignoring the way the damp material clings to her naked shape.

“A hot bath for a chill, and a cool bath for the temper,” I comment as I wring her hair out on the back of the sheet.

“Indeed,” she replies, more fatigued now as I walk her over to the chair I have taken out of her dressing room and set down in front of the fire. She sits down, shaking some water out of her ear, mindlessly shoving her hair back.

I turn to go retrieve the brush to comb out her hair when I hear a sniffle. When I turn back around I see her glaring at the fire, her mouth set into a frown. I stand behind her, reaching out to gently brush aside the wet strands hanging over her face.

“Tell me I am impatient, Lida. Tell me that I am not a good wife. That I cannot simply endure the act of waiting,” she states, her voice thin but potent with emotions barely held at bay.

“No, my lady, you are not impatient,” I reassure calmly. “The Count has been gone since before the New Year and before the last harvest. It will be a year this midsummer that he is gone.”

“Yes, but that is nothing in the life of one woman,” she counters, leaning away from my brush as she gestures towards herself dismissively. “In the blink of an eye he has been gone, and yet I cannot stand it. I cannot stand it!”

She slumps over, scoffing at herself while I hold out the long strands to brush them out.

“My lady, your waiting has not been the blink of an eye. No man can say how much time he has and yet we act as if we had plenty of it until our mind grows feeble and our body aged. You are not impatient. You know how precious life passes in the blink of an eye, and you are keen not to miss it.”

At my last words her head snaps up and her eyes meet mine.

“Yes, and that is my folly! I am missing the man I married, and yet he does not miss me. Why does he not send one word to me? Not one letter or note?” she demands, the anger flashing in her eyes.

“He is too…occupied,” I sputter, but she is not convinced. I try to distract her with the steady strokes of the brush, separating out the small tangles at the ends of the silky ropes of black.

“Occupied,” she mocks, jerking against the brush when she turns back around. “He can go to all the trouble to make some poor man memorize two sentences and not include one word of it to me.”

I purse my lips, unable to argue against the very reasonable request of her beloved. “It was very…abrupt.”

“It was cruel!” she snaps.

“It was,” I agree, smoothing liniment into her hair with the palms of my hands. “Josef was surprised as well.”

She mutters something else under her breath, looking down at her hands as I tuck her hair behind her ears, twisting her hair into a loose braid.

“Men are not known for the remembrances of affection,” I console, securing her braid with a ribbon.

My mistress doesn’t seem to hear me, but is looking down at the ring on her finger, her hurt is bubbling up into greater anger and I know I must intervene.

“Shall we forget his forgetfulness for now, and get dressed?” I tease, leaning down to look into her scowling face.

“I suppose I should,” she exhales.

I take the sleeping gown I have left on another chair near the fire and unfold it for her. I kneel before her again, holding out the gown so that she may step into it. She is lost in thought, not seeing me when I speak.

“It may get colder if you remain in the wet sheet,” I state.

“Does it matter if I am cold and wet,” she quips with a weak chuckle, placing her toes in the center of the gown I’m holding open.

She lets the sheet fall off her shoulders and slowly turns around as I wait to lift her gown up. Once she has her back to me I glide the material up over her hips, bringing the sleeves up so she may put her hands into them. I have selected a long nightgown in a heavier linen, knowing that she may be colder after a bath, but also selfishly trying to stem my temptation by covering more of her.

My mistress turns around with a small smile. “You knew I would be cold,” she says with a glance down at the material.

“Or it may be that all of your other gowns need to be laundered,” I crack as I straighten out the collar of her gown.

She manages to chuckle again, and I am glad. I escort her to the bed, returning her little wooden stool to its necessary place to assist her up. We get her settled and I am tucking in her covers, the covers that I have slept in just the night before, and in an instant I regret this thought. I feel her looking at me as I putter, feeling my body move too slowly as I turn to go back to the fire.

She does not speak until I have stepped away. “Lida?”

The small voice has returned, and I freeze. It takes all my strength to turn around and face her as required anytime she addresses me. “Yes, my lady?”

My mistress hesitates, then meets my eyes, taking a deep breath before she speaks. “Please, will you stay with me?”

Her voice is not so small, more confident this time. She knows that I wouldn’t dare say no, yet she still asks. She does not command me as she could, even if at times I want her to. I do not want it to be a choice. I do not want her to think I would refuse.

“Of course, my lady.”

I barely curtsy, distracted when she smiles at me so brilliantly.

“Thank you, Lida.”

“Let me put your tools away, and I shall return,” I say, and she nods with approval.

I go back to the fire to gather up the tools of her bath, leaving the tub and basin to be dealt with in the morning. I have started towards the dressing chamber with her brush and comb when she speaks again.

“Lida- why not change into one of my gowns?” she suggests with a hopeful voice. “You may surely borrow them for one night.”

I had wondered if she would remember, or even realize, that I had stayed in her bed all night. My hope was that she would think it a dream, that my disappearance in the morning would erase the memory. But as expected, my mistress is cleverer than that.

I pivot on my heel, then lower my head. “I should not have lain idle so long as to fall asleep in my lady’s bed.”

“You were idle long enough that I fell asleep, and slept very well,” she argues, softly. “If you should be forced to sleep sitting up, at least it should be in something more comfortable.”

I cannot help but smile at her, seeing her eyes looking at me pointedly. But my body is already responding to the thought of lying in her bed, again.

“I do not know if any of my lady’s gowns will fit me.”

In truth we are not the same size. The countess is nearly a hand shorter than me, with a frame that is tapered in the middle where my form is straight. Where her hips and bust curve, I am broad and flat. She has charitably given me an old court gown to be used when I need a formal dress, a gown still fine enough for a servant’s purpose. I have altered the dress to fit me, and I know where the inequities are in our shapes.

“Yes they will,” she tuts, with a narrowed eye. “You are not as big as you think your shadow is.”

“I know that my shadow is bigger than your shadow,” I counter, garnering a chuckle from her.

“Then go see if any of my under-dresses or sleeping gowns will fit your shadow,” she says with a flick of her hand towards the dressing room.

I smile anxiously at her generosity and embark on the challenging offer. I dig through her wardrobe to find the oldest of her under-dresses, finding one I rarely select for my mistress. The well-worn fabric is thin and the seams are loose with aging thread, its hem coming undone after already being mended once before. I take off my dress and hastily wipe off my body with a rag. I manage to squeeze into the old under-dress, feeling the seams protest against my broader shoulders. I undo the bun atop my head and comb my fingers thru my hair, refusing to sully the brush that belongs only to her lustrous dark locks. I quickly braid my hair that is long, although not nearly as long as my mistress’s, going just past my shoulders.

Before I step out of the dressing chamber, I look down at myself. Her gown is on my body, the faint scent of her still on the aging fabric, the closest thing to her essence clinging to my skin. The difference is now on the outside of me. It does not feel real and yet it feels truer than anything else I will admit to myself.

When I return to her bed chamber, my mistress is resting her head against the wooden headboard of their bed. She is gazing at the fire with her eyes looking past the flames, her mouth neither a smile nor a frown. I cross the floor but wait at the foot of her bed, asking for permission.

She acknowledges me with a little nod and ushers me forth with a wave of her hand. I try to think of anything but her presence when I walk over to the side of the bed that belongs to the Count. To her husband. I stop when I am just beside the empty space in the large bed, the blankets still tucked up with decency.

“My mistress cannot be burdened with my tossing and turning,” I try to reason, while my heart pounds in my chest.

“Your mistress wants very much to be burdened by your company,” she states. It is a joke but comes out in a way that lingers in my ears. She pulls the blankets back, and gestures for me to join her.

I hoist myself up with a little hop, and land on the cushy mattress that is the softest bed I have ever lied upon. My mistress giggles again when she sees me roll my bottom around, testing the unreal heaven that is her bed.

“It is goose feathers,” she explains. “They say it keeps one warmer than anything else.”

I want to joke how the proximity of her body will keep me warmer than anything else, but just laugh in a high nervous chuckle.

“The feathers are crinkly though,” she says, rolling around to demonstrate the little sounds.

“They are,” I repeat, still reeling at all this.

The scent of moist roses comes from my mistress, the scent of her soap she has cleansed with. Her thick hair is still not quite dry, the long braid slung over her shoulder in a glossy rope of ebony. I focus on the placement of my dual pillows, fluffing and fussing over them while she watches. She giggles when I test their solidity by pushing my hand down into the cushioned stack of white, and find it suitable. I lean back into the stack of pillows and she leans back as well. I gaze across the length of the bed and try to breathe normally, thinking that I will need to change the sheets after I have laid there perspiring.

My mistress is tipping her head to the side, gazing at me thoughtfully with her large brown eyes. The eyes that were brimming with tears only minutes ago are searching mine, looking at once aged beyond her years with wisdom unknowable and a youthful beauty that defies description. A sad smile is on her face, and I feel my own face smile back.

“Are you warm enough?” I ask her, grasping at the mundane.

She nods, then adds, “I was right, it fits.”

I glance down at myself, seeing the way it shows my form, the gauzy material too insubstantial for what it needs to contain inside of me.

“Thank you, Lida,” she states quietly in the small voice. “Thank you for indulging my cowardice.”

“Cowardice?”

She gazes at me, the brown eyes glistening again. “Yes. Cowardice because I cannot be alone.”

I am filled with tenderness to see her so ashamed to want such a simple thing, to be comforted by the presence of another human being. And then I feel ashamed for all of the thoughts that have raced through my mind and through my body. I’m ashamed that what I want is so foreign to what my mistress needs, and I am silently reprimanding myself when she scoots towards me. I think, yet again, that my thoughts are getting me in trouble.

She slides closer to me until she is just beside me, her hip touching my right arm. I shift a bit just to be sure that I do not snag her long braid under my arm, and she shifts with me. Our heads rest beside one another, but the combined weight of us causes the downy pillow to sink in. We start to chuckle as we each sink down until I sit back up. I try to fluff the pillows back up for my mistress, aligning them evenly against the headboard as she raises up to rest on an elbow. I slowly recline back to test out my handiwork, and find it helps somewhat as I stay aloft. I gesture for the Countess to follow, and instead of leaning back on the pillows, my mistress simply shifts down and lays her head on my chest.

I am wondering what my thoughts have done, how God may punish me for my unclean desires, when she places her small hand on top of mine. She gently lays it there and keeps holding. I feel my heart beating faster, but dare not move or say a word. Once again I am paralyzed and terrified. But also thrilled.

She sighs deeply and I feel her weight sinking into my flesh, her lightness heavier in its effect than its size. I feel so protective and so stirred by her gesture, that I am brave enough to lift my other hand and slowly stroke her hair. I stroke the back of her head, brushing soothingly downwards. We breathe together in a rhythm that goes in sync to our heartbeats, a part of her echoing a part of me. I close my eyes and tell my thoughts to be content with the sweetness of our embrace, to just enjoy the simplicity of our bond. But my thoughts are never truly content.

I wonder if she has fallen asleep when my mistress lifts her head, just as my hand is going over the crown of her head. She has closed her eyes and smiles at the sensation of my caress, and it is this expression that makes my stomach tense up. Then her eyes open, and she stares at me. Our eyes meet and I know I should stop caressing her, that my gesture is no longer maternal, yet her eyes tell me not to stop.

My mistress lifts her head up further, bringing her face closer to mine. She takes a deep breath, her eyes glancing down with a flutter of her dark eyelashes, then turns those brown eyes back at me, a gaze of something sweet, and also hungry. We are reading each other, my chest all but ready to burst as the ache of her closeness is unbearable. A heartbeat later, she stretches up to meet my lips and kisses me. The kiss is soft and light, the graceful tip of her head into mine. I feel a rush of heat race through my body, as I struggle to respond. My thoughts have gotten me into trouble once again, my selfish need coming forth and corrupting her. Yet I see her eyes glittering with a secret delight when she pulls away from our furtive kiss.

She is still holding onto me with her slender arm draped over my belly, and I still have my right arm curled behind her back, just as it paused mid-stroke when we kissed. We study each other, wondering and wanting. I bring my left hand up to her face and caress her cheek, something I have wanted to do for so long. To just caress her sweet face, to extend my affection to her most visible beauty.

She closes her eyes and nuzzles into my palm, brushing her lips over my skin. Her brown eyes no longer look so innocent, while I feel my face become a lascivious grin. My caress becomes a maneuver to bring her back up to my lips, to bring her face closer. This time I relish the blush of her cheeks, the dewy texture of her lips, the breathy way she sighs just before I kiss her. Now we are even; she has kissed me and now I have kissed her. We are both initiates to this longing we share.

And suddenly all my desires come rushing forth. Suddenly I am overwhelmed with my absolute worship of my mistress. I want to show her all the ways I adore her- how much I would give her, how much I would devote to her. I want her to know that she is not just the small voice that begs to be held and cared for, but the looming presence that is my world. All of this and more is in my thoughts, but she has her own thoughts and her own desires as I am about to find out.

The arm around my belly goes up to my shoulder, grabbing hold so she can stay closer and kiss me again. I am trying not to squeeze too tightly as I hold her, trying to control the frenzy that is building inside me. But she is tipping her head to and fro as we kiss, her hands wander from my shoulder and up my neck, over my ear, into my hair.

My left hand has been simply embracing her, until it wants to mimic what my mistress is doing. It curls behind her head, diving into the lush strands, getting my fingers amongst it. I hear a sound that is a sound of warning to my mind, but it is far too late to heed. She moans ever so quietly, shifting her head into the movements of my left hand. Her mouth comes away from mine so that this sound can breathe, and for the first time in so many minutes, she looks at me.

A jolt of common sense finally hits me, and I take my hand away, my cheeks feeling hot with shame. She also slides her arm out from beneath my neck, a look of shock on her parted lips. The wave of madness is subsiding, our bodies remembering themselves, remembering our roles in this castle that belongs to neither of us.

My mistress shifts off of my chest with a deep sigh and lies on her back, while I am still frozen in the depression of where she had lain on me. My arms flatten out at my sides, trying to keep themselves still with comportment. I am straightening the sheet over the crinkled surface, and my fingers accidentally brush up against her.

“Sorry, my- “, I start, but she cuts me off with a look.

She has turned her head to the side, and the brown eyes search mine again. I lower my eyes, trying to apologize with my humbled face, but her left hand goes down to my balled up fist, and curls her hand around mine. She gazes at me with a tenderness that stings my eyes. Of all the times that I have touched her and dressed her, bathed her and brushed her, I see now that she has needed me for more than utility. And I am so grateful, so touched in my soul and I want to tell her this, but am afraid.

I can only lamely squeeze her hand, managing what feels like a small smile. She keeps my hand and my heart flutters when she speaks.

“Goodnight Lida.”

Chapter 5

We sleep soundly, arms arranging themselves to maintain space between us. I have a vague memory of her rolling back into my chest, embracing me again, until we shift apart in deeper slumber. I wake at dawn, and cannot bring myself to leave her bed. But I know must, I cannot neglect her. Even at the expense of our shared pleasures, she still needs me to be the Lida she can rely on.

My mistress is still sleeping, her face partially hidden by a swath of hair. There is a peaceful smile on her lips, her hand still outstretched to the place once occupied by me. I choke back a desperate sob, even while smiling, and step away from the palatial bed.

I sneak away, escaping to the dressing chamber, and change back into my gray dress. I hang my sleeping gown that is her under-dress back in the wardrobe, but only after taking a deep inhale of her scent that is now mingled with my scent. My insides tighten at the memory of our kiss, our many kisses, and wonder how such bliss was given to me. Perhaps she was unwell, a fever that confused her mind. I can make such excuses, knowing they will never hold in my thoughts. I want her to want me, and I hate myself for it.

When I have managed myself back into the other Lida, I return to the bed chamber. I gently open a single curtain to let in some light, and step up to her bedside, even though she is facing the side I slept on.

“Good morning, mistress,” I say softly, but not as quietly as I could.

She stirs, moving her arm. Feeling the open space beside her to learn that I am no longer there.

“Morning,” I repeat gently, cuing her to my direction.

She raises up onto an elbow, twisting round to see where I am. Sleep still hangs in her eyes along with a dreamy happiness, until she sees me in my gray dress. Her face falls, her eyes brought back to the present, back to reality. I hate that I am hurting her, feeling my throat pinch when I try to speak again.

Normally I would ask her how she slept, a way to assess her mood. Today, I know better than to ask such a question.

“Would mistress like to break-fast in bed before changing? Or would she like privacy to be awake before we prepare for the day?” These questions are both unusual, options I would ask only if she was feeling unwell or visibly suffering with some ailment.

Her mouth becomes the thin line, and she gazes down at the bed, at herself. She is humiliated, embarrassed as I stare at her in my matronly way, urging her out of bed like a lazy child. I take a step forward, and speak cautiously while we are still alone.

“I slept very well, my mistress. The best I have slept in many nights.”

She glances up, a small smile when she sees me smiling.

“I have placed your borrowed under-dress back in your wardrobe, but I will be sure to launder it tomorrow,” I say with a bow of my head. I am trying to say I will be discreet, and I see her take a breath.

“Thank you, Lida. Let us get changed, for I feel the day already long without having even started it,” she sighs.

Her voice is elegant and stately, her shoulders perking up. We have both returned to our normal selves, trying to fit our other selves back inside the unhappy shells we wear in public. I wish I could tell her how sorry I am to break her heart, and in penance, have already broken my own foolish heart.

*****

The rest of the day is moments of awkward, both of us distracted and unfocused. Thankfully, there is no court to be held, no feuding farmers or villagers to dispute. It gives my mistress a break from prying eyes, leaving her to sit alone in the study that was once her husband’s. It also gives myself a needed break, as I learn that two of the other servants, a guard and a stable groom, have left to join the Count’s army. I am forced to fling water from the balcony of the Countess’s bedroom when the chambermaid that would normally empty and clean the mistress’s bathing tub is also feeling unwell. Josef and I split up the extra duties amongst the two of us; each of us equally annoyed at this sudden development, wondering if the younger staff are protesting in some way.

I have just finished helping in the kitchen after eating my own supper, when Josef finds me.

“Your night has become simpler,” he says with a perplexed smile. “The Countess has finished dining and has already retired to her bedroom.”

My eyes dart over his shoulder, looking down the corridor to see if I can spot my mistress walking away from the dining hall.

“She went up just some time ago. I think she might also be feeling unwell,” he explains, seeing my frantic expression and the way my body nearly races away the minute I have learned this.

“Why did you not come get me?” I demand in a tone that is unprofessional.

Josef’s face softens despite my rudeness. “Lida, she did not ask for you. I think the mistress is unwell in humor more than body.”

“I know. That messenger…,” my words trail off when I think of how upset she must be with me.

He nods in agreement, a deep sigh. “Lords are not known for the sentiment that their wives are just as essential to them as armies, and food.”

I nod silently, wringing my hands. Josef places a hand on my shoulder, speaking gently.

“If you go up now Lida, I think it will be without any reprimand that one night in so many months did you let her retire alone.”

I nod again, biting my lip, feeling my ears burn at my stupid insolence. “Thank you, Josef.”

He walks past me and I take off, running as fast as my tired feet will take me to my mistress.

When I reach the dressing room of my mistress, I pause outside her door. It feels foreign to be separated this way, to have to ask entry when I am usually the one allowing entry if other servants should need access to her quarters. For the first time, I am afraid I will not be allowed in. I swallow my pride, and knock.

I listen and think I hear my mistress’s voice faintly through the door.

“Enter.”

Slowly, I open the door and peek inside. My mistress is sitting at her dressing table, glancing over her shoulder at me.

“May I enter my lady?” I ask, feeling unworthy of her invitation.

“Yes, of course,” she answers plainly.

I close the door behind me and approach. My mistress is still dressed, but she has taken her hair down. Her long dark strands are still coiled in places she could not reach with her brush, the silver-handled implement still in her hand.

“May I assist you?” I ask, gesturing towards her brush.

She does not answer the simple question, but stays silent in thought. She is poised on her stool, slightly turned to the side, able to glance over her shoulder at me. The thin line of unhappiness is trying to stay hidden, her face a regal mask. Her eyes are not looking at me, and I know that is not good.

“You managed the hardest part of getting it down, my lady,” I try to joke, “I will simply comb out the knots.”

Her eyes finally shift over to mine. “I manage nothing.”

The sound of her voice is like an arrow through my heart.

“My Lady?”

“I cannot even manage myself, Lida. I took off my shoes,” she demonstrates by peeking her stocking covered toes out from under her skirt, “and then I undid a few pins and ribbons. That is all I am capable of.”

“My lady, you are not meant to manage unlacing a corset or brushing out locks that out-reach your arms,” I argue. “Nothing a woman must do can be managed alone.”

“But you do it,” she quickly retorts. “Every day you dress and clean and mend yourself.”

I kneel down beside her, picking up her shoes. “Because I have no one to hold court with. I am not expected to entertain visitors of state and royal guests. No one is in need of me the way a lady of stature is.”

My mistress gazes down at me, her disagreement apparent. Then the thin line of her mouth relaxes, and I am not sure what she is going to levy at me when she speaks.

“I need you.”

The words seem to have a solidity to them as they exit her mouth and go into my ears. A statement so massive it cannot stay in my ears. It grows and swells, filling my throat, filling up my chest, filling up my lungs, and then at last my heart.

I remain on my knees, the only place I can be and dare to look her in the face.

“And I am here to serve you, because your people need you.”

She keeps my gaze only a moment, then looks down at her hands that still hold the brush. “I am not so sure what good I can do, Lida.”

I have no response for her maudlin statement, other than to gently put my hand on top of the hand holding her brush, trying to offer my help, a modest touch which pains me when she weakly smiles back.

My mistress opens her fist, giving me the brush which I immediately accept. Then she turns on her stool, swinging her long hair over her back so I may begin. I get to work, steadily brushing my way down to the ends where she could not reach, untangling a few knots as I go. I finish by sweeping her hair back and behind her ears, twisting the length into a simple ponytail that I fasten at the very end of it. This is done so that she can undress without the strands being tangled further, thus why I typically help her change first and then let down her hair. I slide the long tail over her shoulder and let it rest on her chest, keeping it out of the way as I unlace her formal gown.

She is quiet as I work, keeping her head down, her fingers fiddling with the end of her ponytail. When I have undone all the laces, I stand up and wait for her to do the same. I see her still looking down, lost in thought.

“My lady,” I say, trying to get her attention.

She glances back, then stands up. I move the stool out of the way, and gently stretch apart the placket that holds the laces, pushing it off her shoulders as she withdraws her arms from within the long sleeves. I try to keep my body at a distance, to move with my arms stretched out even when it pains my shoulders that are already sore from flinging pails of water. We get her heavy gown off, and she steps out of it.

The petticoat skirt is next. I am untying the laces of the starchy skirt, and can feel my heartbeat ticking up. I try to pull the skirt down with just a tug on either side of the hem, but today it wants to stay clinging to the hips of my mistress. I must place my fingers under the cinches, along the waist of my mistress, stretching it out until I can go down over the curve of her bottom. The movement is forceful and abrupt; I apologize immediately as I kneel down to retrieve the skirt from the floor.

“So sorry my lady.”

“It is alright,” she replies, a hint of amusement in her voice.

I remain kneeling, waiting for my mistress to push down the thin slip that is her last and final layer. This she can do easily, simply pulling down the straps from her shoulders and then pushing it down her hips. There is a pause, a tense silence filling the air. I am fairly certain why she hesitates, but have no way to speak to it, no words I can think of to take away her uneasiness. All I can do is stay on my knees, keeping my head down, staring at the cold floor that I belong on.

She has shifted, a twist of her legs, and I think she may be looking down at me. I remain penitent, eyes on the floor, and then I hear the movement of fabric. The white garment falls down to the ankles in front of me, and she steps out of the pile of silk. My fingers tremble as I take it away, my neck aching as I keep my head down as I pivot to stand up, grab the sleeping gown I’ve already readied, then kneel behind her once more.

I clear my voice with a little cough, the polite way to signify I am ready to dress her again.

The ankles move and step into the center of the deflated garment I hold. Now it is her turn to wait as I pray for strength. I pray that I can do this and think nothing else of what I am doing. I have done this a thousand times; dressing my mistress, undressing my mistress. Benign moments that she is unclothed in my presence, my efforts just another job that must be completed. But today it is different. Today it is not just a function and we both know it. We both feel how our bodies are charged just being close to one another.

My body is shaking as I raise off my heels, I can see my hands trembling as I hold out the garment as if it might catch fire at any moment. I keep my eyes fixed on the wall in front of me as I glide the fabric over her naked skin, going over her hips, up her back, until I am standing upright. I hold out the bodice of the sleeping gown, as close as I must be to keep it up as she dips to slide her arm inside the tapered sleeves. Long sleeves to cover more of her, even though the spring day has been warm and balmy.

She glances back with a slight turn of her head, and I stiffen up, pulling my shoulders back so that my own chest does not touch her back. Carefully she snakes her hand through the sleeve and her hand emerges as I tug the cuff out, then we repeat the maneuver with the other arm. This sleeping gown is a bit looser than some others, its wide collar requiring laces in the front that must be tied. I am trying to yank up the material over her shoulders so that I can close the placket of the collar, when she stills my hand.

My mistress has brought her hand up and placed it over mine, her palm curling over my fingers. I think that she is telling me to stop fussing with the garment when her hand stays put, and continues to hold mine. The hold is a squeeze, as she turns her head to the side, glancing over her shoulder at me.

I am afraid to meet her gaze, but cannot look away from the plaintive pull of her brown eyes. I had never dreamed that she would look at me this way, the way I think I must look at her. The way I look when I think she isn’t watching. Except she is. My mistress’s eyes are starting to glisten, her lips trembling.

“Why do you serve me?”

I attempt to speak, choking on air. I wonder if this is how I will die. I wonder if the pain of this confession will stop my heart, if the agony of such truths can punish my body until I crumble beneath the lies I have told.

“Because…” I stutter out, “… my mistress deserves it. Because my lady deserves to be given everything she requires, and more. And I would serve my lady if she were no more a noble than I am a lady of wealth. I would serve my lady till my dying breath, till my hands are too dumb to move.”

At the conclusion of my statement, she slowly turns around, keeping my hand as she takes it with her, holding it. Facing me, she gazes into my eyes while my heart pounds in my chest. My prayers have not worked. My thoughts have defeated them, and I am glad. I am glad to have given up, to admit defeat to this pointless battle I waged with myself. She sees me smile as I realize this, and she smiles back.

I bring my free hand up to her face and caress the tear rolling down her cheek, while she continues to hold my right hand. We lean in to kiss, a simultaneous movement. It is still just as shocking as our first kiss, yet even more pleasurable. Her lips are saying something; I separate to hear her speak.

“Lida… you give me more than I deserve,” she whispers, keeping her lips close to mine.

I take in the incredible beauty of her face, the loving gaze of her eyes, and cannot imagine how she can think such a thing.

“My lady has given me much more than she knows,” I reply, sealing her argument with a kiss of my lips. I take my right hand and wrap it around her waist, embracing her, while my left hand keeps hold of her cheek. I feel her tears cease as I kiss her, as I caress her and hold her against me, to keep all of her within my arms. To let her know I want to keep giving.

This kiss does not end, it continues with pauses for breath, our lips parting and now tasting. I cannot describe the rapture of this act. Her mouth is nibbling at mine, her tongue just grazing my lips. She tilts her head, separating for a beat to look into my eyes. I feel the grin on my face, and her brown eyes simmer with delight. We do not intend to give up this affection we are discovering, and I want to discover more.

The wide collar of her nightgown was never secured, the laces hanging undone as the material starts to sink off her shoulder. My left hand that has been curled around her face, glides down her neck and meets this collar. My fingers grip the fabric ever so gently, and start to pull. Her shoulder is exposed, and I keep pulling, while we continue to kiss. I am certain she feels the movement when I use my right hand to tug the satin gown off her other shoulder, pulling down until the collar is hanging slack. The gown is parted open, her bosoms barely concealed only because her arms remain tucked within the sleeves.

When the material is no longer covering her shoulders, the cold air meeting her bare skin, my mistress looks at me. Her lips are parted mid-kiss, a little surprised, but pleased. I am daring when her brown eyes keep waiting to see what I will do, using both hands to tug the gown down to her elbows. This forces her arms down, keeping them pinned to her side, the gown going taut as it remains trapped around her instead of the logical method that would be to remove one sleeve at a time.

My mistress gasps when her breasts are exposed, with myself in front of her, my eyes clearly seeing what is before me. I have always been so careful to prevent exactly what is happening, the exposure of her full breasts- the very attractive breasts still ripe and high from never bearing a child, their nipples both in perfect round symmetry. I can see the rosy circles go rigid as I bend at the waist slightly, bringing my lips down to kiss each breast in turn.

She flinches when I open my lips, then she sighs, feeling my tongue taste her nipple. I am suddenly starving, licking the teat that has fed me before but only in my dreams. I run my tongue over and around her rigid tip, moistening her flesh, listening to her whimper when I start to suckle. I have never known what it is to nurse a child of my own, but I have seen a few wet nurses in my time, and I have seen the pleasure and the pain that comes with giving your teat up for feeding. I imitate the rhythmic suckles, a gentle tug on her nipples with my lips, watching her tit shudder as I move my mouth.

Her eyes have closed, her head is tipping back as she moans. My mistress squeezes her own breast, rocking into my mouth, caressing the back of my head as I work. When I switch breasts, she pouts for a moment until I latch onto her other unsuckled teat. I do not know how long I do this, but long enough that we are both in ecstasy, long enough that I can feel a wetness between my legs- the shameful fluid I usually find when I awake from a night of dreams.

She is crooning, mumbling, when I finally release her breast. I stagger a bit, my head feeling dizzy from being bent over for so long. She holds me steady, a happy giggle when she pulls me back up to her lips, and imitates my suckle with her flicking tongue. We keep kissing until I notice her hands are fumbling with the front of my dowdy gray dress. A servant’s dress laces up the front for convenience of being able to dress yourself. The laces are usually hidden underneath my apron, but I had removed mine earlier after it became wet from my hours of dumping out the buckets of water.

When I glance down to see this, she gives me a bat of her eyelashes, a quick kiss as she tugs on the knot in my laces.

My mistress is asking again, even though she does not have to. I take her right hand from my laces and bring it up to my lips, turning her palm over so I may kiss her knuckles. I kiss her delicate fingers, locking eyes with her. I will give her whatever she wants, whatever she desires.

I then lead her hand back to my laces and show her how to untie the knot, then to un-loop the first cross of the laces. She attentively studies my movements, chuckling when I hand the ends of the laces to her and urge her to attempt it. She is so careful, peering at my collar while she works, fascinated by the way it crosses back and forth.

“Why do they not make all dresses lace up the front?” she asks, as she nears the bottom of my bodice.

“I suppose it is too convenient,” I quip.

“And too tempting,” she states with a devious look as she uncrosses the last stretch of laces. She does not know to leave the last loop inside the placket, simply pulling it free of my bodice and dropping it on the floor. I do not stop her, as the look on her face is full of childish joy to have learned a new skill, and to have unlaced me.

The method to push apart my placket and open up my bodice is plain enough, but I let her discover it. My mistress pauses, eyeing my dress and then glancing at me. We realize that we have switched places- the dresser being the undressed. When her hands are ready she places them on either side of the white band of fabric and she stretches it. I wiggle my shoulders, hinting that she needs to pull from there to truly open my bodice, except it feels impossibly good to have her slowly pull the placket apart, the fabric going across my breasts and brushing against my nipples that are only covered by my thin under-dress/slip. I can see her eyes light up as she gets my breasts free, a little giggle to have them thrust forth in the slip that hides very little. Then she follows my hint and shoves the dress off my shoulders and peels it down.

I let her take each arm and patiently shove my sleeve off, mimicking my technique to stretch out the cuff to allow me to easily withdraw my hands. After my hands are free, she pulls on the fabric of my skirt to tug my dress down until she feels resistance. I show her the impediment that is the belt of my dress, and how to untie the sash that goes around my waist. My hips easily give way to the path of the dress falling downward, and soon enough, it lands at my feet. My mistress emits a happy giggle, stooping down to pick up my dress before I can reach it myself.

She snatches up the drab fabric, smirking. She tosses my dress on her chair, then turns back to me. I am still wearing my thin and threadbare slip, having opted to skip my usual petticoat the previous morning when I dressed so hastily after spending the night in her room. She is still wearing her sleeping gown with its collar still unsecured and off her shoulders, each movement forcing her to shove up her sleeves as the gown tries to fall down. This entire time I have been treated to the sight of her breast’s movement as she worked, and it has not disappointed.

I give her a smirk as we admire each other, and each of us retaining one layer of modesty. A thin layer that hides what can be imagined and experienced. My under-dress has no laces or latches, just two straps that can slide off my shoulders. Just as my hands have started to move upwards in the direction of the straps, my mistress stops me.

“Wait-”

She takes an urgent step forward, and immediately I freeze. I think she is going to assist me, and she seems ready to, when she looks down at herself first. She glances back up at me, then smiles wistfully. Her hands go up to her left arm, and then her right arm. Each arm is freed, and the sleeping gown hangs on her hips ready to fall. She verifies that it needs no other unlacing or unlatching when she stills. Her eyes meet mine and stay locked on me, and then she slowly pushes the gown over her hips. The white satin falls away, deflating around her shapely legs. And then she is there, naked.

My mouth falls open, my eyes are agog. My mistress is everything I have ever dreamed of and more. She is womanly, yet not obscene, her pale form soft and beckoning. I can see the hair of her womanhood, the curls obscuring the place between her thighs. She glances down at herself, blushing, but her eyes are beckoning. And just as I take half a step to go to her, she shocks me further.

Suddenly she lowers herself, kneeling down on the floor, right on top of her discarded gown. My mistress kneels before me and reaches out with a hand. She looks up at me, her voice sweet.

“May I?”

I am choked by tears, barely able to whisper my reply. The gesture is intentional and I should not be surprised, knowing how thoughtful my lady is with every facet of her life. I have never seen her so absolutely angelic and commanding all at once. My head nods, and with little thought, my hands shove off the straps of my slip, and push it down to my waist. She gently tugs down the skirt, then lets it fall. I am now naked, in front of her.

I want to kneel so that I can go to her, but she presses her body up against my legs. My mistress wraps her hands around my knees and keeps me there, while she plants kisses across my thighs. Loving little pecks of her lips that caress my skin, gently ascending upwards. She stretches herself up higher until her lips have come as close to my womanhood. I try to stop her, to keep her from debasing herself, while the other Lida screams at me to do no such thing of the sort. But she is my mistress. I serve her.

It does not matter when she has arched up with her breasts pressed into my legs. It does not matter when she spies her way between my legs, a gentle hand threading its way through my hair. It matters nothing at all when she glances up at me, her eyes so full of lust and longing that I am weak just to witness their direction aimed at me.

My mistress leans in, nudging her nose sweetly into my downy mound. Her lips brush up against the sensitive spot that crowns my opening, the spot that is already tingling from the mere sight of her naked body. She is kissing the nub that I have shamefully touched before, my hands discovering in the dark of night what it is that needed attending. Except now my lady is attending to it, her lips opening and closing, sucking at my flesh. I gasp when her tongue reaches out and suckles that nub, flooding my body with a cascade of feelings.

I caress the top of her head, stroking her gorgeous dark hair, garnering a glance from my lady as she attends me. My body is moving, my legs aching to stretch apart as she creates a tightening inside of me. And my mistress senses all of this, a breathy chuckle into my skin.

“Let us sit,” she instructs, pulling away. She points to the wooden stool by her dressing table and gestures for me to go sit.

“But my lady- “, I start, but she cuts me off.

“I am not finished with you,” she levels with a look of stern intent, and I dare not cross her as my nipples harden from her words alone.

I take a step and remove my dress from the stool and set it aside on the dressing table. I then sit down, being sure to face her. She crawls the few paces to reach me, and pushes my legs apart. I am so grateful and yet still so beneath her.

“My lady…” I feebly protest, only to dissolve into blubbering when her lips find me again. Only this time, she licks past my crown and descends to the middle of me. Into my opening.

Her devoted lips explore that which has always embarrassed me, pushing apart the fleshy layers that lead into my slit. I know this is the place where men make women mothers, where children are born to mothers, and yet I never knew it felt like this. At night, when I dreamed of her, I would feel the aching and tensing inside of me. I would feel a tightness that wanted release, but remained trapped. The longing that stayed hidden in me also buried that sensation, ignoring what it meant, what it wanted.

Only now that place has been found. My mistress is discovering me and making me whole. I watch in fascination as she kneels between my legs, a wild beauty with her mane of hair that has come undone from the ponytail and tossed over her naked form, her face nuzzling into me. As she works her mouth and tongue across me and into me, making me whimper, I feel fluids come forth and the scent that comes with them. I’ve detected the musky fragrance before and yet she is not deterred, if anything she is ravenously gobbling me up. And as she licks faster and with more force, I feel a spasm inside of me. The spasm is surging and growing, like a beast that is readying to pounce, like a coil that is about to break.

She caresses my thighs as I moan, my voice getting louder. I apologize, I try to be discreet. But she doesn’t care. My lady looks at me with her eyes ablaze, her face determined to free me of this burden. I feel my legs twitching convulsively, my bottom lifting up as my body wants to spread me open further, to give as much of me as possible to my mistress.

And then it happens. I burst forth with moans that echo out into the room noisily. I say terrible things that I would not repeat. I buck my legs up like a bitch in heat, while juices spill out of me. I cling to the dressing table beside me and struggle to stay on the stool as I pant with each lick of her splendid tongue, her mouth slurping up each drop of me. I cannot believe how depraved I am, and yet I do not regret it one bit.

I am mumbling and muttering incoherently when my mistress gives my nub one last kiss and pulls her mouth away. She is grinning from ear to ear as she wipes her lips with the back of her hand, sitting up so she can reach me.

My mistress takes my hand that was clinging to the table and holds it in her hand. She chuckles with a smile, happy to see how flustered she’s made me.

“My lady,” I gasp, panting.

She leans up and kisses me with lips that taste of my own making. The strong flavor diminishes as her lips caress mine, her voice whispering something.

“I want you- “, she pauses, pulling away just enough to free her mouth, “to call me by my given name.”

I am humbled again, but also wondering if I can do it, that a part of my brain will not accept this. She will always be my mistress, and I her servant. Even if I should be so blessed as to taste her body, and service her in so many other ways.

She sees my hesitation, and makes it a decree, knowing that is the only way to make me say it.

“Reka. You will call me Reka.”

I have heard her name before, yet it feels forbidden to my mouth. I repeat it, trying to prove I can say it.

“Reka.”

She smiles, happy. “Come with me.”

I am tugged up onto my feet, pulled towards the door to her bed chamber- which she opens herself. My mistress leads me to her bed, pausing to step onto her little stool, and climbs onto the lofty surface. My brain hesitates, again reflexively balking at my familiarity with my mistress. With Reka.

Reka beckons me forward, her lips curled into a grin. “You’ve already been here before.”

I smile modestly, and hop up to join her, sidling beside her. My legs have barely stretched out along her legs when she wraps an arm around my neck, pulling me down to kiss her. Her lips still linger with my scent, drying to a pleasant spiciness that I find tastier when it mingles with her tongue. I cannot believe how it feels to wrap my arms around her, to be pressed against the body I have bathed and clothed and undressed.

I am so well acquainted with her body, and yet not. My hands keep cupping her bosoms, then sliding down to her hips, squeezing her perfect, round bottom as it rolls back and forth with our movements. Now, every time I touch my mistress, she reacts. Now there is no vain attempt at propriety, now there is response and revelry.

I want to please her, I want to bring her the same climatic burst that she has given me, but I am unsure. I have never laid with a man, only kissed and only fondled. My previous master, the sullen son, tried to have his way with me, but failed. Yet in his attempt I did find the way I was stroked to be not as unpleasant when I did it myself. I have tried to pleasure myself, but could never succeed when I was too ashamed of myself. It is something I will try with her, and try not to fail.

My mistress is still lying beneath me, stroking her hands over my modest bosoms, squeezing them with satisfaction, mirroring what I am doing to her, except that her larger breasts do not fit so neatly into the palm of my hand. I release her tit and shift the hand down, still caressing her skin as I drag my fingers lower, past her belly, between her legs. I swallow hard, and descend.

I touch her mound, feeling her soft hair, and my heart is pounding. She tilts into me, a little moan of approval when my fingers find her pert nub of flesh. I circle around it, garnering breathy sighs, lightly touching, caressing. Going slowly, I build her up, watching as her eyes close and her lips are pursed. Then, with the tip of my finger I start to stroke back and forth, faster as she reacts. I know this is what I like, what makes the squeezing inside me happen. I keep watching her, feeling my own body react to her pleased expressions, when she places a hand over the top of mine.

She opens her eyes, still smiling, then slides my hand lower, to her opening. I feel her silky wetness on my fingers and my heart nearly stops.

“There,” she whispers, nudging my finger inwards, to go inside of her. I have never dared such a thing with even myself.

I follow her instructions, poking between the folds of her flesh, feeling the hot wetness surround my finger. It is unbelievable, how this feels, how it happens. She keeps her hand on mine, angling upwards, making my finger probe farther, making her whimper with the most heavenly sound.

“Yes, there,” she whispers, “oh yes… ”

She is undulating, moving with every move of my finger, inside her. Inside my mistress. Inside Reka. I learn to stroke her back and forth, to massage her warm walls while a curled up finger on the outside can just reach her nub. She especially likes this, giggling as I stimulate her, only to grow serious again as the pleasure increases. Her languid moans get louder, her body rocking and twisting as I keep my finger hard at work. I like to watch her face, the way she bites her lip, the way she tips her head back when I stroke a spot just near the front of her mound. I like the way she holds me, one hand clinging to my neck, the other hand stroking my arm that is between her legs.