Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

A brief summary of what has transpired thus far. (To get a breakdown of the earlier chapters, please see Chapter Links for descriptions)

Orphaned at the age of eight, sixteen-year-old Doris Sloane has spent half her life in a Catholic orphanage, where she was trained to care for young children. Our story begins when she is taken into service at the home of Victoria Shaw, a widow with three daughters: Melinda (ten), Sophia (eleven) and Becky (fourteen). Doris is thoroughly satisfied with this new life, but her orderly world takes an odd turn one night when she is seduced by Mrs. Shaw. Surprising herself, Doris responds eagerly, fully returning the pleasure she has been given.

In the days that follow, Doris and Victoria couple frequently, and Doris becomes skilled in the art of lesbian lovemaking under the tutelage of her mistress. She is deliriously happy, but her joy is tainted by the fact that she is only engaged to serve in the Shaw household until Melinda, the youngest, turns twelve. To complicate things even further, Doris has fallen madly, passionately in love with Victoria, but lacks the courage to tell her so.

One of Doris’ duties as nanny is to give Melinda and Sophia a bath every other day. The girls often invite Doris to join them in the large Japanese-style tub, but she always refuses, believing it isn’t proper. When she mentions this to Mrs. Shaw after a bout of lovemaking, Victoria suggests that Doris do what her youngest daughters want: get naked and bathe with them. Furthermore, she encourages Doris to pay closer attention to the girls’ nudity, to notice how beautiful they are in the altogether.

Doris finds this a bit strange… but that evening, while giving Sophia and Melinda their bath, she takes the time to study them more closely, and is startled to find herself feeling somewhat aroused.  The girls notice her interest, and on subsequent evenings, eleven-year-old Sophia begins to tease Doris by flaunting her nakedness. This only fuels this budding desire Doris feels… and very soon, she is masturbating to lewd fantasies of Victoria’s daughters.

One afternoon around this time, while the girls are at school, Doris in asked to join Victoria for a light luncheon in the back yard. There, Victoria offers the girl a permanent home as a member of the family, then tells her, “I love you.”

Doris is overwhelmed by emotion at first… but she joyfully accepts, and they celebrate by undressing and making love. 

Our story resumes on the following morning. Do read on, friends.

by JetBoy and BlueJean

I

I was gradually roused to wakefulness by a tendril of sunshine that had slipped through a slight parting of the curtains to lay a warm finger on my neck. I stretched, yawned, then realised I was lying next to Victoria.

In a twinkling, the momentous events of the previous day rushed to overwhelm me. It all seemed too wonderful to be true, but I knew it had been anything but a dream.

Twenty-four hours earlier, I had awakened an orphan girl in service, with precious little to call my own but several items of clothing and a scant supply of carefully saved money in the bank. That same afternoon, I gained a lover, a family and a home. All thanks to Victoria, who had seen something in me worth keeping.

My eyes lit on the gentle curve of my lady’s bare shoulder, and a familiar pulse commenced between my thighs as desire began to awaken. The temptation was there to tug the blanket down inch by inch, slowly revealing her nude form. I longed to bury my mouth in her thatch, seeking the fleshy treasure it concealed.

I dismissed that fancy, not wanting to break into Victoria’s slumber. Besides, a glance at the wall clock told me it would soon be time to wake the girls.

Carefully slipping from beneath the covers and getting to my feet, I plucked my nightgown from the floor and wriggled into it, pausing to blow Victoria a kiss before making a silent exit. I made my way to the bathroom, where I took a moment to smile at my reflection, basking in newfound happiness. I was no longer worried about what tomorrow might bring… and oh, my stars, how perfectly wonderful it was to have that weight lifted from my shoulders!

Enough daydreaming, I told myself. The day was beginning, and I had duties to carry out. Opening my nightgown, I briskly washed myself at the sink, towelled dry, then padded over to my room, where I quickly dressed before setting off to rouse Victoria’s daughters. A knock on the door sufficed for Becky, while the two youngest needed a bit more gentle persuasion.

An hour later, we were all gathered round the table, breaking our fast on oatmeal sweetened with raisins and honey. It was a perfectly normal day at Shadowglen, yet everything, everything had changed.

II

I saw the girls onto the school bus, then returned to the house, wondering if Victoria was waiting for me – and if so, what she had in store for the two of us. After the previous afternoon, anything seemed possible.

I found her in the kitchen, seated at the large, farmhouse table where I’d taken all my meals before finally being invited to dine with the family. I often assisted Mrs. Broomfield there while she laboured over the stove, taking on simple tasks like peeling carrots or kneading dough.

Victoria looked up as I entered. She had brewed a pot of tea, and there were cups for us both. “Join me?” she murmured, gesturing to the chair opposite hers.

“I don’t often find you in here,” I said, taking a seat.

Victoria filled our cups. I added lemon and a bit of sugar to mine, while she took a hint of cream. “I used to spend a great deal of time here when my husband was still alive and Mrs. Broomfield worked full time.”

“Oh?”

She took a sip of her tea, then closed her eyes for a long moment. When she opened them again, there was a wry smile playing on her face. “There’s an unspoken rule amongst the gentry: one never airs their dirty laundry in front of the staff. And so I found some respite in this kitchen, for a time. Of course, it merely delayed the inevitable.”

Fidgeting uncomfortably, I asked without thinking, “You’re talking about your husband?” Once my blunt words were out, I regretted them. “Actually, that’s none of my business, is it? I’m sorry.”

“No, you have a right to know,” Victoria said, placing a hand on mine. “Not just about my husband, but what led me to marry him in the first place. Would you hear the tale?”

“Only if you wish to tell it,” I replied. “I do admit to being curious, but don’t want to pry.”

Victoria topped our cups up with more tea. “We’re lovers, you and I. My wife, if such a thing were permitted. It’s only right you know of my past.” She cupped her hands around mine. “So… shall I tell you everything?”

I replied with a simple nod, and Victoria began her story.

III

I was christened Victoria Edwina Shackleford, born into a family of considerable means.

My parents had wanted a large family of their own, a dynasty of well-bred sons and daughters to carry on the family name. But it wasn’t to be.

My brother Simon was first, born the year of their wedding, but it took three more years before I was conceived.

My birth was a difficult one. In fact, Mother very nearly died. The doctor made it clear that I would be her last child. As a young girl, I often wondered why my father showed me so little affection compared to my brother. Eventually, I learnt that he blamed me for robbing him of the children he wanted.

Father saw himself as hard done by. He wanted more sons, and as far as he was concerned, I had denied him that. He needed a scapegoat, and I suppose his infant daughter was as good as any. So he maintained a detachment from my life, and the matter of my development was left to Mother, who handed me off to a nanny, then later a governess.

You have to understand that the children of families such as mine are expected to carry themselves in certain ways. We’re prepared for polite society from the day we learn to form a coherent sentence. Bred like race horses, is how I think of it. One of my earliest memories is of some woman teaching me to walk with a bloody book balanced on my head. By the time I’d reached my tenth year, I was taking lessons in French, Latin, and German, along with riding, dancing, and the piano. I’d already become quite adept at needlework at that age. I especially detested the piano, and Miss Knox, my instructor. She would smack my hands with a ruler if I played a wrong note – which I often did.

When not taking lessons, I was accustomed to playing on my own. My brother mostly gallivanted about with the twin sons of the coachman, and there were no girls my age close at hand. As a child, my most faithful companions were to be found between the covers of books. I owe that to my nanny, Miss Haggerty. She taught me to read at an early age, and I’ll always be grateful to her.

My mother was happy to see me take such a vivid interest in books as a child, but as I matured into womanhood, my love of reading began to concern her. She saw books as a distraction from what I ought to have been doing: preparing myself to be a proper English wife. I’d only just had my first menses when Mother began to groom me for marriage, despite being years too young to receive suitors.

As time passed, the subject of my betrothal became a matter of considerable urgency to my parents. In fact, once I’d reached sixteen, their intention was to find a suitable match for me as soon as possible.

You see, as the only son, my brother was destined to inherit the family estate. But Simon was a disappointment to my parents. Any attempt to mould him into a gentleman was doomed to failure. From the first, his tastes inclined toward the simple life led by the coachman’s sons and the stable boys. He hated every aspect of the world he was born into – the clothes, the social niceties, the responsibility. He was more at home with a mug of ale down the pub than a glass of fine wine at a banquet.

As a result, he clashed regularly with my parents – especially Father, who showered him with scorn. But that only made Simon all the more determined to blaze his own path. He was a jovial, vibrant young man who loved to laugh, intent on living life to the utmost. By his fifteenth year my brother was regularly drinking, gambling and whoring with his companions in the village. Yet he was liked by many, and his indulgences were overlooked by most.

Despite all that, Simon might still have one day assumed his place as head of the family. Instead, calamity struck. One morning, while out riding with his friends, he was thrown by a horse and took a blow to the head. The doctor told us a few stitches and a period of convalescence would set him right. But he was never the same man after that. His behaviour grew wild; erratic. He was plagued with terrible headaches, and began to drink even more to ease the pain. Sometimes, he would explode into violent rages, and no one could say what might cause them.

If Father had been disappointed before, now he was downright appalled. One night, he reduced my mother to tears, claiming she must have allowed another man to have her. You see, he refused to believe “that deranged lout,” could be his son. I despised him for that.

Despite our differences in temperament, I was close to my brother – as much as anyone in our family could be. Simon had his life, and I mine, but he always treated me fondly, and with more respect than most. It angered him to see our parents dictating the terms of my life, just as they’d tried to with him. “Vicky, you mustn’t let them tell you what to do,” he would say. ”For heaven’s sake, stand up for yourself!” He and Father had a huge set-to about that.

When England was drawn into the Great War, my brother was quick to enlist. It was both a way to escape his responsibilities and prove himself his own man. Father had served in his day, so for once, he approved wholeheartedly, I remember him telling Mother more than once that it was exactly what Simon needed. “It’ll make a man of him,” he said.

For my part, I was terrified for my brother. I knew how reckless and impetuous he could be, always eager to leap into the dragon’s jaws. And I was right to worry. Before six months had passed, Simon was killed in a mortar attack on the Western Front. There wasn’t even a body left to ship home.

My mother was devastated. I’m sure Father was too, in his way, although his concern that Simon’s death had left him without an heir seemed to outweigh his grief. Oh, they could have handed the estate down to me as their sole surviving child – but my father would never have permitted such a thing. He could hold forth for hours on the folly of giving women the vote, much less allowing them to own property.

So he decided that if they had no son, a son-in-law would have to suffice. Even better, a grandson. Hence, their wish to see me married soon… that is, once a suitable spouse had been chosen.

By then, I’d been schooled in some of the arts a young woman of standing was expected to know, but now that I was being groomed for imminent matrimony, additional steps needed to be taken. First, Mother’s seamstress was brought to our home to take my measurements for a whole new wardrobe. An instructor in etiquette was hired to teach me how to carry myself in society. My knowledge of fine wines came from her; precious little else.

I was also given a personal maid, an Irish girl named Nora Murphy. She would become my dearest friend… and my first lover.

Upon meeting Nora for the first time, I was horribly nervous. I’d never been entirely comfortable with giving orders to the help, which infuriated Father, of course. “They are servants, child,” he would tell me. “It’s their purpose – to serve.” He treated the staff like beasts of burden, only addressing them to give orders. Any servant foolish enough to speak in his presence without being spoken to first was likely to be sacked on the spot.

I expected Nora to be like most of our staff – discreet, inconspicuous, yet always quick to obey. But I found that I liked her very much. She was a lively, sweet-natured girl of eighteen, with a melodious voice and a manner rather more direct than I was used to.

And she was certainly beautiful. She had the reddest hair I’d ever seen – bright as a new penny, falling to her shoulders in thick, lush curls. She usually wore it up, or tied back into a bun, but on the rare occasion when she let it spill free… oh, my days, how I was enamoured. Her eyes were a deep moss green, and she had a sprinkling of freckles on her nose and cheeks. There was a healthy glow to her that I found enormously appealing.

As to her figure… Nora was quite womanly for her age, with generous breasts and hips. I was a mere child in comparison, having yet to fully develop.

Once Nora had got past my initial shyness, we got along famously… and before a month had passed, we were the closest of friends. She slept in an antechamber next to my room – the same arrangement Mother had with her own maid – so I could summon her any time I liked.

She and I both loved the outdoors, but while my own country pursuits were limited to those that befitted a lady – riding, hunting, archery, strolls around the rose gardens – Nora preferred exploring the woods and rivers that bordered our estate. Soon we were venturing out together, and when I was with her, the world became a place of purest wonder and beauty.

Nora had grown up with her grandfather – “Granda Seamus,” she called him. He’d passed his knowledge of nature on to her, and she was always eager to share the names of all the wild things to be found in the forest. Some of my fondest memories are of strolling through the bluebell woods together, paddling barefoot in the streams, marvelling at the sheer delight Nora took in identifying a bird by its call or explaining the medicinal properties of certain plants.

Much as she taught me about nature, I had something of my own to contribute to our friendship. Nora only attended school for a year or two as a young girl, and had never learned her letters. But she adored stories, and I had shelves loaded with them. At first, I would regale her with tales taken from memory, but soon found myself reading to her from my books. I still remember the funny faces Nora used to make when I read out loud. She could lose herself completely in a good story, and wanted to have her favourites told again and again.

Though she and I were thicker than thieves, Nora thought it best for me to treat her more distantly when in the company of others, especially my parents. “Tisn’t seen as proper for us to be true friends, so that should be our little secret,” she told me. She was always careful to address me as “miss,” never by my name, and I soon grew comfortable with giving her orders while in mixed company. We ended up making a game of it, playing at the roles of mistress and servant for our amusement. Afterward, we’d laugh about it in the privacy of my room. Once, Nora claimed I’d behaved in a “high-hat” manner all day, and got her own back by tickling me until I nearly wet myself!

She soon took to calling me ‘Buttercup,’ and I nicknamed Nora ‘Dandelion,’ because of how delightfully unkempt her hair became when her bun came loose. Of course, we never used these names when anyone was within earshot, even the other servants.

Nora was a very special friend to me. But that friendship soon blossomed into something much more intimate. I suppose it began when she bathed me for the first time.

In those days few houses had dedicated bathrooms, even large estates like ours. That would soon change, of course, but while our peers were beginning to warm to the idea of plumbed hot water, Father resisted for as long as he could. He insisted that lolling about in a tub was a sign of moral laxity, as was any activity centred on the body. “Such revellings led to the fall of the Romans,” he liked to say. The expense of indoor plumbing was also a reason for his reluctance, I’m sure. Father could be rather tight-fisted. I think we still would’ve been using chamber pots, had Mother not put her foot down and insisted on a proper flushing lavatory.

So bathing involved the servants hoisting a tin hip bath up the stairs and into my room, then several trips back and forth with pails of hot water. What a chore that must have been! Thankfully for them, baths were but a weekly occurrence – on most days, a washbowl and pitcher would suffice.

When Nora suggested she help me bathe, I was a little scandalised, but she assured me there was nothing at all unusual about a lady being washed by her maid. I was used to her pouring my bath, of course, but the idea of her actually soaping and scrubbing me when I was nude left me feeling quite awkward – yet also a little intrigued.

Shy as I was, you can imagine my reluctance, but Nora did her best to persuade me, explaining that she’d helped her younger siblings to bathe many times, and that it was perfectly normal. “You’ve only to try it the once,” she said. “If you don’t care for it, I’ll not bring the notion up again.” I finally relented, mostly because I liked her so very much.

So on the appointed night, Nora helped me to undress, then washed me from head to toe. It was a wonderfully intimate moment, and wouldn’t be the last time that old tin bath was hoisted up the stairs. I’m sure Mother and Father must have wondered why I’d taken such a sudden fancy to bathing.

In the days that followed—

IV

“Wait!” I interrupted.

Victoria raised an eyebrow at me. “Hmm? What’s the matter?”

I gazed at her across the kitchen table. “Tell me properly. I want to know what happened when Nora bathed you…”

She was somewhat taken aback by that. “Well, I… I just assumed you’d rather not hear all the, ah, particulars.”

It was true that I’d expected to feel a little jealous when Victoria recounted the tale of her relationship with Nora. Instead, the thought of these two young girls discovering each other intrigued and excited me.

“I do want to hear,” I insisted, allowing a hand to wander over the swell of my breasts. “I think it might make for a rather exquisite diversion… besides, I’d love to know how you learned to give pleasure to women.”

Leaning back in her chair, Victoria smiled wryly. “Why, Doris, I do believe you’re more of a wanton creature than I’d suspected. Very well, then. Have it your way…”

V

I stood before Nora, staring at the bath she’d drawn for me, unsure what I was supposed to do first.

“We’d best get you in the tub then, Buttercup,” she told me cheerily. “Before the water turns cold.”

There was something in her smile, the lilt of her Irish accent, that made me quicken inside. I think I may have fallen in love with Nora there and then, even if I wasn’t fully aware of its significance at that moment.

I did start a bit when she began to unbutton my dress. I hadn’t considered that she might undress me, as well as help me bathe. I could have managed that myself, but was intrigued enough to let Nora peel away the numerous layers of my clothing until there was nothing left to remove. I remember standing there naked next to the tub with Nora’s warm breath upon the nape of my neck, doing my level best to maintain a veneer of perfect calm. In truth, I was anything but.

I’d always been a thin girl – a more flattering description would have been ‘willowy,’ I suppose – and in the presence of Nora’s more shapely figure I felt like a sexless stick. Yet when she sidled in front of me, hands on hips, she seemed wholly enamoured of my body, gazing at me in open admiration. “There y’are now,” she said in unconcealed wonder, her eyes roving over me in a manner that anyone else would’ve considered insolent. “You’re a bonny girl, for sure.”

No one had ever spoken to me like that, nor stared so brazenly at my nudity. For the first time in my life, it occurred to me that I might indeed be pretty. That confidence in myself was but one of many priceless gifts I received from Nora.

Time seemed to stand still while she gazed at me longingly, and though her intense regard left me feeling more than a little awkward, I couldn’t deny it quickened my pulse.

Then Nora was shaking herself out of her reverie. Taking my hand, she guided me into the tub. I settled in with a blissful sigh, and she asked me, “Is it still warm?”

“Yes… it’s just right,” I replied.

“Grand.” Nora reached for the soap, dipping it in the water. “Let’s get to scrubbin’, then!”

She folded to her knees next to the tub. “I’ll wash your hair first. ‘Start at the top and work your way down,’ my mam always said.” Rolling up her sleeves, she lathered her hands vigorously, then got to work.

I vaguely recall having my hair washed by my nanny, Miss Haggerty, when I was a little girl, but she was always workmanlike in her duties, with none of the tenderness Nora showed me that day. She gently worked the soap into my tresses, using a firmer touch to massage the scalp, then combed through my hair with long, luxurious strokes.

It was divine. The tension I felt evaporated like morning mist, a sense of perfect peace filling my chest.

Nora reached for the large pitcher of warm water she’d set aside to rinse my hair. “Close your eyes, love, else the soap gets in.”

With that, she began to pour, the fingers of her free hand lightly dancing over my head as she washed the soap away. Setting the half-emptied pitcher down, Nora took handfuls of my hair and began to squeeze the water away. Once it was damp rather than dripping, she took up the towel and gave my scalp a gentle but vigorous tousling to finish the job.

“There. Squeaky clean,” she murmured, giving my shoulder an approving pat. “Almost ready to mingle with the quality, girl.”

I smiled at her reflection in the long standing mirror near the tub. “Hmm… no. I think I’ll stay here with you, Nora Murphy,” I replied. “You’re far more enjoyable company.”

Nora planted both hands on her hips and shook her head in mock exasperation. The smile in her eyes gave away her delight, though. “Ah, go on now! Sit up straight so I can wash your upper.” Working up another handful of creamy lather, she took up the flannel and commenced soaping my shoulders, but I reached up to take it from her before she could continue.

“Do it without the flannel,” I told her.

“Eh?”

“The cloth feels rough against my skin. Just use your fingers, will you?”

Nora gave a shrug, but I also detected a tiny smile. “If it pleases you.”

When Nora first brought up the subject, I couldn’t understand why grown women would even want to be bathed by another. Were they simply too idle to clean their own bodies? Now I understood. Her touch was gentle but firm, fingers deftly massaging the soap into my neck and shoulders, soft as a whisper. The sweet lavender scent of soap and the steady cleansing rhythm of Nora’s hands upon my skin lulled me into a pleasant stupor. But there were more sensual delights to come.

“Sit back now,” Nora said, and I did as she asked. I watched in the mirror as she moved to the back of the tub. Her hands made their way over my shoulders and down towards my upper chest.

With every soapy caress, I basked in the attentiveness with which she performed the task, her fingers deftly seeking out the crooks and creases of my naked form, loosening muscle and sinew, and soothing skin. At the time, of course, it seemed completely innocent; my dear friend’s way of showing kindness.

I thought she might leave the washing of my breasts to me, but to my surprise her hands trailed down over them. The way she touched me there was a delight and a revelation. Nora coaxed my nipples to an unexpected stiffness, which made them all the more sensitive. And when she briefly scissored each one between her index and middle finger, I couldn’t hold back a tiny gasp.

Nora didn’t seem aware of the way she was making me feel, at least not that I could see. Instead, she murmured, “Stand up now, love. I’ll wash the rest of you.”

Grasping the sides of the tin tub, I rose to my feet without hesitation, my shyness usurped by sensuous exhilaration. In fact, I was coming to realise that being nude in Nora’s presence rather appealed to me, and I found myself imagining what she might look like naked, too. It was a thrilling notion, and one I couldn’t help but dwell on.

Once more, Nora began to rub the cake of soap between her hands, smiling as she worked up a good lather. Setting the soap to one side, she knelt before me and began to wash my legs. She trailed her hands up each one, from shin to upper thigh, coming to within an inch or two of my sex with each lengthy stroke.

Then she tapped the rim of the tub with her index finger. “Rest your foot here.”

I obliged, and Nora applied her creamy hands to my foot. It tickled a bit, but felt lovely. I presented the other foot, and soon they were both done. “Now turn around,” she said.

Facing away from Nora, I gave a contented sigh as she began to soap my lower back, a shiver racing through me when her hands slid down to my buttocks. Her fingers pressed into the soft flesh, moving hither and thither with more careful consideration than the task seemed to warrant. A pleasant warmth began to ripple through my belly.

When her soapy fingers delved between my cheeks to get at my nether hole, I gave a startled gasp and pushed her hand away. “Don’t!”

“Oh, don’t be a baby!” Nora said with a snicker. “It’s just a bumhole.”

“I can do my ‘bumhole’ myself, thank you,” I replied in mock haughtiness.

“Let me do it,” she said softly, and when those emerald eyes met mine, they sparkled with the kind of wild mischief I’d come to know so well.

I turned away from her again, if only to hide my smile. “You’re awful, Nora Murphy. All right, then. Carry on.”

It felt utterly strange having her clean me there, yet I found myself taking to it more than I was willing to admit. When she wriggled the tip of a slippery finger into my arse, a surprised whimper escaped my lips.

I peered back at Nora, and we held each other’s gaze for a long moment, her fingertip describing a tiny circle inside me before withdrawing.

She swatted my arse playfully. “Now turn to face me, Buttercup.”

Head spinning, I did as she asked. Nora was still on her knees, wearing an impish smile that had me wondering if she’d planned this all along. Of course, I had no idea there were sweeter delights to come.

Nora slowly lathered my belly, her hand moving in ever-decreasing concentric circles until her fingers were teasing at my belly button. She looked up at me, those cool green eyes capturing mine again.

“Now, here’s the part we have to pay special attention to,” she said, then lightly traced the cleft of my sex.

It tickled at first, but as she stroked me there a second, then a third and fourth time, the tickle became something more. I held my breath as Nora stirred me to arousal, the warmth between my legs becoming more urgent by the second.

Nora wasn’t just bathing me now, I recognised that much, but beyond that, understanding eluded me. Why was she touching me this way? Was this simply another one of her games? It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d said or done something daring to get a reaction. Nora seemed to take great delight in shocking me.

Suddenly she took her hand away, leaving me breathless and utterly wanting. Getting to her feet, she reached once more for the pitcher. “Time to rinse,” she said.

There was a sudden uneasiness in her demeanour, as if she realised she’d taken a liberty. She no longer met my gaze, and a darker hint of pink coloured her cheeks. This only added to my confusion. Something had just taken place between us, but I couldn’t decide if it was merely some mischief concocted by Nora, or more than that.

I stood motionless as she rinsed the soap from my body with the remaining water in the pitcher, which by then had turned as lukewarm as the mood in the room. Once the earthenware vessel had been emptied, she set it down and took up a thick towel. “Step out now,” she muttered, still unable to look me in the eye.

This would not do, not at all. I adored Nora, and wanted no awkwardness between us. And as she gently rubbed me down, drying me bit by bit, I considered how to put my friend at ease.

Finally, when she was done drying my hair, I placed a hand on her arm. “Thank you, Dandelion,” I said. “It was awfully nice.”

Her cheeks flushed anew, but this time there was a smile to accompany them. “Ah, get on with you. It was just a wee bath. Now stand still, so I can get you into this.” She brandished my nightie. “We can’t have you standin’ round in the nuddy, lovely though the sight may be.”

I dutifully raised my arms while she helped me into my nightie, basking once more in my friend’s sweet words.

“There y’are, Buttercup,” Nora murmured, smoothing the material over my body.

I was tingling all over, a rising hunger that I didn’t understand. I wanted to seize Nora’s hands and dance her around the room. Instead, I could only gaze at her lovely face, not knowing what to say or do.

Nora was first to move. Drawing close, she wrapped both arms around me. Without a second thought, I returned her embrace, nestling my slight form against her voluptuous one. Basking in the sweet, familiar scent of her, I realised this was exactly what I wanted, what I needed. I’d never been held so closely, so lovingly.

After a moment, we slowly parted, our eyes meeting once more. Before I knew it, I’d whispered, “Thank you.”

With a tinkling laugh, Nora said, “What for?”

I took her hand. “For… being my friend.”

Nora leaned in to kiss my cheek. “It’s not such a chore. I never worked for a nicer person.”

“You work for my father, not me.” Clutching her hand to my chest, I told her, “Friends.”

VI

Victoria closed her eyes, smiling wistfully at the memory. “Nora understood completely. ‘Friends,’ she agreed.”

“Friends,” I echoed, my bare foot finding its way beneath my lover’s skirt, brushing the inside of her thigh.

She peered at me across the kitchen table. “Nora and I enjoyed our little bathing sessions very much. But it quickly became apparent that mere flirtation would no longer suffice.” She paused, moistening her lips.  “I’d like to tell you about the time Nora and I came to share a bed, but you seem a tad… preoccupied.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve been listening very intently,” I insisted. “Carry on with the story, would you, please?”

“Well, I could finish the tale,” Victoria said with a coy smile. “Or… I could bring you off with my mouth on the kitchen table. It’s not possible to do both, of course. You’ll have to choose.”

“Right here on the table?” I said, feigning shock. “Whatever would Mrs. Broomfield say if she found out?”

“Oh, so it’s the rest of the story, then?”

“Well, I didn’t say that.”

I stood and made my way round the table until I was poised in front of my beloved. She pushed me back onto the gnarled oak surface, its chinks and notches and stains spelling out their own tales of rigour and toil. Perhaps Victoria and I would leave our own mark before the day was done.

“Lift your skirt up,” Victoria demanded, and I was quick to comply. She reached for the waistband of my knickers, then drew them down my legs and away. “Goodness me,” she cooed, taking in the sight of my glistening sex. “My little story does seem to have you all hot and bothered.”

I moved my knees further apart, feet dangling above the floor. “Isn’t that how you like it? Juicy and ripe?”

“The proof of the pudding is in the eating,” Victoria replied, then gave my slit a quick flick of the tongue, making me twitch at the sudden contact. She drew the taste back into her mouth, much as a sommelier might consider a fine vintage. “I think you’ll do,” she declared. “I think you’ll do quite nicely.”

And with that, my lady set about feasting in earnest, drawing my nether lips apart to get at the rosy pinkness beneath, her tongue lashing through my folds.

I closed my eyes and let the indistinct images that had been swirling around in my mind clarify themselves: The red-haired maid washing Victoria so attentively. Except in my version, Nora was naked too, and much younger than her true age of eighteen. As for Victoria, she was no longer the young girl of sixteen she had been, but the full woman I knew so intimately.

Then it was no longer Victoria in the bath, but Melinda and Sophia, and I was the maid, running my soapy hands over their smooth young bodies. I tried to banish this new image, but too late – Victoria was sucking on my clitoris, and she had penetrated me with her fingers, and I was bucking wildly on the old oak table.

“Oh! Oh, Victoria!”

Victoria stood, wiped her sticky mouth with the back of a hand, then unclasped her skirt, pushing it down along with her knickers. She stepped free of the garments, drew one of my knees up between us, then pulled me to the edge of the table to fit her sex snugly against mine.

A long, slow grind ensued, Victoria expertly milking every ounce of sensation from our joining, labia brushing against labia, clitoris pressed against clitoris, juices mingling with juices.

I grabbed her buttocks, pulling her tighter to me, and she responded by grinding faster and harder, hands grasping at my thighs, using them as leverage to thrust back and forth. Wet sounds accompanied each slap of sex upon sex, the sensation so intense it almost felt like my cunt was being spanked.

Our vaginas still kissing, Victoria suddenly came to a halt, her mouth slack. A convulsion ripped through her body, and she pushed out her orgasm via a series of smaller thrusts. “My b-beautiful girl,” she whimpered. “I love you so much.”

I could feel her warm liquid oozing into my slit, and it was enough to bring on my own climax. I lay back against the table and hugged Victoria close, letting the pleasure wash over me. “I love you, too,” I murmured in her ear.

We lay there for as long as such a hard, unforgiving surface would allow, then roused ourselves. I slipped my knickers back on while Victoria climbed into her skirt. She regarded the wet patch upon the table. “We made a mess.”

“Let it be,” I replied, acting on a wicked whim. Mrs. Broomfield would likely think it just another stain amongst the many already there, if she noticed at all, but I can’t deny I took some lewd satisfaction in leaving our mark, as rutting animals might.

Victoria shrugged, then looked down at her watch, making a face. “I really must get some work done. Those wretched lawyers have made yet more changes to the Fitzhugh contract.”

“What about the rest of the story?” I asked.

She kissed me on the mouth, and I was met with the faint taste of my sex on her lips. “All in good time, Doris. All in good time.”

On to Chapter Seven!