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It was quite innocuous; a fiddly clasp on a necklace, and no time to fetch her maid before she needed to leave. John had only been in service with the household for a month; long enough to know the ways of the house, he thought. He took off his white gloves and laid them aside as she held out the discreetly expensive chain and she met his eyes for a moment, her expression cool and inscrutable, before she turned her back. He stepped closer.
She lifted her hair, exposing the soft back of her neck and a subtle wave of perfume rolled off her, enveloping him in violet and leather and a touch of expensive wood. It was an exclusive drawing room scent, nothing different from what dozens of women wore, but it felt different on her, at least when he was this close. John drew the fine chain around her throat, fingers just brushing the skin. She tilted her head and he saw the pearl drops sitting just below her collarbones, framing her throat with tasteful, subtle shine. Snapping the clasp closed, he stepped back, her hair just brushing his hands as she released it. It would have been easy to stay there, let her heavy hair spill over him, gathering it up in his hands and lift it out of the way again, the better to run his lips along the line where the chain sat lightly on her skin and find the points where the subtle scent of violets was most concentrated.
"Thank you," she said, and it was hard to read what the weight of those words were.
"My pleasure," John replied, drawing his white gloves back on. It was nothing. Just a necklace; nothing more.
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He found himself watching her, though, more than he should have. She glided through the rooms of the town house full of inherited assurance and expensive taste. The management of the house, and, indeed, the family estate, sat lightly on her, having been raised to business. She knew her obligations and discharged them with tact and indifferent generosity. But he had seen others do the same, with the same faultless poise. That couldn't explain why he watched the shift of her shoulders, bared in her evening gowns at dinner, and grew to learn her opinion of the conversation from them. He shouldn't have noticed the graceful arch of her feet as she let her shoe dangle from the toes, legs crossed, as she took solitary tea in the afternoon with a novel. It was a rare unguarded moment, and even watching was too intimate, but he couldn't resist.
He told himself that he was only learning more of this household, the better to serve it. To be invisible was necessary, and knowing her ways would help him achieve that. It was a lie. Sometimes he pressed against the door before he opened it, if the master was there too, wondering what he hoped to hear.
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A butler had many duties, and John left the drawing room with a tray and a mental note to speak to the housemaid about dusting under the books rather more rigorously. It defeated the purpose of a bookcase if the dust showed that the owners didn't read the leather bound series in them. It was a commonplace duty. Then she called to him from the small cloakroom just off the entrance hall.
"Of all the times for my hem to come down," she said, holding out a packet of pins. His gaze travelled downwards, to where the fabric of her skirt was uneven. Her guests were due in minutes, and her maid would take too long to summon. This was not a common duty of a butler, but he took the small book of pins anyway. She seemed indifferent to her predicament, though she watched him closely as he put his gloves aside.
John knelt at her feet, sliding precise little pins into the fabric as he turned it under. His bare fingers fought to grip the metal and place it delicately, so as not to give away the ruse with the glint of metal. He would only just have time to complete his tasks before the doorbell rang, but couldn't help but notice the way the backs of his hands brushed against her legs as he slipped in pin after pin, careful to preserve the smooth outer appearance of her skirt. He leaned back on his heels, hopeful that it was straight enough, and looked up at her.
"Thank you," she said. For an instant, he imagined sliding his hand up her thigh, under that neat hem he'd just fixed, over the smooth silk of her stockings, and smoother skin, up till his fingers pressed against her cunt. Maybe it would be wet through the silky fabric of her pants, soaking over his fingers. Her gaze met his, still cool, still impenetrable, and he hoped his own face hadn't given away what he had been thinking of.
"My pleasure," he said, keeping his hands firmly occupied pulling his gloves back on. He opened the door and she swept past to receive her guests in perfect array. He paused a moment as he pulled the door shut behind him and took a deep breath. It was not quite nothing.
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Her maid was never to be found when she was needed, and was sent on any number of errands that a footman would rather more properly be able to action. There was always something that saw John pressed into service.
He fixed the plastic heel stoppers to her shoes, kneeling in front of her in the conservatory with his gloves to one side. She stood in front of him, one foot lifted and crossed in front of her, one hand resting on his shoulder for balance. She didn't need the help, he was sure; her fingers barely pressing into him. He loved the thought that she was touching him for her own desires, perhaps, because she wanted to feel the strength of his shoulders and back, through the heavy black of his uniform coat. He glanced up at her face, just once, to see her looking down at him with her lips barely parted. He tore his gaze away.
He concentrated instead on the heel of her shoe. One hand cradled her ankle, holding her foot up, though she didn't really need that, either. He loved the feel of his fingers on her skin. Daringly, she wasn't wearing stockings, and that made it better. Her skin was smooth and supple, and she had a few scattered freckles on the top of her foot. He let his thumb brush over them as he pretended the plastic disc of her heel stop was having trouble sliding onto the point of her sandal.
Finally, he could draw it out no longer, and he let go of her foot, both heels done now and ready for the garden outside. She didn't immediately remove her hand, and he looked up at her again. She was wearing that perfume again, violets and leather, and his hands clenched against the desire to slide right back up her legs, under her dress. She was flawless, composed, and correct, but he thought, as her fingers slid over his shoulder, brushing against his neck for a bare second, that she might want him.
"Thank you," she said. She didn't step away, and he rose to his feet where he was, much too close for propriety, savouring the instant before she stepped away to pick up her hat, leaving him to draw his white gloves back on.
"My pleasure," he said.
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He brought the aperitif tray to her dressing room. She dined at home tonight, her and the master, plus a few friends of his. John had seen the menu, and could tell their guests bought more money than breeding to the event. There would be more modern cocktails in the drawing room before dinner, but she liked a classic one as she dressed.
Turning in her seat at the dressing table, she watched him pour the champagne, his gloved hands confident on the dark bottle, following it with a measure of absinthe. It formed a layer on the top that slowly sank through the bubbles. He handed it to her, taking in the flimsy dressing gown she'd pulled on over her plain black slip and black stockings. One sagged a little, at the knee, but he moved his glance over her as if he hadn't noticed anything at all about her appearance. He bowed slightly.
"The clasp on my stocking won't sit properly," she said. "And my maid is steaming my dress downstairs. Would you be a love?" There was no inflection of intimacy in the words she used, though he thought her gaze was perhaps more direct, more intent, than usual. She licked her tongue over her dark red bottom lip in a quick movement, maybe anticipation. He hoped it was anticipation.
He left his gloves on the tray, next to the two bottles, and knelt at her feet. It was the back clasp, and she lifted her foot onto his shoulder so he could get his hands under her thigh. He smoothed the thin silk of her stocking up, from the back of her knee, bringing the small elastic strap down. The clasp was in two parts, and he concentrated on getting the button lined up under the edge of the stocking. She shifted slightly and he glanced up to find her leaning back against the dressing table on her elbows, looking down at him as he was bracketed between her thighs. The light behind her threw her into shadow, but he imagined her licking her lip again.
The button slid into place in the clasp, and he eased his fingers around the top of the stocking, distributing the band neatly against her skin. Her skin was so tempting, and he wanted to move his hand up the elastic strap of her suspender belt, to grip his hands under her thighs, spreading her wider so he could press his face into her cunt. He sat back slightly, and her foot shifted, toes brushing down his neck and over his shoulder as she sat up.
She tossed back the aperitif and put the glass on the tray. The glass had a dark red stain on the rim from her lipstick and John concentrated on that rather than on anything else. She shifted, and the button on the front of her other stocking parted ways with the clasp. Before she could say anything, John was back on his knees, closer than before. His hands spanned the top of her thigh, fingers gentle on the silk, the button, her skin. He looked up to find her watching him, like she always did, and he hoped she felt this desire too. He was sure she did, and it made him bold at last. He turned his hand, letting the palm sit directly, heavily, over the top of her thigh. He couldn't tell if the unsteady intake of breath was his or hers.
She reached out and touched his face, just the gentle, fugitive slide of her fingers over his cheek, but it was enough to tell him that she wanted this, wanted more of his touch, more of his service. Sliding his hand up, letting his thumb rest right on the front of her panties, right over her cunt, he watched her face. She smiled at him, that was all, but it was a soft, knowing thing, not the gracious curve of her social face. It invited him to learn a side of her he'd seen only in glimpses, and only because he had been looking for so long.
He moved his face closer, eager to taste her, and she slid her hand into his hair, changing to a firm hold. He looked at her cunt, still hidden behind black silk, and rubbed his thumb across the front, following it with his tongue. She was wet for him, soaking through the fabric already. He'd waited for so long, but he knew he wouldn't have much time. Her maid would be back eventually, and the thought of being found so, on his knees, gloves and decorum discarded, was both tempting and best not thought of. Instead, he pulled the fabric to one side as she shifted forward and spread her legs wider, one hooking over his shoulder, hemming him in between her thighs and holding him in place by his hair.
He started fucking her with his tongue, desperate to get the taste he wanted, with just enough room to graze his thumb over her clit. She didn't cry out, but her grip tightened and he redoubled his efforts. She tugged on his hair, not gently, and he wanted the pain, a counterpoint to the sweetness of her cunt and the uncomfortable pressure of his cock, hard now and constrained in his formal trousers.
He swapped his mouth to her clit, letting his fingers slide into her, feeling her clench tight around him. He flicked his tongue over her, trying the tip before settling to firm strokes, ones that made her gasp, just enough that he could hear. He was lost, trapped between her thighs, mired in the wet, soft heaven of her cunt, willingly clamped against her by the hand in his hair. Working her clit with his tongue, setting a rhythm that was out of place in such a correct house, he used three fingers to drive into her cunt. She had to need him, to rely on him.
She pulled his hair, thighs snapping shut around his head, smothering him in her cunt. He went with it, letting her ride against his face, his fingers, drowning through her ecstasy. He was lost, until she let him go and he fell back, gasping for breath.
He was desperate to open his trousers and deal with his own arousal, but the noises of the household reasserted themselves. He gently reached out and adjusted her panties back into position before she sat up, smoothing down her own petticoat. She handed him the napkin from his tray, and he wiped his face and hands as he looked at the satisfied smile that curved her lips, so different from the bland one she wore in company. He would do anything to see that smile again.
Patting his hair back into place, John rose shakily to his feet, ignoring the demands of his cock, still ruthlessly confined. He pulled on his gloves and neatly folded the napkin on the tray, though he knew it would go into his pocket as soon as he left the room, to be pulled out later.
"Thank you," she said, and he had no trouble hearing the promise in her voice this time. It said that she would let him be of service, that she would use and enjoy his loyalty and his body. His cock throbbed at the thought of what that might mean.
"My pleasure," he said, gathering up the tray and leaving the room, pulling the door gently shut behind him and leaning against the wall for just an instant. He straightened, slipping the folded napkin into his pocket, and went about his duties.