At the bell's first jangle Florence jolted upright in the big armchair; how could she have forgotten? Sir Richard had been up in town, to discuss the revised drafts with his publisher, and upon his return she was supposed to have met him at the station with the Bentley. Inexcusably she had allowed herself to become engrossed in the romance that now lay open upon her lap, the tale of an unfortunate heiress sold into white slavery by her unscrupulous guardian; heart in mouth as she read of the travails and degradations endured by the impossibly unfortunate heroine, Florence had quite lost track of time.
Cursing her lack of self-discipline, Florence brushed down the charcoal worsted jacket; if she was going to have to explain herself to Sir Richard it would go best for her if she at least looked smart, and the chauffeuse uniform would serve to show that she had not entirely forgotten the responsibility charged to her. Buttoned high on the neck and cinched in at the waist, the cut of the jacket emphasised her figure, the double front encasing her ample young breasts to present an uncompromising wedge of bosom. Below the jacket, shorts of the same material terminated so high upon the thigh as to almost constitute briefs. So firmly were her nates encased that, other than the open-crotched fishnet tights, she dare not wear anything beneath, lest the pantyline should show; to her deep embarrassment the cloth hugged her outer labia displaying the most distinct camel toe. The high-buttoned knee-length boots had been polished until her wrist ached, while the peaked cap, under which the brunette locks were pinned, completed the ensemble. Bracing herself to face Sir Richard's displeasure, she inspected her appearance in the mirror, not quite able to believe that the liveried odalisque before her was the same girl whose heart beat so fast with trepidation at the coming encounter.
When Sir Richard has shown her to her quarters on the lower floor, the chauffeuse uniform had been hanging in the closet with the others: the navy maid 's dress, perfectly proper yet perhaps a little low at the front and a little high on the leg, the lacy white apron not the most practical; the smart business suit with the shortest of skirts riding up to reveal the lacy suspender belt; the flat cap, corduroy hot pants, collarless shirt and tiny tie-fronted waistcoat, that framed rather than enclosed her breasts, for the garden. All of them tailored to the measurements Sir Richard had requested of her. Nothing had been said but Florence had understood that she was to dress appropriately for whatever duties Sir Richard might require of her.
The job had come to her through a friend of her father; Sir Richard, he had disclosed, was looking for a personal assistant. Resting his elbow upon the mantelpiece as he looked her up and down, her father's friend had suggested that Florence might very well do. Her father, who belonged to the same gentlemen's club as both Sir Richard and the helpful friend, had blown out his cheeks at the suggestion, and had seemed ready to put his foot down, but her mother had been quick to intervene, pointing out that, as a young girl newly down from Cambridge, this was precisely the manner of opportunity Florence should be looking for. A man of Sir Richard's eminence might open all sorts of doors for her. Bravely holding her husband's sternly disapproving gaze, Florence's mother had expressed the opinion that there was a great deal Sir Richard could teach her daughter. At this rare act of defiance from his ever-dutiful wife, the head of the household had visibly slumped. The friend had cheerfully thumped him on the arm: his little girl would have to grow up sometime.
At the interview Sir Richard had made no bones that he was looking for a servant rather than a companion. She would have her own quarters, on which he would not intrude unless it was to inspect them; his own rooms would be accessible between the hours of ten and four to enable her to fulfil her duties, otherwise she was not to enter them unless expressly bidden to do so. Other areas, such as the pool and the garden would common ground, though Sir Richard had warned her that as he liked to exercise in the fashion of the ancient Greeks, she might, if she were easily embarrassed, prefer to avoid using the facilities at the same times. His work required concentration, so while she was about her duties he did not expect her to speak unless first spoken to; if she required his attention she was to cough politely.
Throughout that unnerving initial interview he had referred to her as Miss Roberts rather than use her given name, and in the weeks since she had taken up the appointment he had persisted in this practice, only addressing her as Florence in rare unguarded moments when he had become engaged by some aspect of his work or taken delight in the explanation of some arcane piece of knowledge. The occasion on which, calling her away from her polishing, he had summoned her to his side by the French window so that he might show her the golden-eyed goshawk tearing at the carcass of a starling by the birdbath, he had been almost boyish in his enthusiasm; twice he had called her Florence, and had held her by the hand. For a brief moment he had forgotten himself sufficiently to affectionately fondle her bottom. Florence of course had coloured with embarrassment, and Sir Richard had at once withdrawn the offending hand, but for the rest of the day Florence had gone about her duties with a spring in her step that she could not quite explain to herself.
The duties expected of her were not onerous, she tended to the household accounts and engaged tradesmen as required, cleaned and tided, tended the garden under Sir Richard's supervision, assisted him with his correspondence and undertook discrete pieces of research. And she did the driving - or at least she was supposed to. The station on the branch line was unmanned and there were no cabs; Sir Richard would have had to walk the two miles. She pulled back the curtain; the night outside was foul.
Florence knocked gingerly at the panelled study door. "Come," came the command. She entered to find the slim, greying Sir Richard stood stiffly before an electric fire -- the grate, which she had neglected to make up for his return, being cold. He was steaming - quite literally so. His unruly quiff was plastered down on his forehead above the misted glasses while vapour visibly transpired from the sodden tweed jacket. His right foot, in the ruined patent leather shoe, was tapping ominously.
"Ah Miss Roberts, there you are; I trust you have had a pleasant evening?" he barked, dripping sarcasm with the rainwater. "I have had a most bracing walk from the station."
"I am terribly sorry, sir," Florence blurted, launching into an explanation in which she vainly attempted to find excuse for her shameful dereliction. "I did not mean to forget," she ended lamely, her eyes cast down, unable to withstand Sir Richard's impassive gaze.
"But you did forget," her employer answered. "And the result of your thoughtlessness, girl, is that I am cold, wet, and most profoundly out of temper." And indeed, it was apparent that only by an application of iron will was Sir Richard able to reign in his fury. "Can you think of any reason, Miss Roberts, why you should not be punished for this intolerable neglect?"
Poor Florence could not. "No sir," she sniffed, wondering balefully what Sir Richard might have in mind.
"No, neither can I," the knight snapped, "but your discipline shall have to wait. Be so good as to run me a bath Miss Roberts, and I shall have a little something to eat, an omelette perhaps."
Twenty minutes later Sir Richard stepped out from the bathroom in slippers and dressing gown to find a fire blazing in the hearth, and a bottle of burgundy breathing on the refectory table. As he helped himself to a large glass, Florence came bustling in from the kitchen. After running the bath for him, she had run downstairs to change and was now in the navy maid's dress, complete with suspender belt, black stockings and three and a half inch heels. Thinking to find favour with Sir Richard, Florence had left the dress unbuttoned to below her breasts, the material pulled aside so as to expose as much décolletage as possible. Her breasts, pushed up from below by a quarter cup brassiere, formed blossom tinted cushions rising above the starched white apron, while her nipples raised tiny tents in the stiff linen.
Sir Richard cast an appraising eye as she leant over to put the plate before him. "An appetising dish," he commented.
"Thank you, sir," replied Florence, pleased.
As she went to take a step back Sir Richard laid a firm hand on the stockinged thigh. "You may stay while I eat."
Stood to attention, Florence waited patiently as her employer silently finished his meal, her crotch, lace pantied beneath the short navy dress, inches from the grey-haired knight's face. From this vantage point she could see the bald patch beneath the thinning mop, and as his dressing gown fell open it exposed the white chest hairs. The pectorals were less firm than in a younger man, and the skin lacked the elasticity of youth, but he had not run to fat and his shoulders remained broad and his bearing upright. He was, Florence reflected, a fine distinguished gentlemen, and this thought she found gave her a most delightful squidgey feeling. How fortunate she had been to be taken into the household of this man who had so much he could teach her; and what a fool she had been to incur his wrath. She would not let him down again, and whatever he might ask of her, she would not hesitate to do his bidding. Smiling to herself she fantasised ways she might please him, imagining herself kneeling before him as she untied his gown, holding the semi-flaccid cock against her cheek, planting dainty kisses upon the shaft as it stiffened in her hand, the glans emerging as she ran her tongue along the rigid shaft, her lips wrapping themselves around the pulsing purple head...
"It's time I wiped that smile off your silly face," Sir Richard announced, breaking her reverie. Florence gulped as the knight rose and stood to face her. Florence was not more than five four, but Sir Richard not being a tall man, teetering on her heels her eyes were on a level with his. Hazel flecked with green met blue steel.
