The Maid

Mr. Nickerson had given Missy a few days off after she passed out under his desk, a few uneventful weeks ago. She had no idea how she got there and shuttered in embarrassment at the thought that other servants might have seen her in such an unsightly state, but somehow she had woken up safe and sound in her own bed, politely covered in her own nightclothes.

As a rule, she tried not to think about Mr. Nickerson much when she wasn't with him. The maid who had welcomed her originally was right, there was time for a lot of reading. Lately though Missy found her thoughts wandering to him, winding about that thread more and more. She considered the strangeness of him, how he was so matter of fact, sometimes even when he demanded such intense concentration from her body it seemed like he barely noticed her from his desk.

Today though Missy felt off, she couldn't seem to put him out of her mind for no reason at all. A strange sensation creeped through her for the first time since arriving. Nerves she guessed maybe, though it felt foreign in her body to be nervous over someone that she, despite their many hours of proximity, both barely knew and saw everyday.

She took the posting because at the time she was desperate for money, and while Mr. Nickerson had been more than generous, there still never seemed to be enough. There would be no leaving, at least not for awhile anyway, and she wasn't sure what she thought of leaving to begin with. Maybe if he just looked at her more as she was doing her daily backflips for him?

When she first learned of everything here she knew there would be more than just cleaning, but she had been expected he would simply want to use her in a wifely way. That she may be made to slip into his bed and allow him to slip between her legs, or perhaps even bent over a desk regularly. But these games, this lack of touching while engaging her body so greatly was so much more than she could ever have imagined. It was a singular thought she wondered but never let herself dwell on. Would he ever touch her, take from her directly? Maybe then he wouldn't seem quite so odd?

Missy shook her head, it was no use trying to anticipate the future. The man was a stone wall, identical to the one she now walked next to, her steps closing the distance between her cottage and her fate. She may as well have turned her head and asked one of the rocks for answers.

She took a deep breath before entering Mr. Nickerson's quarters. He was hard at work, dark ink spilled from his pen in fast strokes and his brow was furrowed. She could almost imagine the grey hairs sprouting to streak through his full, dark mane. She arrived at the desk but he didn't get up. In a momentary bout of confusion she stood there awkwardly, waiting for him to address her.

"The basket in front of the bed," he said. His voice, always even, always in control, "Please make sure all of those work properly. I don't want any mix ups and we don't have another basket so you'll need to lift your skirt and place all working ones on your body to hold them."

She stiffened. On her body, where on her body exactly, and what.

"You may use just the surface of your ass. There's an extra mirror in the corner." In typical fashion, he hadn't even glanced up.

Missy approached the bed, each eager step drawing her a second closer to seeing over the edge of the basket.

Finally she peaked over the woven wood vessel and her eyes got wide: clothespins, a seemingly endless amount. How was she going to do this. And today, she already felt so off today. She looked back over at him, another unusual move for her as she generally focused on her tasks, ignoring him as he did her. As he was right now, sitting at his desk, even keeled as ever and brushing ink across a new clean page with purpose, the start of a letter to someone who was no doubt important.

Her thoughts whirled around her: just start, just get it over with, he'll probably let you go after and you can soak in a warm tub and forget you were ever here. She took a deep breath and made quick work of tying up her skirt so that it left her naked from the waist down. If she hadn't been so focused she might have blushed, but the nerves again were getting to her today and she wanted to get this over with.

She picked up the first pin and clamped it to the center of her left ass cheek. It wasn't as bad as she expected, just a slight but very firm pinch, but she figured she better hurry as it certainly was not going to get any less intense as time wore on. She continued, working her way through the box, taking pinch after pinch on her round, ample bum until the pins that had been on longer were really smarting and, wildly, she was beginning to run out of real estate. A few had even needed to be placed directly on the edges of the crevice, a tight clamp down on the ridges of skin. Her entire ass felt sensitized, like a gust of wind could be it's downfall. She was so overtly aware of that part of her body. Why did this basket have to be so big.

Missy held herself steady with it for a second, putting weight on the fingers tightly gripping at it's nearest side. There were so few left at least. Her eyes did a quick accounting of the bottom of the vessel. Six. Ok, she thought, I can do six more. I can— "Ahhhhhh," a small hiss escaped her lips as a wave of pain spiked across her body. Nothing had changed, she was only feeling the effects of time, her fragile skin being pinned for this period.

She felt him get up from the desk and her back immediately straightened. He had heard her. Suddenly he was there next to her, a hand fell gently on her back, a strange gesture her brain did not have the capacity to think on in her current state. He was peering into the basket. In some strange twisted way she was almost embarrassed. There were only six left. After going through all of this, the final stragglers of an overflowing well would be her downfall. The thought was so dismaying. She had no immediate reason to believe this but she was terrified he might be cross with her.

"I'm so sorry to disturb you sir," she said frantically, her eyes cast down, "I will finish up."

She was reaching for a pin when a strong hand grabbed her wrist.

"No," he said, in complete control of the situation as always, his voice somehow both calm and avalanche-inducingly commanding, "Hands by your sides now. Stand straight up. Face me."

She complied seamlessly, molded like wet clay by his voice. Her eyes stared at the floor, nerves wracking her internally but remaining calm outside her skin. She felt him looking at her face, and then suddenly a hand on her lips, a finger gently tracing the smooth, plump ridges. Missy often considered her lips one of her best features. Full, lush, and a naturally welcoming color, they were an unmissable aspect of her face. Had he finally noticed something about her? Or had she just angered him by speaking out of turn so suddenly?

Before she realized what was happening he had picked up a pin and brought it up to her face. Was he going to clamp her lips together? She shuttered at the thought. But a second ago he had touched them so gently, would he have done that if this was the case?

Suddenly she felt the clothespin close on her lower lip, sinking into the ridge of plump flesh. She gasped. More out of surprise than pain, though the feeling of it brought her focus to the area immediately. Her eyes were open wide, gaping at him like a fish out of water. He took 2 more clothespins out of the basket and placed them on either since of the one already grasping her, then repeated the measure with the remaining 3 on her top lip for a matching set.

"Please make as many sounds as you like the rest of the day," he said, his eyes staring at his handiwork, as if he had no need to rake them away from her mouth. "Your lips are delightful."

Only he could make a compliment sound like an order. Forever directive and composed, there was an invisible wall between them, glass but so thick. The thought fluttered through her belly briefly, would she ever know him any better than this?

She was breathing heavily. She had never had so much stimulation on her lips. The results felt so potent, pulling her mind into places she wasn't sure she wanted to be.

She was yanked out of the thought by the feeling of a hand raking across the dense forest of clothespins covering her ass.

"Glad to see these all work," Mr. Nickerson's voice was even, neither mocking nor dismayed, "None will need to be thrown away. But they certainly can't stay here. Bend over the bed please."

Missy swallowed and made her way over to lay the front of her body across the expansive bedspread. He followed and shortly she felt an firm hand on the small of her back. She shut her eyes tightly. Suddenly, a high-speed paddle tore down across the myriad of clothespins holding so tightly to her sensitive skin. She let out a small scream. She was gasping, trying hard to catch her breath. Mr. Nickerson brought the paddle down again and again, moving as quickly as possible, knocking off clumps of pins until only a bare, reddened ass remained in front of him. He sent one more square swat directly across the middle of her bum, garnering another yell and leaving her panting and twisting. Her ass stung almost unbearably and she had worked up a sweat. Without warning he shoved two fingers through the center of her.

"Count." He demanded.

"Ahhhhhhh, one," she gasped. Her senses were confused and overloaded. He drug his fingers out of her, torturously slowly, and then all at once jutted them back in.

"Twooooooo," Missy screamed. By the time she got to 24 she was on the verge of letting go. It felt like a hundred years of tension about to be unleashed through her. His fingers thrust into her again. Her ass was already burning, and twenty-five burst the rest of her body into flames. Red was everywhere, pleasure took her, pulled her under and thrust her out. She was left a panting mess on Mr. Nickerson's bed.

He left her there for awhile to recover. When her breathing had slowed she felt him unwind from behind the desk and stride across the room, landing behind where she was on the bed. A soft piece of cloth slipped over her eyes and was tied loosely behind her head, robbing her of vision. A sharp intake of air slipped through her still-pinned lips. He stood her up from the bed and promptly undid the tuck-up of her skirt, letting it fall over the red-pink expanse of flesh he had masterminded on her behind. She felt him move her across the room, with her skirt down perhaps towards the door but there was no way of knowing for sure.

His hands were steady and purposeful but there was something else there in his fingers, almost imperceptible without her senses heightened, something softer, almost kind. She finally felt what must be the door land against her back.

She could sense him in front of her, movement, his hand maybe raising. He picked the clothespins off slowly, one by one releasing another puffy section of her lips. He was standing so close, she could feel his breath. They were all off now. He was just standing there. Was he starting at her? She wished she could tear the blindfold off to see him. She wished—abruptly she felt his lips on hers, briefly, softly, just for a second. Smooth, pressed lips against hers, there and then gone so quickly, did she imagine it? Did she miss it? A flash of tender in a world of stone.

Suddenly she was turned to face the entrance, as a hand on her back firmly pushed to guide her swiftly out while the blindfold was pulled from her simultaneously from behind. The large door closed with a thud behind her. Putting eyes on him again today was out of the question.