WHEN IN SERVICE
“You rang, sir?”
“Ah, there you are, Smedley.” Lord Randolph Springbottom smiled expansively at his butler. “Yes, indeed. I’m afraid the opera has given my wife a dreadful headache, you see. She’s retired for the evening, the poor dear. Would you fetch a cup of tea and some aspirin for her, please?”
“Certainly, sir. And for you, sir?”
“Nothing for me, thank you. Afraid I’ll be all night working on these briefs.” He swept a hand over the stacks of documents that littered his desk. “Parliament is no place for a shirker, you know.”
“I couldn’t agree more, sir.” Smedley pointed to a magnum of champagne perched precariously on the corner of the desk. “Shall I take that, sir?”
“Heaven’s no. I think I’ll require a bit of the bubbly to wash down this dry lot,” he said frowning at the papers. “Just see to my good lady and then you may retire as well.”
“Very good, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you, Smedley. Pleasant dreams and all that.”
The butler took his time in the kitchen, preparing Her Ladyship’s tea just as she liked it, and fixing the pot, creamer, cup and saucer, spoon and sugar bowl in an attractively precise arrangement on a silver tray. He frowned and fussed with the aspirin bottle, moving it like a chess piece from one position to another, until finally, he slipped the container into his waistcoat pocket rather than allow it to spoil the elegant presentation of the tea service. Smedley draped a crisp, linen napkin over his forearm but, before he set off for Madame’s upstairs bedchamber, he trod softly down the narrow hallway that led to the maid’s quarters. Placing his ear gently to the maid’s door, he listened, then nodded with satisfaction and returned to his duties.
The butler balanced the heavy tray on one palm as he knocked lightly at Lady Springbottom’s bedroom door.
“Yes, come in, please.”
Smedley entered the room and closed the door quietly behind him. The lady of the manor reclined against a small mountain of pillows in her wide, four-poster bed, a beautifully embroidered duvet snugged close under her chin.
“Your tea, ma'am.”
“I’ll have it later, Smedley,” she said. “You may set it on the table for now.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Will my husband be joining me, Smedley?” she asked.
“Oh no, ma'am. I’m afraid his Lordship will be quite indisposed this evening.”
“Good.” With an empirical sweep, Lady Cecilia Springbottom threw back her bedclothes and unveiled her naked body. Her legs moved slowly across the silk sheets, until her thighs were spread wide apart and the entrance to her secret harbor cleared for navigation.
“Am I to understand,” said Smedley, “that her Ladyship no longer has a headache?”
“In fact, I feel perfectly delicious,” she said. “Well, don’t just stand there, Smedley. Strip.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
The butler undressed himself in the same meticulous manner he performed all his duties, smoothing and folding each item of apparel before stacking it neatly on a chair, while Lady Springbottom studied his every move. Watching Smedley unclothe was almost as good as foreplay. He was far from handsome, but his tall frame was lean and well-proportioned. He turned his back to remove and fold his pin-striped boxer shorts, and the sight of his hard, white flanks caused her nipples to tingle with anticipation.
Smedley turned to find his mistress caressing the most intimately feminine parts of her body with both hands. Cecilia Springbottom (who claimed quite falsely to descend from Eleanor of Aquitaine) retained little of her youthful bloom, but she was still a regally attractive woman with alluring curves and crevices. Large breasts with prodigious, dark nipples adorned her noble chest. Time had thickened her girlish waist, but the sweep of her flaring hips was enticingly Rubenesque. Her legs were heavy, but smooth. A forest of thick, black curls decorated the convergence of her generous thighs.
Like his body, Smedley’s member was long and lean. His sense of duty and the sight of Lady Springbottom’s naked charms had stiffened it to match his ramrod-straight posture. He climbed onto the wide bed and knelt between her welcoming legs.
“Shall I penetrate, ma'am?”
“Not yet.” Her Ladyship’s eyes misted as she gazed longingly at the butler’s erection. “Do you think we might—I mean just on these special occasions, of course . . . Do you suppose, Smedley that you might bring yourself to address me as Cecilia?”
“I think not, Madame.”
“Very well. I’m sure you know best,” she said with a pout. “You may lick my cunny now, Smedley.”
“Certainly, ma'am.”
The butler bent to his task. He kissed a path up her pale inner thigh and traced a moist border around her patrician thatch with his tongue as he nuzzled her fragrant curls. She moaned softly when he plunged a long thumb into her fiery chamber, and when his tongue engaged her rosy bud, the happy lady began to hum a spirited rendition of Hail Britannia.
A first-rate English butler, when in service to a family of quality, will persevere at his duties until he is quite certain he has done all he can to satisfy every need. Smedley knew this as surely as he knew the proper method of ladling bouillabaisse from a bone china tureen. He believed it and he lived it. And so, when Lady Cecilia Springbottom sang out with the thrill of orgasmic ecstasy, her first-rate English butler re-doubled his efforts to please until she was pleased again, and then again.
Her third climax struck like a seismic eruption. Violent tremors passed through her body and she called out to her creator, as though the Almighty himself might like to share in her moment of bliss. Her plush thighs clamped around the butler’s head like a vice and he was compelled to tickle her behind to affect his release before succumbing for want of oxygen. Madame threw her arms over her head and lay trembling and gulping for air, breasts heaving, eyelids aflutter. The butler, his stiff upper lip wet and shiny with her essence, rose again to his knees and patiently waited for further instruction.
After a few moments respite, Madame’s eyes opened and she smiled up at her lover. “Oh, Smedley,” she said dreamily.
“Yes, ma'am?”
“Nothing.” Cecilia Springbottom breathed a long sigh of contentment. “Just, oh Smedley.”
“Kind of you to say, ma'am.”
She giggled like a ticklish milkmaid and daintily touched her fingers to her slick belly. “Just look what you’ve done, Smedley. I’m as sweaty as a ploughman.” She giggled again and flicked a bead of perspiration from a puckered nipple. “I could use a good sponging. Would you mind terribly?”
“It will be my pleasure, ma'am.” He sprang to his feet and bowed respectfully. “I’ll only be a moment.”
Smedley marched to her private bath, his at-the-ready cock leading the way like the point of a compass. He returned with a soft, terry cloth towel and set about blotting her lust dampened skin, beginning with the tiny pool that had formed in her navel. He wiped her round belly and then worked his way down her hips and lower limbs. Lady Springbottom graciously raised her legs high and arrayed them to resemble a formation of migrating geese so that the butler might apply his towel to her bum and the underside of her thighs. With the lightest touch, Smedley obliterated the drops that glistened within her dark foliage and trickled down the cleft of her buttocks. He toweled away the perspiration from her arms, and throat and brow. Finally, he gently dabbed the moisture from her breasts, lifting first one and then the other to insure a thorough job.
“Perhaps some talcum powder, mum?”
“Thank you, no.” Lady Springbottom reached out, seized him by the bollocks and pulled him close enough to brush her lips against the swollen crown of his prick. She bestowed a warm, wet kiss on the velvety tip, then circled it slowly with her tongue, all the while stroking the impressive shaft with gentle fingers.
