"Would you like me to brush your hair, miss?"
"Yes please, Lizzie." I looked over my reflection's shoulder in the glass of the faded lime green dressing table, as my maid, my companion, my confidant tended to my bedroom's small fire. I was clad only in a loose silk floral print robe and a matching pair of French knickers, the teal fabric pouring over my firm body like the warm, sweet scented waters Lizzy had just poured over me in the bathtub. She wore the black shift and white lace apron traditional to her station, tightened around her waist and bulging in all the places that make a young woman feverishly imagine what might be underneath when alone in her bed at night. Or when that same maid wakes her in the morning. Or when listening to some dreary relative at dinner.
I watch her reflection still as she steps over to me, my eyes darting over her form, hidden though it is by the night's gloom and her modest uniform. She is of an age with me, in her early 20s, but with a fiery mess of red hair and a bigger bosom than my own tiny breasts, she's shorter than me, but most people are, and she's fuller figured too. She has a homely, almost earthen beauty, whereas I fear I'm seen as something more of a glass rose. One of the stable boys proposed to her a few years ago, when he came back from the war, but she turned him down and stayed with me. I was glad of that.
She stands in close, her hand, her sweet, soft hand brushes against my cheek as she sweeps my still damp jet black hair over my shoulder so it drapes down my back. I lean forward to retrieve my silver hair brush and hand it to Lizzy, her savouring the electric tingle as her hand brushes against mine.
She works the knots from my hair and I am content to watch her work in the mirror, the sweet look of concentration on her face. My mind drifts. I imagine kissing her, her lips against mine, our naked bodies intertwined, I picture her freckles all the way down and then back up again. I picture... a great many things.
"There we go miss." She brushes against me as she places the brush back on the dressing table, and I look at myself in the mirror, my face is flushed, my nipples hard, I can even feel a little dampness in the depths of my silk knickers. "Will there be anything else?"
"No," I smile at her in the mirror. "Thank you Lizzie."
"Good night then, Miss." She turns to leave, steps towards the door.
"Good night, Lizzie." I spin around on the stool. "Wait." I half whisper.
"Yes, Miss?" Her hand is on the doorknob, but she's turned back to look at me, eyebrows raised in questioning, that smile on her face, so real, so genuine. She might be my servant, but she's the closest friend I've ever had.
"Oh, it's nothing. Good..."
"Do you want me to do it again, Miss?" She gives me that look, that special look, our look. I nod. "Come over by the fire." I stand and step over to the fireplace, she turns the key in the door and joins me. We exchange shy grins by the firelight before she drops to her knees on the faded red carpet and pats her lap. I drop too, swivelling around to face the fire and lean back against her, her breasts pressed against my back. I already feel my tensions melting away as the firelight warms my bare legs.
She slips my silken robe from my shoulders and it slides down my arms, exposing my tiny breasts and stiffened nipples, shadows dancing against my naked skin in the firelight. A hand runs up my stomach and fingers tease my left breast, slipping over my skin as I let out a little moan to a whispered shush in my ear.
"You must be quiet Miss, when you screamed last time I feared you woke half the house."
"It'd be worth it, Lizzie, for the pleasure your fingers bring me." She whispers another shush as her fingers dance over my other breast. I lean my head back, slip and hand up and into her red hot hair, kissing her, feeling the tenderness of her lips against my own, the darting softness of her tongue.
Our lips dance for a sweet eternity, then break as she turns and runs a hand down my stomach as I kiss her jaw, her neck. Her fingers slip under the waist band of my knickers and through my coarse, black mound. She pulls on the hairs and I let out a little gasp. She giggles and continues her downward journey. I groan again as the warmth of her hand cups me completely.
"Oh my, Miss, you are wet." She runs her fingers up my pussy to the sweet tender spot that throbs for attention and circles around it, teasing it, teasing me, setting me aquiver like the ring of an empty wineglass.
She starts rubbing, slowly at first, tender, soft, sweet and aching. The pace picks up, her hand moving ever faster in a practised motion inside my underwear, I just lay back against her, groaning and moaning with pleasure, rocking my hips as her hand plays me like an instrument, her sweet ministrations the carnal incarnation of some renaissance master with a paintbrush.
Before long I feel that sweet familiar tension building, my heart, my breath quickens. Lizzie feels it too, her hand moving harder, faster, the other clamps over my mouth as I groan. I stop, my body tightens and I stifle a squeak as that sweet release I hungered for comes at last, like a tree in the woods, her fingers work like an axe to bring that moment when I fall uncontrolled, animal, primal, then stillness.
Her hand plays with me soft again, as I lie collapsed against her, bucking as she brushes against my tenderness in withdrawal. Her fingers are covered in my moistness and I bring them to my lips licking them clean, then I lean back to kiss her again.
"Did Miss enjoy that?"
