My wife plays the harp. I usually watch her from behind, as she plucks the strings, first thing in the morning. I stand behind a curtain. She knows I am probably there, but never looks around. There is a full length window opening onto the courtyard, its balcony, and the spilling acres of green countryside which engulfs the house in its footings. Birds are the only witnesses to the open sky which falls over the steepled, shingled wooden roof which protects us. We have a few servants. They are sly, disobedient, and gorgeous, hand picked from the neighbouring villages, none of which are within one day's travel. For that reason, they stay on with us for months at a time. They are not permitted to leave without financial penalty unless they assist us to find a suitable replacement.
Today was overcast. Despite the ill wind, the grating of the gate outside against its iron lattice frame, the vaguely threatening creek of tall oak trees against the eves, she was up at dawn preparing to play. She plays only for 15 minutes either side of dawn each day. It is her gesture of piety, and submission. Since it is my will that at all other times she is available to me. I never call her, against her will, but we both enjoy this potential authority. In fact, of course, the reality is otherwise: it is she who orders me about. She uses an imperious, crooked finger, usually, not even with one single word in accompaniment, and laughs or moans in her chosen game of charades.
Her cunt is the texture of butter, warm, soft, inviting, liquifying. With dollops of honey, if provoked or stimulated. It reminds me of the colour of her harp. So when she plays, of course, she makes no pretence about spreading her legs, in case I am watching. But today I was a little late and I wasn't there until she was almost finished. I found Lillian sitting next to her on the seat. Slowly, stroking the Madame's lustrous hair, her arm angled behind her at an uncomfortably acute angle. Lillian was wearing her nightdress, a diaphonous, silken material, extremely expensive, fitted by the Madame herself. Lillian's breasts were high, pink-nippled, and clearly evident in the soft rays of sunlight pouring through the glass. Madame herself was shamelessly displaying her pudenda's beautiful golden foliage, reflecting back to the Sun the very mirror image of its perfection, giving back to the verdant trees outside their own wayward spillages, absorbing like the sky moisture, pheremones, and breath, wrapping them all up into itself, ready to discharge.
As I took up position in the curtain, I looked around me in the dark and saw already there a mass to my left. Astounding: how did I not see him? It was Robert, the young horsemaster, already outfitted for the pasture, ready to train the horses should I decide to go hunting. I noticed his fine head of black hair, well kept, and his politely attentive turn of head, ensuring he missed no detail of the Madame's recital or of Lillian's docility. His attentiveness was what I most prized in any male servant. It was their duty to fulfill to the absolute every explicit, every implicit, every halfway or even barely at all suggested request, whim, notion, or thought of any lady of the house, though with certain priority accorded, of course, to the Madame. If discipline were required, he would be well equipped among all the male servants to administer it: several large horsewhips were ready in the stables, and there were large wooden stocks should the occasion demand it. Sometimes, myself and a few friends liked to indulge in harmless mock torture. Of course, we agreed to submit to whatever ordeal we meted out. In fact, this was the whole purpose of our pretended discipline. It was a rewarding game, no less for the fact of its religiously followed repetition at least weekly.
