St Faith’s – January 1952
It stung to be chosen to act as maid to Miss Ranson and her visitor. My ancestry had done the opposite of preparing me for a role where subservience is necessary.
My attitude grew more sulky when I changed into the Sunday version of my school uniform. In the dorm the girls surrounding me were slipping into something more comfortable – skirts and turtleneck sweaters. They were free to take the short walk into the nearby village. Brushing my hair I re-fastened it in a neat plait, a visit to the stables after carrying out my duties might lift my mood. I’d help myself to apples from the kitchen for the horses.
When the smart dark green car driven by Miss Ranson’s visitor pulled into the grounds it parked in a space underneath the window of the room in which I was waiting. A dull room of dusty books, but chosen for its close proximity to the bitch’s study. I observed through the leaded window just what sort of creature my headmistress planned to entertain. One shapely calf appeared over the sill of the car, followed by a statuesque body dressed immaculately in an emerald green suit. I felt a twinge of admiration: this was a lady who knew quality.
The bell jingled irritatingly, so I knocked on Miss Ranson’s door and was invited to enter. It was disgusting to be treated as a servant by someone so pedestrian as Miss Ranson. I held myself with poise and dignity and she brayed orders, showing off to Lady Catherine Spencer-Harrington. I studied the businesswoman more closely, noting a hard expression, which make-up could not disguise. The marionette lines running from her nose to mouth evidenced a tendency to sneer rather than smile.
Miss Ranson ordered a tray of tea and scones – what on earth were they? So I hurried downstairs to the school kitchens. The cook set the kettle to boil and laid china on a silver tray. She directed me to open a tin full of ugly looking buns speckled with sultanas. What was this British obsession with heavy food? I’d prefer lighter-than-air pastries decorated with stripes of chocolate or fruit under a glaze.
Feeling unpleasantly like a waitress in a tea shop, I used the dumb waiter to raise the loaded tray that Cook had prepared up to the ground floor. I carried it carefully down the corridor to Miss Ranson’s study, the hot tea-pot near my arm made me nervous of scalding myself. I rested it on a nearby table then knocked.
“Entrez!” Miss Ranson’s nasal voice responded.
I twisted the handle before picking up the tray and pushing the door open. Catherine Spencer-Harrington’s raptor eyes followed my every move. She scrutinised my reluctant curtsy, before I poured the tea. I could’ve kicked myself when I almost forgot that English habit of pouring milk in the cup before the tea, for which Miss Ranson checked me. It burned to give these bitches an inch of satisfaction.
When that salope Lady Catherine instructed me to prepare her scone, I was grinding my teeth with fury. But this was just the beginning of my humiliation. Having cut the crumbling scone in half, I slathered it with cream followed by a generous helping of jam. Knowing these women were greedy, I had thought this would satisfy them.
Non! Quelle horreur!
Lady Catherine humiliates me! Another stupid custom where the order of the process is king. How can I know I should put the jam on first and not the cream? It will taste the same.
“Is this how you serve scones in France?”
“We do not have scones in France.”
She taunts me, calling me a barbarian while wiping the jam and cream onto my face. I had to stand there and accept it, but can barely contain my fury to be treated like this. My family comes from noble blood, we are connected by marriage with royalty. Who is Lady Catherine compared with me?
She instructs me to go back to the kitchen and start again with the ridiculous scones.
Miss Ranson witnessed all, but says nothing. I know her to be cruel and vindictive, yet it seems as if Lady Catherine ‘trumps’ her in this situation. Glimpsing her face as I take up the tray, she looked mute with shock.
I tried not to sob as I left, but anger consumed me. What if someone saw me, Delphine de Lotbinere streaked with jam and cream? I could not live this down. Luckily most pupils had walked into the village as a Saturday routine, but I had to divert to the girls’ bathroom to scrub the congealed food debris off my cheeks before I could face Cook. It was a double humiliation.
“Back so soon Miss?” she asked with surprise. I’d interrupted her having a cup of tea.
I fabricated a story about the scones slipping on the floor when I passed the plate. She clicked her tongue as she bustled around making a fresh pot of tea, while I got more scones out of the tin.
A method of revenge presented itself delightfully, when I opened the fridge door to replenish the cream. Cook asked me to pass her the milk so I selected the nearest open bottle, but she shrieked and gagged. The milk inside had spoiled. On tilting the bottle, solids had plopped unevenly into the china jug, the yellow whey had separated from the soured globs of curd.
“Eurgh, not that one Miss, pass me a new bottle. I’ll throw that away.” She put it aside while she washed out the china jug and poured fresh milk.
“Where is the jam? I had it previously.” Cook looked around with exasperation. I blocked her view with my body so I could push the jam jar out of sight.
“Madame was quite particular about raspberry jam.” I insisted, wearing my most innocent look.
“She always is,” huffed Cook, before bustling into the walk-in larder in search of more raspberry conserve.
Quickly, whilst the cook was busy, I mixed some fermented lumps of milk curd in with the double cream on the tray, so that it was undetectable. When Cook returned, I was rinsing tea leaves out of the strainer. I kept a lid on my triumph, instead displaying a bland, helpful expression. Cook placed the new jam jar on the tray alongside fresh tea, china and silverware. I was ready to serve our honoured guest once more.
I never saw those bitches gorging on scones piled high with jam and the cream I had doctored, because things went quickly from bad to worse. Lady Catherine felt I deserved further punishment. Twelve strokes of an evil, hard cane Miss Ranson keeps in a case by her desk. That degenere bitch Catherine put her filthy hand over my mouth to dull my yelps of pain, while Miss Ranson landed a dozen stinging blows. I really didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry, but the pain of that beating almost broke me.
When I was eventually released from those harridans, believing I’ve learned my lesson, I almost ran from the room. Savouring my liberty, I headed straight for the sanctuary of the stables in the school grounds. Being January the air outside was biting cold. However, I was still burning from the shame of dropping my knickers in front of such vile women. There is something between them, I detected a frisson of power that did not seem to be in Miss Ranson’s favour, so I made plans to learn more.
My derriere was hot like a radiator – it throbbed and ached so badly I knew I wouldn’t be able to ride. “Merde!” I exclaimed into the cold grey afternoon. Miss Ranson had snatched away that simple pleasure too.
I ran down the path to the stables, ignoring the damp and mud which gathered on my shoes. Inside the rough brick building I felt a little more calm, nobody would bother me here. I could lose myself in the familiar routine of grooming a horse or cleaning some tack, while hopefully those cochons ate their fill of scones with jam and cream.
As my emotions of fury and humiliation receded, I began to focus on how my buttocks felt: throbbing and hot, all the while a pleasant tingle thrummed between my thighs. Letting my mind drift back to my caning, I imagined myself as a spectator instead of the spectacle. With interest, I watched my lithe body bend at the waist. I feel, in a defining moment, the illicit thrill (only now realising I had felt it at the time) of slipping my knickers down to display myself so wantonly. My round buttocks appear smooth and toned, and plump folds of darker flesh peep, like pursed lips, from the cleft of my thighs.
As I revisited the scene, remembering the pain, one of my hands crept inside the waistband of those same knickers, stroking tentatively over my marked flesh. The heated welts were tender, yet pressing against them sent bolts of sensation to my pussy, adding to the heavy, languorous feeling I was already experiencing. I leaned my back against the rough wall of an empty stall so I could shuffle my knickers down to my knees. I smirked at how slutty it looked, the pristine white fabric stretched between my parted legs in my urgency.
Without hesitation, I touched my finger to those folds. Behind a muff of dark hair my lips are unexpectedly sticky and slick, and the caress of my cool digit made me shudder. I rather enjoyed the contrast of my wintery fingers dipping into the heated depths of my channel. I stirred and swirled and stroked with them until, unexpectedly fast, I came hard. I groaned aloud and slapped my buttock. A jolt of pain made the clenching twist of euphoria, in which I was bathing, last longer. Discovering this, I continued to rub and pummel and pull at my buttock cheeks, exploring the sensations of mixing pain with my pleasure. I rather liked it.
It seemed an ironic trade, on that grey afternoon, to find the punishment which Miss Ranson and Lady Catherine Spencer-Harrington used to dampen my spirits had, in fact, given me insight into coaxing greater pleasure from my body. I gleefully hoped they would learn the opposite from my cream tea which they were expecting to enjoy.
[To be Continued …]
This post is submitted for WickedWednesday: Peak Outside and 4Thoughts or Fiction: defining moment – both memes for fiction and other written posts while for Snake Den A-Z I’ve plumped for S – Scones, a popular summer treat (although not in this instance!) Why not check out what others have linked?