A Fine Profession (The Chambermaid's Tales Part One) (13 page)

I recovered and got dressed and she told me about a group of people I might be interested in meeting. Not sure whether I was ashamed or remorseful, I told he
r that I would let her know. I'd think about it.

With my newfound sexiness realised, I ran myself a steaming hot bath once I got home that night. I slipped into the watery soup and rid myself of all that my body had been forced to undergo. I was a little sore from the spasms that had run through my legs and the large cock that had sought to break me in. I lay there and for the first time considered my womanliness. My breasts had always annoyed me. They were big and cumbersome for a frame so small, weighing heavily on my shoulders and lower back. I thought the nipples too large and the shape too droopy. Meanwhile, my legs were chunky from years of physical work. I felt like they could perhaps be slimmer if I was not always on my feet so much but this was how they were, and whenever I raised myself on tiptoes, I always had a sense of the calves becoming prominently defined. But this night, I saw those legs and remembered them wrapped around that man's body. They were strong legs and had never let me down. My concentration moved to my arse. Reaching beneath myself in the silky, oily waters, it felt weighty but luxurious, and I knew this was a rump that many men might crave to put their aching members between.

Next was the waist. One bit I had always liked. Neatly tucked in and never a bother, except when it came to dresses. I always needed a belt to accommodate the fact that my breasts and hips were not in line with this much smaller facet of my physique
. However, squeezing both hands at my sides, I knew this was a part of myself that could be used…

In the baking hot tub, I lay back and decided my body was not half bad after all. I glanced at my pale skin, aglow against the candlelight, and discovered I could seem a different person when sunk beneath the shimmering surface. I felt perhaps, perpetually in this state, I might seem ever attractive. I g
lowed with cleanliness and renewed confidence in myself. My hands crossed over my breasts to hold my shoulders and I smiled a broad grin that had never before appeared on my face over this concept of me being a sexual being. This was new.

I stepped out of the bath before the waters started to get cold, eager to maintain the glow on my exterior. I dried myself meticulously and applied moisture creams to my limbs and torso, for the first time, actually indulging myself in such a treat! I even used some tiny bits around my eyes and mouth, just to give me that feeling of having been properly administered to.

Outside, thunder cracked nearby and a storm threatened. It was humid and muggy and people outside rushed to get indoors. It could have been the end of the world. I did not put on my robe in the bathroom but instead walked through the flat naked, down the corridor, and into my bedroom. As I went, I imagined a suitor trailing behind me, following me to my chamber, hoping to capture me once in there. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and I felt a little twitch in my belly.

As I entered the bedroom, I realised the curtains had not yet been drawn. The hallway light was o
n and cast a shadow across the corridor, but offered little light in there, so I simply crossed the floor naked and shut the drapes in my natural skin. I did not think anyone could have seen me, but I imagined somewhere in my subconscious, that perhaps a man was viewing me from a far-off location and had currently just put a hand to his crotch in anticipation. Another little tremor quaked through my womb.

I saw the bed, made and untouched, looking so plain and miserable. I found a red, silk scarf to throw over the plain duvet cover and it instantly looked different; sensual, welcoming and warm. I was still quite temperate from my bath and felt reinvigorated. My skin seemed tauter and more supple, my limbs more relaxed and calm. I strolled around the other rooms like that, naked, and aware. I did not care whether a single soul
saw the real me. In the living-room mirror, I caught sight of myself. My cheeks were flush and I seemed a hazy dream that was an improvement on the former me. I had to see more. I pulled the mirror from the wall and positioned it against the fireplace so that I could see my entirety. I stared and assessed. I decided this: that there might be bits of myself I was not quite comfortable with, that bulged or caused me havoc in the clothing department, but overall I had a great package. To see oneself in one's entirety was to see the beauty of the female form and everything it offered. Dwelling on the small imperfections was futile; seeing the glory of the whole thing, a more prosperous route. I smoothed my hands across my stomach, before turning around to admire my posterior. I sensed the dampness now emerging.

I crouched on the floor to view myself and saw my vagina weeping with lo
nging to be filled and caressed, nurtured and captivated, abused and tantalised. Its walls pulsed gradually as I stroked the clitoris with fine movements. Eventually, I lay on my back, hard nipples pointing upwards, moaning into the echoing darkness. I writhed on the thinly carpeted floor, thinking myself indulgent, but… it was practise. I turned over, placing myself on all fours, so that if I looked behind I could see myself in the mirror, all holes open and available. I noticed for the first time that there was a fine stretch of light downy hair between my buttocks. I probed my fingers inside and rocked back and forth, gratuitously mashing whatever met my digits. I rubbed my clean nipples with the nectar from that hole and gave myself the green light to make some noise. My own groans incited me more. Whenever I felt the clenching begin to become more rapid, I would stave off, attending to some other area to lengthen the sensations.

Eventually, I was so damp that my whole hand was sliding around effortlessly, my pussy able to take whate
ver I forced into it. I repositioned myself in front of the mirror on my knees. I watched as I pleasured myself. I spread my legs as wide as I could manage. I thrust toward the mirror, displaying my clitoris to ensure it was being attended to. I rubbed my breasts with sticky fingers and saliva, rubbed them until they were sore. I could feel it rushing into my groin, this tumultuous, all-encompassing orgasm, unlike anything I had ever experienced before. I went with it. I moved as if fucking a man, grinding and thrusting, bouncing and wailing. My breasts jumped around and I left myself. This person was having too much fun to actually be me. However, it was too good to ignore. I fucked myself ragged and tried to make it last as long as possible, working with the chaotic spasms of my vaginal walls clenching. I stopped, sweaty and flush, panting in front of the mirror, my chin on my chest and my body paralysed by pleasure. I limply pulled myself up, wandered to the bedroom, and slipped into bed. I smelt my own fresh skin now mixed with the scent of my sex and felt deeply fulfilled. I breathed a few heavy, relieved breaths and sank into a lovely slumber that cascaded over my body in waves.

In the night, I woke with the hunger and touched myself again, covered in the red scarf but with my sex spread open for the whole world to see. It was a magical night; it was my awakening.

I found a few missed calls from
Florence on my phone. I didn't call her back. I was a little perplexed about the whole thing. I really didn't know which box to place the incident in. The a) done it once, never again, though it was brilliant; b) biggest mistake of my life; c) what else have you got going on right now? I must have let slip to her where I worked because one day, I found a package on my desk, delivered by post but with her address on the back. It was full of books.
Lady Chatterley, Sons and Lovers, Story of O, The Handmaid's Tale, Moll Flanders, Fanny Hill, The 120 Days of Sodom, Tipping the Velvet
and
The Colour Purple
.

A note attached read:
Lottie, please take a look and see if anything grabs you. If not, you can bring them by my house, anytime. I'm always around. F

I knew
that I had been set up for another reeling. I had known that the first time round but I was so intrigued nonetheless. I quickly stowed the literature in my drawer and carried on with my day. However, the niggling curiosity was seated in the back of my mind and would not dissipate. It was the thought of that meeting with Florence being fated, or something. I don't know. I didn't really feel ashamed of what I had done. More, shocked how quickly it had all happened. I also knew that her lover must have been watching that whole time. It creeped me out and enthralled me in equal measure. It was new and exciting but also foreign and daunting. I felt as though I was discovering a dangerous side of myself that once hooked, might never be able to turn back after becoming accustomed to the ways they were used to. But then, I had resolved to never search for love and I had accepted that there weren't many other things in life that gave me joy.

I took the books home and started reading them. Television went on the backburner. I rarely missed an episode of Corrie but all of a sudden it was inconsequential. I was drawn in so greatly by these tales and windows into different worlds, peoples and relationships. I grew to understand why some women sought the company of their own sex, after being abused and maltreated by their lovers. DH Lawrence
demonstrated how love could change a person irreparably and shone clarity on simple human behaviour that nearly almost always went undocumented but was nevertheless so telling. I began to grasp that love existed in various forms. Marquis de Sade scared me beyond belief but the language was entrancing (though this still did not keep me from skipping a lot).

I was reading in my office whenever I got a few minutes spare. I would have a book in my hand on the loo, in the bath, in bed, anywhere I had chance. I was suddenly obsessed. I didn't really realise why but it was
Story of O
that captured me more than anything else. I re-read it two or three times, and sometimes, certain passages had to be read over and over. The horror and brutality of her treatment was unbearable and yet O found some kind of romance, elevation or dignity from being used as a whore. I felt a connection with her. She felt shame for being sexual but within her bonds, she felt free, or released even, of her own desires. She gave herself to these men freely and could have refused at any point. In being the slave of one man or many, she was freed of the pursuit of sex, knowing she could acquire it and if not from her lover then for her lover's sake through another lover. I rolled her story over and over in my mind. It piqued my imagination. I wanted to know more. I finished the lot within three weeks, but was left sleep-deprived and square-eyed. I cycled to Florence's house with high expectations and a desire to acquire answers. This was perhaps about more than just bodily, chemical urges. It was about the fulfilment of some lateral yearning.

At her house, she welcomed me with open arms, in th
e smock dress again. It irked me to know the real reason for such baggy clothing, but that kind of thing seemed to be her preference.

We lounged in her living room, on large red sofas. She offered me a glass of lemonade and we chatted.

“What did you think?” she asked.

“
I haven't been able to stop reading. I must confess, I did skip some bits of
Sodom
and
Moll Flanders
, but I read the lot.”

“
Really?” she asked.

“
Yes, I was captivated.”

“
Why do you think that is?” she asked.

“
I guess I had a lot of reading to catch up on. I don't really bother unless someone gives me something they think I will enjoy.”

“
Which is not often,” she said.

“
Nope. And I guess I have more imagination than I ever thought!”

“
So, I have a suggestion for you.”

“
Go on.”

“
I have a group of friends you might like to meet. I am part of a kind of sexual cult, or whatever you want to call it. We share lovers. We keep it amongst ourselves so to speak. We just recently lost a member and are seeking another.”

“
Oh, I'm sorry–” I began.

“
Not dead, my pet, just someone who decided to move on. People do, of course, or even sometimes decide it's really not for them in the first place. There's no contract or anything like that.”

“
What is it you all do, exactly?”

“
We do whatever takes our fancy. We engage in group sex. We re-enact ideas from books. We dress in period clothes. There is a particular penchant amongst our group for the history of this area. You know of the Dukeries?”

“
Yes, it was a small area of Nottinghamshire that enclosed four houses inhabited by dukes. Their lands pretty much bordered one another's so that's how the name came about I guess, and the people from each house roamed between the estates quite freely I imagine. I have been to the museum but it all seemed pretty standard history. But what does that have to do with it all?”

“
Well, the four ducal seats in this area weren't alone. There were other houses that were connected. Other stately homes. But also, a place that was sacred to the lords of the area. A retreat to seek entertainments in, shall we say.”

“
Tell me more.”

“
I do not like to use the word prostitution because it wasn't a place for that exactly, more one of education. A finishing school for young bucks, one might say. To set them on their way. The women in the establishment, usually the best former whores from London or elsewhere, provided services unique to each client. We have a diary of one of the women who worked in that profession. She describes some of the acts and sometimes, we like to re-enact them.”