For this one, you do not need any prior knowledge of the world of Wetwang Manor, but I do think your enjoyment would be greatly enhanced by starting from the beginning, if you haven’t already, and the enhancement of your enjoyment is very important to me.

Wetwang Manor is a fictitious, unusually permissive aristocratic household, set in the late 1800s in the very real location of Wetwang in the East Riding of Yorkshire. It is being published serially here in celebration of Pride Month 2026. Links to other instalments in the series can be found at the bottom of this piece.

*****

“Mr Wilkins?”

“Yes Agnes?”

“’Ow come you’re such a good tup? You never seem interested in the ladies. The girls say what a match you’d make, but I’ve never seen you give any of ‘em a first glance let alone a second. ‘Ave you never thought on marryin’? Startin’ a family?”

Wilkins adjusts his jacket, ensuring that not a stitch is out of place. Of course there isn’t. There wouldn’t dare be.

“I can assure you Agnes, that I have the same amount of interest in the ladies as I do in the men. Which is to say, none at all.”

“Then ‘ow, Mr Wilkins? I mean, when you turned me over, Lord, you was like an animal! And now...”

“A lack of interest in settling down domestically need not translate to a lack of experience in bed, Agnes. Or enthusiasm.”

The Head Housemaid considers this, running her hand between her legs as she lies in bed, still enjoying the gentle ache he left behind.

With her other hand she caresses a red mark on her breast, already starting to bruise.

“‘thusiastic indeed, Mr Wilkins. Look at this bite. It’ll tek an age to ‘eal up. You’re a beast, you are.”

“You may recall it was at your request. ‘Bite me, Mr. Wilkins,’ you said. Rather forcefully.”

“Quite right it was. Ta for that.”

“You’re most welcome. Her Ladyship asked after you at breakfast this morning. Shall I inform her that you have recovered and are back to your duties?”

“I’ll go see ‘er missen,” Agnes says cheerfully, sitting up in bed and reaching for her underdress.

“Very good.” Wilkins regards her getting dressed. “Always a pleasure, Agnes.” He departs with a nod and a hint of a smile, shutting the door gently behind him. Starting a family, indeed. The very thought.

She likes to imagine that this is something more; an illicit affair between the Head Housemaid and the Butler of Wetwang Manor. But she knows it’s not, and never will be, and she doesn’t mind it, not one jot.

*****

Eleanor, the Lady Wetwang, grips the soft fabric of the sheets beneath her, clawing at them as she arches her back.

“Oh, just so - just so, Aggie, you are such a good girl - oh!”

She trembles and shudders, clamping a hand over her own mouth to muffle her cries. With her free hand she squeezes a breast, pinching her nipple, the sharp pain contrasting with the soft tongue lapping earnestly at her.

“Oh-h-h-h!”

She tries to keep it down. The solid walls of Wetwang Manor do an excellent job of acoustic privacy but there’s just something so thrilling in pretending that she might get caught with her Head Housemaid’s face between her legs.

She draws Agnes up into her arms, showering her face with kisses. “Oh I’ve missed you so; welcome back, darling, welcome back!” Agnes is filled with a happy glow as her employer squeezes her tight, the warm fluttering that only Lady Eleanor seems to bring out in her and that is notably absent from any of her other dalliances. Especially the ones with Mr Wilkins.

“May I offer a return, my darling?” Lady Eleanor asks.

“No, thank you, your Ladyship. I got seen to just before,” she replies.

“Ah, that would explain the bite mark. Well, far be it from me to enquire too much into the affairs of downstairs.” Lady Eleanor catches Agnes’s eye with a twinkle in her own. “Best be getting back to your duties then.”

Agnes climbs off the bed and smooths her dress down, curtseying before she turns to go. She squeals as Lady Eleanor plants a smack on her rump, giggling as she exits her employer’s room. As soon as she’s out, she rearranges her face into a sterner look. There are housemaids to terrorise.

*****

“Could you send a note to Lady Downey please? Invite her round to tea tomorrow afternoon, and apologise that I wasn’t able to attend her boring little soiree on Saturday.”

She gathers her hair and lifts it to the top of her head, smiling as her chamberlain’s eyes follow the movement. Her heavy breasts sway with the motion.

“Perhaps leave out the ‘boring’,” she sighs. “She does throw lovely tea parties. Occasionally. I just didn’t fancy being shown off again to her little friends. Leave that part out as well please, Edmund, there’s a dear.”

Lady Eleanor’s voice remains cool and composed, just a touch breathless as she traces her chamberlain’s nipples with her finger, pale against his dark skin. She rocks her hips languorously as she rides him.

“Right away, Your Ladyship.”

“Well, perhaps not quite right away, Edmund. She can wait. I can’t.”

“At your pleasure, Your Ladyship.”

“Oh, pleasure indeed. I do so enjoy our moments together. It’s nice that I have someone I can try new things on. And you’re always such a perfect gentleman. Dicky can be a little rough around the edges. It’s the upbringing. Sometimes I do think he’d much rather be rolling in the muck with the dogs than a bitch like me.”

“Surely not, Your Ladyship.”

“No,” she agrees. “One just rather likes to pretend. I’ll have nothing to gossip about with the ladies otherwise, you see. And they do so love their gossip.”

“Quite so, Your Ladyship.” His voice is starting to sound a little strained, as outside, the larks and chaffinches trade songs.

“Can you feel that, by the way?” she asks, smirking as she undulates her lower body.

“The squeezing, Your Ladyship? It is exquisite.”

Although she continues to move at a languid pace, the gentleness of her exterior movements belie the fine control she exercises over her internal muscles. He places his hands on her hips to help support her. Not that she needs it, but he likes to feel useful.

“Oh good. Gussie told me about it last week. The ‘Singapore Grip’, she says it’s called. One of her recent companions brought it back from somewhere in the Straits Settlements. She nearly spilled her tea into my lap trying to explain it. I’ve been practising. I keep telling Dicky that’s the sort of thing he should be bringing home whenever he’s out there. Although to be quite fair, I do so love his additions to our household.”

“His Lordship will be delighted, I’m sure. Both to hear that, and to experience this.”

“I shall try it on him tonight. Oh, speak of the devil,” she says as the door to her boudoir opens and her husband pops his head in. “Hello, Dicky, darling.”

“I do beg your pardon, my love,” the Baron Wetwang says. “Didn’t realise you weren’t quite finished yet. I thought you might fancy a walk. Shall I come back later?”

“No, a walk sounds lovely, Dicky. I’ll just get decent and I’ll be right with you. Sorry, to leave you unfinished, Edmund dear. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all, Your Ladyship,” the chamberlain replies, gallantly offering her his hand as she climbs off him. He rises smoothly after her, still hard as he offers her a towel from the side table.

His penis bounces in time with his movements, but he politely ignores it. Lady Wetwang, on the other hand, can’t keep her eyes off it, much to the amusement of her husband.

She takes the towel, but pauses before she wipes herself between her legs. “Won’t it stain?” she asks.

“My mother always swore by vinegar to take care of household stains should one occur. Your Ladyship can’t go for a walk still dripping.”

“We’ll replace it if it stains,” the Baron says. “Good man, Edmund, good man. I’ll be in the drawing room, my love, whenever you’re ready.”

Richard Wetwang exits with a smile on his face and a bounce in his step, leaving his wife to clean herself.

Lady Eleanor turns back to her chamberlain, who pauses in the act of pulling his trousers on to take the towel from her. They fall back to his ankles. He could have kept them up, of course, but one does not stand bowlegged to keep one’s trousers halfway up in the presence of one’s employer.

“Thank you, Edmund dear. And do let the staff know about Lady Downey for tomorrow please. Ask Cookie to make madeleines, if she could, they’re Lady Downey’s favourites. She dips them in her tea. Fancy that.”

She mimes Lady Downey dipping madeleines in tea, her little finger crooked aristocratically, a smile playing across her lips. “I wonder where she picked that idea up. Or what she would think of the Singapore Grip. Perhaps I should tell her. Could you picture the look on her face?”

“It would be quite the scene, I’m sure, Your Ladyship. Will there be anything else?”

She looks at his hard, glistening cock and tilts her head, smiling. “Yes, Edmund, dear, do take a moment for yourself. It would make me feel rather less terrible about leaving you in such a state.”

“As you say, Your Ladyship.”

*****

Want to discuss what you’ve just read? Come join the free chat, where I’ve got book club style questions for everything that I write, and you’re more than welcome to ask your own.

*****

Next week, another familiar character makes a return!

In the meantime, if you haven’t already, why not read the other Tales of Wetwang Manor? They can be found, in recommended reading order, below:

Cookie’s Night Off

The Tale of Cookie’s Tail

Lady Vi Gets Dressed

Escaping the Kite

What Goes Around, Part 1 (You Are Here)

For my regular readers, I know it’s meant to be a Sunday Short today, but I hope you won’t mind that this is a slightly longer read than you might have been expecting.

*****

She arches her back as I tighten my grip on her blonde ponytail, her head thrown back with a grimace on her made up face. “Ow, ow, too hard you beast! Ah!” Her breath escapes in as gasp as I drive deep into her from behind.

“Weren’t you the one who said to go harder?”

“Yes, well, is that the best you can do?” she sniffs.

I don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, I pull out and slam into her hard enough that her glasses slip further down her nose and she hangs her head, panting, sweat dripping off her flushed forehead.

Yep, that’s me. And that’s Stephanie. Although at that point I suspect she couldn’t remember her own name.

What?

No, I didn’t slip something into her drink, what do you think I am? Hubris is a dangerous drug, and she’s the biggest addict around.

Anyway, it’s not what it looks like.

Okay, maybe it is. But it’s not the whole story.

See, it’s a Saturday morning like any other, and I’d just dropped Ruby off at her football practice. The club’s switched to the place with the astro because of all the rain we’ve been having, and we’ve got a choice of either hanging around to watch, or go get a cup of coffee and come back in a couple of hours.

It was raining. I love my daughter, but I went indoors where it was warm and dry.

Even Stephanie chose to come indoors, which I think the coaches appreciated. At least they could do their job in peace.

Stephanie saw me and came straight over. “Aw, are you babysitting today?” she asked in that tone of hers. You know the one.

Well I’ve got a trademark tone too: flat and dumb. “Nope, that’s what babysitters do. I’m her dad; I’m parenting.”

Yes I know I should have ignored it. Yes, I know jabbing back at her like that will only make her worse. Totally worth it, I’d do it again just to watch her face as she tries to process that someone’s just talked back to her. She flounced off to the cafe.

I joined her at the counter in time to pay for her drink. I know, but you know as well as I do how playground politics work. No hard feelings, let me buy you a coffee, and we’ll have a little natter about our kids and our husbands - my beautiful wife in my case - and how exhausted we are and how useless the school are being.

Only it didn’t quite work that way today. Today, she didn’t even look at me. Didn’t thank me. She took her coffee and went off to sit in one of the booths, staring out the window at the grey outside. The entitlement was astounding.

I watched her while I waited for mine. She’s actually very easy on the eye, isn’t she? Once you get past the bit about her being a demanding bitch. Blonde hair in a loose ponytail, tits that are about a handful in size and an arse that, while not quite on Pixar mum levels, looked pretty good walking away, especially in the yoga leggings she had on. Shame she has all the personality of a wet fart.

I don’t know what made me do it. Maybe I was bored. Maybe I felt a bit guilty at the blunt putdown. I took my coffee and went to join her at her booth. She still didn’t look at me, but at least Her Highness spoke.

“Are you trying to get in my pants?”

“Huh?”

“I know what men are like.”

Was this woman doing her best to fill her sexist bingo card?

“Enlighten me? I’ve been struggling with self-awareness lately.”

She sniffed haughtily. “Don’t think I don’t know what you and Luna get up to most weeks.”

Ah.

“Everyone knows, you know,” she continued. “I don’t know how you sleep at night.”

“Very well, actually. The copious amounts of sex helps.”

“Copious- how can you even joke about it?”

I shrugged. “It’s life, not an arthouse film. People fuck. Sex can be fun and funny.”

“You’re not even trying to deny it. How shameless can you get?”

Speaking of Luna, where was she? I could have done with her help in dealing with this nutjob. I couldn’t just get up and walk away; it’d feel like I was admitting defeat. So I went on the offensive.

“Are you jealous?”

She spluttered.

“Jealous? Of what? If you’re the best that Luna can get after her divorce, I’m glad I’m not on the market anym-”

“And how is Mikey these days? I hear he’s on his third secretary now? Or should I say, on top of?”

She grits her teeth. “He’s fine.”

“Oh, I’m sure he is. And she’s pretty fine, too. I’ve seen them around town.”

She lashed out at me with her foot, catching me in the shin. That actually took me by surprise. Good thing she can’t kick, unlike her daughter. I’ve seen the girl score with a screamer of a shot from midfield.

But there’s a line, and I crossed it. “I’m sorry,” I acknowledged, with my hands up. “I don’t know what he sees in her. You’re way better, of course.”

She brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “You’re just saying that.”

“No, no. You’re definitely better looking than she is. Better hair. Nicer smile.” Bigger arse, but I don’t say that part.

“She’s younger.”

“You’re more experienced.”

“I am, aren’t I?”

Okay, this is good. We’re getting into safer territory now.

“But I don’t care what you think,” she continued.

Ah, crap. There I was thinking we were having a Nice Moment.

“You don’t?”

“No. What does it matter to me what a snowflake like you thinks?”

“Snowfl-”

“A real man would’ve done something by now.” Was that...was that her foot running up my calf? I moved my leg away. Must’ve been accidental, it was a tight squeeze in the booth.

She smirked. “See? Wimp.” I felt her foot against the side of my calf again, running up towards my inner thigh.

“Careful...”

“Why? I don’t have anything to be afraid of from a herbivore like you.”

“Herbi-”

“I bet you’re the sort that needs flowers and silk sheets to feel anything. Do you cry in Luna’s arms when you’re done? Wracked with guilt at cheating on-”

I put my nose in the air. “I’ll have you know I do not require flowers, although they are appreciated, of course. But if you’ve never felt 800 thread count sheets against your naked skin, you’re seriously missing out.”

“Where do you even go to have your little...trysts?”

“My car. Macho idiots think sports cars are all that, but nothing gives you space to fuck like a minivan with the seats folded down.”

She stirs her coffee absent-mindedly, the tip of her tongue darting out to touch her lips. “Show me.”

“What?”

“Don’t make me ask again. Are you scared?”

“Of you? No.”

“Prove it.”

So I did. I led her to the car, already parked in a quiet corner of the car park, behind a hedge. See, I told you there was a good reason I cleaned it.

I popped the back open. The seats were already folded down, and I let her climb in first. I tried to pretend like I wasn’t watching her climb in, she tried to pretend she wasn’t wiggling her bum for maximum effect. I could see the outline of her pussy in the tight, thin fabric of her leggings.

And then I gave in to temptation and did something I have always wanted to do to her. I spanked her. I gave her a good, hard, open palmed smack on the fleshiest part of her bottom, and watched the ripples travel outward from the point of impact.

It made the most satisfying crack that echoed a little bit in the confines of the car. She turned, furious.

“Hey!”

My face was a picture of innocence. She grabbed me by the shirt and dragged me into the car. She’s stronger than she looks. I banged my shins getting in. “You’re going to pay for that,” she said

“Oh? How?”

She pulled the door shut. She pushed me, and I fell backwards, laughing as she straddled me. “Do I have to do everything?”

It’s all a blur, but it was a bit of a wrestling match. I rolled, pinned her down; she kicked and flipped me back over. I can’t tell you who pulled which bits off whom, but I managed to get her leggings and knickers dangling from one of her ankles, and her sports bra pulled up so her tits were out. My own trackie bottoms - it was cold, it was a weekend, don’t judge me - were hanging around my knees.

I took a moment to admire her body. She must do some serious work to keep herself in shape. Her pussy was completely hairless, plump and pink against her pale thighs as she spreads her legs, lips already peeling apart. She was very wet. If there’s one thing about her, it’s that she’s a bitch, but a confident one.

“What are you staring at? Too much of a coward to just put it in?”

“Fuck you, Stephanie.”

“So you say, but I’m still waiting.”

That was as good an invitation as any. I hooked my arms behind her knees and pulled her towards me. Unlike her, I’m well practised in the fine art of fucking in the back of this car, and I got it right first time, slamming my cock deep into her.

It was very satisfying to watch her struggle to keep her composure as she felt herself being stretched open. She’s not been skimping on her Kegels.

“Are you in?” she asked nonchalantly, panting a little.

“Hard to tell, it’s like a cavern in here.”

“Fuck you.”

She wrapped her legs around my back and twisted, and I yelled as she flipped me over. “You can’t fuck to save your life, I’m taking control of this ride,” she declared as she raised her arms and pulled her hair together, retying her ponytail. No complaints from me, the view was excellent, and I supported her with my hands on her waist as she started grinding on me. I raised my hips to meet her, and I could feel her pressing down harder as she found the exact right spot. The car was shifting ever so slightly from her enthusiasm.

Her breathing was getting harder and faster. I was actually wondering if she might start drooling on me, she was getting so into it. And then suddenly the passenger door opened as she was thrusting forward and she screamed.

“Oh hello, don’t mind me. Rain’s getting a bit heavier and I needed somewhere to hide.” Luna’s chirpy voice piped up from the front. “Carry on.”

“What the fuck?”

“Well, Stephanie, seeing as you’re in my usual spot, I think I should be the one asking that question, don’t you think?” Luna said.

“Eh- “ She might have been at a loss for words, but her hips were continuing to work like they were on autopilot.

“Seriously though, don’t mind me. Sharing is caring, like I always tell the kids.” She turned back to the front and started humming to herself as she adjusts the seat.

I look up at Stephanie. “Bet you want to stop, don’t you? Chicken.”

She’d gone a bright pink, but she wasn’t about to admit defeat. “Don’t try to push your cowardice on me.”

“There isn’t anything of me Luna hasn’t seen before, she knows all my moves.”

“Yeah, watch out for when he flips you into doggy. Man’s like a jackhammer in that position. Last week I wasn’t walking properly till Monday.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it, Luna.”

“Did I say I didn’t enjoy it?”

“I’m not stopping just stop talking to her and fuck me like a man!” Stephanie hissed. She was still grinding on me, and I could feel her pussy making tiny little squeezes. Fair enough.

I timed it perfectly, of course. Right when she started to cum, right when I saw her whole body tense up, I flipped her over.

“Hey guys, just so you know, I’m recording this, yeah?” Luna announced. Steph moaned, her entire body trembling. I pulled her hips up towards me. Jackhammer time.

The rest you can see. I gripped her ponytail, used it as leverage and just went all out on her. All her little microbarbs about being a man in a woman’s world, all those snide little comments, all became fuel for me pounding the absolute shit out of her.

I’m not proud to say I left her a drooling mess in the back of our car.

Okay, I’m pretty proud of it, even if I’m going to have to clean the car again.

I’m glad Luna took that video. I know you’d never have believed me otherwise. Yep, I know, I wouldn’t have believed it either. Ice Queen Stephanie bent over practically crying as I fuck her into next Tuesday. Heh.

Look, I’ll fast forward to the bit where my cum oozes back out of her. Watch it drip. Look, she’s even waving at the camera. Wiggling her fingers, at least, although maybe that’s just a nervous reaction. I had a hell of a time cleaning that out of the seat, let me tell you. Totally worth it.

Why yes, my darling wife, that does mean I won my bet with you. And you say you’re ready to deliver? Well, how can a man say no to that?

You want to watch the video while I fuck you? Whatever the lady wants, my dear. Whatever the lady wants.

Okay, that’s a lie. I’ve thought about it. Or more accurately, I’ve fantasised about it. Over and over, to be perfectly honest. Till almost nothing else fills my waking moments, not to mention my sleeping ones.

It started when I was in a lecture theatre, invigilating an exam. One of the worst things to do as a postgrad teaching assistant, just watching these fresh university students trying not to flunk out. Making sure no one’s cheating and everyone has what they need.

i.e., boring as fuck. I’d much rather be in the lab, working on my thesis.

I didn’t want to distract them by walking around too much, so all I did was sit in the chair and look around the room. So yes, my mind did wander. Just a bit. Some of these freshers were very easy on the eye. Yes, borderline unethical to be entertaining such thoughts about them. And I’m not blind, I’ve noticed how more than a few of them check me out.

But no, I’d never actually do anything with any of them, at least, not while they’re in my classes and not for a long while after. The thought police can fuck off, I’ll fantasise about who I want.

I crossed my legs, folded my arms, looked as stern as I could, and tried not to fall asleep. I still felt like I might nod off, so thought I’d do some subtle stretching. My calves had been tight, so I flexed my foot, pointing it up and down, bouncing my leg. My muscles started to relax and holy fuck what was that?

I tried it again. The unmistakable sensation of pressure - pleasure - between my legs. I’ve heard of this before, but I’ve never been able to get there. Sod’s law it happens when I’m in public. I looked around the room; everyone still concentrating. This was too good an opportunity to pass up.

What can I say? I’m a scientist. I experimented, pushing the little voice in my head aside, the one that screamed, “This is so inappropriate! Imagine if the genders were flipped! You’d never be able to show your face in public again!”

Instead, I concentrated on varying the angles of my foot, and which of my leg muscles I engaged until I found the combination that felt best. Then I spent my time doing exactly that, enjoying the little jolts that were spreading across my body.

Stretching. Yes. I’m stretching. I’m allowed to stretch.

I don’t think I actually orgasmed that first time. Or maybe I did, just tiny little micro tremors. But I will never forget that thrill, that rush of excitement of doing something so naughty, so forbidden, in so public a setting.

After the exam was over and the students filed out past me, nodding at me, thanking me, my heart was pounding so hard I thought they would hear it. At any moment, I expected one of them to pull me aside and whisper I know what you were doing. because surely they - anybody - could tell by the flush on my skin, my slightly-too-fast breathing that I was struggling hard to keep under control. Surely they could see that even as they walked past I was still flexing my foot, unable to stop myself.

But nobody saw. Or at least, nobody said anything.

That was the beginning of the slippery slope. I kept on doing it, needing that rush more and more, finding that it was no longer enough just to masturbate in the privacy of my own room, until even the clandestine syntribation was no longer enough to scratch that itch. Even after I learned how to orgasm properly, silently, expressionlessly through it.

I wouldn’t say I dressed sluttier, but my outfits were certainly selected with plausible deniability in mind. Skirts that were just that little bit too short, or would float up just a little bit too much if I turned too quickly. Tops that were just a little too low cut, just a little loose, just enough to hang off my chest if I bent over. I began going braless more often, sometimes even commando. Anything that would give me an excuse to show off, to experience that thrill of exposing myself.

I always used to go to the sports centre to swim and use the spa facilities. I still went, but now instead of waiting for a cubicle to change in, I just change out in the open, letting it all hang out. I spend longer in the showers, telling myself that I’m saving on my hot water bill by showering at the sports centre, but really, it was because they have better water pressure there - you know why that’s important - and I loved, loved touching myself, knowing that there were people showering in the cubicles to either side of me. Sometimes I’d leave the door unlatched, fantasising about it swinging open, about being discovered mid-orgasm.

I didn’t change my swimsuit, keeping my sensible dark blue one-piece. I’m a serious swimmer; a bikini’s never going to hold up. Plausible deniability, remember? But wasn’t it surprising just how often that swimsuit would ride up, both in the front and back? I’m obviously much too serious a swimmer to pause mid-stroke for something so trivial like adjusting my costume.

I’d pull myself out of the pool, wondering if anyone was behind me to look at my butt cheeks jiggling, water cascading off my bare skin. Walk over to the spa area, nonchalantly, performatively oblivious about my labia making a meal out of my swimsuit. Will anyone notice? became a mantra in my head.

Then I’d sink into the hot tub, positioning myself precisely over the jets, leaning back, eyes closed, feeling the bubbles caress my body like a lover’s fingertips.

But it was never enough.

Like any other addict, I kept searching for the next high, the next thrill, pushing my boundaries, taking bigger risks. Slipping my hand into my panties while riding a lift, pulling it out at the very last moment, just before the doors open and my supervisor walks in, greeting me, my fingertips still damp. Pressing the corner of a hard folder against my crotch while standing in a busy train carriage, letting the jostling motion of the train cover up my own rocking motions. So many ways to scratch that itch and it was never enough, until now, when I finally flew too close to the sun.

Picture this: I’m in the library, actually doing some work. Nothing too heavy, just a literature review using some reference-only materials. I sit at one of the tables, flipping through a book, enjoying the smell of old paper in the air and the dust motes dancing in the sunlight that streams through the window. There is a small stack of journals by the side, patiently waiting their turn to be fingered. It’s quiet, and I have the room to myself, and well. Fascinating as this stuff is, there’s an insistent call that starts in my belly and ends between my legs.

Without even really thinking about it, I flip to the next page with one hand, and with the other I reach down under the table. I’m wearing my favourite dress with tights in a reluctant concession to the chill in the air. The well-worn fabric is soft on my skin and my juices are already flowing, a Pavlovian response to my being in a secluded, public space.

I play with myself, running a teasing finger over each of my lower lips in turn, a sigh escaping gently as my eyes scan the page for anything I can use. Read, flip, read, stroke. Flip, stroke, read. Stroke, stroke, flip. Stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke.

Each stroke of my finger sends a shudder up my spine. I bite my bottom lip in an attempt to concentrate. I can taste blood, the result of a lover’s passionate kiss. His imaginary hands run over my increasingly real body.

He finds my nipples, toys with them, pinches them through the fabric of my dress. They are hard and sensitive, and it’s definitely not because of the cold. I moan, softly.

Not here my darling, someone could see, I whisper in my mind.

I don’t care mi amor, he whispers back. Let them watch. Stroke, stroke. You like it when they watch.

I bite my lip again. Flip the page. Research. I should be researching. Flip. Stroke, stroke.

Unable to resist my womanly charms, he finds a hole in my tights, rips it open to access my swollen petals.

Petals?

I really should stop reading those trashy romance novels.

Bare skin on skin, I simulate his finger making gentle circles over my clit, using my own juices as lubrication.

The book lies before me, finally giving up the fight for my attention against the onslaught of my imaginary lover romping through my mind. He rips the hole in my tights larger, larger, places his thick, hard cock at my entrance and pushes himself in.

That naughty boy, always so impatient to bury himself inside me.

I gasp and yield, though I feel my inner muscles contracting, pushing him out before pulling him in. I bury two fingers into myself, my palm resting against my pussy, stimulating myself from inside and out.

I moan quietly at the sensation of being filled, hips rocking, riding my own hand. I pull my fingers out, taste myself: salty, coppery. A tiny bit acidic. Mm.

I continue touching myself to wilder and wilder fantasies. Anyone could walk in, anyone could see. Stroke stroke stroke stroke stroke. See me pleasuring myself so wantonly, practically drooling over the hallowed reference book, unseeing eyes half open, glazed.

Anyone could see. I could get caught. Anyone could see. The shame, oh how shameful it would be. Where would I hide my face? The imagined humiliation rips through my chest, steals my breath, sends my heart rate wild.

All too soon, I feel the pre-orgasmic waves start to build. I rest my forehead on the open book, my eyes closed in bliss as I let go, let it take over my body. My finger is a blur now, circling and circling, bringing me closer, closer to the edge until I’m falling, no hope of return. My breath returns in ragged gasps; quiet, guttural moans escaping my lips. Not too loud, not too loud, this is still a library. A library where anyone can walk in at any moment.

Oh fuck, that would be so hot.

My back arches and I raise my head; my eyes snap fully open.

He is standing there, his own pile of books in his arms, a look of - bemusement? shock? lust? - on his face. An actual, flesh and blood person, not one from my imagination.

Are you sure?

I’m not, so I look again. Definitely real. I even recognise him: a fellow postgrad. We’d met, briefly, at induction. What was his name again?

Fuck.

Dread rises from the pit of my stomach, warring with raw need. Is he going to report me? What must he think of me?

I open my mouth, but instead of words a wail emerges as I cum again. I hadn’t even realised I was still going.

Fuck.

How glorious it feels to fly so close to the sun, that beautiful, sweet, burning bliss. The shame, the horror, the euphoria.

My body trembles, I cannot control it. I will never forget this moment. I must lock it into my memories for I may never surpass it, never live it down.

I keep looking into his eyes as my finger continues moving, my mouth still open, soundless, as my breathing slows, coming in brief pants.

I finally tear my finger away from myself and reflexively pop it into my mouth, tasting myself before I hurriedly pull it out and cover it with my other hand, in my lap.

Fuck.

My face flames with shame and arousal. I risk a quick look, his bulge protrudes, rather obscenely I think, although who am I to judge?

I never thought I’d find myself in this situation.

What the fuck do I do now?

Was it good for you, too?

Come join my subscriber chat! I’m starting a reading club where I’ll answer any questions you may have about this, or any of my other writing.

For a list of the other stories in the collection, see the end of this one.

Although this is written to stand on its own, you may wish to read #3 in which Lady Vi is introduced. This story is set approximately a year before that one, putting Violet and Clara at approximately 20/21 years of age.

*****

“Clara!”

The Baron stands. “I had no idea you were with us today! And there’s our shrinking Violet!” he says as he catches sight of his daughter behind her closest - some would say only - friend.

“Now, now, dear,” his wife admonishes him. “You know she doesn’t like that name. Did you ladies sleep well?”

Violet, the young Lady Wetwang, curtsies, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the space between her parents. “Yes, thank you, Mother.”

“Very well, thank you Your Lordship, Your Ladyship.” Clara smiles, her blonde curls bouncing as she mirrors Violet’s actions. “May we join you for breakfast?”

“Well of course dear, join us, do. Ahmad?”

The young Malay footman is already stepping forward before she says his name, pulling a chair out first for Clara, then for Violet. The young women smile and thank him before turning their attention to the spread on the table, although Violet notices Clara’s gaze darting furtively towards Ahmad.

She feels a twinge traveling from her chest to her fingertips as she notices this, though she tries to distract herself by reaching for the plate of eggs. Ahmad, as always, is there before her, picking it up and smoothly sliding two perfectly fried ones onto her plate with a slotted spoon.

One day, she will learn how he always manages to anticipate everyone’s needs. Until then, she will enjoy her eggs with a dash of - ah, he’s already seasoned them perfectly, with just the right amount of salt and a sprinkling of freshly cracked pepper. One day, Ahmad, one day.

Clara hides a smile behind her fan, allowing Ahmad to serve her with some porridge and honey, freshly harvested that morning from the Manor’s own hives, thanking him once more before picking up her spoon. He bows slightly as he takes two steps backwards, ever alert for when he may be needed.

“You know Clara, you needn’t share a room with Violet when you stay here. We certainly have enough empty rooms. I remember when I was your age, I most certainly would have appreciated some pri-”

“Mother!”

“Yes, sorry, darling. I’ll keep my nose out of your affairs.”

“Thank you for the offer, Your Ladyship, it’s most kind of you. But I just couldn’t bear to be here yet be even a wall apart from dear Violet. And I do so like to think she would feel the same.” Clara nudges Violet’s elbow, causing her to almost drop an egg on herself.

“Clara!”

*****

“Clara!”

Violet’s tone is hushed, her breath coming in short gasps. Ringlets of her dark hair cling to the sweat that beads her forehead. Her skin is flushed, her eyes bright. Her chest heaves with effort.

How on earth can Clara - gentle, curvaceous Clara - run so bloody fast when she wants to? Perhaps she should have stopped at one egg at breakfast.

“Wait for me!”

She gathers the material of her walking dress in her hands and runs down the gentle slope of the hill to where her friend waits, smiling broadly, a smile which turns to wide-eyed horror as Violet’s boots slip on the wet grass and send her flying, face first.

It all happens so fast. Crashing into Clara. Clara’s arms wrapping around her as they both fall to the fortunately rain-softened ground. Clara’s knee between her legs, her face in Clara’s ample bosom.

“Oww...”

“Violet, are you all right?”

“Yes, are you?”

“I think so. My bottom feels rather bruised, though.”

“I’m sorry-”

“Don’t be, I’m just glad I was able to break your fall. Maybe there is a reason we wear all these layers after all.”

“Yes, but I could have really hurt you-”

“Oh, silly Vi. Nothing you do could ever hurt me, don’t you know?”

In the blue sky, a kite soars, watching for its next meal.

The girls lie where they’d fallen, neither of them feeling any urgent need to get to their feet, or even to untangle themselves from each other. Violet shifts, pressing her cheek against Clara’s, enjoying the gentle rise and fall of Clara’s chest against her own, warm amidst the earthy, green scent of dirt and crushed grass that pervades the morning’s still-fresh air.

It is quiet, save for some distant bleating and the breeze rustling the crocuses and the freshly budded leaves. She reaches up to brush some grass out of Clara’s hair.

“Clara?”

“Yes, Vi?”

“Must you really be married in the summer?”

The kite swoops, its wings folded.

Clara looks at Vi, her blue eyes clouded.

“Yes, Vi.”

“Oh.”

She places a dirt-streaked hand on Vi’s cheek.

“I promise I’ll write, Vi. And you will too, won’t you?”

“Yes, of course. And visit. You said.”

Vi rests her hand over Clara’s soft, warm one. Her heart feels like it will burst, whether from present joy or future sorrow, she has yet to decide.

“I - I did, yes. Visit me.”

Violet tries to ignore the unspoken conditional in Clara’s hesitant words.

As long as my husband permits it.

“I’ll visit,” she says firmly.

The kite rises, its claws empty. Neither woman notices whether it was because it had been foiled in its attempt, or had simply abandoned it midway.

*****

“Clara...!”

Clara pauses mid-stride at the sound of Violet hissing her name, still holding the cold pie pilfered from the pantry after supper. They could have rung for something to be brought to them of course, but it is just so much more fun to steal through the darkened corridors of the Manor at night like they had as children.

Violet’s grip on her upper arm is like iron. She jerks her head to the side, and Clara stifles a gasp as she looks.

Ahmad is there.

Not Ahmad as she has ever seen him before. The normally impeccably dressed footman has his trousers around his ankles. There is a woman kneeling in front of him - one of the scullery maids, judging by her dress. It’s hard to tell whom it is from their angle, in the dark.

His - member - is at the woman’s eye level. As the two young noblewomen watch, she caresses it, stroking it with her hands before kissing its tip.

It is the first erect penis that either of them has ever seen.

Ahmad throws his head back in obvious pleasure, his fingers entwined in the maid’s hair. Her head bobs as she sucks on him.

Violet risks a glance to the side at her friend. Clara’s eyes are wide, fixed on the scene before them. Rapt. Violet hears her breath catch in her throat, as if she were the one kneeling before the footman.

The maid releases Ahmad with a pop and rises to her feet. He moves out of her way as she faces the wall, supporting herself with her palms upon it. He helps her lift her skirts to expose her bottom, pale and glowing in the moonlight streaming in from the window. She stands on her tiptoes, arches her back, then turns to look at Ahmad, as if to see what he’s waiting for.

He’s not waiting.

A hand on her hip, another on himself, guiding the way into her. Her cry as he enters her is short, sharp, hushed.

Violet feels Clara’s hand reach for hers.

He thrusts forward. The ladies watch, mouths open as he places a hand on her breast over her dress and squeezes. She gasps, straightens up, turns slightly to search for his lips with hers. He kisses her, but not on her mouth. On the nape of her neck, right under her hairline, made easily reached by her tightly pinned bun.

He looks like he’s devouring her, Violet thinks to herself, her stomach roiling. Warmth spreads through her body from her belly as she watches Ahmad keep up the rhythm of his thrusting, the scullery maid’s breaths coming in the tiniest squeaks and cries. He places his hand over the maid’s, and Violet imagines she can feel it, the cool, rough stone of the Manor under her palms, Ahmad’s smooth, confident hands over the back of hers.

In truth, her hand, enveloped in Clara’s, may never recover from being crushed as Clara squeezes.

The ladies watch as Ahmad pulls out of the maid, and she returns hurriedly to her knees to clamp her lips over his turgid shaft. She looks up at him adoringly and even from a distance, they can see her throat flexing as she swallows.

The ladies turn. It is time for them to make a swift exit.

Wilkins watches impassively, unseen in the shadows. He finishes the dregs of his tea as they flee down the corridor, back to Violet’s room.

*****

“Clara...?”

The ladies lie in bed, their hearts still pounding in their ears. The pie sits by the dresser, somewhat squashed and entirely forgotten.

“Yes Vi?”

“Will you...will you be doing those things with your husband?”

There is silence as Clara considers the question. And then, “I expect so, Vi.”

“Oh.”

A rustle. A sigh.

“Don’t you think she looked like she was really enjoying it?”

“She did, didn’t she?”

A giggle.

“Mother told me of my...duty,” Clara says. “When...when she told me I was to be married.”

“What did she say?”

“That I should endeavour not to let on what a burden it is.”

“Oh.”

“It didn’t...it didn’t look like a burden, did it?”

“Well...it was rather a sizeable one.”

Another giggle.

“How does it fit in there, I wonder? How would it feel?”

“She certainly seemed to like it.”

“She did, didn’t she?”

Silence. Another rustle.

“Vi?”

“Yes Clara?”

“Do you...do you think I would like it?”

Vi raises her head. Her friend’s face is turned away from her.

“Clara, do you remember that time, when we-”

“We said we wouldn’t talk about it anymore.”

“I know but I - “

“Oh, Vi-”

“Do you remember?”

“Yes Vi, of course I do. How could I not? It haunts my dreams-”

“-haunts?” Vi can’t quite explain why that word bothers her. Haunts her, even.

“Yes, haunts. We shouldn’t - it’s not - “

More rustling.

“Vi...”

A hand in the dark. Reaching. Fingers interlaced. Squeezing.

Silence.

A long silence between the two women who had never before this moment found themselves at a loss for words with each other.

“Vi, I’m sorry. Can we...can we do it again?”

“You said-”

“Don’t, Vi, please. I’m sorry.”

“If you’re sure it won’t haunt you.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sure.”

Short, gentle sighs. The sound of needs being filled.

“He kissed her here, didn’t he? And here?”

“Oh...oh, Vi, do that again. Yes, just like that.”

“Clara, do you remember when you showed me...”

“How to touch yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Are you…”

“No!” An embarrassed silence from Clara this time, then a whispered, “Yes.”

“Could I...could I do it for you?”

“...yes. Please.”

A gasp.

“Clara...!”

“Kiss me. Kiss me, Vi.”

“Oh, Clara...!”

*****

Violet sits out on the hill, a letter from Clara in her hands.

A letter from months prior. The last letter she ever received from her friend, talking of matters domestic. Matters she had no idea about, no interest in. Gone were the warm endearments, the gentle intimacy. Her own letters to Clara have gone unanswered since then.

A lone kite soars then swoops, rising triumphant with a rodent of some description, wriggling in its claws.

Soon, it will be her turn. Already her mother is hinting at possible matches, encouraging her to think about a coming out. Gently, as is her way, but the spectre looms. Haunts.

She watches as the rodent continues struggling, and then suddenly, the kite dips sharply to the left and releases its grip, before flapping its wings once, twice, rising until it is a speck in the sky. The rodent falls and lands, its brown shape scrambling across the green field for safety, which it finds under cover of a scraggly shrub.

We take our victories where we find them. Or make them.

“Joining us for supper, Violet?” The Baron, coming up from behind her, places a warm hand on her shoulder. She rises and nods as she links her arm in his for the walk back to the Manor.

“Vi, Father. Please call me Vi.”

*****

Loving the world of Wetwang Manor? Read the other tales in the series!

Cookie’s Night Off

The Tale of Cookie’s Tail

Lady Vi Gets Dressed

Escaping the Kite (You are here)

What Goes Around, Part 1

I realise that’s not sustainable, either for me or for your inbox, so I’m going to set myself a schedule to avoid fatiguing you.

You can expect:

Sundays: A Sunday Short. These are usually going to be short, flash-fiction style stories.

Tuesdays: A new instalment of whatever serial I’m running. Currently, it’s Tales of Wetwang Manor, in celebration of Pride Month.

Thursdays: A standalone story.

Poetry and Beneath the Dirt Line posts will be ad-hoc, but if I post a poem + BtDL piece, they will appear on the same day and only the poem will go to inboxes. The BtDL will be linked within the poem page, to avoid hitting you with multiple emails on the same day.

Please bear with me while I adjust this to see what works. And if you have any suggestions, I’d be delighted to listen to them!

It’s perfectly possible to enjoy this one as a standalone, but you may prefer to first meet Maya, Ella, and Amar in their previous interaction before reading on.

Either way, I apologise that I had to use chat name indicators for this one. I really wanted to try doing it without them as a challenge, but started confusing myself.

*****

[EllOhEll]: Sorry ladies, I won’t be able to come to book club tonight.

[Becca]: Again? Ella, what the hell?

[EllOhEll]: Work is kicking my butt, sorry Becca!

[Becca]: Tell work you have a life!

[SashyPoo]: Report them for modern slavery! You’ve been living out of the office for what, a month?

[MayaMy]: Actually I can’t make it tonight either guys.

[Becca]: And what’s YOUR excuse Maya?

[MayaMy is typing...]

[Becca]: I can see you’re typing. What’s taking so long? Are you trying to make something up?

[MayaMy]: I’ve got a date.

[SashyPoo]: Huh. Didn’t take long.

[MayaMy]: It’s 2026 Sasha. I’m not going to mope at home just because my husband decided to fuck off with his side piece.

[SashyPoo]: Yeah, fair. You’re excused, only we want all the deets after.

[EllOhEll]: What? You’re letting her off that easily but you want me to stage a workplace revolution?

[MayaMy]: It’s 2026 Ella, work life balance is a thing now.

[EllOhEll]: Come on Maya back me up against those bitches else they’ll never let me off. You can have first go tonight.

[MESSAGE DELETED]

[Becca]: What was that?

[SashyPoo]: Are you girls hiding something from us?

[MayaMy is typing...]

[EllOhEll is typing...]

[SashyPoo]: I’ve already got a screenshot, no point trying to pretend now.

[EllOhEll]: Damn you and your fast fingers.

[SashyPoo]: So what are you two REALLY up to tonight? First go at what?

[Becca]: Oh my god, are you Maya’s date? Scandalous.

[MayaMy]: It’s 2026 Becc, two women going on a date is anything but scandalous.

[SashyPoo]: So you ARE going on a date?

[MayaMy]: ...sort of?

[EllOhEll]: Maya...

[MayaMy]: What?

[Becca]: Just tell us!

[SashyPoo]: Come on!

[EllOhEll]: Maya, no.

[SashyPoo]: Booooooo!!!

[MayaMy]: Don’t be a party pooper Ella. I was just checking with Amar, he’s OK with me telling.

[EllOhEll]: Really?

[MayaMy]: He said “I’m not going to be able to stop you, am I? Go ahead”.

[EllOhEll]: That does sound like Amar.

[Becca]: Amar? Who’s Amar?

[SashyPoo]: Wait, Amar Amar? The man-god Amar in Accounting?

[EllOhEll]: Not Accounting Amar, IT Amar.

[SashyPoo]: IT Amar? But...he’s...

[EllOhEll]: Yes?

[SashyPoo]: So...hairy

[MayaMy]: Mmm, yes. Like a bear. A very cuddly bear. And?

[Becca]: Wait, I thought IT Amar is gay?

[MayaMy]: Uh, definitely not.

[EllOhEll]: Can confirm. Not gay. Well. Maybe bi, I don’t know, I didn’t ask. Pan? Women are definitely on the menu for him.

[SashyPoo]: But...

[EllOhEll]: He’s just in touch with his feminine side.

[MayaMy]: And your feminine side.

[EllOhEll]: Hello pot, meet kettle.

[MayaMy]: Touché.

[Becca]: I think I need to lie down.

[SashyPoo]: Wait, let me get this straight. You’re blowing us off, for the FOURTH TIME IN A ROW, because you’re in a ménage à trois with IT Amar?

[MayaMy]: Ooh, French vocab’s creeping in. Sash’s properly pissed.

[EllOhEll]: Yes Sash. Sorry. You wouldn’t understand.

[SashyPoo]: Try me.

[MayaMy]: The man is a sex god.

[SashyPoo]: He doesn’t look like one.

[EllOhEll]: Says the woman who looks like a librarian but once took 3 guys at the same time.

[SashyPoo]: I thought we agreed we would never talk about that again.

[EllOhEll]: I still have the video.

[SashyPoo]: You took a fucking video?

[EllOhEll]: Of you fucking, yes.

[SashyPoo]: Okay, if you want my forgiveness, you’re going to have to give me details. What makes him so good that you would ditch your BEST FRIENDS to go fuck him?

[MayaMy has sent a picture]

[SashyPoo]: Oh...oh my god.

[MayaMy]: Yup.

[SashyPoo]: Is that all from one guy?

[MayaMy]: Yup.

[SashyPoo]: And that one guy is IT Amar?

[MayaMy]: Yup.

[SashyPoo]: How did he even produce so much?

[MayaMy]: Sex god.

[SashyPoo]: And all over your face.

[MayaMy]: You should’ve seen Ella.

[EllOhEll has sent a picture]

[Becca]: Oh my god I did not need to see that.

[Becca]: Your phone’s got a good camera. Very sharp, considering how close it is.

[Maya]: You’re welcome.

[Becca]: You let him cum inside you?

[EllOhEll]: I begged him to. He obliged. He’s very obliging.

[SashyPoo]: You shaved, Ella?

[EllOhEll]: He did it for me. Thought I’d try something different and he offered. He’s really very gentle.

[MayaMy]: And thorough. I have never been so jealous of a razor in my life.

[Becca]: You look really happy there. Eyes literally rolled back.

[EllOhEll]: I’d lost count how many orgasms I’d had by that point. It’s not all his juices leaking out of me there.

[MayaMy]: Six. We were competing, remember? I was on 5.

[EllOhEll]: Oh yeah, and Amar was on three.

[Becca]: In one night? Isn’t he 40? Didn’t he bring cake in last month for his birthday?

[MayaMy]: Sex god.

[Becca]: Kitchen god, too. Made the cake himself, didn’t he? It was good.

[MayaMy]: Yep. Fed us then fucked us then fed us again. Every day for the past week. His pasta pesto is divine. Makes his own pesto.

[Becca]: I can see the attraction.

[MayaMy]: Oh you ain’t seen nothing yet.

[MayaMy has sent a video]

[Becca]: Wow.

[SashyPoo]: Oh wow.

[Becca]: Is that real?

[MayaMy]: I don’t fake my orgasms.

[EllOhEll has sent a video]

[SashyPoo]: Holy shit.

[Becca]: How is the bed managing to hold up under that pounding?

[SashyPoo]: Never mind the bed, how did ELLA manage to hold up under that pounding?

[MayaMy]: She didn’t. She was incoherent for about five minutes after they were done.

[SashyPoo]: Okay, only one question left.

[Becca]: How big is he?

[SashyPoo]: Yes, how big?

[EllOhEll]: Ask him yourself.

[EllOhEll has added ITsAmar to the conversation and shared all chat history]

[ITsAmar]: Hello?

[ITsAmar]: Oh, for fuck’s sake.

[MayaMy]: Sash and Becc have a question for you.

[Becca]: How big are you Amar?

[ITsAmar]: 6’4. I’m not telling you my weight, a man’s gotta have his secrets.

[SashyPoo]: That’s not what we mean Amar...

[ITsAmar]: Then what do you mean?

[Becca]: Are you really gonna make us spell it out?

[ITsAmar]: If you can’t bring yourself to ask, do you really deserve the answer?

[SashyPoo]: Pretty please, will you tell us how big your penis is?

[Becca]: Can we see your penis?

[EllOhEll]: Oh my god Becc!

[ITsAmar has sent a picture]

[SashyPoo]: That’s...surprisingly very average.

[ITsAmar]: Thanks?

[Becca]: Nice angle though. Glad you didn’t go for the old in your face.

[EllOhEll]: It’s not about how big it is, it’s how he uses it.

[SashyPoo]: Yeah well, I wouldn’t know that, would I?

[EllOhEll]: Well, there is an easy remedy to that particular problem.

[ITsAmar]: Oh for fuck’s sake.

[EllOhEll]: I think we can still have book club tonight, don’t you girls?

[MayaMy]: Amar can host.

[ITsAmar]: ...I’ll put the kettle on.

[EllOhEll]: Good lad.

[SashyPoo]: Can’t wait.

[EllOhEll]: Sasha, did you really take a screenshot of that message?

[SashyPoo]: No. But you believed I did, and that’s what’s important.

[EllOhEll]: Well. Unlike you, I don’t lie about the receipts I keep.

[EllOhEll has sent a video]

[SashyPoo]: ELLA!

[ITsAmar]: Oh, for fuck’s sake.

For a list of the other stories in the collection, see the end of this one.

*****

Richard, the third Baron Wetwang, lowers the day’s shipping tables to look at his daughter.

“Violet, darling, you can’t very well claim to be challenging society’s expectations for women, and then in the next breath demand that a maid still dress you! Nurse has gone! You’re twenty-one - almost twenty-two, for Heaven’s sake!”

“Well of course I can, Father. I am a woman, after all.”

“See? Like that! How can you ask for - demand - equality, yet declare that being a woman grants you privilege? How do you reconcile that contradiction?”

“Quite easily, Father.”

“Go on then, how?”

“I am a woman.”

snort

The Baron Wetwang raises his shipping tables to his face again, using the excuse of nearsightedness to hide his smile. “Oh, very well. You can have Mildred. Wilkins, see to it please, would you?”

“Very good, Your Lordship.”

*****

“Lady Violet? It’s Mildred. I’ve got hot water and a washcloth.”

The door glides open as Mildred pushes it using her well-padded rear, letting it shut behind her as she turns to face the room, carrying her tray.

“Lady - oh my goodness! I’m so sorry Milady, I didn’t mean to - I mean, I did knock - “

“Mmm? What - oh. Good morning, Mildred.”

“Milady, your... your nightgown...”

Violet looks down at herself. In her sleep, the soft, light fabric of her nightgown had bunched up around her hips, leaving her legs bare over the tangle of sheets; one knee drawn up, the other splayed apart.

Mildred struggles to decide where to look, vacillating between the ceiling, the floor, and the soft thatch of dark curls between Violet’s thighs.

Why does she always find herself in these situations? She’s only just recovered from Cookie.

“Oh. Sorry Mildred,” Violet says. She clamps her legs shut and smoothes the nightgown down instinctively.

“No bother Milady. Lost meself there a moment.”

Something in Mildred stirs, lamenting the loss of the moment.

“Actually, I wanted to ask your opinion on something, Millie - do you mind if I call you Millie? - Thank you.”

The young noblewoman looks down, then gradually, hesitantly spreads one knee apart from the other again, pausing as the nightgown begins to shift upwards.

Millie stares, her eyes as wide as saucers, unable - unwilling - to tear her eyes away this time. Her lungs have to remind her that breathing is a prerequisite to life, which is itself necessary should she wish to experience further such little moments, and her chest contracts rapidly as respiration resumes.

There is a flicker - a smoulder? - in Violet’s eyes, then squealing a tiny war cry to strengthen her resolve, she parts her legs further, allowing the nightgown to ride up fully once more, exposing her to Millie.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit... much?”

Millie swallows. “Much, Milady?”

“Vi. Call me Vi. Well, there’s rather a lot of - rather a lot of hair down there, don’t you think?”

“Ah, Milady - “

“Vi, please - “

“Milady, no!” Wilkins would have her head on a pike by the ha-ha if he heard her casually referring to her mistress as ‘Vi’.

“Oh all right. Lady Vi then - “

“Milady Vi, it’s not really my place to comment - “

“But I asked you a question, Millie. Would you refuse a request from me?”

“No, Milady Vi, but...” Millie’s eyes cast about for salvation, thinking about her own blonde curls between her legs. About the warmth that’s beginning to spread from there, despite her panic. Perhaps because of her panic.

“Well, it looks rather fetching Milady, but it is perhaps a touch...unruly?”

“Oh, fetching is it?” she asks, grinning as Millie blushes. “See, I rather think unruly is right. I’m thinking of getting rid of it.”

“What, all of it?” Millie’s horrified gasp echoes through the room.

“Too much?” Violet chuckles awkwardly. “No, I suppose not. It might get...cold. Just...you know, trim the edges? Shape it a little? Some good British taming of the wilderness?” She swipes a fist in the air, imagining herself an explorer.

“Some of the women like having the lips bare, Milady Vi,” the maid blurts out before she can stop herself.

The look on Violet’s face can only be described as scandalised delight.

“Oh Millie, I knew you were the right person to ask! You dark horse, you! That sounds exactly what I need.”

“But Milady, would you really pluck yourself like...like...”

“Like a common whore? A harlot?”

“Well...yes, Milady. But also…no?”

“Hmm. I suppose it does sound that way doesn’t it? But perhaps…perhaps that’s not such a terrible thing? Father does always say to be more in touch with the common people after all.”

“But what would your fa - His Lordship say?”

Violet raises an eyebrow. “Well one would hope that one’s pater does not get a view of or a say on one’s lady parts, no? And I am his daughter, but it’s my fanny. I would so love to feel smooth skin, not like I’m stroking a bear.”

“A bear, Milady?”

“Yes Millie, a bear. Like that rug in the study. A bear. Well. That was a bear, now it’s a rug. Anyway. Do you not feel that way when you... touch yourself?”

Millie gulps. Surely the noblewoman didn’t mean... “Touch - “

“Why yes Millie. Do you not explore yourself? One of the books Father has in his study says: if you know your enemy, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.”

“Are you saying you’re the enemy, Milady?”

Violet frowns. “I...No, I think there was a bit in there about knowing yourself as well. Anyway. This” - the young lady indicates her nether regions with a sweep of her hand - “is a battlefield and I do not intend to lose.”

“Milady, I’m just here to dress you...”

“Yes, sorry Millie, I got rather carried away there.”

“Shall I brush your hair, Milady?”

“Yes please Millie.”

Violet gasps.

“The hair on my head I think, Millie.”

“Sorry Milady. Lost meself for a moment.”

“No bother Millie. No bother at all.”

*****

Violet’s fingers creep lower and lower down her belly until they reach those hated curls. Her mind races as she replays the events of the last few days.

Millie’s eyes on her sex as she spreads herself wide open for her.

Millie’s gentle hands brushing her hair.

Millie’s fingertips brushing the nape of her neck as she helps her pin her hair up.

Her own fingers stroke her aching, hairy quim. She is definitely going to get rid of those hairs. She wants to see what she looks like. Her breath comes in gasps and pants.

Millie with a washcloth, helping her wipe between her legs.

She reaches up, pinches a nipple between her fingers and cries out softly.

Millie’s hand accidentally brushing against her nipples.

No - be honest - no accident. You pressed yourself into her hand.

And she didn’t move away.

A flicker of doubt scampers over her thoughts. Is it…all right that she’s doing this? Millie’s a servant. An employee. Even if she’s been thinking of her as more of a friend, she cannot deny the reality of their situation.

She resolves to speak to Millie about it, to ensure her comfort.

But for right now, Millie isn’t here, and-

Her hips begin bucking as her fingers find the spot, the spot that sends white hot blades up her belly.

knock knock knock

“Lady Violet? It’s Mildr - Millie.”

Without waiting for an answer, Millie nudges the door open. After the last few days, there is nothing that she hasn’t seen of Violet.

Well. Almost nothing. This is new.

“Shut the door, shut the door!” Violet cries out breathlessly.

She’d slammed her legs shut and removed her hand when Millie had first knocked but it was too late - she was past the point of no return. She turns, burying her face in her pillow. Her bare bottom wriggles in the evening air as she tries to burrow into her bed. The purpose of her burrowing - whether to hide her shame or to muffle the sounds she is making as her body refuses to cede control to her brain - remains debatable.

“Millie?” Violet asks tentatively after a while, her voice muffled by her pillow.

“Still here, Milady.”

“Oh God...”

“Sounds like you met Him briefly, Milady.”

Violet groans.

“I’ve brought you some chamomile, Milady. And some hot water to wash with before bed? I see you won’t be needing any help undressing.”

Violet turns around and sits up, drawing her knees up to her chest as she accepts the cup and saucer from Millie. Her skin is flushed, her hair disheveled.

“Thank you Millie. I ah - “

“ - lost yourself, Milady?” Both of them finish the sentence together and catch each other’s eye before collapsing in a fit of giggles.

*****

“Millie?”

“Yes Milady?”

“Why must we - ow - wear these - accursed - corsets?”

“So you look more breedable, Milady. The gentlemen do so like their ladies looking that way.”

“Ugh.” -inhale- “Why don’t you have to wear them, then?”

“Servants don’t get bred, Milady. We just ‘ave children. Deep breath out now.”

exhale

“I’m only meeting Mother’s friends, not any gentlemen-”

“Milady, you need to breathe out and keep the breath out.”

“-yes but Millie, the ladies won’t be breeding me, will they?”

“They’ll be eyeing you up for their sons to, Milady. Breathe out.”

exhale

“-erk. Mercy, Millie!” Violet’s voice is rather more strained than it had been moments prior.

“Sorry, Milady. Just one more - “

“One mo - No! No, no, no. Je refuse. Je dis non, Millie! I want to breathe, not to breed!”

“Milady, no!” Millie wails as she watches the laces come undone, Violet squirming out of the corset and throwing it against the wall in a fit of rage.

Her bosom heaves, unfettered, in the thin summer chemise she has on. Her face is flushed, and she is panting as she takes all the breaths she can, in case she finds the corset around herself again. It lies on the ground, unmoving as she glares at it.

“But Milady, Her Ladyship’s guests - “

“Those old busybodies can just see me in this!” Violet roars. “All they ever ask about is, ‘and when will your young debutante be coming out?’”

She grabs her breasts and snarls. “Well here I am, and I’m all out, you old cows! When’s your turn?”

Millie opens her mouth to say something but thinks better of it, moving out of the way as Violet stalks towards the door. Her eyes flick downwards, and Violet follows her gaze. Her thick brown curls peek out from the split crotch of her drawers. Her chemise is already starting to turn translucent from her sweat, her nipples prominent and very visible through the light material.

Her fists clench and unclench. She starts towards the door, then stops.

The faces of her mother’s guests swim through her mind. Lady Antwerp, mouth puckered like she’d just eaten a whole lemon. Kind Lady Morrow, a friend of her mother’s from girlhood.

“Perhaps...perhaps a dress over this, please, Mildred,” she says, her voice catching in her throat.

“I think that’s for the best, Milady,” Millie says soothingly as she hurries to comply.

“Yes, we wouldn’t want anyone to faint into their sandwiches.”

“Milady?” Millie asks, the tone in her voice causing the Lady Violet to look up.

She raises her eyes as she watches Millie pull a small pair of scissors and tweezers out of the pocket of her apron. “What-”

“I thought, Milady Vi, we could do something for you that the ladies wouldn’t need to know about?”

She follows Millie’s gaze downwards, and a smile spreads over her face.

“Oh, oui, Millie. Yes.”

*****

“Violet? Is that truly how you will be meeting your mother’s guests? You know they do gossip so.”

“You know I prefer Vi, Father.”

“Yes but it sounds so antagonistic, my dear, don’t you think? Rather as though one is vying for one’s due. Something I would have thought you of all people would not need to do.”

“I’m a woman, Father. I’m always having to fight.”

“Quite so, Vi. Quite so. It’s a lovely dress.”

“Thank you, Father.”

She stalks away from him, doing her best to ignore the beautiful, wondrous stinging between her legs. The sting of rebellion.

Perhaps she should have asked Millie for just a trim.

Be that as it may, once she’d set the wheels - and Millie’s tweezers - in motion, she was not going to back down. A battlefield, and together with Millie, she’d struck the first blow.

Although Millie could perhaps have been a touch more sympathetic when she’d cried.

She turns her lips up and her eyes down as a footman smoothly opens the door to the parlour for her, and she curtsies. Owowowowow. “Oh, hello Lady Antwerp, how lovely to see you again…”

The door shuts behind her, silently.

*****

Loving the world of Wetwang Manor? Read the other tales in the series!

Cookie's Night Off

The Tale of Cookie's Tail

Lady Vi Gets Dressed (You are here)

Escaping the Kite

What Goes Around, Part 1

Thank you for the prompt!

******

I also picked it to be featured in the Smut Stroll of June 2026

To find other authors and artists who take part in the Smut Stroll, visit ’s post below:

Ella Light

Free Smut Stroll and The Directory of Erotica

Read more

3 months ago · 81 likes · 45 comments · Ella Light

*****

It’s so hot.

Fuck.

So hot.

I really should be back at my desk but it’s boiling in there. I mean, it’s boiling out here, but at least there’s a bit of fresh - hot - air - and the shade from the trees along the path.

Damn, look at her. Truly, we live in a golden age, where women are free to run in the park wearing nothing more than a sports bra and shorts so small her arse is trying to eat it for a snack. Shame she had no tits, but I wouldn’t say no. She is fit -

Boing. Boing. Boing. Boing.

Boing.

I don’t think any sports bra in the world could contain THOSE.

Jesus.

And - yep, she’s got an arse to match, too. I would follow her anywhere, except it’s just too fucking hot. Imma just keep walking.

Whoa.

Whoever convinced women that yoga pants are as good as trousers should be given a medal. A prize. A Nobel Peace Prize, yeah, for services to mankind. Because damn, that arse is FINE. I know she’s just walking, but I could watch her walk all day long. Oh hang on, she’s dropped someth -

I think I could tell you what she had for breakfast.

Dear God.

How do I make her drop something again?

Could I get a universal remote? That’s the kind of view you want to rewind and replay over and over.

Oh hello, woman going in the opposite direction. Face flushed. I know it’s the heat but you look like you’ve just been fucked behind a tree, with your skin shining with sweat. Yeah, baby. And is that a cameltoe? Wow. Tight enough that I can see you shave. I bet you’ve got an innie. One of those - what do they call them? - coin slot pussies.

Yeah.

I would bury my face in there and take a deep huff of that stanky, sweaty, musky, coin slot pussy and eat you till you beg me to stop.

Pregnant woman. Man, I feel for her. Can’t be easy, carrying all that weight in this heat. She’s pretty. Very pretty. I wonder how she got knocked up. Doggy style, maybe. No, she looks too yummy mummy for that. She’d be on top. Yeah, riding her man, tits bouncing all over the place, hair flying everywhere. “Put a baby in me,” she’d be crying out.

Damn.

Lucky guy.

I love sundresses. So flirty. So floaty. So - whoa, those were her panties, weren’t they? I just saw her panties! Hey everybody I SAW HER PANTIES! She was getting up and her knees opened up and they were white and cute and - oh shit I think she saw me looking. She doesn’t look happy. Shit, I’m going to pretend I was looking at a bird in the sky. Yeah.

Tweet tweet.

Caw.

Phew. Close one.

Oh hey, isn’t that Linda - shit. Linda. Where have you been hiding that body? No wonder I didn’t see you at the breakroom at lunch, you were hiding out here working on your tan. Well. Not hiding. Not hiding much at all, in fact.

Should I go over? Should I say hi? I should, shouldn’t I? Or maybe no. I mean, she’s in her smalls and all. She probably wouldn’t - but what if - I really want to see her up close.

Shit.

What was she wearing earlier? That shapeless thing, what’d she call it? A muumuu? Anyone wearing one of those looks like a moo moo, but look at those tits in that bra. I can’t believe it. Boring Linda got her muu muu off in the park and is lying there sunning herself in her bra and knickers. If I weren’t looking at it right here I’d think I was dreaming.

She’s turning over. She’s - SHE’S UNCLIPPING HER BRA! Fuck! Fuck! And that’s a thong she’s wearing! Fuck! And fuck again! I would’ve put money on granny pants, not that lacy little thing.

I gotta go over. I gotta.

Linda darling, don’t you ever hide your body in a muumuu again. I’m gonna burn all your muumuus. No, fuck that, it’s too hot to burn anything. But hiding your body is a crime against humanity, come on, don’t do that.

Okay, I’m going over.

Wait, is that her hand under her? Is she...is she fucking touching herself? Out in the middle of a public park? No. No way. She’s just adjusting, right? Lemme just get behind her. Shit. Her hand is there. Is her finger moving? I dunno. I can’t see from here.

It’s hot. I need some water. Water.

I bet she’s wet. She’s so wet. She’s so naughty. Naughty Linda, touching herself in the middle of a public park making herself so wet.

Wet. Like water.

I need water.

Juice.

Cold juice.

No.

Warm juices. Her warm juices. Fresh from her little cunnie.

Mmm.

Imma sit down for a second. Just a second then Imma go over and say, hey, Linda, you don’t need to self-service when I’m right here. Why do-it-yourself when you have a handyman, amirite?

Yeah. Just a second.

A second.

*****

“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”

What?

Oh. Hello paramedic. Nice uniform.

“He’s coming round, I think.”

Damn. Look at her eyes. Her lovely brown eyes with flecks of green in them.

“Sir, what’s your name?”

It’s so hot. I think she’s unbuttoned her uniform. Cute bra. Lace. Is that a nipple?

Yeah. Ride me, baby. Ride me while looking at me like that. I love a woman in uniform.

“You’re fine, sir. Here’s a bottle of water. Stay in the shade when you’re on your way back. And don’t go walking in the sun without water and a hat or something anymore. You’re lucky somebody saw you collapse from their window. Nobody in their right mind would be out in this heat. Park’s deserted for a reason.”

No. Wait. Don’t go, my angel. Damn, her ass looks fine even in cheap NHS paramedic trousers.

Especially in cheap NHS paramedic trousers.

What does she mean deserted?

It’s so hot.

If you haven’t seen it yet, you can take a look here:

You might have noticed that I have a penchant for poems with strict structural forms and breaking their rules gently for effect. This poem is no different.

This particular form is known as a pantoum.

Well, hang on a second, that sounds remarkably like a pantun which we talked about in the last Beneath the Dirt Line, doesn’t it?

Why yes, yes it does. And that’s no accident.

Pantoum is what happens when someone brings home a pantun – a specific form of pantun known as pantun berkait (linked pantun), in fact – and translates it, and then a Frenchman goes mon Dieu that’s good, and they try to make their own. And then to make it sound more avec, they change the name of the form to pantoum. Cough colonialism cough cough cough.

It’s an interesting form, where lines are meant to be repeated. Unlike in a triolet, the goal of the repetition isn’t to create a sense of cyclic obsession. Instead, each repetition is intended to extend the meaning of the line that’s being repeated, and make you go ‘ah, what a clever fellow the poet is’.

The ideal pantoum uses strict repetition: the lines which repeat should be exactly the same, the better to impress you with how the exact same words can mean something different in a different context.

However, the subject matter of Fog is, well, fog. To be more specific, the fog of love, of memory, of what happens when a promise – and a heart – are broken.

So I chose to mutate some of the repeated lines. Not a huge amount, just enough to give a sense that the speaker’s memory is shifting, that they can’t quite trust their own experience.

I won’t call out each mutation – I’ll leave you the joy of discovering those yourself – but I do want to talk about a couple of the choices I made.

When first tagged me in and invited me to write an intensely emotional poem inspired by the weather of my choosing, my initial thought was fog, because I’m a gloomy sort.

I was going to write something about fingers of fog curling through your clothes, and I wanted to use the pantoum format to change that into actual fingers moving under clothes, because we’re all horny smut writers here.

I was also going to do something about how fog happens when it’s so cold that moisture has no choice but to emerge from invisibility and wrap itself around the nearest body. Mon Dieu, that’s good. I might have to write another one.

Anyway.

The first stanza supported that entirely. It sets the scene: fog, fingers under clothes, walking through a cloud. The second continues: we were in the dark and the cold, and now we’re together, everything is bright and jolly, and by the end of the poem, we’ll be in bed and my fingers, not the fog, will be under your clothes. Très bien.

But as often happens, the poem mutated in my hands. Like fog.

I think it was when I wrote the line is dampened, and in the dampening grows teeth.

That line told me what the poem wanted to be. Not a horny lust poem, but one that talks about how dampening something – love, in this case – turns it vicious.

Now, I want to talk a little bit about the last line of the third stanza and the first line of the fourth. It’s an enjambed sentence that’s pulled across two stanzas, not just two lines. The original version read like this:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

My love, my love, my love for you
would never fade, you said, but you forgot

That repetition of my love was intended to have the effect of the speaker starting to lose their grip, repeating what they thought they heard from their lover. But although I think it did have the effect I wanted, it was rather confusing to read. Too effective, as it were.

So I switched it:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

My love, you said, my love for you
would never fade, you said, but you forgot

Much better. My love/you said/my love/you said: repeated phrases in close proximity, in a poetry form that relies on repetition for effect. I really liked it, and I was going to publish it in that form.

But here’s some poetry-writing advice that everyone will give you: read your poem out loud. Your ears will tell you what needs tweaking.

I did that, and noticed that there’s a tiny little stumble between you said, and you forgot, like there’s something still left unspoken there. Try it yourself, you’ll hear what I mean.

As soon as I heard it, I knew what needed to go in: another repetition of you said, thus:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

My love, you said, my love for you
would never fade, you said, you said, but you forgot

Read out loud now, that stumble disappears. And in its place has emerged not a simple repeated dialogue tag, but an accusation. An indictment. You said, you said, but you forgot.

That’s my favourite bit of this poem.

That, and the bit about sounds growing teeth. If you’ve ever walked down a London street in a thick, wintry fog, you’ll know what I mean.

By the end of the poem, the speaker’s love for the listener has turned, and grows teeth.

There are many, many readings for this, not least of which is the question: at whom are those teeth bared?

I’ll leave you to decide that for yourself.

The darkness moves like fingers underneath,
and every joyful sound, however loud
is dampened, and in the dampening grows teeth.
And truly, we are walking through a cloud.

And every joyful sound, already loud
is brightened by your presence by my side.
And truly, we are walking through a cloud
of happiness that flows, just like the tide.

The brightness of your presence by my side,
would never fade I thought, but I forgot
that happiness may ebb, just like the tide.
My love, you said, my love for you

would never fade, you said, you said, but you forgot
that darkness moves like fingers underneath.
And so, my love, my love for you
is dampened, and in the dampening grows teeth.

I wrote this poem as a note originally, because tagged me into one of those Notes poetry challenges, in this case to write an intensely emotional poem using the weather.

If you haven’t already, you should read hers too.

And then, when you’re done with that, join me Beneath the Dirt Line where I talk shop about this poem.

This mini-episode of Beneath the Dirt Line is about Bare, which you can read here:

Ready? Let’s start digging.

Bare was written as a triolet, a medieval French style of poem which I’m particularly fond of using for certain subjects. You can read more about triolets here, but the bare (ha ha) basics you need to know is that it is an 8-line poem, with a rhyming scheme of ABaAabAB.

Capitalised letters are lines which are repeated verbatim - just lifted and shifted in the poem, and that gives the poem a cyclic, near-obsessive quality, especially as the first and last couplets are meant to be exactly the same, and the first line repeats in the middle.

Now, armed with that knowledge, you might be calling the medieval French poetry police on me.

That’s right, Your Honour, I broke the rules. The first couplet reads:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

As the warm waves wash over my feet
and I feel the touch of your gentle hand,

And therefore, that should also be the final couplet. Instead, I tweaked the final couplet to be this:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

as the warm waves wash over our feet
and you feel the touch of my gentle hand. 

It’s just a tiny change: I wanted the pull the listener a little closer, so I changed the pronouns to turn it into a shared moment between two people, and I think that makes this poem what it is.

That’s one thing that learning about poetry and really pulling poems apart has hammered home for me: sometimes the smallest change - down to a single word, a single punctuation mark in the right (or ‘wrong’) place, the tiniest bending of the rules - can have the biggest impact. And I urge anyone interested in the craft of writing to try it. Even if you are a prose writer, or a non-fiction writer, poetry will help you hone your art.

What do you think? Should I have stuck strictly to the form? Or do you, too, enjoy playing with structural rules when it suits the theme of your poem?

And if you enjoyed my writing and thinking about pronoun choices, you might enjoy this piece:

Thank you for the prompt!

As the warm waves wash over my feet
and I feel the touch of your gentle hand,
I will bless each chance that we may meet
as the warm waves wash over my feet
and we savour each moment, both bitter and sweet.
Pay no heed to the prickling sand
as the warm waves wash over our feet
and you feel the touch of my gentle hand. 

Are you familiar with this particular style of poem? Want to find out more about how I put it together? Here is the Beneath the Dirt Line companion piece to it:

Since it’s the first day of Pride Month, I am releasing the second in the Tales of Wetwang Manor on the same day, so that Cookie can have her story told in full, rather than be left as an extra in the newbody’s introduction to Wetwang Manor.

(You should start there if you haven’t already read Wetwang Manor #1. They are written to be enjoyable as standalones, but together they form the full tapestry).

It may not always come through in the prose, and this is a skill issue, but I want to state it plainly here that the pronouns used for characters are very carefully chosen, including when they switch. I will leave it to you, dear reader, to decide what that means for the character and for how you interpret them.

Thank you for reading.

*****

I bend over the bench in the galley, my fingers gripping the edges as I prepare myself. These days, I notice the ground when we’re in port more than I notice the sway of the ship.

I bite my lower lip as I feel him pressing his stiff cock against that hole I’d once thought was exit only. I try not to cry out as he pushes forward. He’s not rough, but he’s a large man, and the initial entry is never easy, however much I try to relax myself and grease the passage.

I lay my face against the warm wood of the bench, listening to the muffled sound of the other men going about their evening duties. The boards of the ship creak. It’s a gentle sea tonight.

My breath hisses out from between my teeth as I feel him get past the initial tightness. The worst is over, and he’ll take a few strokes before filling me with his warm seed and pull out, done for the night. Warm seed that leaks out of me, but at least this way, I’ll never have to worry about bringing another life into this world of tears.

He doesn’t know, of course. Women on board a ship are bad luck, don’t you know? I knew that when I bound my breasts and cut my hair, pulled on a man’s clothes for the first time and talked my way onto a ship that needed an extra pair of hands.

I could probably have got away without the binds. I look like this now, but only after life’s taken a kinder turn. At the time, I was underfed and scrawny, but I wasn’t taking any risks. I was 18, and nothing was going to stop me from leaving a town that held nothing but bad memories and an early death. Or worse.

It didn’t take long before I worked out that offering myself up to Cookie was a small price to pay for the protection he could offer. Nobody wants to anger the man in charge of the rations and the rum. And there were certainly worse men to ally myself to. In the dark, bent over, with my trousers only half-down, he never even noticed that he could have had a warm cunt, the thing almost all the men talked about missing most when on the voyage to the far-flung reaches of the Empire. No, he had me bend over so he wouldn’t have to see what wasn’t even there.

Best of all, he didn’t try to own me. As long as I was available for him when he wanted, he never minded if I offered myself to any of the others, in exchange for small favours. An extra bit of dried meat, an extra measure of rum, an extra hour of sleep. It all added up.

I found myself enjoying it. Enjoying the feeling of being filled up, enjoying the gratitude, especially when they realised I didn’t expect them to reciprocate by bending over for me. I stay silent, most of the time, or keep my voice gruff when I can’t, so as to not betray myself.

I played the role so well sometimes I forgot that I wasn’t actually a man. Years passed that way, shipping goods from one side of the world to another. Swung up the ropes, swabbed the deck, hauled the crates. Cooked whatever we had on board and whatever we could catch. And fought as hard as everyone else when we were boarded, that one time.

We beat them, but lost half our crew, Cookie among them. He’d fought to the end, back-to-back with me, and I gutted the cur who did in for him, but revenge doesn’t save a man already going cold.

When it was all over, I took his place. Cookie’s dead, long live Cookie.

Captain led us well, but something broke in him after that. Two journeys later, he told us it was his last, and would be selling the ship and retiring back to his farm. On our last journey together, we were joined by a gent, returning from the colonies.

All the others were staying on with the new owner. And I was going to, as well, but as we pulled into harbour for the last time, Captain called me into his quarters.

“It’s no life for a lass, Cookie,” he says to me.

My eyes widen. He’d known. All along, he’d known. He tells me that the gent – His Lordship – had made an offer, to take me on as a cook in Wetwang Manor. As a favour to him, in exchange for the passage home.

“It’s the last thing I can do for you as your Captain,” he says.

Well, how can I say no when a man tells you that?

Just one thing always bothered me. In all the journeys we’d shared, Captain had never once touched me. Never once demanded what he could have had, especially knowing what he’d known about me. Why?

I asked.

He just smiles sadly at me and looks down, touches her breast lightly, and I know.

We embrace then, as two people living their life the only way they’d known how, and I cry myself dry as she holds me. Years worth of tears, in that last few minutes in her quarters. For her, as much as for me.

The ship docks, and I don’t look back, not once, as I follow His Lordship to Wetwang Manor.

It’s been a comfortable life, and I’ve done my best to live it the way that Captain had wanted for me. I even learned to read and write. But every now and then, I hear the seabirds cry in the distance, smell the salt breeze on the air, hear the creak of sea-soaked wood as the ground sways beneath me, and the urge takes hold of me, the urge to taste again the life at sea.

There is an emptiness inside of me, and I fill it the only way I know how - bent over in the galley, from behind, up the back passage, by my mates.

And the nice thing, the really nice thing about Wetwang Manor is we’re all allowed our little peculiarities here.

*****

Loving the world of Wetwang Manor? Read the other tales in the series!

Cookie’s Night Off

The Tale of Cookie’s Tail (You are here)

Lady Vi Gets Dressed

Escaping the Kite

What Goes Around, Part 1

Fraid not. Sleeping over at Maya’s.

What? She had you on Wednesday!

Yeah but she’s been going through a really tough time since the divorce was finalised. Doesn’t feel right leaving her on her own you know.

What about me? I’ve been working late for the last three weeks! I’ve slept on the office floor most nights! I need cuddles too you know? :’-(

Tomorrow night?

You’re cold man. If you weren’t the giant cuddly bear you are you would be blocked and deleted right now.

Sorry.

What does she have that I don’t?

She sleeps in a silk nightie.

Seriously??

We don’t do anything, just sleep. I spoon her, she snores.

What a waste.

Why, what would you do?

Well, here’s how I sleep. (Picture)

WTF Ella, I’m at work!

... Are you free tonight now??

You make a convincing pair of arguments.

You haven’t even seen what’s down below.

Is that an offer?

(Picture)

Hello?

Bitch are you seriously trying to tempt Amar over to yours with those saggy tits and hairy cunt? He’s meant to be coming over to mine tonight!

Sorry, she walked past my desk and grabbed my phone out of my hand. Hang on, she wants me to add her.

(Maya has joined the conversation)

I don’t snore.

I shave.

I suck.

I swallow.

I go all the way.

I’m no-holes-barred.

Ladies...I can’t be in two places at the same time, and I did promise Maya first.

Ladies?

Maya and I have had a word, and we have come to a mutually acceptable compromise.

Uh oh.

You’re not going to hers tonight. Nor are you coming to mine.

Great, quiet night in with the PS5! Actually seeing the flat I pay good money for! Woohoo!

Instead, we’re both coming to yours. Your bed’s big enough for three, right?

…I’ll put the kettle on.

I’ll bring the condoms.

Fuck me.

That’s the idea.

There is a particular kind of loneliness
when you hear a cry in the night
in the language of your childhood.

And you answer, haltingly, afraid to be heard,
yet hearing nothing back but silence
is its own bitter knife.

Until you remember - ah - 
there was a reason you were alone.

Why do this?

Mainly for me (isn’t it always?) – I want to remember what it felt like to write it, what drove the decisions I made, and in reflecting on my process, hopefully refine it and make myself a better writer. And if it is useful to someone else who wants to learn more about other people’s processes, then great!

However, I’m well aware that one of the joys of poetry is in how the reader plays a huge role in its interpretation, much more so than for prose (usually). And so, if you’re one of those who prefer to read a poem in their own way without needing to know what on earth the writer was on, then I would recommend stopping here, no hard feelings.

But if you’re like me and like peeling back layers to find out about intentions and the making of, then read on.

In case you haven’t read it yet, this particular postmortem is on the writing of Desenzano. You can read it here before we start:

Ready? Let’s start digging.

For those who don’t know it, Desenzano del Garda is a little town on the southern shore of Italy’s Lake Garda, a mere twenty-three minutes by train from Verona of Romeo and Juliet fame (amongst other things. I actually found the Romeo and Juliet bits of Verona the least interesting of my time there, but that’s by the by).

I picked it because I’ve been to it - I literally wrote it over the two nights I was there, sitting in a flat overlooking the piazza. It’s fucking gorgeous and you should go, but also don’t because I want to keep it for myself.

Its name brought to my mind the word ‘desensitised’. I know it’s a bit of a stretch - the two are entirely unconnected beyond the first two syllables, but that was what first brought the narrator’s image starkly into my mind. Inspiration comes from the weirdest places.

In looking up the history of the town’s name, I also discovered that there is a theory that its name has links to the word ‘descent’, and that cemented it for me.

I knew exactly how I wanted the poem to begin, and those lines haven’t changed from the very first draft. As I said, I wrote it sitting in that flat.

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I want to go back to Desenzano
where you took me
to that little flat overlooking the piazza.

Let’s take a look at how the next stanza changed from the first rough draft to its final form:

Original:

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Where I leaned out to close those quaint wooden shutters
with your hands on my hips.
Don’t fall, you said.
Don’t let go, I said.

Final:

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Where I leaned out to close those quaint wooden shutters
with your hands on my hips.
Don’t fall, you said.
And I said, don’t let go.

In my original, I wanted their speech to mirror each other, and how they would each say something that on the surface sounds like two means to the same end.

The problem is, on rereading, it ended up making her mirror not just the intent, but also the robotic delivery. So I kept the words, but flipped the structure round, with his words delivered more mechanically, and her line having the conjunction to pull them together.

I’m pretty pleased with those two lines. Don’t fall has both the literal meaning of don’t fall out the fucking window, but also a hint that he doesn’t want an emotional entanglement: don’t fall in love. And even then, she is already pleading: don’t let go of me.

This next stanza changed quite a bit from the original to the final:

Original:

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And there,
with my elbows on the sun-baked sill,
framed by the window,
my voice filled the piazza
as you filled me
while you hid in the shade of the room.

Final:

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And there,
with my elbows on the sun-baked sill,
framed by the window,
blinded by the sunset,
with a smile on my face for passersby,
you took me,
while you hid in the shade of the room.

The rough shape of the poem was there, but although I loved the image of her moans filling the piazza, I didn’t think I was being entirely true to her, and I was allowing my own kink to take over what the poem – and she – needed.

And so, I changed it. Blinded by the sunset: something normally beautiful, to be savoured and enjoyed together, blinding her to what was happening to her while she plasters a smile on her face for anyone who happened to look up.

And you took me, instead of you filled me – the power dynamic already unbalanced, him taking what he wants rather than giving her something of himself, leaving her to put a performance on while he hides himself in the shade of the room.

The next stanza is where she tries to take more of an active stance.

Original:

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Do you remember that little alley behind the gelateria
where I took you
cobblestones bruising my knees as I took you
your love dripping from my lips to stain my dress
as I took you
Your fingers in my hair as I took you
Your eyes were closed
the whole time.

Final:

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Do you remember
that little alley behind the gelateria
where I took you,
cobblestones bruising my knees as I took you,
your love dripping from my lips as I took you,
to stain my pretty blue dress as I took you,
your fingers in my hair as I took you?
Your eyes were closed
the whole time.

So, very similar, but with a few changes that I think make a huge difference. First, I broke do you remember into its own line, to take on a more interrogative tone.

Then I rearranged it so that “as I took you” becomes a refrain, something that she chants, each time changing:

where I took you: A plea to him to remember, that she tried to show him something she thought he would like.

cobblestones bruising my knees as I took you: See what I suffered to please you.

your love dripping from my lips as I took you: Literally his cum, but also, I picture her starting to feel disdain for him (dripping from her lips). His cum – something he dispenses and discards – being a metaphor for his ‘love’.

to stain my pretty blue dress as I took you: This is probably my favourite line in the whole poem. I added “pretty blue” to the dress and instantly I felt her mood change. She’d dressed for him. She’d loved that dress. That dress was her joy, her youthful innocence and naivete all in one. And he stained it with his ‘love’, and she was complicit in its ruin.

your fingers in my hair as I took you: Even as she gifted him with this experience, he tried to control her.

And then the beginning of the turn: your eyes were closed the whole time. You could say the blowjob was so good he was lost in it, but through it all, she never felt seen. Having the chant rhythm of as I took you in the preceding four lines meant that when the rhythm broke with this line, it landed more like a brick, exactly as I wanted it to.

I really like (I don’t, but you know what I mean) how after her desperate litany of I took yous, trying to take possession of her agency in the affair, it ended with him taking from her yet again: this time her ice cream. Goddamnit, you can take my love, but my ice cream should have been sacrosanct.

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And you took
my fior di latte,
sweet cream on your lips as you gave me
your bitter dark chocolate
in return.

The flavour selection was, of course, deliberate: sweet, virginal fior di latte taken, and in exchange, dark, bitter chocolate.

But she still didn’t find the strength to say no, poor lass, taken in a nice warm shower till the water ran cold: continuing with the theme of something that started nicely and descended into discomfort.

After that, I changed “you took me” to “you pressed me” because she’d turned against him by then. Not enough to say no entirely, but I wanted the sense of her going from being passively taken to him actively pushing her into something she was trying to resist. I knew it was right when it made me uncomfortable to write, and to read back again.

And finally:

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And in the morning, I woke
with the weight of your arm on my breast,
the sun in my eyes.

And I knew.

I never did close those shutters.

The original draft had all these lines together in one verse, but in the final draft, I separated and I knew into its own verse for that chilling finality. The shutters were meant to represent her lamenting how she had failed to protect herself despite initially attempting to.

The ending was really difficult, and I had multiple drafts for that.

This was the first:

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After Desenzano,
you went back to her
empty,
the little flat waits.
Desenzano
is still there.
But you
and I
are
no
more.

I think I was trying to convey a sense of despair that her lover went back to his original partner even though the returning empties him out. Plus, the speaker had ‘emptied’ him after their time in Desenzano. I joined ‘empty’ with the little flat to try to use that as a bit of personification for how the experience had left her, and then the descending syllable counts reflecting her loneliness.

I was pretty pleased with it at first, but the more I read it, the more I didn’t like it. I didn’t like how the “empty” was a bit too ambiguous, and foregrounds his draining and the effect the sex had on him.

So I changed it, to this:

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After Desenzano
You went back to her empty,
the little flat waits.
Desenzano
is still there.
But you
and I
are no more.

This was my least favourite version, I think. It clarifies that the partner is the one who is empty, and it pulls back on the descending syllable counts, emphasising the are no more.

What I didn’t like about it was that although it’s less visible, the sex is still being foregrounded: ha ha, he went back empty. And the narrator is left lamenting the end of her time with him. The last three lines doesn’t add any new information: you went back to her already tells us that the narrator’s time with him has ended. And it betrays the turn: she already knew he wasn’t right for her. Why would she lament it so obviously?

So I changed it again:

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After Desenzano
You went back to her,
empty,
Desenzano is still there.
The little flat waits.
As do I.

Wow, okay, as I read this, I realise that this is my least favourite version. All of the weaknesses of the previous version, no new strengths whatsoever. If anything, I weakened the narrator even more, turning her into “the other woman” waiting for the return of an emotionally distant partner.

Blech. Let’s bin that and never speak of it again.

When I realised that my difficulty with it was really my narrator protesting her betrayal at my hands, I tried cutting it out, ending it at “the little flat waits”. But I didn’t like that it left her missing in the ending of her own story.

So then I turned it into this:

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After Desenzano,
you went back to her.
Desenzano is still there,
and empty,
the little flat waits
but I won’t.

Better. Much better. I finally killed the idea of him going back to her empty - who cares what he was like? I almost went with this version, but it felt a little bit too performative, only in the other direction: I am a woman who will not be tossed aside lightly, and I’m not waiting for you anymore.

While a nice sentiment, it was still using him to define her: I won’t wait for you.

Once I understood that, it became much, much easier to arrive at the final version:

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And after Desenzano,
you went back to her.
Desenzano is still there,
and empty,
the little flat waits
for me.

I could feel her heaving a sigh of relief. It was what she’d been trying to tell me right from the very beginning of the poem: I want to go back to Desenzano.

She’d loved the town. The flat overlooking the piazza, the gelateria, the cobbled alley behind it, her pretty blue dress, the quaint shutters. She’d loved it. She wanted to go back to it. For her, not for him. To buy her own fucking ice cream and eat it all on her own.

And so, the little flat waits. For her. I added the conjunction at the start of the verse to tie it together with the rest of the poem, and that was it.

One final thought: I worried a little bit about setting a poem in Desenzano without even a mention of Lake Garda. I wanted to do a bit about the waters of Lake Garda lapping at the thighs of Desenzano’s shores, but then realised that again, I was falling too much in love with the imagery: this man would never have lapped at her thighs. He took, rather than gave.

So I ditched it, and in so doing, realised that a poem set in Desenzano without a mention of Lake Garda was in itself a commentary of their relationship of a physical connection without an emotional one.

I hope you found this dive into the process behind Desenzano useful, or at least interesting.

Did you disagree with any of my choices? Have a different read on the narrative? Have a preference for a different ice cream flavour? (My favourite is pistachio). I would love to hear your thoughts. Let me know in the comments!

I want to go back to Desenzano
where you took me
to that little flat overlooking the piazza.

Where I leaned out to close those quaint wooden shutters
with your hands on my hips.
Don't fall, you said.
And I said, don't let go.

And there,
with my elbows on the sun-baked sill,
framed by the window,
blinded by the sunset,
with a smile on my face for passersby,
you took me,
while you hid in the shade of the room.

Do you remember
that little alley behind the gelateria
where I took you,
cobblestones bruising my knees as I took you,
your love dripping from my lips as I took you,
to stain my pretty blue dress as I took you,
your fingers in my hair as I took you?
Your eyes were closed 
the whole time. 

And you took 
my fior di latte,
sweet cream on your lips as you gave me
your bitter dark chocolate 
in return. 

And back in the flat,
my palms against the rough tiles
of the shower,
you took me.
Till the water ran cold and there were puddles on the floor,
you took me.

Do you remember the mattress
with the bedsprings that dug into my cheek 
as you pressed me into it?
It was the bedsprings that squeaked,
that moaned,
that sighed
all through the night as you pressed me.
The bedsprings that gloinged.
Not I.

And in the morning, I woke
with the weight of your arm on my breast,
the sun in my eyes.

And I knew.

I never did close those shutters.

And after Desenzano,
you went back to her.
Desenzano
is still there, and empty,
the little flat waits 
for me.

Thank you for reading this poem! I hope you enjoyed it.

If you want to find out a little bit more about my writing process and how Desenzano came to be, I wrote about it here: