by Mistress Rosemary
Previous chapters: 1&2 3 4
It's a Hard Life
Neatly clothed in her maid’s uniform, feminine underwear and Mary Janes, Priscilla knocked on the door of the servants’ kitchen and waited. “Come in” echoed from inside so she ventured into the kitchen and saw Fred and Lizzy eating their breakfasts at the long wooden table while Flo was busying herself at the stovetop.
She made a deep curtsy, extending the hem of her dress with both hands. “Good morning, Master Frederick, Mistress Florence, Mistress Elizabeth.”
They continued eating their eggs and bacon as if they’d heard nothing, and it was Flo who deigned to turn her head, uttering a sarcastic “Oh, it’s the crybaby. Stand over in the corner until your betters have finished.”
Priscilla obeyed and stood in the corner of the kitchen, back to the wall, head bowed, hands clasped in front of her in the classic position of submission.
The kitchen smelled of freshly baked bread. Flo took a warm loaf, cut off several thick slices and placed them on the table with a small dish of soft dairy butter. Both Fred and Lizzy ate their breakfasts greedily, their bread thickly spread with butter. Flo served the two of them another cup of steaming hot tea from the teapot.
“Here Fred, have another pork sausage with some hot mustard.”
She seemed to have forgiven Fred for his shameful erection the previous day.
Finally, Fred pushed away his plate, leaving some unfinished egg and sausage. Lizzy also left some bacon and fried tomatoes. The other plate was still half full of fresh warm bread.
Flo scraped all the unfinished food into a bin. “It’s good we have pigs, this’ll fatten ‘em up. I always say, Waste not, Want not.” she chuckled.
“Here’s your breakfast Peters” she said dryly, plonking down a dish of oatmeal porridge and a glass of water in front of her. It looked stodgy and unappetizing. “Hurry up, there’s work to do.”
Priscilla’s breakfast
Breakfast finished, Lizzy led her underling off to the scullery, pointing to a large pile of dirty clothes and curtains that needed washing. She indicated a large, wooden tub, an old-fashioned washboard, a hand mangle, stiff hand brush, a bar of soap and the sole water tap, marked C for cold.
“Get cracking, Peters; I want to see all that washed, rinsed, and hanging up outside before you take Mistress Agatha her breakfast in bed at 8 am. She’ll give your backside another tanning if you’re late” she observed evilly.
At 7:55 Priscilla carefully took up a breakfast tray to Madam’s bedroom, set it on the floor and tapped on the door. She waited for several minutes until she heard the imperious command “Enter”. With her heart in her mouth, she opened the door, made a dainty curtsy, and greeted her mistress with a servile “Good Morning, Madam Agatha.” Madam was sitting in bed in her black silk pajamas.
“Good morning, Peters. Set the tray before me on the bed.” Then she continued “I trust you understand the reason for your punishment yesterday.”
“Yes, Madam Agatha; I do.”
“And do you feel that the punishment was warranted?”
Priscilla was being humiliated all over again but knew that any protest would only bring down more pain, so she replied sweetly “Yes Madam. It was necessary and I truly believe that I have learned the error of my ways. My behavior in the Salon was disgraceful and reflects badly upon your good name. Please forgive me, Madam.”
“I’m glad you have come around to seeing things my way. I’m a firm believer in corporal punishment, aren’t you Peters?”
“Oh yes, Madam. It has been proved to be very effective throughout the world and is certainly required now and again…” but on second thoughts she quickly corrected herself “What I mean is, it’s required frequently, Madam. In my case I’m convinced that it will work wonders if applied regularly and briskly.” Priscilla almost choked on her servile, humiliating words: they hurt almost as much as yesterday’s caning.
“I’m pleased that you’re beginning to learn, Peters. You can see that I keep The Tickler on my dresser over there, so that in the future you’ll know where to find it when you require further motivation.” She snickered at her own humourous use of the final word. Madam had such a droll sense of humour.
After being further demeaned, Priscilla returned to the scullery, collected her broom, mop, bucket, cleaning liquids and brushes before starting on the bathrooms and toilets. She counted eight in all.
Mistress Elizabeth inspected Priscilla’s work frequently, chivying her along, telling her that the dishes and pans still needed to be washed and dried, sheets, pillowcases and clothes needed ironing, and floors scrubbed. It was a never-ending scourge of hard chores, inspections and criticisms, with just 15 minutes allowed for her lunch – a tepid bowl of unseasoned soup made with some of the breakfast leftovers – scraps of bacon, fried egg, breadcrumbs and some raw gristle that Flo had sliced off from the slabs of prime Angus beef destined for Mistress Agatha’s dinner.
Madam didn’t like gristle, nerves, veins, fat, skin or bones in her evening meal – they were dumped in the bubbling pot for Priscilla’s meal.
All afternoon was spent washing windows inside and out, taking out a big bin of swill to feed the pigs, hosing down the outside yards…on and on it went, day after grueling day. After her sparce evening meal she would have to wash and iron her apron, rinse out her underclothes and polish her shoes.
One morning at breakfast Madam Agatha asked her how many hours she worked each day, and she told her that it was from 6 am until 10 pm, less 30 minutes for meals, six days a week plus six hours on Sunday. Agatha made a quick calculation, “So that’s just 99 hours a week, Peters. Let’s round it up to a nice 100 hours, shall we? What about if you continue to work until noon on Sundays, but we’ll reserve noon until 1 pm for correctional actions – we’ll call it Punishment Hour, shall we?”
Priscilla gritted her teeth and tried to hold her anger in check but just couldn’t. This was too much, and she blurted out “But that’s not fair, Madam!”
“Stop that rebellious talk at once; now you’ve made me angry and you’ve ruined my day!” she exploded, “Noon to 1 pm Sundays will be Punishment Hour and you’ll be given corporal punishment if you deserve it or not. I’ll have all the other servants there to watch. How does that strike you, Peters?”
Priscilla realized at once that she’d spoken out of line and now regretted it; it never paid to make Madam lose her temper. So, to avoid additional punishments she replied meekly “Yes, Madam Agatha, that’s an excellent idea. I really do deserve punishment for any overlooked omissions or slackness on my part. It will make me reflect upon my bad behavior all afternoon on Sundays. Thank you for your consideration, Madam.”
The following morning over breakfast Madam informed Priscilla that she was to accompany her into the village for some urgent purchases and that after washing the dishes and pans she should wait outside the garage, dressed impeccably in her uniform.
Madam came downstairs at 11 am and they set out in the Range Rover with Clive driving. He parked near the village centre and Peters followed behind Madam as she walked along to the shopping area. Little Shipton was a small village and didn’t have any supermarkets, so Madam went directly to the old-fashioned chemist shop. Before entering, Agatha instructed Peters what she should request and the reason for doing so. Priscilla blanched; this was going to be further humiliation – she just knew it.
“Good morning, Miss Agatha. How are you this fine day?” enquired the owner, Mr Culpepper. He was a sandy-haired middle-aged man dressed in a clean white coat. “I haven’t seen this pretty young lady before; what is your name, dear?
Aunt answered for her “She’s Peters, my new Novice Maid and she’s come to buy something, haven’t you, Peters?”
“Lovely; what can I help you with, Peters?”
“Well…I’d like to buy a package of adult disposable diapers, Mr Culpepper.”
“Tell Mr Culpepper why you need them, dear.” Agatha prompted.
“They’re for incontinence, Sir.” She blushed.
“Fine!” he replied, “Many aged folks have those problems these days. They’ll be for one of your parents or maybe a grandparent, I’ll wager.”
“No Sir” she stammered, “they’ll be for me. I suffer from incontinence sometimes.” Priscilla blurted out.
“That’s not entirely true, dear, is it?” broke in Aunt, “She wets her knickers in the house. It’s so embarrassing when it happens in front of other people.”
There was a thundering silence until Mr Culpepper tried to save the day.
“No problem young lady; here they are - a package of ten diapers.”
Being a polished salesman, Mr Culpepper followed up with “Do you need any diaper covers? I have an old stock of plastic ones; they may be a bit old and crinkly, but I can give you a discount on them. Or if you prefer, I have some pretty new ones – all pink frills with elastic around the legs and waist to avoid leakage.”
“Excellent! She’ll need two pair of the older plastic covers for nighttime and two pair of the frilly ones for daytime use under her uniform. That way she’ll look pretty in case the wind blows her dress up! Ha ha ha.”
Priscilla was dying inside.
Agatha paid for the diapers and was about to leave when the owner offered to send young Jack up to the Hall each week on his bike to deliver a week’s requirements of diapers. Agatha agreed and left the shop with Priscilla walking on behind.
Every week Jack would ride up to the front door of the Hall whistling and announce to whomever answered the door “I’ve come with Miss Priscilla’s diapers. Please sign here.”
Wednesday came around as it always does, and Peters presented herself to Master Frederick at 9 am to help with the gardening.
She followed him out to the back shed where he kept his tools and gardening equipment. “Here’s the sit-on motor mower but I forgot to get some petrol, so you’ll have to make do the good old fashioned away with a push mower. It’s a bit rusty because I never use it, but it’ll soon loosen up once you’ve pushed it around for a while.
“Come on over here into the shed and get changed into these old clothes: You don’t want to dirty your nice clean uniform, do you, dear” he quipped sarcastically.
“Here, slip out of your uniform and pretty underthings and put these on.” He handed her a bundle of old clothes. “I wore them all last week and they’re due for the weekly wash, but you can wear ‘em today and you’ll wash ‘em tomorrow.”
Priscilla took off her uniform and undies (while Fred watched her out of the corner of his eye) and held up a pair of old woolen long johns that buttoned up in the front. They reeked of dried sweat and there was an obscene yellow stain around the flies. Fred was never very good at shaking the last drops off his willy. Breathing through her mouth, she put them on then pulled on a pair of grubby old trousers and a shirt (badly worn around the collar, with stains under the armpits and smelling like the long johns.)
The next three hours were spent struggling with the clanky old mower, pushing hard and walking up and down the never-ending lines, raking the grass cuttings, putting them in plastics bags and heaving them away to the compost heap. She’d never worked so hard in all her short life, and her own sweat mingled with Fred’s sweat from last week. She was exhausted and her sweaty groin was clammy. Her muscles ached, her face and neck were bitten all over by gnats and her long hair was matted with grass.
“Not too bad for a first effort, I suppose,” Fred remarked, “but I’ll have to tell Mistress Agatha that it needs to be improved next week. I expect she’ll give you a good hiding for this” he sniggered.
As Fred predicted, the following Sunday during Punishment Hour, Madam Agatha brought up the matter of the poorly mown lawn together with other complaints made by Flo and Lizzy.
Priscilla stood demurely in the corner awaiting her weekly punishment while the others stood nearby, enjoying her unease. She was trembling with nervous anxiety.
“To inaugurate this Punishment Hour” announced Agatha formally, “I will require Fred’s active participation: Please step forward Fred and sit on this upright chair facing the others.” He shuffled forward with a grin on his face and sat down, looking over at Priscilla and then back to the gleeful faces of Flo, Lizzy and Clive.
“Today the punishment will be more…” she hesitated before choosing the appropriate word…“Personal, if you know what I mean.”
“Come Peters, drop your drawers and lay across Master Frederick’s lap. Be quick now.”
“Oh God in Heaven” she thought, “save me from this brute.” She pulled her panties down to her ankles, waddled a few steps to where Fred was sitting and laid across his lap, face downwards with bare bum exposed to the audience. Fred grinned at the others.
“Now Fred, I want your best open-handed smacks on Peters’ bottom when I say.” Priscilla was already blinking back her tears.
“Peters, I know you learned a little French at school, so now’s the time to brush up a little. After each slap, you will call out the phrase “Merci Monsieur, s’il vous plait donnez moi un autre.””
“All ready? Then let the punishment begin!”, she called out like a circus ringmaster. Ten of your best, please Mr Brummage.
Fred’s horny hand went up in the air and then came down with an almighty SLAP.
Priscilla screamed in pain but managed to blurt out:
“Merci Monsieur, s’il vous plait donnez moi un autre.”
SLAP “Merci Monsieur, s’il vous plait donnez moi un autre.” she shreiked.
SLAP “Merci Monsieur, s’il vous plait donnez moi un autre.”
SLAP “Merci Monsieur, s’il vous plait donnez moi un autre.”
Fred paused to wipe away the saliva that was dribbling out of the corner of his mouth.
SLAP “Merci Monsieur, s’il vous plait donnez moi un autre.” Aaaagh
SLAP “Merci Monsieur, s’il vous plait donnez moi un autre.” she wailed, tears steaming down her face
SLAP “Merci Monsieur, s’il vous plait donnez moi un autre.” Priscilla was howling in pain and indignation.
SLAP “Merci Monsieur, s’il vous plait donnez moi un autre.” Ohh Ohh Ohh!
SLAP “Merci Monsieur, s’il vous plait donnez moi un autre.” No, stop! Stop!
SLAP “Merci Monsieur, s’il vous plait donnez moi un autre.” She screeched between uncontrollable sobs.
SLAP “Merci Monsieur, s’il vous plait donnez moi un autre.” More pitiful wailing and loud sobs. She couldn’t stop, and once again she peed - all over Fred’s lap. He pushed her off roughly and stood up but his erection was evident.
Flo shouted at him, “You just wait, you dirty old bugger ! I’m gonna kill you when we get home! ”
Justice had been served to two people at once.
Priscilla ran off to get cleaned up, then prudently put on a disposible diaper and her pretty diaper cover with the pink flounces, then went to bed sobbing and cursing both Agatha and Fred.
Later that afternoon after she had calmed down, Priscilla got up and went for a walk around the grounds of the mansion, finally sitting down under an old oak tree to ponder on her unlucky life and her inability to ecape from it. She could put up with the work but the humiliation and punishments were very hard to take. But ten million pounds was a lot of money.
She understood very well that Aunt Agatha was sadistic and enjoyed punishing her, Fred was a coarse, dirty old man who enjoyed making her suffer, Flo liked making snide remarks, and Lizzy was a stickler for detail and very demanding.
But Clive? He seemed kind and didn’t take pleasure in Priscilla’s suffering. She liked him. He seemed the only normal one, and while she was thinking that, Clive appeared and sat down beside her.
She missed human kindness and without thinking she leaned against him weeping and he put his his arm around her. They stayed like that for maybe 15 minutes, Clive snuggling his head into the crook of her neck and inhaling her pefume. He started giving her little loving kisses on her nose and ears. She giggled and kissed him back on his neck. She was starved of human contact, kindness and warmth.
Clive laid his hand on her thigh and started to stroke up and down, but the ups went further up and the downs also. Priscilla was excited and turned her face up to his, looking directly into his big blue eyes. He was breathing heavily, and suddenly he put both hands around the back of her neck, pulling her head towards his and kissing her right on the mouth…a long passionate kiss which she responded to eagerly.
His hands were busy and he felt the straps of her garter belt. She bent to his will happily, kissing him eagerly, and when he placed her hand over his erection she left it there for a while then gripped his cock hard. He was groaning and she was squirming excitedly.
“Take it out and stroke it” he whispered, “you know you want to.”
Such was her yearning for comfort and love, that she eagerly complied with his wishes. His cock was quite long and fairly thick. Thicker than Priscilla’s cock.
She looked closely at it – it was his symbol of strength and manhood while hers was the opposite, a sign of her weakness and femininity. Knowing perfectly well how to stroke cocks, she slid her hand up and down and caressed his balls. Clive lay back with his eyes closed and imagined that Priscilla was a real girl – a girl with breasts to hold and a vagina to penetrate. But she wasn’t and she didn’t so he just let his mind wander off into fantasyland.
He couldn’t hold himself back any longer and straight out told her to suck his swollen member. Priscilla had of course never done anything like that, in fact just the opposite, she used to like having her own cock sucked, but life was different now. Her male hormones were being gradually extinguished and her feminine side was being cultivated. She leaned over and took his manhood into her mouth, moving up and down, gently cradlng his balls.
Clive couldn’t last any more; he held her head tightly in place and gasped, then shot spasm after spasm of his seed into her mouth.
“Swallow it all. Do it for me.”
Priscilla obliged willingly.
They lay in each other’s arms until the sun sank below the horizon then they made their way back to the Hall: she to her dark Box Room and he to his attic room.
This romantic adventure was repeated Sunday after Sunday until it became a beautiful routine. It was Priscilla’s escape from reality.
Back in his room alone, Clive thought “Now I’ve got her where I want her. She’s a cocksucker…she’s my cocksucker.”
It never even occurred to Clive that Priscilla might want him to stroke her cock, much less suck it or, perish the thought, swallow her cum.
She was for him, but he wasn’t for her.
Chapter 6