the source of my best ever climaxes. Over the back of an armchair, across a bed, doggie-fashion…and even across a table, just like this.
They go at it furiously, like a pair of lordly ermines, gasping and moaning. Under the cover of their happy chorus, I edge forward an inch or two and surreptitiously start to tweak my nightclothes upward.
And then I freeze. Again.
As if I really have been encased in ice.
There’s someone here in the boot room with me.
Slowly, slowly, I turn my head, wondering why it’s taken me so long to notice. As the wild congress across the table picks up speed, I blink, and in the heart of the deep shadow in the corner of the room, a deeper shadow forms into the shape of a man.
A man who rises silently from the old settle that sits against the wall and moves toward me on the noiseless feet of stealth. In the slice of light from the kitchen, I see his face.
It’s William Graves, the estate steward. I have no idea how he could remain so completely undetected all this time, but he must have been watching me for as long, if not longer, than I’ve been watching the Marquis and Marchioness, because I never heard either of the other doors out of here squeak.
A younger, flightier woman than me might freak out at this stage, and give us both away to our noble employers. But I’m forty something and pretty unflappable as a rule, so I just stare back at Graves, challenging him to do something.
But he’s a rock. Just feet away in the darkness, he eyeballs me unwaveringly, his face a neutral canvas, blank of emotion. He doesn’t move a muscle. He barely breathes.
And I suddenly remember that I’m frozen in the act of sliding up the skirt of my nightgown. Even as I let it fall back into place, William Graves darts forward soundlessly, catches the hem in his hand and draws it back up again, completing the action that I’d begun.
Now I’m much less steady. Spooked both by his strangeness and the phenomenal way he moves. I’ve only known one man in my life who could move like that. My Jeff, my late fiance. He was in Special Forces, and solid and stocky as he was, he could glide like the proverbial panther, as noiseless and deadly as if he didn’t touch the ground.
William Graves slides around behind me, drawing up my nightgown and pressing his hand against my belly through my knickers. His audacity makes me feel weak, makes me feel thrilled and helpless, held aloft by only the rock of strength, his body close behind me. Unlike the Marquis, he is my type, and I slump against him, biting my lip when I feel his cock hard and insistent against my bottom. He doesn’t have my temporary employer’s elegant height, but he more than makes up for it in sheer muscle power and colossal male presence. Built like the proverbial shed, he must work out for hours with massive weights.
Unable to feast my eyes on him, I focus on the scene before me, even though part of me sees quite a different coupling. Another man and woman, a pair far more prosaically dressed than the beautiful aristocrats in their luxurious finery.
Against a tall hunk of a man in dark working clothes leans a woman in her dressing gown. She’s middle-aged, but she’s looked after herself. Her long auburn hair is plaited. It needs the help of L’Oréal but not by much, and it’s thick and shiny. Beneath her voluminous nightdress, her body is tight and trim.
But it’s what these two are doing that makes me wriggle.
He’s lifted her skirt and is reaching into her knickers. And she’s letting him.
“Oh Christian…oh God, yes! Touch my clit! Touch my clit!” The Marchioness is the one in control now. She’s spread over the table, but she’s calling the shots. Her husband obediently rummages amongst the skirts of her gorgeous gown, and, adjusting their position, apparently finds her sweet spot.
Just as William Graves finds mine.
His hand is huge, and it stretches the cotton of the shabby, third-best knickers that I sleep in. A thick, but breathtakingly precise finger wiggles its way through my pubic hair, parts my labia and finds my clitoris. I press my fist against my lips as he begins to rub me. He seems to be timing his strokes to his Lordship’s thrusts, the sneaky devil.
Oh, but this is delicious! Just what I’ve been wanting for ages. Just what I need. I love bringing myself off but this is something else. Who cares if William Graves is a stranger? He’s big and strong and warm, human and sharing.
I bet he’d spank my bottom if I asked him.
And this thought tips me over. My pussy ripples and jerks and tightens, pushing waves of luscious pleasure through my belly. William Graves reads my mind and covers my mouth, gently but firmly, pushing my hand away with his much bigger one.
Not that our lordly companions would notice if I howled blue murder at this juncture. They’re coming, too, complete with shouts and curses and kicking and thrashing and a perilous clatter of crockery on the table.
Our orgasms seem to go on forever. I float, as if in a white-out world, yet strangely aware of everything around me. The brilliant, erotic vision of the couple fucking in the kitchen. The rambunctious sound of their pleasure, and the faint yet evocative whisper of William Graves’s breath in my ear. I couldn’t hear him before, but now we’re tuned to each other perfectly. The odor of sex and sweat drifts from my pussy….
Eventually, their Lordships come back to earth, laughing and whispering sweet nothings as they catch their breath and start to right their rumpled clothing. I too descend, rudely aware that I’m standing in a frigid scullery with a man’s hand in my knickers. A man I’ve barely exchanged more than half a dozen words with up until now.
I’m also aware that if I don’t do something soon, I’ll be stuck in here for goodness knows how long. The Marquis and his lady obviously didn’t get a square meal at the posh function they attended, because now they’re setting to with the coffee machine and the toaster.
Behind me, sharp-eyed William Graves obviously sizes up the situation, and releases me. Silently he smooths down my clothing, giving me the briefest of almost-affectionate squeezes. Then he turns me, and with the help of some clear, businesslike sign language he wordlessly outlines a plan. Again, the way he gestures and nods seems distinctly soldierly. It could be cribbed from a hundred films or television programs, but it reminds me so much of Jeff that it shakes me. But I have to shape up as William puts his plan into action.
With a huge commotion, he opens the back door, and stamps and slaps his arms as if he’s come in from the outside. He lets the door swing a couple of times, creaking on its hinges, and as he does, I push open the other door, the corridor one, so the two sets of creaks and squeaks overlay each other.
Just as I slip out, I turn and glance at him, and he winks at me. Then the Marquis calls out a greeting, and William moves forward into the kitchen as I pad away as quietly as I can down the corridor, my slipper-clad footsteps conveniently muffled by the carpet runner.
Back in my room, I don’t know how to feel. I’m all over the place. I still feel the echoing glow of orgasm, but the transition between that and my flight from the kitchen was so abrupt that I wonder if I imagined it. I laugh, because I didn’t get my cocoa, either. A glass of water from the bathroom will have to do.
Snuggled under a thick layer of old-fashioned blankets and quilts, I start to get a handle on things. I start to think.
That was fun. It’s been a while since I’ve
