The Maid Wants to Be Teased (5)

Estelle Orot had always thought of herself as unshakable. From the very first day she donned her maid uniform, right up to this moment five years later.

No matter what accidents, humiliations, or delayed paychecks came her way, she never wavered. Even when fate saddled her with a young master who was utterly pathetic, immature, and frustratingly hopeless, she simply observed without a flicker of emotion.

But now.

'......Why am I doing this?'

The tips of Estelle's gloved white hands trembled ever so slightly.

Standing in the center of the study, she faced Ian Ashy, who lounged obliquely in his chair. A pen in his right hand. A blank sheet propped on his left knee. His gray eyes gazed up at her quietly, impassively.

Eyes devoid of emotion. No anger, no desire, no hesitation. Just empty, filled only with pure focus.

With those eyes fixed on her, the young master spoke casually.

"The hem of your skirt."

Short, clear, and firm. A tone she'd never heard from the old pathetic young master.

"Grab it. And lift."

Estelle's breath hitched for a split second. A command she somehow couldn't refuse. Just moments ago, she'd been on the verge of blanketing the room in frost, yet those three words melted her chill completely—a mystery even to herself.

All she felt now was that Ian Ashy had finally become someone truly worthy of her service.

So she couldn't defy him.

Estelle bit her lip lightly. Then slowly reached for the edge of her skirt.

—Swish.

The faint rustle of the dress lining echoed softly in the quiet study.

Ian's pen hadn't moved yet. His eyes ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠alone tracked coldly and precisely what her hand revealed bit by bit.

The neat top of her white stockings. And above that.

Estelle's hand paused. Hovering at the boundary, as if debating whether to go further.

"Don't stop."

Ian's voice. Neither cold nor hot. Not a request, but a calm statement of what was simply inevitable.

Estelle's hand moved again. Above the stockings. The lace garter belt clinging to the top of her thigh emerged into the light.

Ian's gray eyes narrowed faintly. For the first time, his pen grazed the paper.

—Scratch.

Scratch.

"Hold it there."

"......"

Estelle didn't reply. She just froze, gripping the hem. No explanations, just orders.

No mention of drawing, no permission asked to sketch her body. It was all so utterly natural.

She felt her fingers tense inside the white gloves.

Ian's gaze swept the garter belt from top to bottom. The weave of the lace. The boundary where it met her pale skin. The tiny valley where flesh yielded ever so slightly.

"There."

A low mutter.

"The mark where the garter digs in. Need a better angle on it."

Handling her like an object, so impassively...

Estelle's mouth went dry.

You're mine. What's odd about drawing what's mine?

She wanted to resist, but words failed her. Because the young master was clearly lost in his art. Inspecting her body solely for the sake of the drawing.

—I'm the master's possession. Use any part of me as you desire.

A memo scribbled in the margins of one of the young master's maid sketches. Why was she recalling that line now?

'...It's hot.'

Estelle felt her temperature rising, inwardly flustered. The parlor air was distinctly cool. Windows shut, no fire lit.

—Scratch.

Scratch.

Scratch.

The pen sounds came quick and precise.

"Your legs are too close together."

Ian said.

Estelle's face burned. Spreading her legs further would expose not just the garter but her underwear too. She should resist, say something...

"Don't clench them. Spread a bit more."

"Any further and..."

"I'm not here for verbal descriptions."

Ian narrowed his eyes, tilting his head slightly right.

"It's the angle. Estelle, pull your left heel back a little."

Estelle gritted her teeth. But her foot obeyed.

A cool draft brushed below.

—Scratch.

Scratch.

The pen moved again. Ian's focus deepened. Listening to the scratches, Estelle sensed herself changing, bit by bit.

Of course, it was shame. But not just embarrassment—something else mixed in, a confusing sensation she couldn't name.

Ian's gaze dropped back to her thigh. Always cold without warmth, precise without emotion, solely for the art.

And wherever that gaze touched, her skin ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠heated.

'......What am I doing?'

Her grip on the hem nearly slipped.

"Don't let go."

Ian said without looking up.

Estelle clenched her teeth harder. And gripped tight again.

—Scratch.

—Scratch.

Scratch.

Only the sound of pen on paper rippled softly through the parlor air.

How much time passed? Estelle felt something trickle slowly down her thigh.

'......?'

Sweat? Was she sweating?

The sensation was vivid. Sliding slowly along the stocking. A sticky droplet.

—Plip.

It hit the floor.

Ian's pen stopped. Estelle's hand jerked.

—Swish.

The skirt fell. Facing straight ahead, she declared to the front alone.

"I'll be going."

"Huh?"

"I have business."

"Estelle, the pose isn't—"

"I have business."

Estelle smoothed her skirt front neatly, bowed precisely ninety degrees, and walked out. Her footsteps were perfectly silent. Shoulders perfectly level. Posture undisturbed by a millimeter.

But her nape. Clearly, unmistakably. Burned bright red.

◆ Outside the closed parlor door, I stared at my pen for a moment.

'......'

Hm. Not that I didn't know why.

I cleared my throat lightly and looked back at the blank sheet on my knee.

'Still, got plenty of material.'

The subtle curve where the garter pressed into flesh. The shadow texture inside the lace. The sheen of the stockings and the tension angle at their edge.

Honestly, the instant I saw it, all I could think was I have to draw this now.

'...Come to think of it, I didn't even explain.'

That realization was fleeting. The sketches before my eyes ignited my creative urge beyond restraint. A real maid's body, sketched live!

I stood, heading to the desk. Outside, dusk was just settling over the sky. Caliola's spring evenings came early, but nights were long. Perfect for an all-nighter.

The familiar tension gripped my pen tip.

'Time to pull an all-nighter, then?'

◆ A few days later.

Brisk footsteps echoed down the second-floor corridor of the Ashy Barony. Wide strides, fast, and huffing with irritation.

Chloe Ashy, the family's second daughter. Leather document bag tucked under her arm, marching toward Ian's room. Her face bore the sharpest expression in the world, as always.

"How many hours do you even sleep?!"

At the end of the hall, by Ian's door, stood Estelle. Perfect posture. Perfect expression. Perfectly calm eyes. The head maid, unshakable in any situation.

But Chloe wasn't one to scrutinize faces long. Otherwise, she might've noticed something off.

Chloe halted squarely before her.

"Estelle. Is Ian Ashy in his room?"

"Yes."

Estelle replied.

"He's abed."

"What? Do you know what time it is? Sleeping in broad daylight?!"

Chloe raised her voice, but Estelle's brow didn't twitch, as ever.

"Likely exhaustion from days of nonstop work."

Chloe paused. Estelle defending Ian? Rare? No, unprecedented.

"Estelle, since when do you take that idiot's side?"

"I'm not."

Estelle continued, expression unchanged.

"It's been fourteen hours since he retired. That should suffice."

For a moment, Chloe's eyes narrowed.

Fourteen hours. Sleeping fourteen hours? While she scraped by on three to save the family?

Sure, the money Ian brought last time helped avert crisis—well, hugely so. But then she found he'd racked up massive tabs on ink credit...

Whatever he was scheming, with Father's ghost looming, Chloe couldn't let it slide. The men in this family were untrustworthy!

"...That rice-wasting bum."

Chloe grabbed the doorknob.

—Bang!

Ian's door flew open. Stale air rushed out. Heavy ink scent. Pens scattered on the desk. Crumpled papers littering the floor.

And in the midst: a man dead asleep on the bed. Black hair splayed wildly over the pillow, bearing the world's fatigue. His pale skin contrasted a brooding aura, and with his mouth shut, his fine features were woman-meltingly attractive.

Not that Chloe cared.

"Hey!!"

Chloe shook Ian's shoulder mercilessly.

"Ugh......"

A groan escaped Ian. Eyes still shut.

"Get up. Now. Academy time."

"Mmm...... Gonna sleep....... Don't get involved......"

"What?"

Chloe leaned in. Ian's lips mumbled hazily.

"Honey....... Life is honey....... No need for the Academy....... Just draw here......"

Chloe's gaze iced over.

"No Academy needed?"

—Snap.

Ian bolted up. Or rather, Chloe yanked him upright by the ear.

"Aaaah! My ear, ear!"

"Awake? Good."

Chloe released his ear, glaring coldly down at her brother. Dark circles under his eyes. Sunken cheeks. Ink stains on his fingertips.

She noted it all but played dumb. No slack to give.

"Ian Ashy. Prepare for enrollment. Now."

Chloe's voice dropped low. Ian knew that octave meant business—pure seriousness.

"One less mouth to feed at home. And those sponsorship funds you pulled? Drop out, and we repay every bit. We can't afford that."

"I can earn money—"

"Two hundred million krone in sponsorships? ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Miss re-enrollment this semester, and it's due in two weeks."

"That's..."

Chloe cut him short.

"So re-enroll. Tuition and dorm are prepaid anyway."

With that, she pulled a paper from her bag and slapped it onto Ian's forehead.

Ian snatched it. Crisp printed text swam into view.

Ian raised one brow.

"Why give this to me."

"Skip it and you're dead. For real."

Chloe's tone was firmer than ever.