A Desire Growing Larger
Cecile opened the door to the dressing room and spoke in a low voice.
"I have prepared today's attire for you, my lady."
It was a pale cream dress.
Modest enough for lessons at the Lady Academy, yet designed so that no one could forget the wearer was heir to the Velois Marquisate.
Cecile had already laid out the corset and undergarments in turn and stood waiting at my side.
"Would you raise your arms for me, please."
The same words as yesterday.
And yet today they sank deeper into me.
I quietly lifted my arms.
Cecile's fingers rolled up the sleeve of my nightgown and lifted the thin underlayer over my shoulders, brushing the line of my breast.
Her touch carried no meaning beyond her duties.
It was warm, careful, and deferential to the point of excess.
Even so, I could not stop the indecent thoughts from coming.
When those thin, cool fingertips grazed the inside of my wrist, that brief contact alone sent a shiver up my arm.
Cecile was smoothing my collar without the slightest intention in it.
But I was seeing far too precisely the knuckles of those fingers, the short nails, the pale backs of her hands emerging from beneath her apron sleeves.
If only those hands drifted a little lower.
If they slipped beneath the hem of the dress and settled over the crotch of my undergarment.
If, as though conducting an inspection, they pressed two fingers together and pinched my clitoris, confirming whether the heir of House Velois was properly wet.
When Cecile pulled the corset laces tight, my waist cinched in and my hips were pushed forward.
With that motion, my already-damp undergarment pressed directly against my clit.
The fabric seemed to rub against the small nub, and for an instant I swallowed my breath.
If those fingers seized my flesh instead of the cloth.
If they parted the wet seam and slowly stroked only my clit, testing whether the young lady's body was ready to await her orders.
None of that happened.
Cecile's hands merely fastened buttons, smoothed wrinkles, and pinned the brooch in place.
Even so, beneath my undergarments, my body was already tracing the phantom touch of hands that had never reached me.
As Cecile wound the corset around my waist and began tightening the laces, my back arched like a bow.
A short breath escaped me. Cecile would have taken it for nothing more than the corset being drawn too tight.
I could not look at the mirror.
Because the face that would be reflected there did not, I feared, belong to an heir just now.
"Hold your breath for a moment, my lady. I shall tighten it a little further."
A little further.
That brief phrase sent a tight ache through my belly.
I could feel it distinctly—my sex slowly parting, growing damp.
I felt the crotch of my undergarments clinging to my flesh.
Afraid of being found out, I let my knees drift slightly together.
When Cecile lowered the dress over my head, the fabric veiled my face.
In that brief darkness of blocked vision, a baser fantasy flickered past.
If she left me like this and made me kneel. If she bade me bend at the waist with nothing yet put on.
If the heir of Velois stood before her maid in nothing but her underthings, awaiting inspection.
The dress slid down, and Cecile began fastening the buttons.
Each button climbing up between my breasts, strangely, stole my breath.
"That is everything. I shall only add your accessories now."
Cecile fixed a small silver brooch just below my collarbone.
Her fingers grazed my neck. Even as I answered "thank you," I was swallowing different words inside.
Not thank you.
Words begging her to tighten it more.
Words begging her to treat me more harshly.
Such words never crossed my lips.
The carriage was quiet.
Beyond the window, the tree-lined avenues near the royal capital slipped past.
Cecile sat composed across from me, her handbag resting on her knees.
It was a day she accompanied me in her capacity as my exclusive maid.
Resting my cheek lightly against the window, I did my best to ignore the lingering dampness of my undergarments.
The main hall of the Lady Academy was built of white stone and tall windows.
Etiquette, languages, dance—everything an heir required was taught within these lessons.
The corridors bustled with young ladies of similar age and the maids attending at their sides.
Class was held in the great lecture hall.
The etiquette instructor carried a short rod like a conductor's baton, correcting our posture.
I sat in the front row with my spine perfectly straight. Outwardly, I was the flawless marchioness's daughter.
The trouble came just before the break.
The maid seated beside another young lady let her fingers slip while carrying an ink bottle.
Black ink spattered across the hem of the young lady's skirt, a small stain blooming across the floor.
The lecture hall fell briefly silent.
"Oh dear."
The young lady's voice was low. The maid dropped to her knees at once in apology.
But the instructor had already witnessed the scene. Here, a mistake never ended as a private matter.
Whatever cost a young lady's dignity, it was the maid at her side who was made to pay it.
"Everyone will remain in their seats. An example is required."
As the instructor's words fell, the maid's face drained white.
The young lady sighed and turned her head away, and the maid was called to the front of the hall.
A brief ritual of discipline followed. Confessing the fault, bowing low, assuming the posture of one to be punished.
"Lift your skirt."
The command cut across the lecture hall.
The maid's hands trembled.
But she could not refuse.
The black skirt was raised above her thighs, and beneath her white drawers the curve of her hips came into view.
The gazes of every young lady in the room converged on that spot at once.
Some averted their eyes.
Some hid their mouths behind fans.
I could not look away.
The short rod sliced through the air—
and fell upon the bared flesh.
Thwack.
The maid's shoulders flinched.
Still, she did not let her posture collapse.
A second time, a third. With each stroke, red welts bloomed across the white skin.
Breaths escaped around the room, but she repeated only, "I beg your pardon."
Watching the scene, I imagined myself standing in her place, and a tight shiver convulsed through my belly.
At the sight, the flesh within my sex began growing wet all over again.
I pressed my knees together. Keeping my back straight atop the chair, I clenched my gloved fingers hard over my knee.
Outwardly, I wore the face of a young lady pitying her.
Inwardly, the seats had already been exchanged.
Not that maid—me, skirt being lifted.
The dress bearing the Velois crest rising above my thighs.
My hips bared before every watching eye, the rod coming down.
At first, it was the thought of wanting to obey, as that maid did.
Then, the wish that within this lecture hall the name Velois would mean nothing at all.
And when the rod cut into flesh once more, I found myself imagining a position without even the right of refusal.
Something I could not refuse.
Something from which I could not retreat.
The sentence "I am a noble lady" becoming not an honor but a laughingstock.
My breath grew shallow in my throat. My undergarments clung deeper into the crease of my sex.
To hide it, I opened my fan, but even behind it my eyes would not leave the front of the room.
Cecile stood at the rear of the hall, in the place where the servants waited.
Her eyes were lowered in deference.
To stare openly at a maid under punishment was contrary to a maid's etiquette.
I watched those downcast lids.
It was not, of course, that Cecile wished to hold that rod herself.
If anything, everything I had seen of her showed deference to the point of excess.
And yet I could not help imagining it all the same.
The moment those lips would one day speak words entirely unlike the ones they spoke now.
The moment she bade me lift my skirt, bend at the waist, and confirmed my place before all these watching eyes.
The rod fell for the last time.
The maid remained kneeling to the very end, begging forgiveness, and the instructor gave a short nod to conclude the punishment.
The skirt came down again. The lecture hall quickly began composing itself into a semblance of calm.
I picked up my pen and filled the blank margins of my lesson notes.
My handwriting was impeccable.
Only my fingertips trembled, ever so faintly.
After class, Cecile received my coat in the corridor.
"My lady, the carriage is waiting at the rear. Is anything troubling you?"
I answered in my usual voice.
"Nothing at all. Let us go."
The one struck in that lecture hall had been the maid, not I.
And yet the one left soaked through was I, heir to the Velois Marquisate.
Beyond the window, the Academy's white stone walls receded into the distance.
Cecile sat quietly across from me.
I closed my eyes and tried to push away that short, sharp sound still lingering at my ears.
But the more I pushed, the more vividly it rang out—no longer over the maid's body, but over my own name.