Disclaimer: I do not own the characters and I do not make any money writing about them.
The moment Madame is seated at the breakfast table, Louise pushes the door open with her foot, and carries her tray to the table. The dust and crumbles and dreams of the night had been wiped away from it thirty minutes earlier.
“Bonjour, Madame”, she says quietly but clearly as she puts the tray on the serving table.
Madame replies and gives Louise a quick glance. She is dressed in a simple dress with only sparsely applied makeup. Louise knows that she is going to stay inside for a good part of the day, to write some letters, and then she might take a walk in the park before it’s time for a light late lunch. And then she’ll take a bath, get dressed and get her hair done – Louise will help her with all this – and then, in the evening she’ll go to the opera, and then to a private dinner and there it will maybe be dancing.
Louise is serving the coffee. She knows exactly how much milk Madame takes. The two slices of bread are exactly as thick as Madame wants them, toasted to exactly the golden colour and crispiness that Madame likes.
The flowers in the vase on the table have not been changed yet. Not because Louise has been negligent, but because Madame wants to keep them a little longer. They are not faded and dry yet, but the end of their best time is approaching. Madame likes the darkened colour, the strong, ripe scent. Louise thinks that Madame’s mouth looks like such a gaudy flower; she believes that Madame’s lips taste like the rich scent, and also her lower, secret lips; like dark, proud flowers, far from withered. Louise thinks that that’s why Madame likes to keep the flowers even when they’ve lost their first newly plucked freshness. The thought makes her wet, as always.
And perhaps Madame can read it in her eyes, but it doesn’t show in their voices.
“Louise”, Madame says, “did Monsieur say anything before he left?”
“Yes, he said that he is going to have a lot to do today and that he might be late to the opera.”
“As expected”, Madame says calmly, without disappointment. And why would she be disappointed? Louise knows that Madame doesn’t need her husband’s support to carry herself in drawing-rooms, lounges and theatres.
“And where are the others? It is quiet here this morning.”
“Monsieur took your mother and mademoiselle Augustine into town, they wanted to run some errands – they were going to the library, I think.”
“Has Catherine gone to school?”
“Good, Louise. You can go now.”
Louise leaves her lady alone with her breakfast but leaves the door open in case Madame wants to call her back.
She goes to the small drawing-room, the room where Madame reads and writes her letters and sometimes, long winter evenings, entertains a few guests. In there, the window is open for airing and Louise closes it. Then she dusts the shiny dark desk and the windowsill.
Louise likes to do the dusting. The feather duster sweeps lightly, softly over all surfaces like flowing hair sweeps over skin and the wooden handle is sleek and shiny in her hand.
Sometimes she fantasizes that one day Madame will enter the room when she’s doing the dusting and take the feather duster from her hand and say that such a thing can be used in many other ways. Louise knows that it is her duty to do everything that her lady asks of her. Even to raise her skirts up to her waist. She could bend both backward and forward and every way and let Madame instruct her in the use of a feather duster.
As if Louise didn’t know already. It was the housekeeper of a big mansion who taught her, years ago, how to please a proud and beautiful woman. Most of the other servants had been afraid of the strict housekeeper, but not Louise; she admired the older woman who kept the house in order so competently. The matron had noticed, of course. Nothing escaped her.
Louise thinks that nothing escapes her new mistress either; Madame who is even more admirable because her power consists of both beauty, wealth and hereditary nobility.
Louise has been in the house for some time now, but Madame has not yet demanded her body. But Louise thinks that Madame knows that her devotion knows no limits.
“Little Louise”, the housekeeper had told her, “you should know that rich women who are married to successful men often have secret inclinations and fancies that they don’t let anyone see within their own circle. But someone like you, on the other hand…”
“Yes”, said Louise and met the eyes of the older woman who let a finger find its way between her thighs.
“You will probably end up having a crush on such a woman”, said the housekeeper as she slowly caressed her, “and you will fall hard for her. Is that what you are thinking about right now; is that why you are so wet? So wet, so eager…”
The matron thrust a finger into her and Louise groaned, but the woman took away her hand and said:
“Take off your skirt, Louise.”
Louise obeyed with trembling fingers, and then she was standing in front of the woman who told her to lie down on the couch.
“Spread your legs”, said the housekeeper, and Louise spread her legs and exposed her moist, eager excitement to the older woman’s hungry eyes, and the woman touched her until her back was arching and then she pushed her fingers deeply into her and moved them quickly.
The memory aroused her. Her nipples were hard under the blouse and she allowed herself to touch them, to let her fingers stroke then and pinch them lightly.
Madame was going to come in soon.
Not until Louise had carried the tray from the table back to the kitchen, taken in the mail to Madame and seen that she was occupied at her desk did she go to the laundry room.
There she took off her skirt and leaned against the wall, spread her legs and let a finger become wet with her juices. She took the finger to her mouth and sucked it, pretended that it was Madame she tasted. The thought made her even wetter, the little hard spot between her legs started to pound and she touched it; the pleasure made her wet a finger again, she licked it and suffocated her moans by sucking it hard. Her pulse was throbbing. The next time she let a finger glide into her warm wetness she couldn’t pull it back again. Instead she let it be followed by another one. She didn’t want to take it slow. She moved her fingers quickly, violently, and suffocated her cries with her other hand.
Then she wiped off her moist thighs, put her skirt back on, and went back to take a discrete look into the drawing-room to see if Madame needed her.