Lady’s Maid Ch. 05: Working Girls

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What does an MP’s wife do? On the whole, in my case, as I am told.

With my husband, Archie, settling in well as a junior Minister, life entered into a routine. My maid, Annie, and myself would spent most week-ends in Manchester, with me working hard to serve the interests of Archie’s constituents in Oldham West. During the week we’d spend our time at our house in Mayfair, while, once a month or so, we’d go to our country house in Hampshire. I liked a regular routine, and was happiest knowing what was coming next.

This was where my maid, Annie, was invaluable. In public we were the perfect example of a Lady and her maid. Annie was deferential, but helpful, while I was always happy for her to guide me. In private it was different.

That was why I found myself in my current situation.

Had I not mentioned that I was naked, on my hands and knees with a scrubbing brush? Well, I was.

“What do you think, Dot?”

Dot was the working class girl who served us at the hotel. Annie had recently hired her to help us. She had been introduced to the delights of Sapphic love by Annie, who had, with that wonderful twist of the imagination which made her such a genius with me, decided it would add to our pleasure by having her boss me about. Of course, in the natural order of events, I would have spoken to a girl like Dot only to tell her what to do. Now I had to call her “Miss” and do as she told me.

“She has such lovely white skin Annie, but she has no figure at all. I know I’m a bit chubby, not like you, but at least we both attract men’s attention. Hard to think of her as a married woman.”

“Still, he is in her rightful position, don’t you think? It gives you a break.”

Dot giggled.

“Yes, she’s a little scrubber!”

I felt her big hand slap my arse.

“Yes Miss Dot,” I said as I scrubbed away.

I hated scrubbing the floor, but loved it too. Catullus had written a love poem called :”Odi et amo” which contained the lines:

I hate and I love. Why do I do it, perchance you might ask?

I don’t know, but I feel it happening to me and I’m burning up.

That was how I felt as, naked, my whole body on view to Miss Dot and Miss Annie, I vigorously scrubbed the floor. By the time I had finished I was hot and sweaty. I could hear noises, but did not dare look until I had finished my job.

When I turned to look, Dot was between Annie’s legs. Annie’s hands were gripping her head tightly. Miss Dot’s hands were gripping Annie’s thighs. She pushed Annie back, lifting her thighs over her shoulders, moving her broad tongue up Annie’s cunt, making her groan loudly. I felt a momentary stab of jealousy, but then, again, that “odi et amo” feeling kicked in.

I crawled over to Miss Dot.

“May I lick your arse, Miss Dot?”

She pushed her substantial arse into my face, and I could smell how aroused she was. Licking her sweaty arse sent shivers through me, and of course, I could not resist moving my fingers to her sopping hairy cunt. As always with Miss Dot, the smells overwhelmed me – washing not being something she did very often.

The noises coming from Annie suggested Miss Dot was being very effective on her cunt, so I took that as my cue to serve her swiftly.

I rimmed her arsehole with my delicate tongue, simultaneously curling two crossed fingers into her wetness, my thumb strumming her clit. She reacted by thrusting her fat arse into my face, burying it there.

My fingers squelched in and out, faster and harder, hammering into her. She worked Annie’s clit and, suddenly I felt her head gripped by Annie’s thighs. I pushed my fingers hard, teasing her clit and felt her clench. The room was filled with their scent.

That was the signal for me to lick Miss Dot clean, her rough curly pubic hair tickling my nose. As she climbed onto the bed with Annie, I licked Annie clean too.

“She’s such a good cleaning girl, don’t you think, Dot?”

Dot giggled and said I was the perfect little scrubber.

“Draw us a bath slut!”

Hot, sweaty, smelling of them both, I did as I was Bayan Eskort told, drawing a nice hot bath for them. I went back into to tell them, to find them kissing – odi et amo – I hate and I love.

I bathed Annie first.

Her figure was flawless. Her breasts could have been the model for the Venus de Milo, a perfect 36C, with no discernible sag, her dark nipples crinkled, almost demanded to be sucked; but I knew better than to do that unless told. We kept Annie’s pubic hair trimmed, and her perfect arse was a joy to lather and clean. To bathe her was a sheer joy. To help dry her was a constant struggle with temptation.

She looked me in the eyes.

“You are happy with this, aren’t you darling?”

My heart melted.

“Yes, my love, I am, we both know we both crave this. What matters to me is that you love me.”

She held me close.

“I love you deeply.”

It was that simple.

Miss Dot was a total contrast.

She was a big girl.

Her tits, we had established, were 40EE, and the rest of her was built to scale. Washing her was quite a task, but at least brought with it the satisfaction of knowing she’d be relatively clean next time we played.

“Get in with me Lady Pixie.”

I felt tiny next to her, but did as she told me.

She laughed as she cleaned me, paying special attention to my aching cunt.

Annie, who came in to see what was causing the delay, giggled.

“The little and the large of it,” she laughed

Miss Dot got out, and Annie helped her dry.

“Our little Pixie is all wet, Dot.”

Miss Dot laughed:

“Especially between her thighs – shall we leave her wanting?”

They agreed to deny me my orgasm.

That was Friday night.

Annie and I rose early on the Saturday.

Used now, to dressing myself, I did so and went down for breakfast.

As always, Mr Shufflebottom, Archie’s election agent, was there.

“Might I say, Lady Cynthia, what a pleasure it is to deal with you. I’ve never had an MP so assiduous, let alone an MP’s wife.”

I smiled as I sat and the waitress poured me a cup of tea. I motioned to her to serve Mr S.

We discussed the day ahead.

Oldham West was what they called a “marginal” seat. Its majority was definitely working-class, but many of the latter voted Conservative, partly out of deference to the traditional ruling elite, and partly out of a distrust for the socialists, and our strategy for holding the seat depended on cultivating the mill workers. Most of these were young women, and if, as the Prime Minister had promised me, they were given the vote, their support might be critical.

That evening the Mill Owners had their annual dance for the workers, and I was the guest of honour.

“I can’t say how glad I am that you are happy to be there. Between you and me there were a few difficulties with some of Lord Archie’s predecessors.”

“Really?” I said, intrigued.

“Well, your ladyship, I am sad to say that not everyone is the perfect gentleman like his Lordship.”

Well, I daresay they were heterosexual, but I was not telling Mr S that, any more than I was telling her that I might be a danger with Mill Girls!

We discussed how we should play the evening.

The “Nonconformist Conscience” was a thing to be reckoned with in Oldham. The Established Church had been slow to respond to industrialisation and urbanisation, and the Catholic Church had long ceased to be a force, which had left it to Methodists and Baptists to bring Christianity to those workers who had flooded into the mill towns. Their Christianity tended towards the dour, with an emphasis on teetotalism and respectability. I had already offended it during the election campaign with an off-colour joke and a glimpse of stocking as I descended from a packing case after speaking.

“Well your Ladyship,” said Mr S, his walrus moustache twitching slightly as something approaching a smile came to his thick lips, “I’d say that if the franchise is lowered, I think it will matter less if you scandalise the puritans, and aristocrats are given more leeway than ordinary folk, but you might want to think about the right tone to strike. Usually the MP turns up at the start but leaves before it gets frisky.”

“Frisky?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, your Ladyship. These things tend to end in scenes of debauchery, it is like it is a once a year opportunity to enjoy fun before real life kicks back in.”

“Ah,” I smiled, “like a Roman carnival?”

“That,” your Ladyship, “was not something covered at my Grammar School.”

After that it was to work.

Annie joined me, and Mr S drove us to the office in Saddleworth, where we spent the morning helping constituents. One unique aspect of this was that I had invited the former MP, Alice Prosser, who was also a local councillor, to join me. So many cases needed local knowledge I did not have, and sometimes they were more matters for the Council. That Alice and Annie were lovers, and that we all enjoyed Sapphic love-making was an additional advantage.

Alice was, as ever, delighted to see us, but as we were on public view, we simply kissed cheeks and got down to work.

By two in the afternoon we’d done, and we retired to the local public house, which had a special licence to allow it to serve after closing time.

Alice, who was taller, slim and bespectacled, sat next to Annie, and I sat opposite. As we ate a light lunch, we discussed the question of the hour – that evening’s extravaganza.

“You have practised, haven’t you Lady Pix?” Alice asked.

“Oh, darling Alice, she really has, she’s getting very good at it,” Annie told her.

I smiled at the compliment.

“So we are going to join the couples section?” Alice looked at me.

“That’s the idea, from what you say it’s very common for two women to dance together.”

“Yes,” Alice smiled, “it is less offensive to the Nonconformist Conscience – if only they knew?”

Mr S drove us back to the hotel, promising to collect us at seven.

That gave Alice and Annie the chance to make love, and me the chance to lay out our outfits for the evening.

I had bought Annie a classic silver sequinned cocktail dress with a tasseled hemline which, when she danced, would offer delightful glimpses of her shapely stockinged legs. For Alice I had purchased a silver sequin cutwork Cami Midi Dress with a delightfully flirty fringe. Finding something for me had been more difficult given my size, but that nice Mr Selfridge had found a tiered halter bodycon dress, which would shimmer nicely, and contrast with Alice. Planning had, as ever, been meticulous.

I laid everything out on the spare bed, as the lovers occupied themselves in the main bedroom. I giggled slightly, Annie, it seemed, was quite insatiable. I loved her dearly and deeply, but my sex-drive was not hers.

I drew another bath.

Annie and Alice bathed each other, and I left them to it. If asked, I would have confessed to have having an itch that needed scratching, but I wasn’t, so I didn’t and it wasn’t.

I styled their hair, another skill I had picked up in my new role. They both looked gorgeous. I looked, well, like me in a flapper dress, but they both said nice things about how I looked.

I had hired a car for the evening, and so we arrived at the Memorial Hall in style.

There was a chorus of “ooohs,” and “aahhhhs” as we entered. The Mill Girls had also dressed up, and as I had donated a sum towards their dresses, they, too, looked lovely. Florence May, who was one of the leaders, and looked lovely in a dress rather like mine, came over to thank me.

“That was so nice of you Lady Cynthia, the girls so appreciate looking nice – and thank you, too, for the donation to our ‘Sunday best,’ club.”

This last was something the Girls did to help provide themselves with something nice to wear outside of work. I had been struck by the poverty of their lives and felt that anything I could do to help ought to be done, so quietly I had made a donation to their Club once Alice had made me aware of its existence.

The contrast between their lives and mine was one which filled me with a sense that something ought to be done about it. It was not their fault they had so little, any more than it was mine that I had so much. Still, on with the motley, and the night was yet young.

It was all rather fun. There was a brass band which played the sort of dance music which one might have expected, but as the evening wore on there were some younger players who attempted something more worthy of the Jazz Age.

It was marvellous to see the girls enjoying themselves. Convention and decorum demanded that, the men in the band apart, there were only women there, so there was nothing strange about women dancing with each other. Annie and Alice were in their element.

Florence May asked if I would dance with her, and we did a graceful waltz. She danced well, and I kept up.

Then, at ten, came the moment we had all been waiting for.

“Ladies, the Charleston contest!”

As MC, Florence May commanded the floor.

Couples had signed up for it, and the first three were jolly good. It was the announcement of the fourth couple which prompted a gasp of surprise.

“And now, in an example of political harmony, Lady Cynthia and Alice Prosser are going to give us their rendition of the Charleston!”

We got a round of applause, and there were shouts of:

“Good on yer!”

The band struck up, and off we both went.

We’d practised this extensively, and we had it to perfection. As I kicked my legs back I was conscious that if Alice was flashing her stocking tops when she did it, I must have been doing so. As we twirled in perfect synchronisation, neither of us could avoid flashing our knickers, and as we bend out knees and danced side by side we got a huge round of applause, possibly because the slit up Alice’s skirt left little to the imagination. I just loved the forward kicks and the balancing, Alice looked at me and blew a kiss, I did the same back to a huge round of applause.

It was the most enormous fun, and as we pirouetted forward I was struck by the way Alice’s breasts moved; that, at least, was not a problem I was going to have. The last twirl was a tremendous one, and our skirts billowed out – to a great shout of approval.

As we giggled and sat down next to Annie, she smiled and, patting our bottoms said:

“Wait till I get you two home!”

It would sound awfully conceited to say that it was the highlight of the evening, but as we were announced as the clear winners, it would also have been no more than a statement of the truth.

As we collected our prize, we were surrounded by the girls, who were not shy in extolling our virtues. As they were, almost to a woman, much taller than me, I soon got lost in the scrum, but found, to my surprise, a hand on my arse. I couldn’t see who it was, but it felt very naughty. As I was surrounded by women, no one could see, and I could not turn round to discover the culprit, so just let her feel me there. I felt a distinct pinch, but let it go.

The whole evening was, Mr Shufflebottom told me, judged to be a great success, and the golden opinion of me among the working girls had been confirmed. I was said to be a “good sport,” and than that there was no higher praise.

Back at the Piccadilly, Annie had both Alice and I strip for her.

“What’s this, slut Pixie?” She giggled as she patted my arse just where a bruise was forming. “Groped by the working girls, whatever next you bad little girl!”

Alice undressed Annie and the three of us adjourned to the big bed.

As Annie lay back, parting her thighs, Alice lay between them and began lapping her wetness. At a signal from Annie, I lay on my back, positioning myself underneath Alice’s cunt and lapped at her. Knowing what Alice needed, I gave it her, sucking at her clit while finger fucking her cunt. That made her work even harder on Annie, who, gripping her head, rubbed her cunt into Alice’s face. The two of them came together, with Annie pulling Alice up to kiss her.

That left me between their legs, and I cleaned them both thoroughly. It felt wonderful, and so tired was I that, in their arms, I fell asleep – that itch still unscratched.

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