Lady Lovecome's Diaries: 01

My name is Lady Bathsheba Ottoline Lovecome and this is my diary.

These are not the depressive scratchings of some puffball princess. I'm no dowager driven loopy by indolent indulgence. These are the erotic thoughts, experiences and stories of someone in their prime... but housebound by a self-serving patriarchy. A patriarchy who's trapped his fully adult daughter in his manor house—rather than set her free at university with her friends—while she waits, financially dependent, for a suitable suitor.

Her patriarchy is no doubt, and I hope, reading these pages. I hope you enjoy them, Father. I've been much inspired by your library's top-shelf antiquaries...

Dear Diary (dear Father!) I'm also much inspired by my only companion in Lovecome manor, our gardener, Bill. He's my age, yet a fully independent individual making his own way in the world. Free.

I made this point to him on our first meeting.

"Free am I?" His voice is deep and honeyed. "Financial necessity isn't the same as freedom, Ma'am."

"You simply must call me Bash." I fear I stamped my foot when I declared this. "While we're inmates together we will address each other as equals."

"Very good, Bash." He doffed his cap!

Bill is square-jawed, twice my height and built like a tree. I hope to discover if he's treelike all over before the end of the day. (Specifically is it a log or a twig in his trousers? My investigations so far—quick glances and a delicious slide-by in the kitchen where my bum brushed his front—suggest log. Sigh.) It's a sunny morning now and I scribe this on my flimsily-dressed lap where I sit on a flowery white chair on the lawn. Bill is almost at my feet, preparing a flower bed with much shovelling and grunting. Sweat stains his straining shirt. I curl my toes in the grass. Do you think he will deduce from my bare feet that I'm naked under my dress? I will give him a flash of buttock soon and surprise him. Though he already seems... bothered.

His cheeks are slapped crimson and his pale blue eyes flit glances over my ankles. Each furtive look feels like a lick, hungry to get up my skirt. It squeezes me hotly in my hips and... let me wriggle...yes... has made me shamefully gooey down there. When I cross and re-cross my legs, the top of my thighs slip.

I wonder what he'd think if he could read these words?

Why wonder?

#

Tee hee.

I read you to him, Diary, and now he's smiling stiffly while smoke curls from his ears. I'm going to read every dirty thought I write to this man from now on. I told him this too. He doffed his cap again—a subservient gesture undone by a drilling stare at my hips, as if calling upon some kind of x-ray vision. Poor man, I won't show him what he wants to see until much later. Though I very much like the thought of him picturing my bits.

I know exactly what I want to tell him today. A story of someone I met in Switzerland, the head of my finishing school, a beautiful woman called Belle. I've been playing and replaying her experiences since I woke, and even though she's made me come already, she's left me needy. As you can probably tell.

Belle was an unusual head for a finishing school, being from a very humble background. We were mostly taught to be ladies by actual ladies, including duchesses and countesses. I struck up a friendship with her, perhaps because we looked similar, even if she was older and a more petite, refined version of me: Snow White to my Betty Blue.

She set up the school using her savings, and contacts, from working as a Lady's maid for the queen of a minor European state in the nineteen-sixties. Her country might have been tiny, but it was rich, or at least until King John took the reins along with his wife Queen Charlotte. They raised taxes and milked the locals dry. (Bill is tugging out a stump. How I'd love to milk him dry. Preferably with the tender grip of the milk-hungry place between my legs... I digress.)

#

Three Bells for Belle

by

Lady Lovecome

Belle was from one of those families reduced to poverty. The idle royals taxed so them heavily that often all their crops would be confiscated in lieu of what was owed. The country's produce was internationally famous for its unparalleled quality. It used to grace royal tables all over the world. Now only one royal table enjoyed the fruits of their labour, and what wasn't eaten simply disappeared. It was left to rot for all anyone knew. Many gave up farming all together, for what they didn't have, couldn't be taken.

However poor they were, when the royal housekeeper—A sour-faced, walking whip called Mme Couteau—came looking for new palace servants, people hid. It wasn't a job anyone wanted. She was famously cruel, and people were forced to work eighteen hour shifts for food and lodging (if a straw mattress in a basement dorm counted as lodging). Also, she only chose the prettiest, to feed the king and queen's lascivious appetites. And if an unmarried girl became pregnant with an illegitimate heir, this could mean exile or imprisonment or worse.

Belle hated Mme Couteau, and in a misplaced fit of defiance she refused to hide one morning when the woman came looking for fresh meat. It was a stupid thing to do, but looking back on it, Belle wondered if she knew even then that if she could get to those in charge, somehow, then she could do something about her family's—even her country's—desperate state.

Mme Couteau gasped when she caught Belle's enormous, insolent eye. A sharp smile twitched her cheek. She snapped her fingers, and suddenly Belle was gripped by two guards. As her parents wailed, Belle was marched away from her home.

But Belle was naïve to think she would get anywhere near the king and queen. She was made a pot girl, in charge of collecting and emptying the staff's chamber pots. The castle's plumbing was for royalty -- and Mme Couteau's cohorts -- alone.

It was a pissy, shitty job, yet every day Belle kept herself clean and ordered, just in case she might get a chance to elevate her position in the household. She didn't expect this opportunity to come from Mme Couteau. One cold dawn, while Belle poured pot after pot of steaming filth into the castle's drain, Mme Couteau popped up like the stench made solid. Dressed in stiff, black satin, she wore the gargantuan bunch of castle keys at her waist, permanently dangling at her front like a metal mirkin.

"It is Her Majesty's birthday tomorrow," she clipped. "You are my gift to her. When you hear the servant bell ring three times, present yourself."

"Yes, Madame."

"This is not a promotion."

"No, Madame. What will I—"

"Just... be clean."

The staff dorm sported a wall of a hundred spring-loaded bells, each marked with a room. Pulling a chord in any of the royal chambers would alert the relevant servant. A bell should only ever ring once. More rings meant the royals had been kept waiting and a beating from Mme Couteau would surely follow, administered with a flail of the monstrous palace keys to the girls' buttocks.

However, most nights, and some mornings, a bell would ring multiple times in quick succession, any number from two to six. At Belle's end of the dorm, a cluster of six suspiciously pretty women would jolt at a multiple bell, then one would press her lips and hurry from the dorm to answer the call.

Belle could guess where these beauties were going. The king's appetites were infamous. The queen's too, though there was never a man called to her rooms. Belle didn't know if she was relieved or not that she was gifted to the queen and not the king. She'd never been with a woman, but it was an occasional fantasy for her, and at least there'd be no risk of pregnancy.

Belle spent half the night scrubbing herself and preparing her outfit. The maid's uniforms were desperately impractical: sleeveless, but high-collared, tight bodiced but flaring into short, pleated skirts. Instead of tights they wore black woollen over-knee socks that did more to accentuate their bare thighs than keep them warm. Even their ankle boots were patent leather kitten heels.

When the other girls were called they rarely dressed, just pulled on a bathrobe, or wrapped themselves in a towel. Belle would be different. It was no surprise that the king and queen designed the maid uniform themselves, so Belle would look as good as she could for them.

It wasn't yet dawn when three bells jolted Belle from her short sleep. She rubbed her eyes and peered at the servant's board. She'd missed which bell had rung.

"Queen's bedchamber," whispered the copper-haired girl in the next bed, her brow wrinkled with a sisterly concern. Belle thanked her, dressed and scampered up the servant stairs to the queen's room, fastening the uniform's thirty tiny buttons as she went.

She stood trembling between two smirking guards at the queen's monolithic bedroom door and knocked with a bravado she didn't feel. The door immediately flew open. There, dressed in just her silken nightgown was...

A girl?

Belle had only ever seen the queen on their national coins. She supposed her to be much older. This woman couldn't have been more than a year or two older than Belle, her mid-twenties perhaps. Her hair was long and platinum, and braided to her shoulder. She had the smooth, apple-cheeked complexion of a dairy maid, not a vicious queen. She beamed at Belle, then, as if remembering her station, quickly pouted and looked down her nose.

Belle dropped to her knee in the special curtsy Mme Couteau had taught them, leaving her bowed at the woman's unshod feet. The queen had baby's toes.

"My God, Mme Couteau was right." The queen caught Belle's chin and tipped her face up. "You are exquisite. Everything you look at must feel beautiful." She stooped, peered into Belle, whistled. "Those eyes."

The queen's eyes were like polished steel. Belle felt harpooned by them.

"Bravo." The woman clapped, pirouetted and bounced away. "Come!"

Belle followed through a door into an entirely black marble room bigger than her family's cottage. In the centre glimmered a polished-brass bathtub full of lemony-fragrant water frothing with bubbles. Thick steam turned the morning sunlight, filtered through filigreed shutters, into rays. Belle was so overawed she didn't notice the queen had unfastened the bow on her nightgown and dropped it to her knees.

Belle averted her eye.

"You refuse to honour me with your exquisite gaze?" The queen braced arms on her hips, and tapped her foot. Even from the corner of her eye, Belle could make out the wobble of the woman's large breasts with each tap of her foot.

"I think only of Her Majesty's privacy."

"Look at me."

Belle did as she was bid.

The queen's lips parted under Belle's gaze. Was that a gasp? "I'm told I'm beautiful." The woman pirouetted. She was too, her body curvaceous and smooth as a marble figurine. Not fat, but well fed enough to smooth off her knees and elbows. There wasn't a knobbly bone on her. Her sex was shaved bald, and the top of her intimate crease glittered where a double-diamond stud pierced her clitoral hood. She might look like a girl, but she was all woman.

Queen Charlotte dropped into the hot water with a sigh. She nodded at the soap, sponge and a silver jug on a table set by the tub. "You may wash me."

Belle preferred men, but was young and open minded and the queen's beauty did funny things to her midriff. But mostly Belle was sharp and, even as she awkwardly upended a jug of warm water over the queen's shoulders, she wondered how she might bend the queen's desire to her own advantage.

She lathered the woman's back then, taking a deep breath, her breasts. The queen hummed and lay back. Her chest heaved under Belle's soaping.

Belle lost herself in the pliable slippery flesh sliding through her fingers. The queen's nipples turned to bullets under her palm. She circled them, forgetting for a second that they belonged to someone else and weren't her own.

She was so lost she jumped when the queen purred, "I don't know what's more arousing, being in your hands, or in your gaze."

Belle washed downward, toward opening knees, and hips pushed up to Belle's soapy hands. The queen bit her lip.

Belle swallowed. When the village men were in this state they were suggestable and eager to please. Now was her time to exert some influence. She let her hand reach the woman's abdomen, then stopped.

"Perhaps Your Majesty might stand up?"

Queen Charlotte should find this impertinent, no one should address her unless addressed first, let alone make a request. If the woman accepted this, then Belle had some power over her.

Without missing a beat, the needy queen stood. Belle's head spun. That was too easy. She should see how far she could go. She soaped the proffered hips, bottom cheeks and legs and put aside a swelling heat in her own lower half. Queen Charlotte lifted a foot onto the edge of the bath to offer herself explicitly. Her belly trembled.

Gathering all her nerve, Belle offered the soap to her queen. "I fear I'm not worthy, Ma'am. You must do that part yourself."

The queen's jaw rippled. Her eyelids drooped. "I insist. If you value your position."

Belle bit her lip. "I like how you feel Ma'am, very much, and I'm honoured, but it's not proper to wash you there. I will watch you... wash yourself, if that helps?"

Belle knelt at the bath side, dropping her face a little lower than her queen's hips. She mustered a blinking, innocent gaze up into Queen Charlotte's engorged flower.

As if hypnotised by Belle's eyes, Queen Charlotte soaped herself. "You make... me feel... angelic." After a brief stir, the soap plopped into the water, then the queen followed, crouched, yelping on digging fingers.

While her queen writhed in a crisis so strong it slopped water out of the bath, Belle took the sponge, soaked it and offered it the woman's still shuddering shoulders.

"Get out," Queen Charlotte spat, her head still buried between her knees.

The three bells didn't call Belle again the next day and Belle was morose, fearing she'd blown her only chance to save her family. But the day after the bells called her once more to the bathroom. Then the fifth day and the seventh, in fact every other day from then on. Mme Coteau was delighted that the gift she gave the queen should be so popular.

So Belle worked her small power. Every morning the queen would try to get Belle to "wash" her and every morning, at least at first, Belle would decline and watch her queen disport herself. She relished the adoration of the vampire who fed off her country, and her squirm when denied.

A sleazy drug dealer in Belle's village kept offering "free samples" to her and her friends as she grew up. He got a couple of girls hooked, who then disappeared to the brothels of London, Paris and Amsterdam. This was Belle's plan now. She declined all requests to pleasure her queen, but gave away titbits, under certain conditions, to keep the woman hooked, and so advance Belle's cause.

She offered to remove her underwear, and let the queen glimpse what she may up Belle's short skirt... but only if Belle could be excused all duties but for serving the queen. After a few days of this, when the queen grew frustrated, Belle offered to strip and join her mistress in the bath... if the woman found meaningful palace work for her mother, father and sisters. That morning the queen came twice, even though Belle kept her legs closed and below the bath's bubbles. More importantly, Belle's family were no longer unemployed.

But toying with the queen's crush on her was a dangerous game. The woman could withdraw what she offered in a fit of pique. Belle had to keep her sweet, and wanting more. How she wished her queen was a man. They were much easier to beguile once you had them hard.

She wished it was the king she bathed.

This was her exact thought the morning before the queen's grand tour of Europe's major cities, hoping to woo back the mysteriously lost buyers of the kingdom's produce.

The queen threw her robe across the room and barked, "Take off your clothes." She stamped into her bath.

No doubt she was angry about having to do some work, but Belle worried she'd be in the firing line of any frustrated tantrums. And sure enough, as Belle shrugged off her dress, and plopped chilly feet into the hot water—covering her recently waxed, clipped triangle of fur—Queen Charlotte scowled and pouted. "Girl you will release me today or I will sack your entire family."

Belle dipped the silver jug into the bath and poured warm water over the queen's shoulders. "Of course, Ma'am."

The queen blinked at her. "Is that a... yes?"

"Ma'am."

"You will... touch me?"

Belle soaped the woman's breasts. Made a show of biting back her smile.

"Here?" The queen stood, water sloshing off her, raising her leg.

"Mm-hmm." Belle treated Queen Charlotte's sex to a long stare. "Did you know many women enjoy a tongue in there too?"

The queen tremored. "I... they do."

Belle reached behind to soap the woman's bottom, down the sides of her legs, all the while regarding that puffy pudenda. "And many enjoy the taste of another woman."

Queen Charlotte swayed a little. "Do you?"

Belle nodded. She curled out the tip of her tongue and worked her queen's standing leg up and down from ankle to knees, possessed of the notion of soapily wanking an enormous penis.

The queen swallowed. Belle's sudsy hands slid up the woman's hard, horse-riding thigh. "I hear the King will remain while you tour, Ma'am."

"The buffoon is a liability— oh..."

Her hand grazed the woman's labia, stringing the juices gathered there. A drip collected on Belle's knuckle and without a thought, she licked it off. The queen tasted just like her. She laughed as Queen Charlotte growled at her rudeness and Belle had to steady her by the hips.

She swapped to the queen's raised leg, soaped it all at once from bottom to top. "It's impressive you can trust the King here alone. Many men play while their cat is away."

The queen scoffed. "We both know that's not true, darling. Without me to see to him every day he will fuck everything that—oh yes."

Belle's thumb ventured under the woman's fleshy folds. She'd never pleasured another woman, and queen Charlotte's sex was much fleshier than her own, but her fingers knew this dance by heart. She stroked the woman lightly from slot to diamond-studded clitoris. "If only there was a way you could see to his needs, even while she was away?" She rubbed a small circle around Queen Charlotte's hard nub.

The queen's eyes drooped and a smile played on her lips. She croaked a hum.

Belle picked her speed up to an itching rhythm. "Or if, while you were away, you could leave your right hand here. Keep a good hold on him?"

The queen laughed brightly, rocked her hips at Belle's thumb. "Indeed. No don't stop!"

Belle had sat back. She contrived a giggle. "Ma'am this is exciting me too much. Feel." Belle stood, took her queen's hand and pressed it between her legs. She knew she was wet inside, increasingly her morning duties turned her on, partly the sex, partly the power, but she was surprised as Queen Charlotte at how wet. The royal fingers felt eelish.

The queen's eyes widened. "I arouse you this much?" She withdrew her fingers, licked them.

Belle nodded. "Do you like how I taste, Ma'am?" Belle underlined her need by raising her own foot to the bath edge, matching the queen's pose.

Queen Charlotte, beguiled, dropped to her knees. Belle pushed her hips forward. The queen's mouth opened, leant toward Belle's mound.

Belle covered herself. "Is there something Your Majesty needs?"

"You know what I want, bitch."

Belle stayed put, proud over her queen, her fingers locked between thighs. She stirred. Hummed. "I may just release myself, if you don't mind, Ma'am. Or would you rather eat me?"