The Regular Exception

The regular exception

- A lady reveals herself -

by

Vitavie

The lady of the house:

I am a lesbian. Well, I am a woman and I love myself. Perhaps I am a narcissist instead?

No, I am a lesbian and I have been having lesbian encounters. But at the same time, I am pretty self-sufficient, so it's true: most of my lesbian encounters have been with myself. A lesbian or not, my inclination didn't stop me from marrying a man. I guess I am bisexual too. Not very much of a theorist, I am afraid. Bisexual, lesbian, narcissist, whatever. I am a practical woman and do what I do.

I am a young widow of means, which implies that the man I married died. You have to believe me: I was really sad about that! I am frivolous but my husband was a most satisfying companion.

The man I married was rich and twenty years my senior. Oh, before you wrongly accuse me, I was already rich myself and whilst part of the objective was economical - so as to consolidate both our fortunes - love certainly had something to do with it.

I did love him. He was interesting and amusing and looked good - greying temples etc. - and had great style. In bed he was not great. Maybe he was homosexual too. We never got to the bottom of that. He was kind in bed, though. We had a good life, but it ended and it ended too soon for an heir to be conceived. Bother! I am faced with rethinking the options now.

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A young widow of means I am, as said, and I live a virtuous life. Except for one day every fortnight. On that day I do not get dressed at all, rather: I go about naked. No, not entirely. I wear a venetian mask. A catlike mask.

I started this practice without warning, no warning even to myself, on a day like this. My husband had already passed away, so it was just my dozen or so staff that had to contend with my folly.

I am a widow and childless. This you know about me. Let me add that I am 35 years old and I have kept my figure well. My virtuous life consists of running my household, of monitoring my accountants and bank managers - I am no fool!, of charity work and of entertaining or being entertained. Quite a normal life in our circles (though I am proudly ahead in the pack of women, businesswise.) Socially, I am known as frivolous and gay, the light of parties.

The relations with my staff are cordial, but not confidential. Even with Mary, my chambermaid, who wakes me, brings me breakfast and dresses me and with whom I discuss my day, I don't discuss my feelings, inclinations or ambitions. How my staff reacted to my folly I don't know, but I am not hellbent finding out. They think me a good mistress and perhaps attribute that sudden change of protocol to my husband's demise or just to upper-class eccentricity. Mary doesn't look pleased when the day arrives again, but does not say a thing and cooperates.

What I am talking about? Well, on the one day every fortnight, I do change from civilised to absolutely shameless, provocative, obscene. I can't explain why I do this, but I evidently like it. I may stop again when I least expect it.

Mary, long-serving first chambermaid:

I respect my mistress, she is good to me, but I dread this Tuesday every fortnight when she decides to let herself go. We don't deserve this loss of decorum. She has never failed to go and do it since she started some two years ago, and is strictly regular. Tuesdays every fortnight. She has never explained herself and we have never seen fit to question her, nor to complain. Amongst ourselves, we talk, but our lips are sealed to the outside world. Call it loyalty, call it a sensible way of keeping our jobs. Among us, there is a mixture of sentiments, ranging from people like me, who abhor it, to the younger members of staff, who laugh about it. Perhaps there are a few who enjoy it. They wouldn't tell me.

The centrepiece of the day is the depilation of her pubic hair. It is this that seems to have formed the impetus for the original day. On that ominous Tuesday, Madame and I were in the dining room and she said to me: 'Mary, I have decided that I want to do something about my hair.' To my horror she leant forward, bunched up the front of her dress' skirt until she reached the hem and lifted it up, right there in front of me.

She had taken her underwear off, so that her pubic hair was in full view. Standing there like so, she looked me in the eye as if all was normal, said, 'I want you to wax me,' and explained what she meant. I protested, but she would not hear of it. 'I don't have a better candidate, my dear Mary. Only you I can trust to do this. And as chambermaid it's your job, isn't it? To take care of me and my body.' She let go of her skirt and said, 'Please follow me. Let us go to my bedroom. The required materials are there.' 'No...', I muttered. 'But why, my dear? Are you afraid of the closeness to, well... to my oyster?' She looked at me and I nodded. 'Why you? Should I not be the one who is afraid?' When I remained silent, she smiled and said, 'But I have the solution, if you insist. We shall do the job right here in the dining room on the dining table and you shall ask all to attend. Thus, there will be no intimacy to be afraid of.'

And so it happened that in front of all of us, lined up without exception, she stepped out of her shoes and removed the belt of her dress. She then turned her back to us, buttoned down and opened the dress. She let it slide from her shoulders and drop on the floor. 'Please, Mary, would you pick it up and hang it somewhere?' I complied, weak-kneed, walked up, bent over and picked up the dress. Thus, I came very close to her naked buttocks and felt her warmth! (Oh, my, why?!) The brassiere went the same way. I picked it up too and put both garments on the back of the chair beside me. (Oh, I felt the embarrassment.) I furtively glanced at my fellow staff members and saw that they were equally embarrassed. (She may have been right. Sharing the shame helped.) She then hopped on the great table and laid down on her back, with her legs over the side and open.

I did the job, or, rather, we did, because she required another four of us to hold her wrists and ankles while I tore the hairs out. At the end of the procedure, she lay there a while, her vagina on a pedestal, as it were, and in full view, as we stood there, in formation, uncertain of what to do. Eventually, she righted herself, slid off the table and simply wandered off, in her state of nudity, without saying a word. That day she went about her business without restoring her dressed state. Her mood was normal, friendly and cheerful. The next day she was her usual modest self and went about the business in a normal fashion. Dressed. She nor we mentioned the strange proceedings of the day before.

Precisely a fortnight later, however, she did not get dressed in the first place, had me assemble the corps of staff in the dining room and had us renew the proceedings of that strange first incarnation 'the day.' To maintain 'her hair down there'. Rather, its absence.

New male member of staff, junior gardener:

I am new here. I was briefed about the mistress' antics a few days after I first started on the estate. This will be my first witnessing. I am not sure if I mind. She is a pretty woman for her age. She is not old anyway. Standing around and being forced to observe our naked lady during the general assembly is awkward to most, so I am told by my fellow younger colleagues, but amusing to some. The rest of the day is just about the surprise of bumping into her nude self here or there, but I think I can handle that. I am not a virgin. I spend most of my time in the garden anyway and sleep in a bothy, separate from the main house.

It is true, I have bumped into her in the garden a few times, on normal days, when she is dressed like a lady. She does dress well. Vibrant colours, good fabrics, modern cuts - my experience being limited to the lady of my previous house and her guests. Anyway, her clothes become her. And more often than not, she smiles at us gardeners in passing. Seeing us, not ignoring us. Sometimes passing a comment on the garden, always complimentary and in pleasant tones.

So, here we are - at nine a.m. We are in position in the dining room, which holds the great dining table on which the ritual chore will be executed. All thirteen of us (don't laugh.) The size of the room makes that there is ample space for all of us and a whole lot more. Ancestral paintings, ornamental vases (with our flowers) and silverware galore adorn the room.

The gramophone plays music when she presents herself. She wears a mask! She's a cat! Quiet dance music. She waltzes around the living room, still dressed, in a light ample skirt and blouse. Her clothes move, glide and flow with the music. She is enjoying herself and dances around in extended excursions to include all of the room. Her legs, her arms, her head, her hair, her whole body participates in the dance. When she is twirling, her long legs appear, smooth, endless and shiny in their sheer stockings. Her arms, thin, with hands and fingers the last word in grace. She undoes her hair, makes it shoulder-length and has it sail through the air after her. Her body, arching, stretching; her proud breasts showing the way. I am spellbound. We all are... I am a level-headed guy, I would say, but I am definitely under the influence. Hers.

As time progresses, the music becomes stranger, ever more intense, the rhythms ever faster. Jazz? She changes character accordingly, becomes less ethereal, earthier. She continues to dance as she removes her stockings, blouse and skirt and flings them in a chair. She is a showgirl now; she struts her stuff with vigour. She shakes her bottom; she sways her chest; her hair flies and covers her face. The look in her eyes changes: her mind moves from the here and now and starts to lose its sense of time and place. She is no longer a lady.

When drums, rattles and kettles start to dominate the music that accompanies her, she is an animal. She has taken off her camisole, brassiere, drawers and is naked. Sweat pours off her brow. Her whole body is glistening. She no longer moves around the room, but has settled near me, some 10 feet away. She looks me straight into the eyes. She is so close!

Her hands stroke her every part of her body, kneading her breasts, tossing about her hair, slapping her buttocks. I have not been confronted with a woman in this way. Is this what is called obscene? She is looking at me, as if this performance is for me and me alone. I am embarrassed because I am in the company of my colleagues, many female, many elderly. But I am hard too, like never before. Her hands move along the insides of her thighs. She squats down, legs wide open, unaware of anything but her own body. She leans back and is now supported on all fours, looking up. Her naked opening - like a little girl's, but so mature - is in full view as she bobs up and down. Up and down, up and down, until the last drop of energy has fizzled away on exhaustion's hot plate. She makes it to the table, lies down on her back and is gone.

I feel a push in the back. I am ushered forward to the edge of the table, to between her legs. Mary, it is she, places a chair there and hands me a pair of tweezers. Do I feel dizziness coming on? It feels my cock is at bursting point. No, no, I'll handle this, I need to, it is my desire, my compulsion. I sit down on the chair between the mistress' legs. I can smell her now. Does my hand shake as I move to pull out the few pubic hairs that have sprouted on either side of her lips?

Oh, my lady!

The lady of the house:

On this one day every fortnight then, I change from 'proper' to shameless, provocative, obscene. According to common norms. I can't explain why I do this, but I evidently feel the need.

I do live a normal, socially acceptable life too, you know, with friends, relations and acquaintances, who wouldn't suspect anything 'abnormal' on my part. They know me as frivolous and gay, the light of parties, as I said, but all within the norms society poses. And everybody knows I am no slouch, business-wise, as I manage to maintain and grow my fortune, the combined fortunes of my late husband and myself. So, I am a respected person.

I am a lesbian, I am bisexual and a narcissist. I mostly exercise my amorous needs on my own. In addition, I support a dear lady friend in a neighbouring country house who struggles and she repays me in kind. And I occasionally visit one of my bothies and enjoy the services of my junior gardener, who is quite taken by me. Mary knows, well..., she doesn't approve - she wouldn't, would she? - but I can trust her.

I maintain my one special day. Why it gives me a kick? I am sure there will be a professor here or there that could shed some light upon the matter. I have heard of that man Freud in Vienna, but I am a simple, frivolous woman, not a scholar. I celebrate life, shall we say, celebrate my womanhood in plain view of my trusted staff. I don't do it for them, mind, and am aware that not every one of them is taken by the practice, possibly hates it when their turn to pluck me comes around, about twice a year, but they know better than to object. Some, however, may like seeing me and be inspired...

I have no intention of stopping. I am frivolous, I am obscene.

I am a lady.

Still.