‘Aren’t we like Hansel and Gretel walking hand in hand to the wicked witch’s house?’ Kirsty asked, adding, ‘except instead of a chocolate house, there’s an old lady’s sex dungeon.’
‘She probably just wants me to Hoover and stuff ,’ I answered, swinging our hands between us. The thought had passed my mind, and what I’d do if Mrs Armstrong propositioned me. Isabel was always touching me, and that didn’t bother me anymore.

‘See that’s why you need looking after, Verity,’ Kirsty said, and stopped dead half way along the driveway, ‘God alone knows what she has planned for you. Posh people are notoriously kinky, no wonder you’re so quiet this morning.’

‘Actually, I’ve been asking myself why you laughed at me last night before went to bed.’ It may seem a small thing, for someone who stood daily on the High Street, dressed as a stripper. But it hurt when Kirsty laughed at me.

‘When you asked if we should have a drink before going to bed,’ I said, even then, wondering if I were being stupid.

‘And you said “Cocoa or Ovaltine”,’ Kirsty said, turning me to face her, and already stifling a laugh.

‘You’re doing it again.’

‘Silly,’ she said, wrapping her arms around me, ‘sometimes I think you’re joking with me, but you’re so caught up in your own little world, what you’ve said is perfectly logical.’

‘You don’t think I’m stupid then?’ Though to be honest, Kirsty’s embrace had driven most of my concerns away.

‘It’s one of the things I love about you,’ Kirsty said, softly in my ear, and I simply melted in her arms. ‘Never mind that,’ she said, patting my bottom, ‘there’s a face at the window, we’d best get on.

*

Kirsty rang the doorbell with a single confident push, and the bell chimed faintly inside. The house was certainly well sound proofed, and my mind could not help but stray to what Mrs Armstrong didn’t want the world to hear. Fortunately, the door opened before that line of thought could evolve into panic.

‘Good morning, Parsons,’ Mrs Armstrong said from the doorway, still wrapped in her dressing gown.

Kirsty stepped forward, her hand extended, and offered similar sentiments. ‘My name is…’

‘Well don’t you look smart in your new uniform,’ my new client said warmly, and motioned me in, with a sweeping arm.

‘I’ll be back at lunch time to pick her up.’ Kirsty obviously was not used to being treated in such an offhand manner, and I rather enjoyed her reaction.

‘Your sister?’ Mrs Armstrong asked, as the door closed.

‘My girlfriend, ma’am,’ I answered, while reflecting on our night’s activities, and belatedly praying that my smirk went undetected.

‘Ah yes, you’re not homosexual,’ Mrs Armstrong said distantly. ‘Is she really so protective of you?’

‘She thinks you intend to imprison me in a dungeon, ma’am,’ I stammered.

‘A sex dungeon?’ Mrs Armstrong arched an eyebrow, smiling patiently at my obvious discomfort.

‘Something like that, ma’am,’ I admitted in a strained voice, which made my new employer laugh heartily. Mrs Armstrong really was quite attractive when she smiled, when her eyes lit up like that. Dangerous thoughts for someone suffering imminent torture.

‘Sorry to disappoint you, Parsons, but we’ll start by getting me dressed,’ Mrs Armstrong laughed, and with a pat on my bottom, directed me to the stairs. Going up, I hasten to add.

‘You’ve a lovely home, ma’am,’ I said eager to put a little small talk between us and sex dungeons.

‘Of course it’s too large for me now,’ she said, pushing me upwards, ‘but there’s plenty of housework for a diligent maid.’

‘Is it just you, ma’am?’ Perhaps she really did want someone to clean up, with no smutty stuff. I’d have the last laugh on Isabel.

‘Just me,’ she said, shucking off the dressing gown, as we entered what was obviously her bedroom.

‘Do you want me to make up the bed, ma’am?’ I asked, my eyes studiously averted the middle aged woman wearing only a bra and panties.

‘God no, I want you to help me get dressed,’ she said, opening a closet door. ‘I think there’s a pair of black leggings on the other side of the bed.’

‘I’ve got them, ma’am,’ I said, standing uneasily behind her, ‘but may I suggest an adjustment to your bra first, ma’am?’

‘You’re an expert?’ Mrs Armstrong asked good naturedly.

‘I did this for loads of girls in college; you’re bulging a little at the sides,’ I said, slipping my fingers under her bra’s band, and deftly refastening hooks and eyes.

‘And they just let you?’ Mrs Armstrong asked in disbelief.

‘In my experience, ma’am,’ I said from over her shoulder, ‘dressmakers are as trusted as hairdressers, in these matters.’

‘And you’re not homosexual?’

‘Nope, ma’am,’ I said, shortening each bra-strap by a quarter of an inch, ‘but you’ll find this a much better fit.’

‘You do know you’re cupping my breasts, Parsons?’ Thankfully, her amusement matched my mortification, and I let my hands fall away as quickly as I couldn’t manage.

‘And how did they make you feel?’ Mrs Armstrong asked, turning to face me.

‘Jealous, ma’am,’ I answered quietly. Isabel had only put the idea in my head the day before, but it had quickly become almost a conviction. Mrs Armstrong shook her head, gave me a sad smile, and plopped herself down on the bed’s edge. For a moment I stared dumbly at her, before picking up the leggings again.

‘You seem quite comfortable kneeling for your mistress,’ Mrs Armstrong said almost fondly, as I began smoothing the leggings up her calves.

‘Isabel says I’m a natural submissive, ma’am,’ I said, concentrating solely on the job in hand, ‘but I just like helping people.’ Mrs Armstrong gave me a quizzical look, and stood allowing me to complete my task.

I blushed quite deeply as I smoothed the waistband over her hips, and bottom. Which seemed to amuse the woman I was serving. ‘Definitely not homosexual,’ she said, barely under her breath.

*

When dressed in a striped blue and white tunic, for a day at home, my mistress (as she called herself) instructed me to clean the bath room, make up the bed, and gather any clothes lying around, while she put on her face. After which I was to find her in the kitchen, for my next assignment.

*

I was still picking up items of my mistress’s clothing, when I heard an insistent tinkling summon me downstairs.

‘Ah, Parsons,’ my employer said Lang quickly, ‘you’ll find laundry goes in the small room next to this. After starting that I’ll require a pot of tea in the conservatory.’

Struggling to keep an armload of gathered clothing in hand, I scuttled into the next room. And was confronted by a washing machine with an array of controls, far in excess of my own at home. If only there was a mangle, I moaned before beginning to separate whites from fast coloureds. In theory, it was just another wash day, but I was really worried about Mrs Armstrong’s clothes. Or should I say, my mistress’s. Why did that sound so kinky?

*

‘I’ve started the first load, ma’am,’ I said softly, laying a tray of tea things on a table alongside my employer. ‘Should I pour for you, ma’am?’

‘If you’d be so kind,’ Mrs Armstrong said, brushing the back of my hand.

‘Is that your favourite book, ma’am,’ I asked, pouring a small amount of milk into the cup.

‘One of them,’ she said, opening the battered paperback out, so that I could read its covers. ‘Though I must say, I feel like Miss Havisham, summoning you this morning.’

‘You’re far from being covered in cobwebs, ma’am,’ I demurred, but added, ‘am I then Pip?’

‘Pippa perhaps,’ she said, lifting the teacup to her lips. Had I been too familiar I wondered, and simply stood there, waiting to be dismissed.

‘Which song are you trying not to sing this morning?’ She asked, looking up into my eyes.

‘None, ma’am,’ I answered, shifting my weight uneasily from foot to foot.

‘Nonsense, girl!’ Mrs Armstrong tugged at my sleeve, and continued staring into my eyes.

‘The Lambeth Walk, ma’am.’ I grinned sheepishly.

‘Your girlfriend’s influence no doubt,’ she said, grinning in turn.

‘It had been my first time in about ten years, ma’am,’ I stammered.

‘Good for you,’ my new mistress congratulated me, and patted my bottom gently, ‘now off you pop, and clean the mess I’ve made in the kitchen.’

*

My employer seemed to have a singular talent for mess making, more so in the kitchen, than elsewhere I earlier cleaned. Then again, that was now my occupation, as a dutiful servant.
No matter how I told myself that, it still felt off. That sort of thing, I’d down one have to talk over with Kirsty. Like my problems with Isabel, she always knew what the answers were. In the meantime, I busied myself, ever vigilant for my mistress’s summons.

‘You’re very good at this,’ Mrs Armstrong said, as I carried yet another pot of tea into the conservatory.

‘It’s nothing really, ma’am,’ I said, moving the discarded paperback aside, before laying down the tray.

‘It’s a rare skill these days,’ my mistress said, ‘to serve another without question, to sublimate your own desires to fulfil someone else’s. I couldn’t do that.’

‘It’s no big thing, ma’am,’ I said, preparing for dismissal. Instead Mrs Armstrong patted the seat beside her, and entreated me to sit beside her.

‘Have a look at this,’ she said, moving a thick leather bound volume, from her lap to mine.

Somewhat puzzled, I turned the cover, and realised it was a photograph album, and the first image, was that of a French maid.

‘My husband,’ Mrs Armstrong confined, and urged me to turn the page, to another photo of the same maid. I failed miserably to keep my suspicions from my face, and began to sputter, as dawned on me what she wanted.

‘Calm down, Parsons,’ Mrs Armstrong said, touching my shoulder. ‘Henry was a powerful man, yet there was an alter ego named “Fifi”, who lived to serve my wishes. Abjectly.’

‘I can try, ma’am,’ I said, as I tried to absorb what she’d said about her husband.

‘There was nothing sexual between Fifi and I,’ she explained, ‘throughout our marriage, she lived to pamper me.’

‘I think that I can do that,’ I said, letting a feeling of relief wash over me.

‘I was probably a bit spoiled, and I miss her terribly,’ Mrs Armstrong said sadly, ‘Henry wasn’t that old when he died, and the retirement we’d planned had only just begun.’

‘So you don’t want…’ I let my voice trail away, and as I laid my hand over hers.

‘You won’t have to shag this old boiler,’ Mrs Armstrong cackled, ‘but I’m quite demanding. So you’ll not have a free ride.’

‘I like Fifi’s uniforms,’ I said, turning the pages.

‘We had them made in London, and they cost a bloody fortune.’ Mrs Armstrong gripped my wrist, and confided, ‘but yours are better made than any of them.’

‘Do you still have them?’ I asked, already planning what I could do with that surfeit of black silk.

‘I buried Fifi in one, but burned the others,’ she said, very quietly. ‘I never thought I’d find another male maid, sorry.’

‘Not a worry, ma’am,’ I said, patting the older woman’s knee , ‘but I’d have loved to wear all that lace.’ Mrs Armstrong seemed to have something to add, but there was a persistent ringing at the front door.

‘Should I get that, ma’am?’ I asked, half rising. At my mistress’s nod, I stepped lively to answer, flipping my watch to check the time.

‘I thought you’d be manacled by now,’ Kirsty said, as I swung the door open.

‘Who should I say is calling, Miss?’ I asked primly, as Kirsty stepped over the threshold and caught me in a tight embrace.

*

Kirsty’s second encounter with Mrs Armstrong, was to an extent warmer than the first. But she bridled somewhat at the older woman’s description of herself, as my mistress.

‘Calm down, child,’ my employer said, with a certain hauteur I knew would set Kirsty’s teeth on edge, though I did not know if that was Mrs Armstrong’s intention. ‘There is no sexual connotation,’ she continued, ‘Parsons is my servant, and I her de facto mistress. Will you take some tea?’

When I scuttled back from the kitchen with an extra teacup , both were sitting icily in the conservatory.

‘Your cup , Miss,’ I said, as I laid my burden on the small cane table, letting my fingers trail lightly over her hand. ‘Should I pour, Miss,’ I asked.

‘You’ve had a wasted journey I’m afraid,’ my mistress said, ‘Parsons’ performance has been impeccable, and I’ve engaged her services for rest of the day.’

‘I wouldn’t have expected anything less,’ Kirsty said, between sips, ‘she is always a very good girl.’ Once again, women were discussing me like a small child, and while I should have objected, my cheeks were flushed with the praise.

‘I’ve also arranged for her services each Wednesday,’ Mrs Armstrong added.

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ I said, bobbing where I stood behind Kirsty. It may seem a little strange, but I really did feel grateful. Was it just a uniform making me feel that way?

*
A few minutes later, Kirsty excused herself, and I was directed to show the visitor to the door, where she drew me close.

‘All you really okay with acting this way?’ Kirsty asked, under her breath.

‘Yes, Miss,’ I said brightly, ‘at least there isn’t a sex dungeon.’

‘Have you seen all the property?’

‘Not all of it,’ I whispered, ‘I’ll tell you more when mistress brings me home.’

‘Oh you,’ my girlfriend laughed, and crushed my lips under hers.

*

Lunch was an unexpected treat, a simple salad eaten with Mrs Armstrong. ‘Call me Olivia,’ she said, and told me I’d know when I was to be Parsons again.

‘You know the definition of “soubrette” isn’t just a ladies maid,’ balancing a salad leaf on fork, ‘she can be a confidante, a companion.”

‘I barely knew the word at all last week, ma… Olivia,’ I said, feeling dreadfully gauche.

‘Tell me about those college girls who sought your bra expertise.’ Olivia asked confidentially.

‘It took a couple of terms for girls to find out that I could sew,’ I said, between mouthfuls, ‘it was a good way to meet girls, for a while.’

‘You sound like quite the rake,’ Olivia laughed.

‘I had my moments, I said, managing to grin and blush at the same time.

‘And they did mind you swanning around as Verity?’

‘Oh I was Nick and Nicky in uni,’ I laughed, ‘and they only found out about Nicky towards the end of the first year.’ ‘

‘What happened then?’ Olivia asked, suddenly seeming very intent.

‘Nothing really, everyone just seemed to accept I wore dresses.’ It was all a bit of an anti-climax, as I remembered. For years, cross-dressing had been my most shameful secret, and now it was out in the open, nobody gave a damn.

Olivia laid the fork on her empty plate, asking only, ‘you had no problems?’

‘Not until I fell in love with my flatmate,’ I said ruefully, adding quickly, ‘who was an actual girl.’

‘Unrequited of course?’ Olivia was stacking our empty plates, which felt strange to me.

‘Please let me do that, ma’am,’ I said, lifting the crockery from table, and carrying it towards the sink. It was a maid’s place to lift and carry, and I wasn’t about to allow it to be usurped.

‘We have a dishwasher you know,’ my employer told my retreating back.

‘It’s only a couple of Plates, ma’am’ I said, quickly running the taps. It was a misplaced pride in my abilities, that I rushed before my mistress could countermand my efforts. On the other hand, it may have sprung from my reluctance to admit I didn’t know how to operate it.

‘Maids,’ Mrs Armstrong said, with redesigned grin, but she was not about to finish our conversation. ‘I gather you didn’t ride into the sunset.’

I rather wished I hadn’t said anything about Vicky, it was a difficult time for me, and I tried not to think about it.

‘We became best friends, ma’am,’ I said, splashing about in the soapy water, ‘or at least, part of me did.’

‘Wasn’t that part Verity?’ Snatching a glance over my shoulder, I could see the older woman stare intently at my ankles.

‘Not back then, ma’am,’ I said, lifting a plate out of the water, ‘Nicky was the non-vintage version of me in those days.’

‘Just a normal girl then?’ Olivia cocked her head to one side, and gave me a speculative smile.

‘We were like sisters, ma’am.’ It took all of my resolve to concentrate on retrieving flatware, and not to simply clam up. ‘For most of my final year in uni, I lived as a young woman. Where Vicky went, I went too.’

‘I bet the young you was a heartbreaker,’ Olivia laughed.

‘The blokes had a competition running, ma’am,’ I said while emptying the washing up bowl. ‘Everybody thought I would eventually go the whole way, but I didn’t.’

‘We’d have called you a prick teaser in my day.’ Olivia sat back, and was obviously enjoying my discomfort.

‘They got a good night kiss on the cheek, and sometimes a cuddle.’ I knew I sounded defensive, but I was more worried about the blush spreading out from my cheeks.

‘There wasn’t anyone who romanced you farther?’ The old woman’s face almost shone with curiosity, setting forward on the edge of the seat, encouraging me to share what I’d never told anyone before.

‘My dissertation supervisor, a postgrad student, took me out a a few times,’ I said haltingly, ‘he treated me like a normal girl, and we French kissed a few times.’

‘And?’ It was a simple question, that I felt compelled to answer.

‘One night in the cinema, he put his hand up my dress…’ Suddenly my mouth was incredibly dry, but I couldn’t keep myself from continuing. ‘His fingers,’ I said, scuttling forward to whisper in my mistress’s ear.

‘He said, if I hadn’t liked it I wouldn’t have…’ The last part of that sentence too, could only be delivered into Mrs Armstrong’s ear.

‘From my recollections of male anatomy,’ she said, while my face sagged on her shoulder, ‘most men react that way, if those buttons are pushed.’

‘He did that a few times, ma’am,’ I sniffed, ‘but I never did the things to him he wanted.’

‘Buck up, Parsons,’ Mrs Armstrong said in a brisk manner, yet not entirely and sympathetically. Perhaps it was my imagination, but her hand seemed to linger a few moments in the small of my back.

‘Sorry, ma’am, of course,’ I said, still sniffing lightly, ‘should I fold the laundry now, and iron it, ma’am?’

*

‘Good Lord, Parsons, are you ironing my knickers?’ Mrs Armstrong’s tone was accusative, but my mistress (as I now thought of her), looked rather amused by my efforts.

‘It’s to make them lie flat in the draw, ma’am,’ I said, trying not to notice the pair of briefs on the ironing board, was far briefer than the others I’d ironed. For special occasions, I fought.

‘Only a male maid,’ she chuckled.

Ironing underwear isn’t that odd, I thought, but then again how many men were dressed as maids in our town right now? On reflection, our town wasn’t a fair sample; there could be dozens. I thought it safer to ask where I should place them, took my directions and trooped upstairs.

When I returned to ground level, Mrs Armstrong’s little handbell called me into the living room.

‘Sit with me, and chat a little more,’ she said, and patted the cushion beside her.

‘Of course, Mistress,’ I said, noting the pleasure that title seemed to bring her, and settle myself down, taking care to leave a respectable distance between us.

‘You don’t sound local, Verity, what brought you to town?’

‘My great aunt lived here, Olivia,’ I started, unsure if using her given name was being too familiar.

‘We are not maid and mistress now, please continue.’

‘My family started coming here on holidays when I was very young,’ I said, and wondering what she would think of people who didn’t go abroad.

‘How many of you are there?’

‘Five, my parents, two older, and me.’ Should I have included the latter, wasn’t it redundant?

‘Sounds quite a crush, in a small flat,’ Olivia said, smiling perhaps at my discomfort.

‘Aunt Fenn had a place in Packney House, there was plenty of room,’ I said, remembering fondly those summer holidays, ‘mum and dad in the spare room with the twins, and I had the living room couch.’

‘It sounds like you were Cinders back then too,’ Olivia chuckled.

‘Everyone else went to the beach, but I stayed with my aunt, and she taught me how to sew. They didn’t miss me much really.’ Aunt Fenn was still missed though, I never felt completely at home with the rest of my family.

‘Even when we graduated to foreign trips, I preferred to spend holidays on the coast.’

Mrs Armstrong was quiet for a a few minutes, as though my words were important, and not mere maid babbling. ‘Is that when Verity appeared?’

‘Oh no, that didn’t happen until I was in my teens,’ I said slowly, why did she want to know? ‘Aunt Fenn knew I liked to dress up, my whole family knew that. But she was the only person to encourage me.’

‘You made your own clothes?’ Olivia asked, ‘did you ever wear them out?’

‘No, it was our secret,’ I said, smiling at the memory. ‘But the neighbours soon cottoned on, and I ended up giving little fashion shows.’

‘You must have looked darling,’ Olivia said, brushing my cheek with the back of her fingers, ‘and then?’

‘When I went to university, the coast was closer than my parents. So I came here at least once a month, and the whole summer.’

‘It sounds idyllic,’ Olivia said, ‘but how did you end up living here?’

‘About two years into my postgrad work,’ I had to stop for a second, ‘aunt Fenn passed away, and she left her entire estate to me.’

‘Were there any other family members who might have expected to receive something?

‘She has two children, and they tied me up in court for months. It was all Jarndyce versus Jarndyce, and eat up almost all my savings.’

‘You weren’t tempted to sell?’

‘My family thought I should,’ I said, trying to contain my bile ‘but they’d not been near for years. I figured I’d been left the property, because aunt Fenn didn’t want it sold.’

‘You know, for a submissive, you’ve stood up to a lot of people.’ I’m not very good at judging others, but I seemed to a note of respect in Olivia’s voice. Of course, I may have read that totally wrong.

‘I’m probably rubbish at being submissive too.’ In all probability I had talked my way out of a career as a maid. And just when I had started enjoying myself.