Previous Chapter || First Chapter
Welcome to Wyckham Hall. The Dutchess of Wyckham is an icy presence in the light, but behind closed doors, with her most trusted servant, she is a kinky little minx.
Jane has been the Duchess' favourite for a few weeks, and the power is going to her head. It's only a matter of time until she slips up.
All characters are 18 or older
Word Count: 6,694
M/F | F/F | */F | Feet Tickling | Tickle Torture | Explicit
Three weeks at Wyckham Hall had changed the shape of Jane’s soul. It had also changed the shape of her feet.
She walked down the narrow, limestone corridor of the servants’ wing, trying to ignore the dull, throbbing ache in her arches. It was a specific kind of pain—not the fatigue of standing all day, but the deep, bruised soreness of a muscle that had been forced to cramp and curl repeatedly against silk bonds.
She paused by a narrow window, resting her forehead against the cold glass. Her reflection was ghostly in the morning grey. She looked the same—her cap was starched, her apron white—but beneath the wool and linen, she felt branded. Her ribs carried the phantom memory of the Duchess’s nails, a sensation that felt like a spider trapped beneath her skin. Her toes, hidden inside her sensible work boots, felt permanently electrified, twitching at the slightest friction of her stockings.
She was no longer just the scullery maid. She was the Duchess’s "canvas."
The promotion had been silent but absolute. She had been moved to a cot closer to the Senior Housemaid's quarters where there was more warmth and security.
Jane shivered, a mix of dread and a dark, confusing thrill coiling in her belly.
She pushed off the wall and rounded the corner into the scullery, intending to fetch a fresh pail of water. The room was thick with steam and the smell of boiled cabbage.
Kneeling on the flagstones, scrubbing a patch of soot that refused to lift, was Margaret.
Jane froze. Margaret had been the Second Housemaid—a position of respect—until the day Jane had been called to the sewing room. Now, Margaret was down here, her hands red and chapped from lye, her uniform damp and stained.
Margaret stopped scrubbing. She didn't stand. She simply looked up, her eyes narrowing into slits of pure, distilled malice.
"Well," Margaret sneered, her voice a rough rasp that cut through the steam. "If it isn't the Duchess’s little pet."
Jane clutched her pail tighter. "Good morning, Margaret."
"Is it?" Margaret sat back on her heels, wiping a sudsy hand across her forehead. Her gaze dropped to Jane’s hands—soft, oiled, and unblemished. Then, her eyes traveled down to Jane’s skirt. "You’re walking funny, Jane. Should I ask why? Or is it simply that your knees are sore from all the... praying you do in the East Wing?"
Jane flushed, the heat rising up her neck. "I work hard, Margaret. Just like you."
"Like me?" Margaret laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "I scrub floors, girl. The Duchess scrubs you. We all hear it, you know. The walls carry sound at night. We hear the laughing. We hear the crying." Margaret leaned forward, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "You think you’ve been elevated. You think because she lets you sleep in a warm bed that you’re one of them. But you’re just a toy. And toys get broken."
"I’m not a toy," Jane whispered, though her voice lacked conviction.
"Aren't you?" Margaret dipped her brush back into the grey water. "Enjoy the favor while it lasts. When she gets bored of your screaming, you won’t even get the scullery back. You’ll be on the street."
Margaret attacked the floor again, the scritch-scritch-scritch of the stiff bristles sounding violently loud in the small room.
Jane backed away, her heart hammering against her ribs. She wanted to run. She wanted to flee the scullery and the sound of that scrubbing brush which sounded so much like an accusation.
But then, she looked down at her feet. She wasn't wearing the rough, hobnailed boots of a scullery maid anymore. She was wearing fine leather button-boots, a gift from the Duchess to protect her "precious soles."
A sudden, hot flash of indignation burned through her fear. Why should she cower? She was the one sleeping warm. She was the one who knew the texture of the Duchess’s silk robe. Margaret was just... suds and noise.
Jane stopped retreating. She took a slow, deliberate breath, the air tasting of lye and power.
She walked forward, right up to where Margaret was kneeling. Margaret looked up, confused by the sudden proximity.
Jane caught Margaret's gaze, holding it with a coldness she had learned from Annabelle herself. Then, with a slow, purposeful drag of her heel, Jane scuffed her boot hard across the pristine, wet patch. The leather heel dragged with a wet SKRRR-RUCK sound, smearing a dark, muddy streak through the white suds.
Margaret gasped, her mouth falling open. "You little—"
"Missed a spot, bitch," Jane spat, her voice steady and low.
She didn't wait for a response. She turned on her heel, her skirts swirling around her ankles, and walked out of the scullery with her head held high. The silence she left behind was sweeter than any wine. She felt untouchable.
Jane’s victory over Margaret propelled her down the corridor, her heels clicking a sharp, confident rhythm against the floorboards. She felt lighter, taller. The scullery now seemed small and grey, a shed she had outgrown.
She knocked on the door of the Senior Housemaid’s quarters.
"Enter."
Alice was standing by her vanity, perfectly framed by the morning light. She was already dressed in her formal blacks, the starched white apron so crisp it looked like it had been carved from marble. She didn't turn as Jane entered; she simply watched Jane’s reflection in the mirror, her eyes critical and assessing.
"You’re late," Alice said coolly. "And your cap is crooked."
Jane’s chest puffed out slightly. "I was detained. Margaret had forgotten her place. I had to remind her."
Alice turned then, her eyebrows arching high. A flicker of something—amusement? warning?—crossed her face. "Careful, Jane. Arrogance must be earned. And you have barely survived your first month."
Alice beckoned her closer with a sharp crook of her finger. "Come here. The Duchess has requested your presence for the afternoon tea service."
Jane’s breath hitched. "Me? In the Drawing Room?"
"Don't look so pleased with yourself," Alice said, stepping forward to roughly adjust Jane’s collar. Her fingers were cool and efficient, tightening the fabric until Jane had to swallow hard to breathe. "You are not there to serve. You are not there to pour. You are certainly not there to speak."
Alice spun Jane around, pulling the apron strings tight at the small of her back.
"Viscount Penrose is arriving within the hour," Alice instructed, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper near Jane’s ear. "He is a man of... specific tastes. He does not care for chatter. He does not care for clumsy girls who drop spoons."
Alice walked around to face her, placing her hands on Jane’s shoulders. She looked Jane in the eye, her expression a mix of mentorship and icy territorialism.
"I will handle the Duchess. I will handle the Viscount. You, Jane, are to be a piece of furniture. You will hold the cake stand. You will stare at the wall. You will be invisible. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Jane said.
"Good," Alice said, stepping back and smoothing her own flawless skirt. "Because if you embarrass me today, if you vibrate or giggle or drop a single crumb, I will see to it that you are back scrubbing floors with Margaret before the sun sets."
Alice checked her pocket watch. "It is time. Line up."
---
The Grand Foyer was a cavern of tension. The entire staff was assembled in two rigid lines, a black-and-white corridor of subservience.
Jane took her place near the front, beside Alice. She stood tall, her chin raised. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Margaret further down the line, her eyes red-rimmed and hateful. Jane allowed a tiny, imperceptible smirk to touch her lips. Let her look.
The heavy oak doors groaned open. A gust of wind swept into the hall, carrying the scent of damp earth and expensive tobacco.
Viscount Arthur Penrose did not glide like the Duchess; he stomped. He was a large man, broad-shouldered and red-faced, with a thick beard that looked like wire wool. He wore a heavy tweed coat and muddy riding boots that clacked aggressively against the marble.
"Your Grace!" he boomed, his voice echoing off the high ceiling. "Damnable weather. My horses nearly refused the bridge."
Duchess Annabelle descended the stairs to meet him. She was a vision in midnight-blue silk, her smile tight and practiced. "Lord Penrose. Always a dramatic entrance. Welcome to Wyckham Hall."
She offered her hand. He took it, bowing low, but his eyes were already roving—not over the architecture, but over the line of maids. His gaze passed over the cook, skipped over Margaret, paused briefly on Alice’s classic beauty, and then, for a fraction of a second, flicked to Jane.
Jane felt the look like a physical touch—heavy, assessing, and entirely devoid of politeness.
"Thomas," the Duchess snapped at the footman. "Take his Lordship’s coat. Alice, Jane—attend us in the Blue Drawing Room immediately."
Annabelle turned, linking arms with the Viscount. "Come, Arthur. I have a tea imported from India I am dying for you to try."
As the Duchess led the guest away, Alice nudged Jane’s ribs with a sharp elbow.
"Remember," Alice hissed, her voice barely audible. "Invisible."
Jane nodded, picking up the heavy silver cake stand from the side table. She followed Alice toward the double doors of the Drawing Room. As she crossed the threshold, leaving the rest of the staff behind, the heavy doors clicked shut, sealing the three women in with the wolf.
---
The Blue Drawing Room was a hothouse of stifled air and aggressive politeness. For twenty minutes, Jane had stood motionless by the sideboard, the heavy silver cake stand gripped in hands that were beginning to tremble with cramping fatigue.
She was invisible. Just as Alice had made her promise.
From her vantage point in the shadows, Jane watched the theater play out. Duchess Annabelle was in rare form, her laughter tinkling like the fine crystal on the table as she recounted a story about a fox hunt. She leaned forward, her décolletage presented like a gift, her eyes locked on the Viscount.
"And so," Annabelle purred, gesturing with a lace-gloved hand, "the hound simply refused the fence. Can you imagine?"
Viscount Penrose swirled his tea, grunting in agreement. "Beasts have their own minds, Duchess. Usually stubborn ones."
His attention, however, was not on his hostess. It was drifting.
Alice moved around the table like a waltz. She refilled the Viscount’s cup with a fluid, silent grace, the spout of the teapot never dripping, the china barely making a sound as it settled on the saucer. As she leaned in to offer the sugar tongs, the Viscount’s heavy-lidded gaze slid over the curve of her waist and the elegant line of her neck.
Jane saw Alice’s chin lift imperceptibly—a tiny, secret signal of triumph. Alice knew she was being admired. She was the perfect porcelain doll, pristine and untouchable, soaking up the attention that the Duchess was working so hard to cultivate.
Jane felt a dull, thudding ache of envy in her chest, mixed with the burning in her forearms. The Duchess and Alice were the stars of the show; she was just the prop holding the sponge cake.
"The cake, Jane," Annabelle commanded suddenly with a click of her fingers, not looking away from the Viscount.
Jane jumped, the sudden address shattering her trance. "Yes, Your Grace."
She stepped forward. Her legs felt stiff from standing still, and the silver stand was heavier than she had anticipated. She moved toward the low table, conscious of three pairs of eyes suddenly swiveling toward her.
Easy, she told herself. Don't wobble.
She reached the table. The Viscount was leaning back, his legs sprawled wide in a manner that was decidedly un-aristocratic.
As Jane lowered the heavy stand onto the table, her thumb slipped on the polished silver handle. The stand clattered down a little too hard—*CLANG"—and the jolt sent one of the heavy linen napkins sliding off the edge of the tray.
It fluttered to the floor, landing right before the Viscount.
"Oh!" Jane gasped.
Panic, cold and sharp, seized her. In her haste to correct the mistake before Alice could scold her or the Duchess could sneer, Jane forgot everything. She forgot the posture lessons. She forgot the graceful, deep-knee crouch of a housemaid.
She kept her legs straight and bent sharply at the waist to snatch the napkin.
It was a scullery maid’s bend—functional, hurried, and completely unrefined. As she tipped forward, the heavy black wool of her skirt swung upward, exposing not just the leather of her boots, but the pristine, cotton-clad curve of her ankles and the swell of her calves.
For a heartbeat, the room was silent.
Jane snatched the napkin and straightened up, her face burning hot. She expected a rebuke. She expected Annabelle to banish her.
Instead, she found Viscount Penrose staring.
He wasn't looking at her face. He was staring at her legs, his eyes tracking the movement of her skirt as it settled back into place. The bored glaze that had covered his eyes while looking at Alice was gone, replaced by a sudden, sharp interest.
"Well now," Arthur rumbled, a slow grin spreading through his wire-wool beard.
He shifted in his chair, turning his entire body away from the Duchess and toward Jane.
"Alice is a swan, Duchess," Arthur said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly timbre as he looked Jane up and down. "But this one... this one has the look of a startled filly. A bit... jumpy. A bit... raw."
Annabelle’s smile froze. The teaspoon in her hand stopped halfway to her cup.
Alice, standing behind the Viscount, went rigid, her eyes darting daggers at the back of Jane’s head.
Jane clutched the napkin to her apron, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "I... I beg your pardon, My Lord. I was clumsy."
"Clumsy?" Arthur chuckled, the sound wet and thick. He reached out, not to take the cake, but to tap the side of his riding boot with his crop. "I prefer to call it 'spirited.' Tell me, girl. What is your name?"
"Jane, My Lord," she whispered, terrified.
"Jane," he repeated, rolling the long vowel sound around in his mouth like a piece of candy. "And tell me, Jane... do you scrub the floors in those boots? They look terribly... sensible."
The Duchess cleared her throat, a sharp, icy sound meant to cut the interaction dead. "Jane is new to the Front of House, Arthur. She is still learning her... equilibrium. Jane, step back."
But Arthur didn't look away. He kept his gaze pinned to Jane, a predatory glint in his eye that made her skin crawl and her blood sing all at once.
"No need to rush her off, Annabelle," Arthur murmured. "I find a bit of clumsiness... refreshing."
The conversation resumed, but the air in the room had curdled. Duchess Annabelle forced the dialogue back to the local hunt, her voice a little too loud, her smile a little too brittle. Alice stood in front of the Viscount’s chair like a statue of judgment, her eyes fixed on the back of Jane’s head with a burning intensity.
Jane tried to retreat into the shadows, but the Viscount shifted in his chair. He stretched his heavy legs out under the table, blocking her path.
"Stay close, Jane," Arthur rumbled, cutting off her escape without looking at her. "I may require... more sugar."
Jane froze, trapped between the table leg and the Viscount’s sprawling form. She stood rigid, clutching the silver tray to her chest like a shield.
The heavy damask tablecloth hung low, creating a private cavern of shadow beneath the table surface. Jane felt a sudden, suffocating warmth near her shin.
It was a hand.
Viscount Penrose had let his arm drop casually to his side... his thumb digging into the sensitive muscle with a possessive, kneading motion.
"Hhh-uht!"
The sound died in Jane's throat—a sharp, strangled gasp that sounded like a hiccup gone wrong. She jerked her leg away, her boot heel scuffing loudly against the floorboards. But before she could retreat, Arthur shifted his heavy boot, slamming it down on the hem of her skirt and trapping her against the table leg.
Jane’s eyes flew wide. She looked desperately at the Duchess. Help me, she begged silently, her eyes wide and watery. He’s touching me. He’s hurting me.
Annabelle met her gaze. But there was no rescue in the Duchess’s eyes. There was only a cold, reptilian fury. To Annabelle, Jane’s flushed face, her parted lips, and her sudden jerkiness didn't look like fear; they looked like the theatrics of a girl trying to act the damsel to steal the scene. Annabelle took a sip of her tea, her gaze sliding dismissively away, leaving Jane to her fate.
Jane turned her desperate plea to Alice. Alice, please. You know how to handle this. Signal him to stop.
Alice looked down her nose, her expression one of utter disgust. She saw Jane squirming, saw the flush rising on her neck. In Alice’s mind, Jane was flaunting her reactivity, showing off the very "raw nerve" quality that Annabelle prized, using it to seduce the guest like a common tramp. Alice’s lip curled in a silent sneer. You wanted the attention, her eyes seemed to say. Now choke on it.
Abandoned, Jane let out a ragged breath, trembling as the Viscount’s fingers gave the sensitive hollow of her knee a sharp, ticklish pinch.
"You seem... unsettled, Jane," Arthur said to the room at large, though his foot was currently pinning her in place. "Is the air too thin for you up here in the Drawing Room?"
"I... I..." Jane stammered, her hands shaking so hard the cake stand rattled.
"She is simply unaccustomed to polite society, Arthur," Annabelle said sharply. "She is a scullery maid I am attempting to... domesticate. It is... clearly a work in progress."
"Mmm," Arthur hummed. He finally withdrew his foot, releasing Jane. She nearly stumbled with the sudden freedom.
Arthur turned his full attention to the Duchess, a wicked glint in his eye. "You know, Annabelle, watching her struggle with that tray... it reminds me. My riding boots are terribly stiff today. The leather is biting into my heels something awful."
He paused, taking a long, loud slurp of his tea.
"I find that new leather requires a certain... friction to break it in. It needs a vigorous pair of hands. A pair of hands that are used to... working hard."
Arthur turned back to Jane, licking a crumb from his beard.
"Send this one to my suite after dinner. The jumpy one. I want her to polish my boots. And I want them done... thoroughly."
Jane’s blood ran cold.
"Of course, Arthur," Annabelle said, her voice smooth as silk, though her eyes promised murder. "Jane would be delighted to attend you. Consider it part of her... training."
"Excellent," Arthur grinned, winking openly at Jane. "Don't keep me waiting, girl. I have a very specific shine in mind."
---
The Guest Suite smelled of expensive brandy and old leather. A fire crackled in the grate, casting long, dancing shadows against the heavy velvet drapes that had been drawn tight against the night.
Jane knelt on the Persian rug, her head bowed, her hands working rhythmically with the polishing cloth. Viscount Penrose sat in the wingback chair above her, his heavy legs extended. He hadn't spoken since she entered, save to point at his boots.
Rub. Buff. Rub. Buff.
Jane focused entirely on the leather. If she just made them shine, if she just did her job perfectly, perhaps he would let her go. Perhaps the "friction" he spoke of really was just about the boots.
"Annabelle tells me you're a special project," Arthur’s voice rumbled suddenly, breaking the silence. It wasn't a question.
Jane’s hand faltered. She didn't look up. "Her Grace is very kind to train me, My Lord."
"Kind?" Arthur let out a sharp, barking laugh. He leaned forward, his face coming into the light. "She told me you’re a raw nerve, Jane. She told me she’s been peeling you back, layer by layer, just to hear the noise you make."
Before Jane could respond, Arthur moved with startling speed for a man of his size. He didn't grab her arm; his large hands shot out and clamped onto her waist, his thumbs digging viciously into the soft flesh between her hip bone and her lowest rib.
"EEK!" Jane jerked back, dropping the polishing cloth.
Arthur didn't let go. He hauled her closer, his thick fingers dancing a frantic, digging rhythm into her sides. "Is this what she meant? Is this the noise?"
"My Lord! Please! Stop!" Jane gasped, her hands fluttering uselessly against his tweed jacket as she tried to twist away. "I’m here to polish the boots!"
"And you will," Arthur growled, his fingers moving higher, finding the ticklish spots under her arms with brutal efficiency. "But first, we need to inspect the equipment."
He released her ribs suddenly, leaving Jane gasping and clutching her chest. But before she could scramble away, he grabbed her right ankle. He lifted her leg, resting her heel on his knee.
"The boot," he commanded. "Take it off."
Jane trembled. "My Lord, it isn't proper..."
"Take. It. Off."
With shaking fingers, Jane unhooked the buttons of her boot. She slid it off, revealing her black cotton stocking. She started to reach, to set the boot aside, but Arthur snatched the footwear from her hand.
He didn't look at the leather shine. He brought the open neck of the boot directly to his nose. He took a deep, shuddering inhale, his eyes sliding shut.
"Mmm," he groaned, the sound vibrating in his chest. "There it is."
He looked at Jane, his eyes dark and heavy. "You try to hide it with lavender oil and Annabelle’s fancy soaps. But the boot doesn't lie, does it? It smells of the scullery. It smells of lye, and sweat, and hard, filthy work."
He pressed the boot to his face again, inhaling the trapped scent of her feet—the cloying, musky aroma of a girl who had been on her feet for fourteen hours. It wasn't the delicate perfume of a lady; it was the raw, animal scent of labor.
"Intoxicating," he whispered. He dropped the boot and looked at her stockinged foot. "Strip the stocking. I want the source."
Jane peeled the cotton down. Her foot was pale, damp with perspiration, the toes curled tight in fear.
Arthur didn't touch it with his hand. He leaned down and pressed his nose right into her arch, inhaling sharply. Jane whimpered, her leg twitching, but he held her ankle firm.
"You're going to finish your duties, Jane," Arthur said, his voice thick with lust. He stood up, dragging her with him, and moved to the chaise longue. He unbuttoned his trousers, letting them drop, revealing himself fully.
He lay back on the velvet chaise, spreading his legs.
"Climb up," he ordered. "Sit between my legs. Facing me."
Jane hesitated, tears prickling her eyes. This wasn't in the job description. This wasn't service; it was ruin.
"If you don't," Arthur warned, raising his rough leather riding gloves from the table, "I will tie you to that chair and tickle the air out of your lungs until dawn. And then I’ll tell Annabelle you refused a direct order."
Jane sobbed, a small, broken sound. She climbed onto the end of the chaise. She sat tentatively on the velvet cushion, nesting herself between his open calves.
"Feet up," he commanded. "Plant your soles flat on my chest."
To comply, Jane had to curl into a tight ball. She drew her knees up high against her own chest, placing her bare, sweating feet onto the broad expanse of his tweed waistcoat. It was a vulnerable, compressed posture—her heels digging into his sternum, her toes curling against his lapels.
"Now," Arthur grunted, his eyes dark as he looked over the tops of her knees. "Your hands are free. Use one."
Because she was sitting so close, reaching him was unavoidable. She wrapped her small hand around him. He was hard, hot, and demanding. She began to move her hand, staring fixedly at the wall, trying to dissociate with the humiliating task.
"Look at me," Arthur grunted.
Jane squeezed her eyes shut.
Arthur didn't strike her. Instead, he grabbed her ankles and pulled her feet higher, until her toes were brushing his chin.
"Look. At. Me," he hissed.
He didn't strike her. Instead, he reached up and grabbed her ankles.
with a brutal yank, he pulled her legs toward him. Jane gasped as her legs were forced to straighten, her body sliding slightly forward on the velvet. He dragged her feet upward, past his chest, until her soles were hovering directly in front of his face.
"Closer," he growled.
He buried his face in the arches of her feet. The sensation was not soft; it was an assault. The stiff, wiry bristles of his beard acted like a thousand tiny needles, scouring the delicate, sweat-dampened skin of her arches.
"AH-HAAA! NO! IT'S SH-HAAARP! K-HAAA-HA-HA!" Jane cried out, her hips jerking wildly.
"Keep pumping," he barked into her foot, the vibration of his voice buzzing against her bones.
He opened his mouth, using his teeth to graze the tender pads of her toes, before thrusting his tongue into the gap between her big toe and the second.
"EEE-YIII-HIII! NO! PLEASE! THE BRISTLES! SK-HREEE-HEEE-HEEE!"
Jane squirmed wildly, her hand slipping on him, her rhythm breaking.
Arthur slapped her thigh, hard. "Faster, girl!"
He resumed the torture. He nuzzled his nose deep into the pocket of her arch, blowing hot, wet air against the skin, then raking his beard back and forth in a violent, scrubbing motion.
"AHA-HA-HA-HA! MY LO-HORD! PLEASE! HEEE-HEEE-HMMM!"
Jane was trapped in a nightmare of sensation. Her hand worked furiously, desperate to make him finish, desperate to end the tickling. Her feet were sensitive from weeks of Annabelle’s conditioning, and Arthur’s rough, animalistic grooming was overstimulating them to the point of pain.
The smell of her own sweat, mixed with his musk and the leather, filled the air. Arthur was groaning, lost in the filth of it, worshipping the very parts of her that the Duchess found most amusing to torment.
Arthur’s hips bucked upward. He didn't just bite; he ground the coarse wool of his tweed coat against her heels while his beard ravaged her arches, sandwiching her feet between two layers of abrasive friction.
"Yes! Filthy little thing! Yes!"
"KYAAA-HAAA-HA-HAAAA! NO! IT'S TOO MU-HUCH! SK-HREEE-HEEE-HEEE!"
Jane shrieked, her voice cracking into a jagged, hysterical laugh-sob as the overstimulation shattered her control. She thrashed wildly, but she was locked in the vice of his chest and hands.
"AAAAHHH!"
With a guttural roar, he released. Jane tried to pull back, but he held her feet pinned to his chest. His release spurred out, hot and heavy, splashing across the front of her black uniform and soaking into the white linen of her apron.
He panted, his chest heaving beneath her feet, his beard wet with her sweat.
Slowly, the tension left his body. He released her ankles.
"Now," Arthur murmured, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "That is what I call a shine."
Jane scrambled off the chaise, her legs shaking so hard she collapsed onto the rug. She grabbed her boots and stockings, clutching them to her chest.
"Get out," Arthur said, closing his eyes. "And take your smell with you."
Jane didn't wait. She fled the room barefoot, the wet stain on her apron cooling rapidly in the drafty corridor, marking her with a shame that no amount of scrubbing would ever remove.
The corridor was a gauntlet of cold stone and silence. Jane ran, her bare feet making soft, wet slapping sounds against the flagstones. Her boots and stockings were clutched to her chest, a tangled mess of leather and cotton, but they offered no warmth.
The stain on her apron was cooling, turning clammy and stiff against her stomach. The scent of the Viscount—that sharp, pungent mix of brandy, leather, and spent lust—seemed to rise from the fabric like a cloud, choking her. Every shadow looked like Alice; every creak of the house sounded like the Duchess’s disappointment.
She reached the servants' quarters, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. She pushed the door open, expecting the comforting, rhythmic breathing of the sleeping staff.
She stopped dead.
Her bed—the narrow iron cot that had been hers—was different. Her belongings were no longer there.
Panic flared. Had she been fired? thrown out entirely?
Her eyes frantically scanned the long, dark room. Then, she saw it. Right next to the drafty window and the door to the scullery she saw her small trunk of belongings had been shoved roughly underneath a cot.
It was a silent, brutal demotion. Before she had even left the Viscount’s room, the house had known. The house had already judged her.
Jane crept to the washbasin at the end of the room, her hands trembling so violently she nearly dropped the pitcher. The water was freezing. She stripped off the ruined apron and the dress, scrubbing at her skin with a frantic desperation, trying to scour away the sensation of the beard bristles and the phantom weight of his release. She scrubbed until her skin was raw and red, but the smell seemed to linger in her nose, a permanent memory.
She dressed in her nightgown, shivering. She couldn't sleep. Not yet. She needed to explain. She needed Alice to know that she hadn't wanted it, that she had been trapped.
She tiptoed back up the room, past the sleeping forms of the under-maids, to the closed door of the Senior Housemaid’s private room.
She knocked. A single, timid rap.
There was a long pause. Then, the latch clicked.
Alice opened the door a crack. She was wrapped in a dressing gown, her hair in a long braid over one shoulder. She held a candle, the light casting her face in sharp relief. She didn't look sleepy. She looked like she had been waiting.
Her eyes flicked down to Jane’s scrubbed face, then to the damp hair, and finally to the trembling hands.
"Alice," Jane whispered, the tears threatening to spill over. "Please. You have to listen. It wasn't... I didn't..."
"Hush," Alice hissed, glancing past Jane into the dark dormitory. "Keep your voice down." She ushered Jane into the private quarters and closed the door.
"He made me," Jane choked out, looking up at Alice with tears standing in her eyes. "He wouldn't let me leave. He made me... service him. I tried to back away, Alice, I swear. But he trapped me."
Alice watched her, her expression unreadable. For a fleeting second, the mask of the Senior Housemaid slipped. A flicker of genuine understanding—perhaps even pity—crossed her features. Alice knew men like Penrose. She knew that when a Viscount wants a maid, the maid has very little choice in the matter.
But the flicker died as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the cold, hard wall of self-preservation.
"It does not matter what he did, Jane," Alice said, her voice devoid of emotion. "It matters what it looks like. And to the Duchess, it looks like her new favorite toy allowed a guest to play with it before she was finished."
"But I can explain to her! If you just help me—"
"I can do nothing," Alice cut her off. "The Duchess is already aware. She is... very unhappy, Jane. He was not just any guest. The Duchess had been hoping for a proposal today from the Viscount. You were supposed to be her play thing, not a common *****."
Jane flinched as if she had been slapped. "I'm not..."
"Go to bed," Alice said, stepping back and preparing to close the door. "You are back in the scullery now. Stay there. And pray that when she calls for you tomorrow, she is in a forgiving mood. Though... I wouldn't count on it."
"Alice, please!"
Alice pushed Jane out of the room and the door clicked shut. The bolt slid home.
Jane was left standing in the dark, the rejection absolute.
She turned slowly and walked the length of the room, past the sleeping women who would all know her shame by morning. She climbed into her cold cot by the window. The wind whistled through the crack in the pane, biting at her exposed skin.
She pulled the thin blanket up to her chin, curling into a tight ball to protect her ribs and her aching, abused feet. She closed her eyes, but sleep didn't come. There was only the cold, the dark, and the terrifying certainty that the real punishment hadn't even begun.
---
The Morning Room was flooded with a cruel, unforgiving light that seemed to bleach the color from the world. Duchess Annabelle sat at her writing desk, the scratching of her quill the only sound in the room.
Jane stood before the desk, her hands clasped tightly in front of her apron. She had scrubbed her skin raw, but she still felt the phantom imprint of the Viscount’s beard on her soles.
Annabelle didn't look up. She finished her sentence, sanded the ink, and set the quill down with a deliberate click.
"I tried to speak," Jane began, her voice trembling. "Your Grace, I tried to tell The Viscount—"
"Silence," Annabelle said. The word was soft, but it carried the weight of a guillotine blade.
Annabelle finally raised her eyes. They were cold, empty of the predatory amusement Jane was used to. This was worse. This was boredom. This was disgust.
"Do you know what Viscount Penrose discussed over breakfast, Jane?" Annabelle asked, standing and walking slowly around the desk. "He did not discuss the hunt. He did not discuss the estate. He certainly did not discuss a proposal. He discussed you."
Jane swallowed hard. "Me, Your Grace?"
"He found you... 'charming'," Annabelle spat the word as if it were a curse. "He found your little squeaks and your coarse, country accent 'invigorating.' He asked if he might purchase your contract."
Annabelle stopped in front of Jane, her lip curling. "You have gravely disappointed me, Jane. You allowed a guest to use you like a common milkmaid."
"He didn't give me a—" Jane cried.
"SILENCE!" Annabelle slammed her palm on the desk, fixing Jane with a look of pure venom.
"There is always a choice," Annabelle says icily. "You could have been stiff. You could have been boring. Instead, you were... vibrant for him. And now, you smell of him."
Annabelle turned to the window, looking out at the cobbled courtyard below.
"If you wish to act like livestock, Jane, I shall treat you as such. You require a cleansing. Something to strip that 'charming' country arrogance right off your skin."
Annabelle rang the heavy brass bell on her desk.
"Prepare the stocks," she ordered the footman who entered. "And tell the goatherd to bring the bucket of brine. The thick mixture."
---
The courtyard air was biting, a damp chill that seeped through Jane’s thin dress. She had been stripped of her stockings and shoes, her bare feet stumbling over the cold cobbles as Thomas the footman marched her toward the wooden apparatus in the center of the yard.
It was a cruel construction—a heavy oak pillory set high on a post, with a bench and stocks below it.
"Sit," Thomas commanded, not unkindly, but firmly.
Jane sat on the cold wooden bench. Thomas locked her ankles into the stocks. Her feet were trapped, thrust forward and splayed wide, the soles exposed to the morning air.
"Arms up."
Jane reached up. Her wrists were locked into the pillory bar above her head. The position stretched her entire body taut. Her chest was thrust forward, her back straight, and crucially, her arms were pulled high and wide, leaving her armpits completely exposed and defenseless.
Then came the goatherd. He carried a wooden bucket that smelled of the sea. He dipped a thick, coarse brush into the grey sludge—a mixture of salt, water, and molasses.
"Please," Jane whimpered as he approached her feet. "No. Please don't."
He didn't speak. He painted the viscous brine onto the soles of her feet. It was cold and slimy, coating her arches, her heels, and the sensitive spaces between her toes.
Then, he led two goats forward. They were large, shaggy beasts with rectangular pupils and restless energy. He tied one to the left of the stocks, one to the right.
The smell of the molasses hit them instantly.
The first goat lowered its head. Its tongue—a rough, wet slab of muscle meant to strip bark from trees—slapped against Jane’s left arch.
"GAAAA-HAAA!" Jane screamed, thrashing against the oak.
It wasn't just a tickle; it was a relentless, rasping abrasion. The tongue scraped over her skin, licking up the salt and syrup with a sound like sandpaper on silk.
Schhh-lurp. Rasp. Schhh-lurp.
Thomas and the goatherd walked away to leave Jane to her fate.
"NO! STOP! AHA-HA-HA-HAAA! GET OFF! GET O-HO-HO-OFF!"
Jane’s laughter was a jagged, panicked sound. Her feet jerked wildly in the stocks, but the wood held her firm. The goats were methodical. They licked the heel, they nuzzled between the toes, their rough tongues exfoliating her skin while simultaneously sending shockwaves of unbearable sensation up her legs.
"HNNNNG! IT HURTS! IT TICKLES! PLEASE! HELP MEEEE!"
She was alone in the courtyard, her screams echoing off the stone walls. Or so she thought.
From the shadow of the kitchen door, a figure emerged.
She wore a crisp, clean black dress. Her apron was blindingly white. Her cap sat perfectly straight on her head.
It was Margaret.
She walked slowly across the cobbles, her hips swaying with a new, confident rhythm. She stopped behind the stocks, out of the goats' way, but directly behind Jane’s exposed back.
"Well, well," Margaret purred, her voice right at Jane’s ear. "Look at you. The Duchess’s favorite."
"Margaret! Help me!" Jane shrieked, her head thrashing as a goat tongue dug deep into her toe-stem. "Chase them away! Please!"
"Help you?" Margaret laughed softly. She walked around the side, just enough for Jane to see the three stripes on her sleeve—the mark of the Second Housemaid. "I’m afraid I’m too busy, Jane. I have duties now. Important ones. Since someone was demoted back to the scullery."
Margaret stepped behind Jane again.
"Missed a spot," Margaret whispered, but she didn't use her own voice. She twisted the words into a crude, exaggerated country drawl—a vicious, pantomime impression of the coarse scullery girl Jane truly was.
Then, sharp, practical fingernails—so unlike the Duchess’s glass-smooth manicure—dug into the base of Jane’s elbows.
"I think I know where to look..."
Slowly, agonizingly, the nails dragged down the soft, white skin of her inner arm, heading straight for the pit.
"K-KYAAAA-HA-HA-HA! M-MARGARET! NOOOO!"
The goats rasped at her feet. Slurp-scritch-slurp.
Margaret’s nails reached the precipice of the armpit.
"You were so high and mighty," Margaret hissed. She dug her nails into the center of the hollows and began to scratch—vicious, sharp, erratic movements.
"IIII-HIII-HIIII! ST-HO-HO-HOP! NOT THERE! P-PLEEE-HEEE-HEEEASE! I CAN'T! I CA-HA-HA-HAAAAN'T!"
Jane dissolved. The combined assault of the rough tongues flaying her soles and the sharp, vindictive nails dancing in her pits shattered her composure. She hung from her wrists, her body convulsing, weeping and laughing in a jagged, broken rhythm that echoed off the cold stone walls.
Margaret leaned in close, her breath hot on Jane’s neck, her fingers never stopping their cruel dance in the armpits.
"Welcome back to the bottom, Jane," Margaret whispered. "It’s going to be a very long winter."
Jane wept, the salt of her tears mixing with the salt on her skin. The shape of her soul hadn't just changed; it had been scrubbed raw.
Welcome to Wyckham Hall. The Dutchess of Wyckham is an icy presence in the light, but behind closed doors, with her most trusted servant, she is a kinky little minx.
Jane has been the Duchess' favourite for a few weeks, and the power is going to her head. It's only a matter of time until she slips up.
All characters are 18 or older
Word Count: 6,694
M/F | F/F | */F | Feet Tickling | Tickle Torture | Explicit
Three weeks at Wyckham Hall had changed the shape of Jane’s soul. It had also changed the shape of her feet.
She walked down the narrow, limestone corridor of the servants’ wing, trying to ignore the dull, throbbing ache in her arches. It was a specific kind of pain—not the fatigue of standing all day, but the deep, bruised soreness of a muscle that had been forced to cramp and curl repeatedly against silk bonds.
She paused by a narrow window, resting her forehead against the cold glass. Her reflection was ghostly in the morning grey. She looked the same—her cap was starched, her apron white—but beneath the wool and linen, she felt branded. Her ribs carried the phantom memory of the Duchess’s nails, a sensation that felt like a spider trapped beneath her skin. Her toes, hidden inside her sensible work boots, felt permanently electrified, twitching at the slightest friction of her stockings.
She was no longer just the scullery maid. She was the Duchess’s "canvas."
The promotion had been silent but absolute. She had been moved to a cot closer to the Senior Housemaid's quarters where there was more warmth and security.
Jane shivered, a mix of dread and a dark, confusing thrill coiling in her belly.
She pushed off the wall and rounded the corner into the scullery, intending to fetch a fresh pail of water. The room was thick with steam and the smell of boiled cabbage.
Kneeling on the flagstones, scrubbing a patch of soot that refused to lift, was Margaret.
Jane froze. Margaret had been the Second Housemaid—a position of respect—until the day Jane had been called to the sewing room. Now, Margaret was down here, her hands red and chapped from lye, her uniform damp and stained.
Margaret stopped scrubbing. She didn't stand. She simply looked up, her eyes narrowing into slits of pure, distilled malice.
"Well," Margaret sneered, her voice a rough rasp that cut through the steam. "If it isn't the Duchess’s little pet."
Jane clutched her pail tighter. "Good morning, Margaret."
"Is it?" Margaret sat back on her heels, wiping a sudsy hand across her forehead. Her gaze dropped to Jane’s hands—soft, oiled, and unblemished. Then, her eyes traveled down to Jane’s skirt. "You’re walking funny, Jane. Should I ask why? Or is it simply that your knees are sore from all the... praying you do in the East Wing?"
Jane flushed, the heat rising up her neck. "I work hard, Margaret. Just like you."
"Like me?" Margaret laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "I scrub floors, girl. The Duchess scrubs you. We all hear it, you know. The walls carry sound at night. We hear the laughing. We hear the crying." Margaret leaned forward, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "You think you’ve been elevated. You think because she lets you sleep in a warm bed that you’re one of them. But you’re just a toy. And toys get broken."
"I’m not a toy," Jane whispered, though her voice lacked conviction.
"Aren't you?" Margaret dipped her brush back into the grey water. "Enjoy the favor while it lasts. When she gets bored of your screaming, you won’t even get the scullery back. You’ll be on the street."
Margaret attacked the floor again, the scritch-scritch-scritch of the stiff bristles sounding violently loud in the small room.
Jane backed away, her heart hammering against her ribs. She wanted to run. She wanted to flee the scullery and the sound of that scrubbing brush which sounded so much like an accusation.
But then, she looked down at her feet. She wasn't wearing the rough, hobnailed boots of a scullery maid anymore. She was wearing fine leather button-boots, a gift from the Duchess to protect her "precious soles."
A sudden, hot flash of indignation burned through her fear. Why should she cower? She was the one sleeping warm. She was the one who knew the texture of the Duchess’s silk robe. Margaret was just... suds and noise.
Jane stopped retreating. She took a slow, deliberate breath, the air tasting of lye and power.
She walked forward, right up to where Margaret was kneeling. Margaret looked up, confused by the sudden proximity.
Jane caught Margaret's gaze, holding it with a coldness she had learned from Annabelle herself. Then, with a slow, purposeful drag of her heel, Jane scuffed her boot hard across the pristine, wet patch. The leather heel dragged with a wet SKRRR-RUCK sound, smearing a dark, muddy streak through the white suds.
Margaret gasped, her mouth falling open. "You little—"
"Missed a spot, bitch," Jane spat, her voice steady and low.
She didn't wait for a response. She turned on her heel, her skirts swirling around her ankles, and walked out of the scullery with her head held high. The silence she left behind was sweeter than any wine. She felt untouchable.
Jane’s victory over Margaret propelled her down the corridor, her heels clicking a sharp, confident rhythm against the floorboards. She felt lighter, taller. The scullery now seemed small and grey, a shed she had outgrown.
She knocked on the door of the Senior Housemaid’s quarters.
"Enter."
Alice was standing by her vanity, perfectly framed by the morning light. She was already dressed in her formal blacks, the starched white apron so crisp it looked like it had been carved from marble. She didn't turn as Jane entered; she simply watched Jane’s reflection in the mirror, her eyes critical and assessing.
"You’re late," Alice said coolly. "And your cap is crooked."
Jane’s chest puffed out slightly. "I was detained. Margaret had forgotten her place. I had to remind her."
Alice turned then, her eyebrows arching high. A flicker of something—amusement? warning?—crossed her face. "Careful, Jane. Arrogance must be earned. And you have barely survived your first month."
Alice beckoned her closer with a sharp crook of her finger. "Come here. The Duchess has requested your presence for the afternoon tea service."
Jane’s breath hitched. "Me? In the Drawing Room?"
"Don't look so pleased with yourself," Alice said, stepping forward to roughly adjust Jane’s collar. Her fingers were cool and efficient, tightening the fabric until Jane had to swallow hard to breathe. "You are not there to serve. You are not there to pour. You are certainly not there to speak."
Alice spun Jane around, pulling the apron strings tight at the small of her back.
"Viscount Penrose is arriving within the hour," Alice instructed, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper near Jane’s ear. "He is a man of... specific tastes. He does not care for chatter. He does not care for clumsy girls who drop spoons."
Alice walked around to face her, placing her hands on Jane’s shoulders. She looked Jane in the eye, her expression a mix of mentorship and icy territorialism.
"I will handle the Duchess. I will handle the Viscount. You, Jane, are to be a piece of furniture. You will hold the cake stand. You will stare at the wall. You will be invisible. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Jane said.
"Good," Alice said, stepping back and smoothing her own flawless skirt. "Because if you embarrass me today, if you vibrate or giggle or drop a single crumb, I will see to it that you are back scrubbing floors with Margaret before the sun sets."
Alice checked her pocket watch. "It is time. Line up."
---
The Grand Foyer was a cavern of tension. The entire staff was assembled in two rigid lines, a black-and-white corridor of subservience.
Jane took her place near the front, beside Alice. She stood tall, her chin raised. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Margaret further down the line, her eyes red-rimmed and hateful. Jane allowed a tiny, imperceptible smirk to touch her lips. Let her look.
The heavy oak doors groaned open. A gust of wind swept into the hall, carrying the scent of damp earth and expensive tobacco.
Viscount Arthur Penrose did not glide like the Duchess; he stomped. He was a large man, broad-shouldered and red-faced, with a thick beard that looked like wire wool. He wore a heavy tweed coat and muddy riding boots that clacked aggressively against the marble.
"Your Grace!" he boomed, his voice echoing off the high ceiling. "Damnable weather. My horses nearly refused the bridge."
Duchess Annabelle descended the stairs to meet him. She was a vision in midnight-blue silk, her smile tight and practiced. "Lord Penrose. Always a dramatic entrance. Welcome to Wyckham Hall."
She offered her hand. He took it, bowing low, but his eyes were already roving—not over the architecture, but over the line of maids. His gaze passed over the cook, skipped over Margaret, paused briefly on Alice’s classic beauty, and then, for a fraction of a second, flicked to Jane.
Jane felt the look like a physical touch—heavy, assessing, and entirely devoid of politeness.
"Thomas," the Duchess snapped at the footman. "Take his Lordship’s coat. Alice, Jane—attend us in the Blue Drawing Room immediately."
Annabelle turned, linking arms with the Viscount. "Come, Arthur. I have a tea imported from India I am dying for you to try."
As the Duchess led the guest away, Alice nudged Jane’s ribs with a sharp elbow.
"Remember," Alice hissed, her voice barely audible. "Invisible."
Jane nodded, picking up the heavy silver cake stand from the side table. She followed Alice toward the double doors of the Drawing Room. As she crossed the threshold, leaving the rest of the staff behind, the heavy doors clicked shut, sealing the three women in with the wolf.
---
The Blue Drawing Room was a hothouse of stifled air and aggressive politeness. For twenty minutes, Jane had stood motionless by the sideboard, the heavy silver cake stand gripped in hands that were beginning to tremble with cramping fatigue.
She was invisible. Just as Alice had made her promise.
From her vantage point in the shadows, Jane watched the theater play out. Duchess Annabelle was in rare form, her laughter tinkling like the fine crystal on the table as she recounted a story about a fox hunt. She leaned forward, her décolletage presented like a gift, her eyes locked on the Viscount.
"And so," Annabelle purred, gesturing with a lace-gloved hand, "the hound simply refused the fence. Can you imagine?"
Viscount Penrose swirled his tea, grunting in agreement. "Beasts have their own minds, Duchess. Usually stubborn ones."
His attention, however, was not on his hostess. It was drifting.
Alice moved around the table like a waltz. She refilled the Viscount’s cup with a fluid, silent grace, the spout of the teapot never dripping, the china barely making a sound as it settled on the saucer. As she leaned in to offer the sugar tongs, the Viscount’s heavy-lidded gaze slid over the curve of her waist and the elegant line of her neck.
Jane saw Alice’s chin lift imperceptibly—a tiny, secret signal of triumph. Alice knew she was being admired. She was the perfect porcelain doll, pristine and untouchable, soaking up the attention that the Duchess was working so hard to cultivate.
Jane felt a dull, thudding ache of envy in her chest, mixed with the burning in her forearms. The Duchess and Alice were the stars of the show; she was just the prop holding the sponge cake.
"The cake, Jane," Annabelle commanded suddenly with a click of her fingers, not looking away from the Viscount.
Jane jumped, the sudden address shattering her trance. "Yes, Your Grace."
She stepped forward. Her legs felt stiff from standing still, and the silver stand was heavier than she had anticipated. She moved toward the low table, conscious of three pairs of eyes suddenly swiveling toward her.
Easy, she told herself. Don't wobble.
She reached the table. The Viscount was leaning back, his legs sprawled wide in a manner that was decidedly un-aristocratic.
As Jane lowered the heavy stand onto the table, her thumb slipped on the polished silver handle. The stand clattered down a little too hard—*CLANG"—and the jolt sent one of the heavy linen napkins sliding off the edge of the tray.
It fluttered to the floor, landing right before the Viscount.
"Oh!" Jane gasped.
Panic, cold and sharp, seized her. In her haste to correct the mistake before Alice could scold her or the Duchess could sneer, Jane forgot everything. She forgot the posture lessons. She forgot the graceful, deep-knee crouch of a housemaid.
She kept her legs straight and bent sharply at the waist to snatch the napkin.
It was a scullery maid’s bend—functional, hurried, and completely unrefined. As she tipped forward, the heavy black wool of her skirt swung upward, exposing not just the leather of her boots, but the pristine, cotton-clad curve of her ankles and the swell of her calves.
For a heartbeat, the room was silent.
Jane snatched the napkin and straightened up, her face burning hot. She expected a rebuke. She expected Annabelle to banish her.
Instead, she found Viscount Penrose staring.
He wasn't looking at her face. He was staring at her legs, his eyes tracking the movement of her skirt as it settled back into place. The bored glaze that had covered his eyes while looking at Alice was gone, replaced by a sudden, sharp interest.
"Well now," Arthur rumbled, a slow grin spreading through his wire-wool beard.
He shifted in his chair, turning his entire body away from the Duchess and toward Jane.
"Alice is a swan, Duchess," Arthur said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly timbre as he looked Jane up and down. "But this one... this one has the look of a startled filly. A bit... jumpy. A bit... raw."
Annabelle’s smile froze. The teaspoon in her hand stopped halfway to her cup.
Alice, standing behind the Viscount, went rigid, her eyes darting daggers at the back of Jane’s head.
Jane clutched the napkin to her apron, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "I... I beg your pardon, My Lord. I was clumsy."
"Clumsy?" Arthur chuckled, the sound wet and thick. He reached out, not to take the cake, but to tap the side of his riding boot with his crop. "I prefer to call it 'spirited.' Tell me, girl. What is your name?"
"Jane, My Lord," she whispered, terrified.
"Jane," he repeated, rolling the long vowel sound around in his mouth like a piece of candy. "And tell me, Jane... do you scrub the floors in those boots? They look terribly... sensible."
The Duchess cleared her throat, a sharp, icy sound meant to cut the interaction dead. "Jane is new to the Front of House, Arthur. She is still learning her... equilibrium. Jane, step back."
But Arthur didn't look away. He kept his gaze pinned to Jane, a predatory glint in his eye that made her skin crawl and her blood sing all at once.
"No need to rush her off, Annabelle," Arthur murmured. "I find a bit of clumsiness... refreshing."
The conversation resumed, but the air in the room had curdled. Duchess Annabelle forced the dialogue back to the local hunt, her voice a little too loud, her smile a little too brittle. Alice stood in front of the Viscount’s chair like a statue of judgment, her eyes fixed on the back of Jane’s head with a burning intensity.
Jane tried to retreat into the shadows, but the Viscount shifted in his chair. He stretched his heavy legs out under the table, blocking her path.
"Stay close, Jane," Arthur rumbled, cutting off her escape without looking at her. "I may require... more sugar."
Jane froze, trapped between the table leg and the Viscount’s sprawling form. She stood rigid, clutching the silver tray to her chest like a shield.
The heavy damask tablecloth hung low, creating a private cavern of shadow beneath the table surface. Jane felt a sudden, suffocating warmth near her shin.
It was a hand.
Viscount Penrose had let his arm drop casually to his side... his thumb digging into the sensitive muscle with a possessive, kneading motion.
"Hhh-uht!"
The sound died in Jane's throat—a sharp, strangled gasp that sounded like a hiccup gone wrong. She jerked her leg away, her boot heel scuffing loudly against the floorboards. But before she could retreat, Arthur shifted his heavy boot, slamming it down on the hem of her skirt and trapping her against the table leg.
Jane’s eyes flew wide. She looked desperately at the Duchess. Help me, she begged silently, her eyes wide and watery. He’s touching me. He’s hurting me.
Annabelle met her gaze. But there was no rescue in the Duchess’s eyes. There was only a cold, reptilian fury. To Annabelle, Jane’s flushed face, her parted lips, and her sudden jerkiness didn't look like fear; they looked like the theatrics of a girl trying to act the damsel to steal the scene. Annabelle took a sip of her tea, her gaze sliding dismissively away, leaving Jane to her fate.
Jane turned her desperate plea to Alice. Alice, please. You know how to handle this. Signal him to stop.
Alice looked down her nose, her expression one of utter disgust. She saw Jane squirming, saw the flush rising on her neck. In Alice’s mind, Jane was flaunting her reactivity, showing off the very "raw nerve" quality that Annabelle prized, using it to seduce the guest like a common tramp. Alice’s lip curled in a silent sneer. You wanted the attention, her eyes seemed to say. Now choke on it.
Abandoned, Jane let out a ragged breath, trembling as the Viscount’s fingers gave the sensitive hollow of her knee a sharp, ticklish pinch.
"You seem... unsettled, Jane," Arthur said to the room at large, though his foot was currently pinning her in place. "Is the air too thin for you up here in the Drawing Room?"
"I... I..." Jane stammered, her hands shaking so hard the cake stand rattled.
"She is simply unaccustomed to polite society, Arthur," Annabelle said sharply. "She is a scullery maid I am attempting to... domesticate. It is... clearly a work in progress."
"Mmm," Arthur hummed. He finally withdrew his foot, releasing Jane. She nearly stumbled with the sudden freedom.
Arthur turned his full attention to the Duchess, a wicked glint in his eye. "You know, Annabelle, watching her struggle with that tray... it reminds me. My riding boots are terribly stiff today. The leather is biting into my heels something awful."
He paused, taking a long, loud slurp of his tea.
"I find that new leather requires a certain... friction to break it in. It needs a vigorous pair of hands. A pair of hands that are used to... working hard."
Arthur turned back to Jane, licking a crumb from his beard.
"Send this one to my suite after dinner. The jumpy one. I want her to polish my boots. And I want them done... thoroughly."
Jane’s blood ran cold.
"Of course, Arthur," Annabelle said, her voice smooth as silk, though her eyes promised murder. "Jane would be delighted to attend you. Consider it part of her... training."
"Excellent," Arthur grinned, winking openly at Jane. "Don't keep me waiting, girl. I have a very specific shine in mind."
---
The Guest Suite smelled of expensive brandy and old leather. A fire crackled in the grate, casting long, dancing shadows against the heavy velvet drapes that had been drawn tight against the night.
Jane knelt on the Persian rug, her head bowed, her hands working rhythmically with the polishing cloth. Viscount Penrose sat in the wingback chair above her, his heavy legs extended. He hadn't spoken since she entered, save to point at his boots.
Rub. Buff. Rub. Buff.
Jane focused entirely on the leather. If she just made them shine, if she just did her job perfectly, perhaps he would let her go. Perhaps the "friction" he spoke of really was just about the boots.
"Annabelle tells me you're a special project," Arthur’s voice rumbled suddenly, breaking the silence. It wasn't a question.
Jane’s hand faltered. She didn't look up. "Her Grace is very kind to train me, My Lord."
"Kind?" Arthur let out a sharp, barking laugh. He leaned forward, his face coming into the light. "She told me you’re a raw nerve, Jane. She told me she’s been peeling you back, layer by layer, just to hear the noise you make."
Before Jane could respond, Arthur moved with startling speed for a man of his size. He didn't grab her arm; his large hands shot out and clamped onto her waist, his thumbs digging viciously into the soft flesh between her hip bone and her lowest rib.
"EEK!" Jane jerked back, dropping the polishing cloth.
Arthur didn't let go. He hauled her closer, his thick fingers dancing a frantic, digging rhythm into her sides. "Is this what she meant? Is this the noise?"
"My Lord! Please! Stop!" Jane gasped, her hands fluttering uselessly against his tweed jacket as she tried to twist away. "I’m here to polish the boots!"
"And you will," Arthur growled, his fingers moving higher, finding the ticklish spots under her arms with brutal efficiency. "But first, we need to inspect the equipment."
He released her ribs suddenly, leaving Jane gasping and clutching her chest. But before she could scramble away, he grabbed her right ankle. He lifted her leg, resting her heel on his knee.
"The boot," he commanded. "Take it off."
Jane trembled. "My Lord, it isn't proper..."
"Take. It. Off."
With shaking fingers, Jane unhooked the buttons of her boot. She slid it off, revealing her black cotton stocking. She started to reach, to set the boot aside, but Arthur snatched the footwear from her hand.
He didn't look at the leather shine. He brought the open neck of the boot directly to his nose. He took a deep, shuddering inhale, his eyes sliding shut.
"Mmm," he groaned, the sound vibrating in his chest. "There it is."
He looked at Jane, his eyes dark and heavy. "You try to hide it with lavender oil and Annabelle’s fancy soaps. But the boot doesn't lie, does it? It smells of the scullery. It smells of lye, and sweat, and hard, filthy work."
He pressed the boot to his face again, inhaling the trapped scent of her feet—the cloying, musky aroma of a girl who had been on her feet for fourteen hours. It wasn't the delicate perfume of a lady; it was the raw, animal scent of labor.
"Intoxicating," he whispered. He dropped the boot and looked at her stockinged foot. "Strip the stocking. I want the source."
Jane peeled the cotton down. Her foot was pale, damp with perspiration, the toes curled tight in fear.
Arthur didn't touch it with his hand. He leaned down and pressed his nose right into her arch, inhaling sharply. Jane whimpered, her leg twitching, but he held her ankle firm.
"You're going to finish your duties, Jane," Arthur said, his voice thick with lust. He stood up, dragging her with him, and moved to the chaise longue. He unbuttoned his trousers, letting them drop, revealing himself fully.
He lay back on the velvet chaise, spreading his legs.
"Climb up," he ordered. "Sit between my legs. Facing me."
Jane hesitated, tears prickling her eyes. This wasn't in the job description. This wasn't service; it was ruin.
"If you don't," Arthur warned, raising his rough leather riding gloves from the table, "I will tie you to that chair and tickle the air out of your lungs until dawn. And then I’ll tell Annabelle you refused a direct order."
Jane sobbed, a small, broken sound. She climbed onto the end of the chaise. She sat tentatively on the velvet cushion, nesting herself between his open calves.
"Feet up," he commanded. "Plant your soles flat on my chest."
To comply, Jane had to curl into a tight ball. She drew her knees up high against her own chest, placing her bare, sweating feet onto the broad expanse of his tweed waistcoat. It was a vulnerable, compressed posture—her heels digging into his sternum, her toes curling against his lapels.
"Now," Arthur grunted, his eyes dark as he looked over the tops of her knees. "Your hands are free. Use one."
Because she was sitting so close, reaching him was unavoidable. She wrapped her small hand around him. He was hard, hot, and demanding. She began to move her hand, staring fixedly at the wall, trying to dissociate with the humiliating task.
"Look at me," Arthur grunted.
Jane squeezed her eyes shut.
Arthur didn't strike her. Instead, he grabbed her ankles and pulled her feet higher, until her toes were brushing his chin.
"Look. At. Me," he hissed.
He didn't strike her. Instead, he reached up and grabbed her ankles.
with a brutal yank, he pulled her legs toward him. Jane gasped as her legs were forced to straighten, her body sliding slightly forward on the velvet. He dragged her feet upward, past his chest, until her soles were hovering directly in front of his face.
"Closer," he growled.
He buried his face in the arches of her feet. The sensation was not soft; it was an assault. The stiff, wiry bristles of his beard acted like a thousand tiny needles, scouring the delicate, sweat-dampened skin of her arches.
"AH-HAAA! NO! IT'S SH-HAAARP! K-HAAA-HA-HA!" Jane cried out, her hips jerking wildly.
"Keep pumping," he barked into her foot, the vibration of his voice buzzing against her bones.
He opened his mouth, using his teeth to graze the tender pads of her toes, before thrusting his tongue into the gap between her big toe and the second.
"EEE-YIII-HIII! NO! PLEASE! THE BRISTLES! SK-HREEE-HEEE-HEEE!"
Jane squirmed wildly, her hand slipping on him, her rhythm breaking.
Arthur slapped her thigh, hard. "Faster, girl!"
He resumed the torture. He nuzzled his nose deep into the pocket of her arch, blowing hot, wet air against the skin, then raking his beard back and forth in a violent, scrubbing motion.
"AHA-HA-HA-HA! MY LO-HORD! PLEASE! HEEE-HEEE-HMMM!"
Jane was trapped in a nightmare of sensation. Her hand worked furiously, desperate to make him finish, desperate to end the tickling. Her feet were sensitive from weeks of Annabelle’s conditioning, and Arthur’s rough, animalistic grooming was overstimulating them to the point of pain.
The smell of her own sweat, mixed with his musk and the leather, filled the air. Arthur was groaning, lost in the filth of it, worshipping the very parts of her that the Duchess found most amusing to torment.
Arthur’s hips bucked upward. He didn't just bite; he ground the coarse wool of his tweed coat against her heels while his beard ravaged her arches, sandwiching her feet between two layers of abrasive friction.
"Yes! Filthy little thing! Yes!"
"KYAAA-HAAA-HA-HAAAA! NO! IT'S TOO MU-HUCH! SK-HREEE-HEEE-HEEE!"
Jane shrieked, her voice cracking into a jagged, hysterical laugh-sob as the overstimulation shattered her control. She thrashed wildly, but she was locked in the vice of his chest and hands.
"AAAAHHH!"
With a guttural roar, he released. Jane tried to pull back, but he held her feet pinned to his chest. His release spurred out, hot and heavy, splashing across the front of her black uniform and soaking into the white linen of her apron.
He panted, his chest heaving beneath her feet, his beard wet with her sweat.
Slowly, the tension left his body. He released her ankles.
"Now," Arthur murmured, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "That is what I call a shine."
Jane scrambled off the chaise, her legs shaking so hard she collapsed onto the rug. She grabbed her boots and stockings, clutching them to her chest.
"Get out," Arthur said, closing his eyes. "And take your smell with you."
Jane didn't wait. She fled the room barefoot, the wet stain on her apron cooling rapidly in the drafty corridor, marking her with a shame that no amount of scrubbing would ever remove.
The corridor was a gauntlet of cold stone and silence. Jane ran, her bare feet making soft, wet slapping sounds against the flagstones. Her boots and stockings were clutched to her chest, a tangled mess of leather and cotton, but they offered no warmth.
The stain on her apron was cooling, turning clammy and stiff against her stomach. The scent of the Viscount—that sharp, pungent mix of brandy, leather, and spent lust—seemed to rise from the fabric like a cloud, choking her. Every shadow looked like Alice; every creak of the house sounded like the Duchess’s disappointment.
She reached the servants' quarters, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. She pushed the door open, expecting the comforting, rhythmic breathing of the sleeping staff.
She stopped dead.
Her bed—the narrow iron cot that had been hers—was different. Her belongings were no longer there.
Panic flared. Had she been fired? thrown out entirely?
Her eyes frantically scanned the long, dark room. Then, she saw it. Right next to the drafty window and the door to the scullery she saw her small trunk of belongings had been shoved roughly underneath a cot.
It was a silent, brutal demotion. Before she had even left the Viscount’s room, the house had known. The house had already judged her.
Jane crept to the washbasin at the end of the room, her hands trembling so violently she nearly dropped the pitcher. The water was freezing. She stripped off the ruined apron and the dress, scrubbing at her skin with a frantic desperation, trying to scour away the sensation of the beard bristles and the phantom weight of his release. She scrubbed until her skin was raw and red, but the smell seemed to linger in her nose, a permanent memory.
She dressed in her nightgown, shivering. She couldn't sleep. Not yet. She needed to explain. She needed Alice to know that she hadn't wanted it, that she had been trapped.
She tiptoed back up the room, past the sleeping forms of the under-maids, to the closed door of the Senior Housemaid’s private room.
She knocked. A single, timid rap.
There was a long pause. Then, the latch clicked.
Alice opened the door a crack. She was wrapped in a dressing gown, her hair in a long braid over one shoulder. She held a candle, the light casting her face in sharp relief. She didn't look sleepy. She looked like she had been waiting.
Her eyes flicked down to Jane’s scrubbed face, then to the damp hair, and finally to the trembling hands.
"Alice," Jane whispered, the tears threatening to spill over. "Please. You have to listen. It wasn't... I didn't..."
"Hush," Alice hissed, glancing past Jane into the dark dormitory. "Keep your voice down." She ushered Jane into the private quarters and closed the door.
"He made me," Jane choked out, looking up at Alice with tears standing in her eyes. "He wouldn't let me leave. He made me... service him. I tried to back away, Alice, I swear. But he trapped me."
Alice watched her, her expression unreadable. For a fleeting second, the mask of the Senior Housemaid slipped. A flicker of genuine understanding—perhaps even pity—crossed her features. Alice knew men like Penrose. She knew that when a Viscount wants a maid, the maid has very little choice in the matter.
But the flicker died as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the cold, hard wall of self-preservation.
"It does not matter what he did, Jane," Alice said, her voice devoid of emotion. "It matters what it looks like. And to the Duchess, it looks like her new favorite toy allowed a guest to play with it before she was finished."
"But I can explain to her! If you just help me—"
"I can do nothing," Alice cut her off. "The Duchess is already aware. She is... very unhappy, Jane. He was not just any guest. The Duchess had been hoping for a proposal today from the Viscount. You were supposed to be her play thing, not a common *****."
Jane flinched as if she had been slapped. "I'm not..."
"Go to bed," Alice said, stepping back and preparing to close the door. "You are back in the scullery now. Stay there. And pray that when she calls for you tomorrow, she is in a forgiving mood. Though... I wouldn't count on it."
"Alice, please!"
Alice pushed Jane out of the room and the door clicked shut. The bolt slid home.
Jane was left standing in the dark, the rejection absolute.
She turned slowly and walked the length of the room, past the sleeping women who would all know her shame by morning. She climbed into her cold cot by the window. The wind whistled through the crack in the pane, biting at her exposed skin.
She pulled the thin blanket up to her chin, curling into a tight ball to protect her ribs and her aching, abused feet. She closed her eyes, but sleep didn't come. There was only the cold, the dark, and the terrifying certainty that the real punishment hadn't even begun.
---
The Morning Room was flooded with a cruel, unforgiving light that seemed to bleach the color from the world. Duchess Annabelle sat at her writing desk, the scratching of her quill the only sound in the room.
Jane stood before the desk, her hands clasped tightly in front of her apron. She had scrubbed her skin raw, but she still felt the phantom imprint of the Viscount’s beard on her soles.
Annabelle didn't look up. She finished her sentence, sanded the ink, and set the quill down with a deliberate click.
"I tried to speak," Jane began, her voice trembling. "Your Grace, I tried to tell The Viscount—"
"Silence," Annabelle said. The word was soft, but it carried the weight of a guillotine blade.
Annabelle finally raised her eyes. They were cold, empty of the predatory amusement Jane was used to. This was worse. This was boredom. This was disgust.
"Do you know what Viscount Penrose discussed over breakfast, Jane?" Annabelle asked, standing and walking slowly around the desk. "He did not discuss the hunt. He did not discuss the estate. He certainly did not discuss a proposal. He discussed you."
Jane swallowed hard. "Me, Your Grace?"
"He found you... 'charming'," Annabelle spat the word as if it were a curse. "He found your little squeaks and your coarse, country accent 'invigorating.' He asked if he might purchase your contract."
Annabelle stopped in front of Jane, her lip curling. "You have gravely disappointed me, Jane. You allowed a guest to use you like a common milkmaid."
"He didn't give me a—" Jane cried.
"SILENCE!" Annabelle slammed her palm on the desk, fixing Jane with a look of pure venom.
"There is always a choice," Annabelle says icily. "You could have been stiff. You could have been boring. Instead, you were... vibrant for him. And now, you smell of him."
Annabelle turned to the window, looking out at the cobbled courtyard below.
"If you wish to act like livestock, Jane, I shall treat you as such. You require a cleansing. Something to strip that 'charming' country arrogance right off your skin."
Annabelle rang the heavy brass bell on her desk.
"Prepare the stocks," she ordered the footman who entered. "And tell the goatherd to bring the bucket of brine. The thick mixture."
---
The courtyard air was biting, a damp chill that seeped through Jane’s thin dress. She had been stripped of her stockings and shoes, her bare feet stumbling over the cold cobbles as Thomas the footman marched her toward the wooden apparatus in the center of the yard.
It was a cruel construction—a heavy oak pillory set high on a post, with a bench and stocks below it.
"Sit," Thomas commanded, not unkindly, but firmly.
Jane sat on the cold wooden bench. Thomas locked her ankles into the stocks. Her feet were trapped, thrust forward and splayed wide, the soles exposed to the morning air.
"Arms up."
Jane reached up. Her wrists were locked into the pillory bar above her head. The position stretched her entire body taut. Her chest was thrust forward, her back straight, and crucially, her arms were pulled high and wide, leaving her armpits completely exposed and defenseless.
Then came the goatherd. He carried a wooden bucket that smelled of the sea. He dipped a thick, coarse brush into the grey sludge—a mixture of salt, water, and molasses.
"Please," Jane whimpered as he approached her feet. "No. Please don't."
He didn't speak. He painted the viscous brine onto the soles of her feet. It was cold and slimy, coating her arches, her heels, and the sensitive spaces between her toes.
Then, he led two goats forward. They were large, shaggy beasts with rectangular pupils and restless energy. He tied one to the left of the stocks, one to the right.
The smell of the molasses hit them instantly.
The first goat lowered its head. Its tongue—a rough, wet slab of muscle meant to strip bark from trees—slapped against Jane’s left arch.
"GAAAA-HAAA!" Jane screamed, thrashing against the oak.
It wasn't just a tickle; it was a relentless, rasping abrasion. The tongue scraped over her skin, licking up the salt and syrup with a sound like sandpaper on silk.
Schhh-lurp. Rasp. Schhh-lurp.
Thomas and the goatherd walked away to leave Jane to her fate.
"NO! STOP! AHA-HA-HA-HAAA! GET OFF! GET O-HO-HO-OFF!"
Jane’s laughter was a jagged, panicked sound. Her feet jerked wildly in the stocks, but the wood held her firm. The goats were methodical. They licked the heel, they nuzzled between the toes, their rough tongues exfoliating her skin while simultaneously sending shockwaves of unbearable sensation up her legs.
"HNNNNG! IT HURTS! IT TICKLES! PLEASE! HELP MEEEE!"
She was alone in the courtyard, her screams echoing off the stone walls. Or so she thought.
From the shadow of the kitchen door, a figure emerged.
She wore a crisp, clean black dress. Her apron was blindingly white. Her cap sat perfectly straight on her head.
It was Margaret.
She walked slowly across the cobbles, her hips swaying with a new, confident rhythm. She stopped behind the stocks, out of the goats' way, but directly behind Jane’s exposed back.
"Well, well," Margaret purred, her voice right at Jane’s ear. "Look at you. The Duchess’s favorite."
"Margaret! Help me!" Jane shrieked, her head thrashing as a goat tongue dug deep into her toe-stem. "Chase them away! Please!"
"Help you?" Margaret laughed softly. She walked around the side, just enough for Jane to see the three stripes on her sleeve—the mark of the Second Housemaid. "I’m afraid I’m too busy, Jane. I have duties now. Important ones. Since someone was demoted back to the scullery."
Margaret stepped behind Jane again.
"Missed a spot," Margaret whispered, but she didn't use her own voice. She twisted the words into a crude, exaggerated country drawl—a vicious, pantomime impression of the coarse scullery girl Jane truly was.
Then, sharp, practical fingernails—so unlike the Duchess’s glass-smooth manicure—dug into the base of Jane’s elbows.
"I think I know where to look..."
Slowly, agonizingly, the nails dragged down the soft, white skin of her inner arm, heading straight for the pit.
"K-KYAAAA-HA-HA-HA! M-MARGARET! NOOOO!"
The goats rasped at her feet. Slurp-scritch-slurp.
Margaret’s nails reached the precipice of the armpit.
"You were so high and mighty," Margaret hissed. She dug her nails into the center of the hollows and began to scratch—vicious, sharp, erratic movements.
"IIII-HIII-HIIII! ST-HO-HO-HOP! NOT THERE! P-PLEEE-HEEE-HEEEASE! I CAN'T! I CA-HA-HA-HAAAAN'T!"
Jane dissolved. The combined assault of the rough tongues flaying her soles and the sharp, vindictive nails dancing in her pits shattered her composure. She hung from her wrists, her body convulsing, weeping and laughing in a jagged, broken rhythm that echoed off the cold stone walls.
Margaret leaned in close, her breath hot on Jane’s neck, her fingers never stopping their cruel dance in the armpits.
"Welcome back to the bottom, Jane," Margaret whispered. "It’s going to be a very long winter."
Jane wept, the salt of her tears mixing with the salt on her skin. The shape of her soul hadn't just changed; it had been scrubbed raw.
