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 relegated to the kitchens, and Margaret promoted back to second housemaid. Today Jane is tasked with weeding the organgery. Will she be able to keep her jealousy in check when she sees the Duchess and Alice walking together?
All characters are 18 or older
Word Count: 4,837
F/F | Feet Tickling | Tickle Torture
The dirt under Jane’s fingernails was no longer the rich, scented potting soil of the Duchess’s geraniums; it was cold, compacted grit mixed with the bitter tang of fertilizer.
It had been four days since the courtyard. Four days since the goats. Four days since she had been scrubbed from the ledgers of Wyckham Hall’s elite and plastered back into the cracks of the foundation like cheap mortar.
Jane dug her trowel into the earth around the base of a massive navel orange tree, the metal scraping against a hidden root with a jarring shhh-krrr. She winced, but not from the noise. The sound reminded her too much of the rough tongues that had flayed her soles raw. Her feet, currently stuffed into stiff, oversized gardening boots that weren't her own, still felt tender, ghost-sensations of wet scraping plaguing her every step.
Just keep your head down,she told herself, ripping a cluster of clover from the soil with unnecessary violence. Be invisible.
But being invisible was a torture she hadn't anticipated. The physical punishment of the stocks had been brutal, yes—her throat was still raspy from the screaming, and her armpits ached where Margaret’s nails had dug their trenches—but the silence that followed was worse.
The Duchess hadn't looked at her once. Not during the morning lineup, not when Jane was on her knees scrubbing the vestibule floor as Annabelle breezed past, not even now, as Jane knelt like a penitent sinner in the dirt of the Duchess’s own sanctuary. It was as if Jane had ceased to exist the moment the brine had been washed off her skin. She had been a symphony of nerves; now she was just a weed.
A soft, musical laugh drifted through the humid air of the Orangery.
Jane froze. Her hands clenched around the trowel until her knuckles turned white. She knew that laugh. It wasn't the cruel cackle of the tormentor; it was the low, throaty sound of a woman entirely at ease.
Through the screen of glossy green leaves and hanging fruit, Jane saw them.
Duchess Annabelle was walking down the central gravel path, the hem of her pale yellow walking dress sweeping the stones. She looked radiant, softer than Jane had ever seen her. And walking beside her, carrying a basket of cuttings, was Alice.
They weren't mistress and servant. In this light, in this secluded glass cathedral, they looked like conspirators.
Jane watched, her breath shallow and hot in her chest, as Annabelle paused by a particularly vibrant Seville orange tree. The Duchess reached up, her gloved hand—the same hand that had once traced Jane’s ribs with such lethal precision—selecting a perfect, star-shaped white blossom.
With a tenderness that made bile rise in Jane’s throat, Annabelle turned and tucked the flower behind Alice’s ear.
Alice didn't flinch. She didn't bow. She simply tilted her head, a small, secret smile gracing her lips as she accepted the favor.
The jealousy hit Jane like a physical blow to the stomach. It wasn't fair. Alice was cold steel and rules. Alice didn't vibrate. Alice didn't scream until she wept. Jane was the one who had bled emotion for the Duchess. Jane was the one who had shattered on the cross.
She is boring,Jane thought viciously, her eyes burning. She is a statue. I am the one who feels.
The pair continued their walk, their voices low murmurs, disappearing toward the darker, cooler end of the Orangery. They never once looked toward the worker kneeling in the dirt. They walked right past her row, treating her like part of the scenery.
Jane looked down at the tree she was tending. Right at eye level, hanging low on a fragile branch, was a single, perfect bud. It was pearlescent white, just beginning to unfurl its petals, promising a fruit of exceptional sweetness. It was the prize of the Orangery.
The Duchess loved these trees more than she loved half her staff.
A dark, corrosive thought bloomed in Jane’s mind. If she couldn't be the flower behind the ear, she would be the blight on the branch. If she couldn't make the Duchess smile, she would make her angry. Anger was heat. Anger was attention. Anger was better than this cold, grey nothingness.
Jane stood up, checking the path. The voices had faded. She was alone with the prize.
She lifted her heavy, mud-caked boot. She didn't hesitate. She brought her heel down hard on the low-hanging branch.
CRUNCH.
The sound was sickeningly wet. The branch snapped, and the perfect white bud was ground into the gritty, fertilized earth. Jane twisted her heel, grinding the delicate petals into a brown, ruined smear against the stone border.
She stepped back, breathing hard, staring at the destruction. It was a small thing—a single flower—but in the perfection of the Orangery, it looked like a murder scene.
Panic instantly replaced the rage. What have I done?
If they found it now, they would know. She was the only one in this rows.
Trembling, Jane dropped to her knees. She frantically scooped a handful of dark soil and scattered it over the crushed petals, burying the white evidence under a layer of brown anonymity. She adjusted a fern frond to hang lower, obscuring the snapped twig.
It wasn't perfect, but in the dimming evening light, it might pass.
Jane grabbed her bucket and trowel, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She didn't wait to be dismissed. she skirted the edge of the glass house, slipping out the servant’s side door, hoping—praying—that her little act of rebellion would be lost in the shadows.
I got away with it, she thought, the cold night air hitting her flushed face. She didn't see.
---
The scullery was a kingdom of steam, noise, and the pervasive smell of boiled grease. It was a sensory assault that stood in stark, ugly contrast to the humid silence of the Orangery.
Jane stood at the deep stone sink, her arms submerged to the elbows in grey, lukewarm water. She was scrubbing a roasting pan with a ball of wire wool, the rhythmic shhh-shhh-shhh a hypnotic sound that slowly began to quiet the frantic thumping of her heart.
She had been back for two hours. No one had come.
The dinner service was in full swing upstairs, meaning the Duchess was occupied. The gardeners would have gone home for the night. The Orangery was empty.
Jane let out a long, shaky breath, her shoulders dropping an inch. It’s dark, she reasoned, attacking a stubborn spot of burnt gravy. They won’t see the broken branch until morning. By then, a rat could have done it. Or the wind.
A small, secret smile touched her lips. She had left a mark. She had destroyed something beautiful, and she had gotten away with it. For the first time in days, she felt a flicker of the old spark—the dangerous thrill of having done something forbidden.
"Stop daydreaming and scrub," Cook barked from the stove, slamming a cleaver into a side of beef. "That pan needs to be spotless before you leave."
"Yes, Cook," Jane said, scrubbing harder, feeling almost light. The pan was nearly done. Another ten minutes, and she could crawl into her cot and sleep.
The heavy oak door to the servants' corridor didn't creak. It didn't open. It exploded inward.
BANG.
The door hit the stone wall with a violence that shook the spice jars on the shelf. The noise of the kitchen died instantly. The chopping stopped. The scrubbing stopped. Even the fire in the grate seemed to hold its breath.
Alice stood in the doorway.
She was not wearing her usual serene mask. Her face was pale, tight with a contained fury that was far more terrifying than shouting. She wore her full Senior Housemaid blacks, but her sleeves were rolled up past her elbows, revealing forearms that looked capable of strangling a wolf.
Her eyes scanned the room, bypassing the terrified kitchen maids, bypassing the Cook, and locking onto Jane with the precision of a rifle sight.
Jane froze, the soapy water soaking into her sleeves. Her false sense of security shattered like dropped glass. She saw the recognition in Alice’s eyes—the absolute, undeniable knowledge of exactly who had been in the Orangery, and exactly what had been done.
Alice didn't speak. She crossed the flagstone floor in three long, predatory strides.
"Alice, I—" Jane started, breathless, her hands coming up defensively.
Alice ignored her. Her hand shot out, grabbing Jane by the loose fabric at the nape of her neck. She didn't pull; she yanked. Jane stumbled backward, her wet hands flailing, grey dishwater splashing onto the floor.
"Hey!" Cook shouted, brandishing a ladle. "She's not finished the—"
"The Duchess requires her," Alice said, her voice a shard of ice that cut the Cook off mid-sentence. "Now."
Alice propelled Jane toward the door. Jane’s feet scrambled for purchase on the wet stones, her heavy boots skidding.
"Alice! Alice, please! What did I do?" Jane cried, playing the innocent, though her stomach was twisting into knots.
They exited the warmth of the kitchen into the cold draft of the stone corridor. Alice didn't answer. She marched Jane forward, her grip on the collar unwavering, steering her with a strength that belied her slender frame.
They didn't turn toward the servant's quarters. They turned left—toward the heavy, green-baize door that separated the staff from the family.
Jane’s blood ran cold. "The... the Front of House? But I'm filthy! Look at me!"
Alice stopped abruptly. She shoved Jane against the wall, leaning in close. Her eyes were hard flint.
"Filth is what you are, Jane," Alice hissed, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "You thought you could hide it? You thought dirt would cover it?"
She grabbed Jane’s chin, forcing her to look up.
"You cannot bury a mistake in her garden, Jane. Hiding the damage only proved the guilt. And she is waiting."
Alice released her with a shove. "Move."
They moved faster now, Jane stumbling to keep up. The air changed, growing cooler and smelling faintly of beeswax and lavender. The floorboards under her feet changed from rough oak to polished parquet.
They reached the grand glass doors of the Orangery. It was fully dark outside now, and the glasshouse was a cavern of shadows, lit only by the pale, milky light of the moon filtering through the high panes.
Alice stopped at the threshold. She released Jane’s collar with a final push that sent Jane stumbling forward onto the gravel path.
"On your knees," Alice commanded.
Jane fell to the gravel, the sharp stones biting through her skirt. She looked up.
At the far end of the path, illuminated by a single, flickering lantern placed on a long potting bench, stood Duchess Annabelle.
She was still wearing her yellow walking dress, but she had thrown a heavy fur stole over her shoulders against the night chill. She was holding something in her gloved hand—a small, crushed piece of white and green vegetation.
She wasn't looking at the plant. She was looking at Jane. And unlike the bored dismissal of the last four days, her eyes were now blazing with a cold, focused intent.
"Bring her," Annabelle said. Her voice was soft, barely a whisper, but it carried down the length of the glass house like a thunderclap.
Alice grabbed Jane’s arm, hauling her up. "Walk. And pray."
The walk down the center of the Orangery felt like a funeral procession. The air was thick and humid, smelling of damp earth and the cloying sweetness of jasmine, but Jane was shivering violently.
They reached the potting bench. It was a sturdy, waist-high table made of rough-hewn oak, stained dark with years of soil and water.
Duchess Annabelle stood beside it, motionless as a statue. She held the ruined blossom between her thumb and forefinger, rotating it slowly in the lantern light.
"It takes five years for a Seville tree to mature, Jane," Annabelle said, her voice conversant, almost pleasant. "Five years of pruning, feeding, and protection from the frost. It is a labor of love. A labor of patience."
She finally looked up from the crushed bud. Her eyes were hard chips of flint.
"And it takes less than a second for a clumsy, jealous foot to destroy it."
Jane swallowed hard, her throat dry as dust. "Your Grace, I... I stumbled. My boot caught on a root and—"
"Do not lie to me!" Annabelle snapped, the pleasantness evaporating instantly. "The heel mark was deliberate. It was a pivot, Jane. An act of violence."
She dropped the ruined flower onto the bench as if it were contaminated.
"You wanted to be noticed," Annabelle whispered, stepping closer until the fur of her stole brushed Jane’s arm. "You found silence unbearable, so you decided to scream. Very well. Let us see if you enjoy the attention."
"Alice," Annabelle commanded. "Prepare the canvas."
Alice moved efficiently. "Boots off. Stockings off."
Jane fumbled with her laces, her fingers stiff with cold and fear. As she peeled off the heavy gardening boots and the thick woolen stockings, the cool, damp air of the Orangery hit her bare skin. Her feet were pale and sweaty, the arches high and trembling against the dark gravel.
"Up," Alice commanded.
Jane was shoved face-down onto the potting bench. The wood was rough and cold against her cheek, crying out the smell of fertilizer and damp earth. Alice grabbed Jane’s wrists and pulled them forward, tying them securely with rough twine to the iron trellis.
Then came the feet. Alice took a spool of thin, green gardener’s twine. She pressed Jane's shins flat against the wood. She tied the ankles together to keep the legs aligned and anchored them to the bench, stretching Jane out. Then she wrapped the twine tightly around Jane’s big toes, lashing them together. Finally, she looped the twine around the smaller toes, pulling them outward and anchoring them to the bench.
The result was a masterpiece of exposure: Jane’s soles were stretched drum-tight, the arches forced to protrude, the toes splayed wide and immobile. She couldn't curl them. She couldn't hide.
Jane lay there, her heart hammering. She closed her eyes, waiting for the Duchess. She waited for the silk. She waited for the perfume. Touch me, she pleaded silently. Just get it over with.
But the Duchess didn't move toward the bench. She reached into her pocket and rang a small silver bell.
Ting-a-ling.
From the shadows, boots crunched on gravel.
Jane twisted her neck. Margaret stepped into the lantern light.
She was wearing her Second Housemaid uniform—crisp black, white apron—but she held a stiff, short-handled horsehair brush in her hand. Her face held a smile of pure, incredulous triumph.
"No..." Jane breathed.
Annabelle adjusted her fur stole, looking bored. She turned her back on the bench, facing the exit.
"I am weary, Margaret," Annabelle said, waving a dismissal hand over her shoulder. "She is a weed. Treat her like one. I shall be in the library."
Annabelle began to walk away. She had no interest in watching a massacre.
Margaret watched the Duchess retreating. Panic flickered in her eyes. She had an audience for only seconds. She needed to prove she belonged here.
"With pleasure, Your Grace," Margaret rasped.
She hurried to the bench and knelt before the end of the bench, the gravel crunching under her knees. She looked down at the pale, trembling soles with a hungry, sadistic glint in her eyes.
"Hello again, Jane," Margaret grumbled. "Ready to be cleaned?"
Jane pulled against the straps, panic flooding her chest. This wasn't going to be the beautiful, erotic torture of the Duchess. This was going to be a beating.
"Your Grace! Please!" Jane cried out, looking frantically at the retreating Annabelle. "Not her! Please, anyone but her!"
Margaret placed the horsehair brush on the ground beside her.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk," came Margaret's voice, dripping with mock concern.
She leaned in closer, her breath hot on Jane’s heels.
"Would you look at that, Your Grace," Margaret said loudly, ensuring Annabelle could hear. "She’s missed a spot. Right here on the arch. A tiny speck of scullery filth."
Margaret reached out. She extended her index finger, her nail rough and chipped from years of scrubbing floors.
She placed the very tip of her nail in the center of Jane’s left arch.
Jane flinched violently, a strangled gasp tearing from her throat. "Hhh-uh!"
"Hold still," Margaret hissed.
She began to move her nail. It wasn't a caress; it was a microscopic torment. She traced a agonizingly slow spiral, starting from the center of the arch and widening outward. The roughness of her nail caught on the fine ridges of Jane’s skin, sending electric jolts of sensation shooting up her leg.
"We can't have dirt in the Duchess's Orangery, can we?" Margaret murmured.
She reached the heel and reversed, dragging her nail back down in a series of tight, erratic figure-eights.
"Nnn-gh! Mmm-hmmm!" Jane buried her face in the rough wood, her shoulders shaking. The sensation was maddening—a sharp, ticklish itch that she couldn't scratch, couldn't kick away, couldn't escape.
"Is that laughter I hear?" Margaret teased, digging her nail deeper into the tender hollow just below the ball of the foot. "Are you a widdle ticklish, Jane?" Margaret asked in a mocking baby-voice.
"N-no! Please! Stap-ha-ha-ha!"
Jane cracked. The laughter bubbled up, unbidden and desperate, a jagged, weeping sound. She thrashed against the twine, her hips bucking, but her feet remained trapped in Margaret's grip.
Annabelle had been ready to leave the distasteful scene to her proxy. But at the sound of Jane’s desperate, broken giggle, she paused and turned. She watched the way Jane’s body jerked, the way the muscles in her calves knotted and released. A slow, dark smile spread across her lips.
Margaret paused, her nail hovering just above the skin, letting Jane hang in the terrifying silence of the 'almost-touch.' She looked over her shoulder at the Duchess, an eager, questioning grin on her face.
The Duchess didn't leave. Instead, she walked back to a wicker garden chair set beneath a lemon tree and sat down with a languid grace. She snapped her fingers at Alice.
"Brandy, Alice," Annabelle commanded, her eyes never leaving Jane’s twitching feet. "And bring the lamp closer. I wish to see the work."
Margaret beamed, her chest puffing with pride. She had an audience. She had approval.
She turned back to Jane, her expression hardening. The teasing spirals were done. It was time for the scour.
"Well then," Margaret whispered, picking up the stiff horsehair brush. "Let's get you properly clean."
She didn't start gently. She slammed the bristles into the sensitive skin of Jane’s arches and began to scrub.
"AAAAHHH! NO! NO! IT'S TOO SH-HAAARP!"
Jane screamed, a raw, piercing sound that shattered the quiet of the glasshouse.
Margaret worked with the rhythmic violence of a woman scrubbing a stained floor. Scritch-scratch-scritch. She sawed the brush back and forth, the stiff horsehair bristles digging into the soft, conditioned skin, finding every nerve ending and overloading it with crude, abrasive friction.
"LOUDER!" Margaret shouted over the screams, scrubbing faster, harder.
Caught up in the frenzy of the task, Margaret scrambled up from her knees. She planted her feet wide in the gravel, bending at the waist to put the full weight of her shoulders behind the brush. She was no longer tending a plant; she was scouring a deck. She moved the brush to the toes, jamming the bristles into the spaces between them.
"YIIIII-HEEEE! NOT THE TOOO-HOO-HOES! AHA-HA-HA-HAAA! COOK! COO-HOO-HOOK!" In her delirium, Jane cried out for the only authority figure she had known for days.
Annabelle took the glass of brandy from Alice, swirling the amber liquid. She watched over the rim of the glass, her brow furrowing slightly.
This wasn't music. This was noise.
Margaret was enthusiastic, yes, but she was clumsy. She was purely aggressive. She was treating the feet like dead wood, not living instruments. Jane’s laughter was there, but it was drowned out by shrieks of simple pain. It lacked the nuanced, vibrating edge of pleasurable agony that Annabelle craved.
Margaret, oblivious to the shift in mood, grabbed Jane’s ankle with her free hand to hold it steady and brought the brush down on the heel with a heavy thwack-scritch motion.
"Get clean, you little brat!" Margaret grunted. "Scrub! Scrub! Scrub!"
"IIII-HIII-HIIII! STOP! IT BU-HURTS! IIIII CAN'T TAKE IT! AAAAAH-HA-HA-HAAAA!"
Jane was sobbing now, her face wet with tears and snot against the potting bench. The sensation was overwhelming—a wall of prickly, scratching fire that offered no rhythm, no build-up, just constant, sensory assault.
Annabelle set her glass down on the side table with a sharp clink.
"Enough," she said.
The word cut through the humid air like a lash.
Margaret froze, the brush hovering inches from Jane’s inflamed sole. She turned to the Duchess, sweat beading on her lip, expecting praise.
"Your Grace?" Margaret panted. "I... I haven't finished the toes yet."
Annabelle stood up. She smoothed her yellow silk skirt. She didn't look pleased. She looked insulted.
"You are boring me, Margaret," Annabelle said, walking toward the bench. She stopped at the foot of the potting bench and looked down at the housemaid with an expression of mild distaste, as if Margaret were a smudge on a wine glass.
"Boring?" Margaret stammered, the brush trembling in her hand. "But... she is screaming. I am scouring the filth, just as you said."
"You are simply... sawing," Annabelle said, plucking the brush from Margaret’s grip with two fingers. "You treat the foot like dead wood. You attack the surface. There is no cadence. No conversation with the nerves."
Annabelle pointed a gloved finger at the gravel.
"Kneel."
Margaret blinked. "Your Grace?"
"Kneel," Annabelle commanded, her voice dropping an octave. "You wish to rise in this house? Then you must learn to listen. On your knees, Margaret. And watch closely."
Flushed with a mix of shame and confusion, Margaret dropped to her knees in the sharp gravel. She was now eye-level with Jane’s feet again—red, inflamed, and twitching from the abuse.
Annabelle turned to the shelf of gardening supplies behind her. She bypassed the shears and the twine. Her hand settled on a small, amber glass bottle.
Concentrated Oil of Orange.
She uncorked it, the sharp, zesty scent cutting through the humid air of the glasshouse.
"The skin is too dry," Annabelle lectured, stepping closer to the bench. She hovered the amber bottle directly over Jane’s exposed, red-raw right foot. "Dry friction creates resistance. Resistance creates pain. Pain effectively shuts the mind down."
She tilted the bottle. A thick, golden stream of the concentrated oil splashed onto the hot, abraded skin of Jane's arches.
"Hhh-sst!" Jane hissed, her feet jerking hard against the twine. The thermal shock of the cool liquid hitting her inflamed skin was startling, and the sharp citric acidity sizzled in the pores Margaret had just scrubbed open.
Annabelle watched with satisfaction as the heavy liquid coated the heel and pooled in the deep curve of the arch, turning the angry red skin into a glistening, golden landscape.
"We do not want her mind to shut down, Margaret," Annabelle murmured.
Annabelle stepped before Jane's ankles. She held the brush loosely between her thumb and forefinger.
Jane whimpered, bracing herself for another scour. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Annabelle lowered the brush. She didn't strike. She didn't scrub. She brought the saturated bristles down until they barely kissed the inflamed skin of Jane’s right arch.
She began to swirl.
"Heee-heee-heee! OH! OH GOD!"
Jane’s head snapped back. The sensation was electric. The oil eliminated the drag. The stiff bristles didn't scratch anymore; they skittered. They danced over the raw, sensitized nerve endings with a slippery, lightning-fast friction that felt like a thousand wet insect legs scurrying across her skin.
"Do you see?" Annabelle asked Margaret, her voice calm and academic over Jane’s shrieks. "The oil creates a glide. It confuses the nerves. The brain cannot decide if it is being hurt or caressed, so it panics."
"AHAHA-HA-HA-HAAAA! NO! NO! IT TICKLES! IT'S WOOO-HOO-HORSE! STO-HO-HOP!"
Jane thrashed against the wood, her feet gleaming with oil in the lantern light. The stretching of the twine kept her soles exposed, creating a taut canvas of flesh that rippled with every touch. Because of the oil, she couldn't get any traction against the brush. The sensation just slid deeper and deeper into the muscle.
Annabelle increased the speed. She stopped swirling and began to flutter the brush rapidly up and down the length of the arch. Whisk-whisk-whisk.
"Look at the toes, Margaret," Annabelle pointed out. "See how they try to curl? That is the desperation. That is the music."
"PLEASE! MISTRESS! IIIII-HIII-HIIII! NOT THE ARCH! AHA-HA-HA-HAAA! I'LL BE GOOD!"
Margaret watched, her mouth slightly open. She saw the difference. Her scrubbing had produced ugly, guttural screams. This... this was different. Jane was vibrating. She was laughing, sobbing, and begging all at once. The sound was bright, jagged, and terrifyingly intimate.
Annabelle moved to the toes. She turned the brush sideways, using the oil-slicked edge to saw gently back and forth across the stretched skin of the toe-stems.
"Are you sorry, Jane?" Annabelle asked, flicking the bristles over the sensitive pad of the big tip.
"YES! YES! I'M SO-HO-HORRY! AHA-HA-HA-HAAA!"
"Are you jealous?" Annabelle pressed, digging the bristles into the webbing between the second and third toe.
"YES! I'M JEA-HEA-HEALOUS! I WANTED YOU TO LOOO-HOO-HOOVE ME!"
The confession hung in the air, raw and wet.
Annabelle stopped. The brush hovered inches from the skin, dripping oil onto the gravel.
Jane gasped for air, her chest heaving against the bench, sweat dripping from her nose. Her feet were glistening, red, and beautiful.
"Love?" Annabelle repeated, softly.
She reached out with her free hand—her left hand, gloved in soft kidskin leather. She placed it on Jane’s calf, kneading the knotted muscle gently.
"You don't want my love, Jane," Annabelle whispered, leaning down until her lips were close to the sole of the foot. "Love is boring. Love is safe."
She brought the brush back down, hard and fast, attacking the deep, defenseless center of the arch with a frenzy of circular strokes.
"You want my OBSESSION!"
"KYAAAA-HAAA-HA-HA-HAAA! YES! YES! MISTRESS! PLEEE-HEEE-HEEEASE!"
Annabelle lost herself in the rhythm for a full minute, driving Jane higher and higher into a state of delirious, laughing bliss-agony. Margaret watched the Duchess's face—it was flushed, excited, alive in a way Margaret had never seen in the scullery.
Finally, with a flourish, Annabelle tossed the brush onto the gravel. It landed near Margaret’s knee.
Annabelle grabbed Jane’s oily ankles with both hands, her grip firm and possessive. She leaned down and pressed a single, lingering kiss to the slick, pulsing heated skin of Jane’s right arch.
Jane froze, her laughter dying in her throat, replaced by a shocked, broken sob.
Annabelle stood up. She took a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped the oil from her lips, her eyes bright and wild.
"Alice," she called out, her voice ringing with satisfaction. "Cut her down. And have a bath drawn in my suite. The one with the rose oil."
Annabelle finally looked down at Margaret. The Second Housemaid was still kneeling, looking small and utterly outclassed.
"You may go, Margaret, go back to your pans," Annabelle said, her voice returning to its usual cold boredom. "You have seen the technique. But do not attempt to replicate it. You lack the... delicacy."
Margaret froze. A flicker of indignation fought through her fear.
"My... might I ask, Your Grace?" Margaret stammered, her voice small and quivering. "My pans? But... I am Second Housemaid now. You promoted me yourself."
Annabelle paused. She looked at Margaret, really looked at her, for the first time that night. Her expression didn't change. There was no apology, no realization. There was only a cold, predatory indifference.
"Did I?" Annabelle murmured, her gaze sliding off Margaret and back to Jane’s twitching feet. "I don't recall. But if this clumsy display is the best you can offer... perhaps the scullery is exactly where you belong."
Annabelle waved a dismissive hand, shooing her away like a fly. "Go. Before I decide to have you scrub the kennels instead."
Margaret made a choked, strangled sound. The demotion was casual, instantaneous, and absolute. She cast one last, hate-filled look at Jane—who was still sobbing into the wood—before turning and fleeing into the shadows, her footsteps heavy with shame.
Annabelle turned back to Jane, a cruel, beautiful smile curling her lips.
"It seems our little weed has earned a place in the bouquet after all. Bring her up when she is clean, Alice. I think I have a new use for those... vocal cords."
With a swirl of yellow silk, Duchess Annabelle turned and walked back toward the house, leaving Jane panting, weeping, and smiling into the rough wood of the potting bench.
Next 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 relegated to the kitchens, and Margaret promoted back to second housemaid. Today Jane is tasked with weeding the organgery. Will she be able to keep her jealousy in check when she sees the Duchess and Alice walking together?
All characters are 18 or older
Word Count: 4,837
F/F | Feet Tickling | Tickle Torture
The dirt under Jane’s fingernails was no longer the rich, scented potting soil of the Duchess’s geraniums; it was cold, compacted grit mixed with the bitter tang of fertilizer.
It had been four days since the courtyard. Four days since the goats. Four days since she had been scrubbed from the ledgers of Wyckham Hall’s elite and plastered back into the cracks of the foundation like cheap mortar.
Jane dug her trowel into the earth around the base of a massive navel orange tree, the metal scraping against a hidden root with a jarring shhh-krrr. She winced, but not from the noise. The sound reminded her too much of the rough tongues that had flayed her soles raw. Her feet, currently stuffed into stiff, oversized gardening boots that weren't her own, still felt tender, ghost-sensations of wet scraping plaguing her every step.
Just keep your head down,she told herself, ripping a cluster of clover from the soil with unnecessary violence. Be invisible.
But being invisible was a torture she hadn't anticipated. The physical punishment of the stocks had been brutal, yes—her throat was still raspy from the screaming, and her armpits ached where Margaret’s nails had dug their trenches—but the silence that followed was worse.
The Duchess hadn't looked at her once. Not during the morning lineup, not when Jane was on her knees scrubbing the vestibule floor as Annabelle breezed past, not even now, as Jane knelt like a penitent sinner in the dirt of the Duchess’s own sanctuary. It was as if Jane had ceased to exist the moment the brine had been washed off her skin. She had been a symphony of nerves; now she was just a weed.
A soft, musical laugh drifted through the humid air of the Orangery.
Jane froze. Her hands clenched around the trowel until her knuckles turned white. She knew that laugh. It wasn't the cruel cackle of the tormentor; it was the low, throaty sound of a woman entirely at ease.
Through the screen of glossy green leaves and hanging fruit, Jane saw them.
Duchess Annabelle was walking down the central gravel path, the hem of her pale yellow walking dress sweeping the stones. She looked radiant, softer than Jane had ever seen her. And walking beside her, carrying a basket of cuttings, was Alice.
They weren't mistress and servant. In this light, in this secluded glass cathedral, they looked like conspirators.
Jane watched, her breath shallow and hot in her chest, as Annabelle paused by a particularly vibrant Seville orange tree. The Duchess reached up, her gloved hand—the same hand that had once traced Jane’s ribs with such lethal precision—selecting a perfect, star-shaped white blossom.
With a tenderness that made bile rise in Jane’s throat, Annabelle turned and tucked the flower behind Alice’s ear.
Alice didn't flinch. She didn't bow. She simply tilted her head, a small, secret smile gracing her lips as she accepted the favor.
The jealousy hit Jane like a physical blow to the stomach. It wasn't fair. Alice was cold steel and rules. Alice didn't vibrate. Alice didn't scream until she wept. Jane was the one who had bled emotion for the Duchess. Jane was the one who had shattered on the cross.
She is boring,Jane thought viciously, her eyes burning. She is a statue. I am the one who feels.
The pair continued their walk, their voices low murmurs, disappearing toward the darker, cooler end of the Orangery. They never once looked toward the worker kneeling in the dirt. They walked right past her row, treating her like part of the scenery.
Jane looked down at the tree she was tending. Right at eye level, hanging low on a fragile branch, was a single, perfect bud. It was pearlescent white, just beginning to unfurl its petals, promising a fruit of exceptional sweetness. It was the prize of the Orangery.
The Duchess loved these trees more than she loved half her staff.
A dark, corrosive thought bloomed in Jane’s mind. If she couldn't be the flower behind the ear, she would be the blight on the branch. If she couldn't make the Duchess smile, she would make her angry. Anger was heat. Anger was attention. Anger was better than this cold, grey nothingness.
Jane stood up, checking the path. The voices had faded. She was alone with the prize.
She lifted her heavy, mud-caked boot. She didn't hesitate. She brought her heel down hard on the low-hanging branch.
CRUNCH.
The sound was sickeningly wet. The branch snapped, and the perfect white bud was ground into the gritty, fertilized earth. Jane twisted her heel, grinding the delicate petals into a brown, ruined smear against the stone border.
She stepped back, breathing hard, staring at the destruction. It was a small thing—a single flower—but in the perfection of the Orangery, it looked like a murder scene.
Panic instantly replaced the rage. What have I done?
If they found it now, they would know. She was the only one in this rows.
Trembling, Jane dropped to her knees. She frantically scooped a handful of dark soil and scattered it over the crushed petals, burying the white evidence under a layer of brown anonymity. She adjusted a fern frond to hang lower, obscuring the snapped twig.
It wasn't perfect, but in the dimming evening light, it might pass.
Jane grabbed her bucket and trowel, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She didn't wait to be dismissed. she skirted the edge of the glass house, slipping out the servant’s side door, hoping—praying—that her little act of rebellion would be lost in the shadows.
I got away with it, she thought, the cold night air hitting her flushed face. She didn't see.
---
The scullery was a kingdom of steam, noise, and the pervasive smell of boiled grease. It was a sensory assault that stood in stark, ugly contrast to the humid silence of the Orangery.
Jane stood at the deep stone sink, her arms submerged to the elbows in grey, lukewarm water. She was scrubbing a roasting pan with a ball of wire wool, the rhythmic shhh-shhh-shhh a hypnotic sound that slowly began to quiet the frantic thumping of her heart.
She had been back for two hours. No one had come.
The dinner service was in full swing upstairs, meaning the Duchess was occupied. The gardeners would have gone home for the night. The Orangery was empty.
Jane let out a long, shaky breath, her shoulders dropping an inch. It’s dark, she reasoned, attacking a stubborn spot of burnt gravy. They won’t see the broken branch until morning. By then, a rat could have done it. Or the wind.
A small, secret smile touched her lips. She had left a mark. She had destroyed something beautiful, and she had gotten away with it. For the first time in days, she felt a flicker of the old spark—the dangerous thrill of having done something forbidden.
"Stop daydreaming and scrub," Cook barked from the stove, slamming a cleaver into a side of beef. "That pan needs to be spotless before you leave."
"Yes, Cook," Jane said, scrubbing harder, feeling almost light. The pan was nearly done. Another ten minutes, and she could crawl into her cot and sleep.
The heavy oak door to the servants' corridor didn't creak. It didn't open. It exploded inward.
BANG.
The door hit the stone wall with a violence that shook the spice jars on the shelf. The noise of the kitchen died instantly. The chopping stopped. The scrubbing stopped. Even the fire in the grate seemed to hold its breath.
Alice stood in the doorway.
She was not wearing her usual serene mask. Her face was pale, tight with a contained fury that was far more terrifying than shouting. She wore her full Senior Housemaid blacks, but her sleeves were rolled up past her elbows, revealing forearms that looked capable of strangling a wolf.
Her eyes scanned the room, bypassing the terrified kitchen maids, bypassing the Cook, and locking onto Jane with the precision of a rifle sight.
Jane froze, the soapy water soaking into her sleeves. Her false sense of security shattered like dropped glass. She saw the recognition in Alice’s eyes—the absolute, undeniable knowledge of exactly who had been in the Orangery, and exactly what had been done.
Alice didn't speak. She crossed the flagstone floor in three long, predatory strides.
"Alice, I—" Jane started, breathless, her hands coming up defensively.
Alice ignored her. Her hand shot out, grabbing Jane by the loose fabric at the nape of her neck. She didn't pull; she yanked. Jane stumbled backward, her wet hands flailing, grey dishwater splashing onto the floor.
"Hey!" Cook shouted, brandishing a ladle. "She's not finished the—"
"The Duchess requires her," Alice said, her voice a shard of ice that cut the Cook off mid-sentence. "Now."
Alice propelled Jane toward the door. Jane’s feet scrambled for purchase on the wet stones, her heavy boots skidding.
"Alice! Alice, please! What did I do?" Jane cried, playing the innocent, though her stomach was twisting into knots.
They exited the warmth of the kitchen into the cold draft of the stone corridor. Alice didn't answer. She marched Jane forward, her grip on the collar unwavering, steering her with a strength that belied her slender frame.
They didn't turn toward the servant's quarters. They turned left—toward the heavy, green-baize door that separated the staff from the family.
Jane’s blood ran cold. "The... the Front of House? But I'm filthy! Look at me!"
Alice stopped abruptly. She shoved Jane against the wall, leaning in close. Her eyes were hard flint.
"Filth is what you are, Jane," Alice hissed, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "You thought you could hide it? You thought dirt would cover it?"
She grabbed Jane’s chin, forcing her to look up.
"You cannot bury a mistake in her garden, Jane. Hiding the damage only proved the guilt. And she is waiting."
Alice released her with a shove. "Move."
They moved faster now, Jane stumbling to keep up. The air changed, growing cooler and smelling faintly of beeswax and lavender. The floorboards under her feet changed from rough oak to polished parquet.
They reached the grand glass doors of the Orangery. It was fully dark outside now, and the glasshouse was a cavern of shadows, lit only by the pale, milky light of the moon filtering through the high panes.
Alice stopped at the threshold. She released Jane’s collar with a final push that sent Jane stumbling forward onto the gravel path.
"On your knees," Alice commanded.
Jane fell to the gravel, the sharp stones biting through her skirt. She looked up.
At the far end of the path, illuminated by a single, flickering lantern placed on a long potting bench, stood Duchess Annabelle.
She was still wearing her yellow walking dress, but she had thrown a heavy fur stole over her shoulders against the night chill. She was holding something in her gloved hand—a small, crushed piece of white and green vegetation.
She wasn't looking at the plant. She was looking at Jane. And unlike the bored dismissal of the last four days, her eyes were now blazing with a cold, focused intent.
"Bring her," Annabelle said. Her voice was soft, barely a whisper, but it carried down the length of the glass house like a thunderclap.
Alice grabbed Jane’s arm, hauling her up. "Walk. And pray."
The walk down the center of the Orangery felt like a funeral procession. The air was thick and humid, smelling of damp earth and the cloying sweetness of jasmine, but Jane was shivering violently.
They reached the potting bench. It was a sturdy, waist-high table made of rough-hewn oak, stained dark with years of soil and water.
Duchess Annabelle stood beside it, motionless as a statue. She held the ruined blossom between her thumb and forefinger, rotating it slowly in the lantern light.
"It takes five years for a Seville tree to mature, Jane," Annabelle said, her voice conversant, almost pleasant. "Five years of pruning, feeding, and protection from the frost. It is a labor of love. A labor of patience."
She finally looked up from the crushed bud. Her eyes were hard chips of flint.
"And it takes less than a second for a clumsy, jealous foot to destroy it."
Jane swallowed hard, her throat dry as dust. "Your Grace, I... I stumbled. My boot caught on a root and—"
"Do not lie to me!" Annabelle snapped, the pleasantness evaporating instantly. "The heel mark was deliberate. It was a pivot, Jane. An act of violence."
She dropped the ruined flower onto the bench as if it were contaminated.
"You wanted to be noticed," Annabelle whispered, stepping closer until the fur of her stole brushed Jane’s arm. "You found silence unbearable, so you decided to scream. Very well. Let us see if you enjoy the attention."
"Alice," Annabelle commanded. "Prepare the canvas."
Alice moved efficiently. "Boots off. Stockings off."
Jane fumbled with her laces, her fingers stiff with cold and fear. As she peeled off the heavy gardening boots and the thick woolen stockings, the cool, damp air of the Orangery hit her bare skin. Her feet were pale and sweaty, the arches high and trembling against the dark gravel.
"Up," Alice commanded.
Jane was shoved face-down onto the potting bench. The wood was rough and cold against her cheek, crying out the smell of fertilizer and damp earth. Alice grabbed Jane’s wrists and pulled them forward, tying them securely with rough twine to the iron trellis.
Then came the feet. Alice took a spool of thin, green gardener’s twine. She pressed Jane's shins flat against the wood. She tied the ankles together to keep the legs aligned and anchored them to the bench, stretching Jane out. Then she wrapped the twine tightly around Jane’s big toes, lashing them together. Finally, she looped the twine around the smaller toes, pulling them outward and anchoring them to the bench.
The result was a masterpiece of exposure: Jane’s soles were stretched drum-tight, the arches forced to protrude, the toes splayed wide and immobile. She couldn't curl them. She couldn't hide.
Jane lay there, her heart hammering. She closed her eyes, waiting for the Duchess. She waited for the silk. She waited for the perfume. Touch me, she pleaded silently. Just get it over with.
But the Duchess didn't move toward the bench. She reached into her pocket and rang a small silver bell.
Ting-a-ling.
From the shadows, boots crunched on gravel.
Jane twisted her neck. Margaret stepped into the lantern light.
She was wearing her Second Housemaid uniform—crisp black, white apron—but she held a stiff, short-handled horsehair brush in her hand. Her face held a smile of pure, incredulous triumph.
"No..." Jane breathed.
Annabelle adjusted her fur stole, looking bored. She turned her back on the bench, facing the exit.
"I am weary, Margaret," Annabelle said, waving a dismissal hand over her shoulder. "She is a weed. Treat her like one. I shall be in the library."
Annabelle began to walk away. She had no interest in watching a massacre.
Margaret watched the Duchess retreating. Panic flickered in her eyes. She had an audience for only seconds. She needed to prove she belonged here.
"With pleasure, Your Grace," Margaret rasped.
She hurried to the bench and knelt before the end of the bench, the gravel crunching under her knees. She looked down at the pale, trembling soles with a hungry, sadistic glint in her eyes.
"Hello again, Jane," Margaret grumbled. "Ready to be cleaned?"
Jane pulled against the straps, panic flooding her chest. This wasn't going to be the beautiful, erotic torture of the Duchess. This was going to be a beating.
"Your Grace! Please!" Jane cried out, looking frantically at the retreating Annabelle. "Not her! Please, anyone but her!"
Margaret placed the horsehair brush on the ground beside her.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk," came Margaret's voice, dripping with mock concern.
She leaned in closer, her breath hot on Jane’s heels.
"Would you look at that, Your Grace," Margaret said loudly, ensuring Annabelle could hear. "She’s missed a spot. Right here on the arch. A tiny speck of scullery filth."
Margaret reached out. She extended her index finger, her nail rough and chipped from years of scrubbing floors.
She placed the very tip of her nail in the center of Jane’s left arch.
Jane flinched violently, a strangled gasp tearing from her throat. "Hhh-uh!"
"Hold still," Margaret hissed.
She began to move her nail. It wasn't a caress; it was a microscopic torment. She traced a agonizingly slow spiral, starting from the center of the arch and widening outward. The roughness of her nail caught on the fine ridges of Jane’s skin, sending electric jolts of sensation shooting up her leg.
"We can't have dirt in the Duchess's Orangery, can we?" Margaret murmured.
She reached the heel and reversed, dragging her nail back down in a series of tight, erratic figure-eights.
"Nnn-gh! Mmm-hmmm!" Jane buried her face in the rough wood, her shoulders shaking. The sensation was maddening—a sharp, ticklish itch that she couldn't scratch, couldn't kick away, couldn't escape.
"Is that laughter I hear?" Margaret teased, digging her nail deeper into the tender hollow just below the ball of the foot. "Are you a widdle ticklish, Jane?" Margaret asked in a mocking baby-voice.
"N-no! Please! Stap-ha-ha-ha!"
Jane cracked. The laughter bubbled up, unbidden and desperate, a jagged, weeping sound. She thrashed against the twine, her hips bucking, but her feet remained trapped in Margaret's grip.
Annabelle had been ready to leave the distasteful scene to her proxy. But at the sound of Jane’s desperate, broken giggle, she paused and turned. She watched the way Jane’s body jerked, the way the muscles in her calves knotted and released. A slow, dark smile spread across her lips.
Margaret paused, her nail hovering just above the skin, letting Jane hang in the terrifying silence of the 'almost-touch.' She looked over her shoulder at the Duchess, an eager, questioning grin on her face.
The Duchess didn't leave. Instead, she walked back to a wicker garden chair set beneath a lemon tree and sat down with a languid grace. She snapped her fingers at Alice.
"Brandy, Alice," Annabelle commanded, her eyes never leaving Jane’s twitching feet. "And bring the lamp closer. I wish to see the work."
Margaret beamed, her chest puffing with pride. She had an audience. She had approval.
She turned back to Jane, her expression hardening. The teasing spirals were done. It was time for the scour.
"Well then," Margaret whispered, picking up the stiff horsehair brush. "Let's get you properly clean."
She didn't start gently. She slammed the bristles into the sensitive skin of Jane’s arches and began to scrub.
"AAAAHHH! NO! NO! IT'S TOO SH-HAAARP!"
Jane screamed, a raw, piercing sound that shattered the quiet of the glasshouse.
Margaret worked with the rhythmic violence of a woman scrubbing a stained floor. Scritch-scratch-scritch. She sawed the brush back and forth, the stiff horsehair bristles digging into the soft, conditioned skin, finding every nerve ending and overloading it with crude, abrasive friction.
"LOUDER!" Margaret shouted over the screams, scrubbing faster, harder.
Caught up in the frenzy of the task, Margaret scrambled up from her knees. She planted her feet wide in the gravel, bending at the waist to put the full weight of her shoulders behind the brush. She was no longer tending a plant; she was scouring a deck. She moved the brush to the toes, jamming the bristles into the spaces between them.
"YIIIII-HEEEE! NOT THE TOOO-HOO-HOES! AHA-HA-HA-HAAA! COOK! COO-HOO-HOOK!" In her delirium, Jane cried out for the only authority figure she had known for days.
Annabelle took the glass of brandy from Alice, swirling the amber liquid. She watched over the rim of the glass, her brow furrowing slightly.
This wasn't music. This was noise.
Margaret was enthusiastic, yes, but she was clumsy. She was purely aggressive. She was treating the feet like dead wood, not living instruments. Jane’s laughter was there, but it was drowned out by shrieks of simple pain. It lacked the nuanced, vibrating edge of pleasurable agony that Annabelle craved.
Margaret, oblivious to the shift in mood, grabbed Jane’s ankle with her free hand to hold it steady and brought the brush down on the heel with a heavy thwack-scritch motion.
"Get clean, you little brat!" Margaret grunted. "Scrub! Scrub! Scrub!"
"IIII-HIII-HIIII! STOP! IT BU-HURTS! IIIII CAN'T TAKE IT! AAAAAH-HA-HA-HAAAA!"
Jane was sobbing now, her face wet with tears and snot against the potting bench. The sensation was overwhelming—a wall of prickly, scratching fire that offered no rhythm, no build-up, just constant, sensory assault.
Annabelle set her glass down on the side table with a sharp clink.
"Enough," she said.
The word cut through the humid air like a lash.
Margaret froze, the brush hovering inches from Jane’s inflamed sole. She turned to the Duchess, sweat beading on her lip, expecting praise.
"Your Grace?" Margaret panted. "I... I haven't finished the toes yet."
Annabelle stood up. She smoothed her yellow silk skirt. She didn't look pleased. She looked insulted.
"You are boring me, Margaret," Annabelle said, walking toward the bench. She stopped at the foot of the potting bench and looked down at the housemaid with an expression of mild distaste, as if Margaret were a smudge on a wine glass.
"Boring?" Margaret stammered, the brush trembling in her hand. "But... she is screaming. I am scouring the filth, just as you said."
"You are simply... sawing," Annabelle said, plucking the brush from Margaret’s grip with two fingers. "You treat the foot like dead wood. You attack the surface. There is no cadence. No conversation with the nerves."
Annabelle pointed a gloved finger at the gravel.
"Kneel."
Margaret blinked. "Your Grace?"
"Kneel," Annabelle commanded, her voice dropping an octave. "You wish to rise in this house? Then you must learn to listen. On your knees, Margaret. And watch closely."
Flushed with a mix of shame and confusion, Margaret dropped to her knees in the sharp gravel. She was now eye-level with Jane’s feet again—red, inflamed, and twitching from the abuse.
Annabelle turned to the shelf of gardening supplies behind her. She bypassed the shears and the twine. Her hand settled on a small, amber glass bottle.
Concentrated Oil of Orange.
She uncorked it, the sharp, zesty scent cutting through the humid air of the glasshouse.
"The skin is too dry," Annabelle lectured, stepping closer to the bench. She hovered the amber bottle directly over Jane’s exposed, red-raw right foot. "Dry friction creates resistance. Resistance creates pain. Pain effectively shuts the mind down."
She tilted the bottle. A thick, golden stream of the concentrated oil splashed onto the hot, abraded skin of Jane's arches.
"Hhh-sst!" Jane hissed, her feet jerking hard against the twine. The thermal shock of the cool liquid hitting her inflamed skin was startling, and the sharp citric acidity sizzled in the pores Margaret had just scrubbed open.
Annabelle watched with satisfaction as the heavy liquid coated the heel and pooled in the deep curve of the arch, turning the angry red skin into a glistening, golden landscape.
"We do not want her mind to shut down, Margaret," Annabelle murmured.
Annabelle stepped before Jane's ankles. She held the brush loosely between her thumb and forefinger.
Jane whimpered, bracing herself for another scour. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Annabelle lowered the brush. She didn't strike. She didn't scrub. She brought the saturated bristles down until they barely kissed the inflamed skin of Jane’s right arch.
She began to swirl.
"Heee-heee-heee! OH! OH GOD!"
Jane’s head snapped back. The sensation was electric. The oil eliminated the drag. The stiff bristles didn't scratch anymore; they skittered. They danced over the raw, sensitized nerve endings with a slippery, lightning-fast friction that felt like a thousand wet insect legs scurrying across her skin.
"Do you see?" Annabelle asked Margaret, her voice calm and academic over Jane’s shrieks. "The oil creates a glide. It confuses the nerves. The brain cannot decide if it is being hurt or caressed, so it panics."
"AHAHA-HA-HA-HAAAA! NO! NO! IT TICKLES! IT'S WOOO-HOO-HORSE! STO-HO-HOP!"
Jane thrashed against the wood, her feet gleaming with oil in the lantern light. The stretching of the twine kept her soles exposed, creating a taut canvas of flesh that rippled with every touch. Because of the oil, she couldn't get any traction against the brush. The sensation just slid deeper and deeper into the muscle.
Annabelle increased the speed. She stopped swirling and began to flutter the brush rapidly up and down the length of the arch. Whisk-whisk-whisk.
"Look at the toes, Margaret," Annabelle pointed out. "See how they try to curl? That is the desperation. That is the music."
"PLEASE! MISTRESS! IIIII-HIII-HIIII! NOT THE ARCH! AHA-HA-HA-HAAA! I'LL BE GOOD!"
Margaret watched, her mouth slightly open. She saw the difference. Her scrubbing had produced ugly, guttural screams. This... this was different. Jane was vibrating. She was laughing, sobbing, and begging all at once. The sound was bright, jagged, and terrifyingly intimate.
Annabelle moved to the toes. She turned the brush sideways, using the oil-slicked edge to saw gently back and forth across the stretched skin of the toe-stems.
"Are you sorry, Jane?" Annabelle asked, flicking the bristles over the sensitive pad of the big tip.
"YES! YES! I'M SO-HO-HORRY! AHA-HA-HA-HAAA!"
"Are you jealous?" Annabelle pressed, digging the bristles into the webbing between the second and third toe.
"YES! I'M JEA-HEA-HEALOUS! I WANTED YOU TO LOOO-HOO-HOOVE ME!"
The confession hung in the air, raw and wet.
Annabelle stopped. The brush hovered inches from the skin, dripping oil onto the gravel.
Jane gasped for air, her chest heaving against the bench, sweat dripping from her nose. Her feet were glistening, red, and beautiful.
"Love?" Annabelle repeated, softly.
She reached out with her free hand—her left hand, gloved in soft kidskin leather. She placed it on Jane’s calf, kneading the knotted muscle gently.
"You don't want my love, Jane," Annabelle whispered, leaning down until her lips were close to the sole of the foot. "Love is boring. Love is safe."
She brought the brush back down, hard and fast, attacking the deep, defenseless center of the arch with a frenzy of circular strokes.
"You want my OBSESSION!"
"KYAAAA-HAAA-HA-HA-HAAA! YES! YES! MISTRESS! PLEEE-HEEE-HEEEASE!"
Annabelle lost herself in the rhythm for a full minute, driving Jane higher and higher into a state of delirious, laughing bliss-agony. Margaret watched the Duchess's face—it was flushed, excited, alive in a way Margaret had never seen in the scullery.
Finally, with a flourish, Annabelle tossed the brush onto the gravel. It landed near Margaret’s knee.
Annabelle grabbed Jane’s oily ankles with both hands, her grip firm and possessive. She leaned down and pressed a single, lingering kiss to the slick, pulsing heated skin of Jane’s right arch.
Jane froze, her laughter dying in her throat, replaced by a shocked, broken sob.
Annabelle stood up. She took a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped the oil from her lips, her eyes bright and wild.
"Alice," she called out, her voice ringing with satisfaction. "Cut her down. And have a bath drawn in my suite. The one with the rose oil."
Annabelle finally looked down at Margaret. The Second Housemaid was still kneeling, looking small and utterly outclassed.
"You may go, Margaret, go back to your pans," Annabelle said, her voice returning to its usual cold boredom. "You have seen the technique. But do not attempt to replicate it. You lack the... delicacy."
Margaret froze. A flicker of indignation fought through her fear.
"My... might I ask, Your Grace?" Margaret stammered, her voice small and quivering. "My pans? But... I am Second Housemaid now. You promoted me yourself."
Annabelle paused. She looked at Margaret, really looked at her, for the first time that night. Her expression didn't change. There was no apology, no realization. There was only a cold, predatory indifference.
"Did I?" Annabelle murmured, her gaze sliding off Margaret and back to Jane’s twitching feet. "I don't recall. But if this clumsy display is the best you can offer... perhaps the scullery is exactly where you belong."
Annabelle waved a dismissive hand, shooing her away like a fly. "Go. Before I decide to have you scrub the kennels instead."
Margaret made a choked, strangled sound. The demotion was casual, instantaneous, and absolute. She cast one last, hate-filled look at Jane—who was still sobbing into the wood—before turning and fleeing into the shadows, her footsteps heavy with shame.
Annabelle turned back to Jane, a cruel, beautiful smile curling her lips.
"It seems our little weed has earned a place in the bouquet after all. Bring her up when she is clean, Alice. I think I have a new use for those... vocal cords."
With a swirl of yellow silk, Duchess Annabelle turned and walked back toward the house, leaving Jane panting, weeping, and smiling into the rough wood of the potting bench.
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