Previous 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.
The new servant, Jane, is getting her first summons to the Duchess' chambers. How will she get on?
All characters are 18 or older
Word Count: 8,200
F/F | Feet Tickling | Tickle Torture | Explicit
The Grand Foyer of Wyckham Hall was less a room and more a cathedral. The morning sun, usually a source of warmth, was reduced to a pale, milky wash of light as it struggled through the high, leaded windows. It cast long, distorted shadows across the checkerboard marble floor, turning the lined-up staff into a row of trembling statues.
It had been three days since the incident in the sewing room—three days of Jane walking on eggshells, her skin still prickling with the phantom memory of Alice’s nails and the Duchess’s cold, terrifying judgement.
Now, standing between the heavy oak door and the sweeping staircase, Jane felt nauseous. The household staff was arranged by rank, a gradient of black wool and white starch. Alice stood at the head of the female line, her posture so rigid she looked as though she had been carved from the same mahogany as the banister. Jane was further down, sandwiched between a scullery maid with a hacking cough and a stoic footman named Thomas.
"Straighten your cap," Alice whispered out of the side of her mouth. She didn't turn her head, her eyes fixed on the empty landing above. "And stop breathing so loudly."
Jane held her breath, her hands clenching into fists behind the white apron. She tried to mimic Alice’s stillness, but her body felt like a coiled spring. Every creak of the house sounded like an accusation.
Then came the sound that stopped everyone’s hearts: the rhythmic, deliberate clack-clack-clack of heels on the upper gallery.
Duchess Annabelle descended.
Today, she was a vision of severe, autocratic beauty. She wore a riding habit of charcoal grey velvet, the jacket tailored to accentuate the terrifying nip of her waist, the skirt heavy and sweeping. She carried a riding crop, tapping it idly against her thigh with a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
She reached the bottom of the stairs and paused. The air in the foyer seemed to drop ten degrees. She didn't speak. She simply began to walk the line.
She passed the housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, with a curt nod. She passed the butler, ignoring him entirely. She stopped in front of Thomas, the footman beside Jane.
The tapping of the crop stopped. The silence stretched, thin and agonizing.
Annabelle reached out with the tip of the riding crop and lifted the edge of Thomas’s lapel. She stared at the fabric as if it were a dead rodent she had found on her pillow.
"Thomas," she said, her voice low and smooth, like silk dragged over a blade. "Explain to me why there is a catastrophic lack of starch in this collar."
"Your Grace, I—"
"Silence," she snapped, not raising her voice but projecting it with a force that made Thomas flinch. She let the lapel drop. "You look wilted. You look like a sack of flour that has been left out in the rain. It offends me."
She moved on, leaving Thomas pale and sweating.
Jane felt the approach before she saw it. It was a pressure in the air, a static charge that raised the fine hairs on her arms. The scent of rain and crushed violets filled her nose.
The Duchess stopped directly in front of her.
Jane stared at the velvet buttons of the Duchess’s jacket, afraid to look up, afraid to look down. She could feel Annabelle’s gaze sweeping over her, dissecting her, peeling back the layers of her uniform to see the terrified girl beneath.
"So," Annabelle said. The single syllable hung in the air.
Jane forced herself to look up. Annabelle’s eyes were cool, devoid of the heat Jane had seen in the sewing room, yet filled with a terrifying recognition.
"The new girl," Annabelle mused. She stepped closer, invading Jane’s personal space until Jane could feel the heat radiating from her body. "You are vibrating, Jane."
"I... I beg your pardon, Your Grace?" Jane squeaked.
"You are twitching," Annabelle observed, tilting her head slightly. She reached out, her gloved hand brushing a stray wisp of hair from Jane’s temple. The touch was possessive, lingering. "Like a moth caught in a jar. It speaks of a chaotic mind. A lack of... discipline."
Jane swallowed hard, her throat clicking audibly. "I am trying, Your Grace."
"Trying is for children. I require results," Annabelle said coldly. She stepped back, looking Jane up and down with a sneer of dissatisfaction. "Your work in the kitchens has been adequate, I am told. But your presence? It is messy. You lack the stillness required of Wyckham Hall."
Annabelle turned to Alice, who was watching the scene with a face of stone.
"Alice," the Duchess commanded.
"Your Grace?" Alice stepped forward, a perfect soldier.
"This one needs to learn focus. She needs to learn that the smallest detail can be the difference between perfection and ruin," Annabelle said, her eyes locking onto Alice’s. A silent message passed between them—a flicker of dark amusement that only they understood. "The tapestries in the East Wing... the hunting scenes. They are beginning to fray."
Alice didn't blink. "They are delicate, ma'am. Very old."
"Indeed," Annabelle purred, turning back to Jane. "Tonight, you will report to the East Wing Tapestry Room at midnight. You are to inspect the threads. You will find the loose ends, the frayed edges, and you will secure them."
Jane’s eyes widened. "The... the tapestry room, Your Grace? At midnight?"
"Do not question me," Annabelle snapped, the riding crop slapping against her palm with a sharp crack that made the entire line jump. "You will not sleep. You will work until your hands cramp and your eyes burn. Perhaps a night of tedious, delicate labor will calm that incessant vibration in your blood."
"Yes, Your Grace," Jane whispered, staring at the floor.
"Midnight, Jane. Do not be late. And do not disappoint me. I have a very low tolerance for loose threads."
With a final, disdainful sniff, the Duchess turned on her heel and swept toward the dining room, the doors swung open by the terrified footmen.
As the heavy doors closed, the tension in the foyer broke. The staff exhaled collectively, moving to their tasks with hurried, nervous energy.
Jane slumped against the wall, her legs turning to jelly. "The East Wing," she muttered to herself. "I don't know the first thing about tapestries."
Alice appeared at her elbow, her voice low and laced with a secret, terrifying thrill.
"You won't be fixing tapestries, you little fool," Alice whispered, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "The East Wing connects directly to her bedchamber."
Jane looked at Alice, the realization hitting her like a physical blow. Her stomach did a somersault that was half terror, half electric excitement.
"She chose you," Alice said, gripping Jane’s arm hard enough to bruise. "You have your invitation for tonight. Now, pull yourself together. You have a lot of work to do today. I will come find you later to prepare you for Her Grace."
---
The rest of the day was a blur of nervous sweating and scrubbing, the hours dragging until the sun finally dipped below the horizon.
The scullery was a humid, clattering hell of steam and grease as the day wound down. Jane was elbow-deep in a basin of soapy water, scrubbing a copper pot with a ferocity born of nerves, when a hand clamped around her upper arm.
She didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The grip was firm, cool, and brooked no argument.
"Leave the pot, Jane," Alice said, her voice cutting through the din of clanging metal. "Your shift is over."
"But the cook said—"
"The cook doesn't control your night," Alice interrupted, pulling Jane away from the sink. She tossed a towel at Jane’s wet hands. "Come. We have two hours, and you smell like rendered fat and fear. It won't do."
Alice led her out of the kitchens, down a narrow stone corridor that bypassed the main servants' quarters, and into the washroom reserved for the senior staff. It was a small, stone-walled chamber dominated by a large, claw-footed copper tub.
Steam was already rising from it in thick, suffocating clouds. Alice had clearly prepared this in advance.
"Strip," Alice commanded, locking the heavy wooden door behind them.
Jane hesitated, clutching her damp apron. "Everything?"
"Do not make me repeat myself. We don't have time for modesty." Alice moved to a shelf and pulled down a jar of coarse sea salt and a stiff-bristled brush. "The Duchess possesses senses that are... predatory. If you walk into her chamber smelling of onions or the lye soap from the laundry, she will send you back before you even cross the threshold. You need to be a blank slate."
Jane unlaced her bodice with trembling fingers, stepping out of her uniform until she stood shivering in the damp air. She climbed into the tub and hissed. "Alice! It’s scalding!"
"It needs to be," Alice said mercilessly. She rolled up her sleeves and knelt beside the tub. "Dunk your head. Get that hair wet. Now."
For the next twenty minutes, there was no tenderness. Alice washed Jane with the efficiency of a stable hand grooming a prize mare for auction. She took the stiff brush and scrubbed Jane’s skin until it turned a vibrant, stinging pink. She scoured Jane’s fingernails, her elbows, the backs of her knees, and the soles of her feet.
"Ow! Alice, you're taking the skin off!" Jane yelped as Alice attacked her heels.
"I am taking the day off," Alice corrected, not slowing down. "I am scrubbing away the scullery maid so that only the woman remains. Her Grace hates the smell of labor."
Once the scrubbing was done, Alice uncorked a small, crystal vial she had pulled from her apron pocket. The oil inside was clear and thick. She poured a generous amount into her palm and began to work it into Jane’s raw, heated skin.
Unlike the scrub, this was soothing. The oil had no scent—it was heavy and luxurious, soaking into Jane’s pores and leaving her skin glistening and supple.
Jane leaned back against the copper rim, her body throbbing with a strange mix of pain and relaxation. The steam curled around them, creating a private, hazy world.
"Alice?" Jane whispered, watching the older woman expertly massage the oil into her calves.
"Hmph?"
"The tapestries... in the East Wing. Do I really need to fix them? I’ve never done needlepoint on something so old. I’m afraid I’ll ruin the hunting scenes."
Alice paused. She looked up, her hands resting on Jane’s shins. A dark, knowing laugh bubbled up in her throat.
"Oh, Jane," she said, shaking her head, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "You really are a sweet little fool."
Alice stood up, wiping her oily hands on a towel.
"There are no frayed threads in the East Wing. The tapestries are immaculate," Alice said, leaning down until her face was inches from Jane’s. "You aren't going there to fix the furniture, Jane. You are going there to fix her."
Jane’s breath hitched. "Fix... Her Grace?"
"The Duchess is bored," Alice said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And when she is bored, she becomes dangerous. She needs a distraction. She needs a challenge. She needs a canvas that reacts." Alice poked Jane’s chest, right over her heart. "You are going to be that canvas. But only if you are perfect."
Alice grabbed a thick, white towel and held it open.
"Up," she commanded. "We are done here. You’re clean enough to eat off of, which is exactly the point. Now comes the hard part."
Jane stood, water sluicing off her reddened body. "The hard part? I thought the scrubbing was the hard part."
Alice wrapped the towel around Jane, pulling it tight enough to restrict her arms. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a serious, hushed tone.
"No, Jane. The scrubbing was merely the canvas preparation. Now comes the art," Alice said, her eyes dark and unyielding. "Tonight, you are not just a maid; you are an armorer. You must prepare the Duchess’s nails—her most favorite and lethal tools. If you leave them dull, she will be bored. If you leave a snag, she will be furious."
Alice turned toward the door. "And since we cannot risk a single mistake on Her Grace’s hands, you are going to practice on mine. Come."
Alice’s Senior Housemaid's quarters were a stark contrast to the chaotic, steam-filled scullery. The room was small, smelling of lavender and beeswax, with everything arranged in a terrifyingly precise order. A single oil lamp burned on a small table, casting a warm, golden pool of light.
Alice pointed to a wooden stool. "Sit."
Jane sat, clutching the towel around her shivering shoulders. She watched as Alice unlocked a small cedar box on her vanity. From it, she produced a manicure set that looked more like a surgeon’s kit than a collection of beauty tools. There were silver files, blocks of chamois leather, and pots of pink polishing paste.
"The Duchess’s nails are not for scratching, Jane," Alice explained, sitting opposite her and extending her right hand. "They are for gliding. They must be sharp enough to wake the nerves, but smooth enough that they do not tear the skin. They must be like cut crystal."
Jane swallowed hard, reaching out to take Alice’s hand. Alice’s fingers were long and elegant, the nails already well-kept, but Alice expected perfection.
"Pick up the silver file," Alice commanded. "And do not saw back and forth like you are cutting a loaf of bread. Long, sweeping strokes in one direction. Shape the point, then smooth the edge."
Jane began to work. Her hand shook slightly at first, the rasp-rasp-rasp of the file sounding incredibly loud in the quiet room.
"Gently!" Alice hissed, pulling her hand back slightly. "You are tense. If you are tense, you will slip. Breathe, Jane. Treat the hand as if it were a frightened bird."
Jane took a deep breath, forcing her shoulders to drop. She started again.
Rasp... rasp... rasp.
She focused entirely on the curve of Alice’s index nail, shaping it into a lethal, elegant almond point.
"Better," Alice murmured, watching Jane’s face. "Now the buffer. Buff it until you can see your own terrified reflection in the keratin."
For the next hour, the room was filled with the soft sounds of buffing and the low murmur of Alice’s corrections. "Sharper at the tip... round out the sides... no, that edge is too square."
Finally, Jane set down the chamois block. Alice’s nails were gleaming, sharp talons of perfection.
"I think... I think I’m done," Jane whispered, setting down the chamois block with trembling fingers.
Alice lifted her hand into the golden pool of lamplight. She turned her wrist slowly, inspecting the work. The nails were shaped into lethal, elegant almond points, gleaming like wet glass.
"They look acceptable," Alice murmured, her voice neutral. She flexed her fingers, testing the air. Then, she lowered her hand and fixed Jane with a look of dark amusement. "But looking is not enough. We must test the edge."
Alice stood up, looming over the seated girl.
"There is an old tradition, Jane," Alice said softly, stepping closer until her knees brushed Jane’s. "When a child is to be punished, they are often told to go out and cut their own switch. They must choose the branch that will sting them. Failure to find a sufficiently punishing branch will make the punisher go and find their own to use on you, and THAT one WILL sting.
Likewise, you have just spent an hour forging a weapon, grinding it to a perfect point. Now, we must see if it is worthy of the woman who will wield it. If it is not, if Her Grace finds her nails are lacking in any way, then she will don her golden nail guards. They are not merely jewelry, Jane. They are long, curved talons of filigree gold, tapered to the tiniest bulbs so as to not break the skin. No amount of manicuring can make nails as lethal. Trust me, you do not want to know how those feel. So..."
Alice pointed a manicured finger at Jane’s shoulder. "Drop the towel. Raise your arm."
Jane swallowed hard, her heart hammering against her ribs. She let the towel slip to her waist, the cool air hitting her heated skin. Slowly, shakily, she raised her right arm, exposing the pale, vulnerable length of her inner bicep and the deep, shadowed hollow of her armpit.
"If you have failed," Alice warned, bringing her hand up, "this nail will snag. It will scratch and tear the skin. But if you have succeeded... it will glide."
Alice positioned the tip of her index nail—the very nail Jane had just perfected—at Jane’s wrist.
Jane squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself.
Alice moved. She didn't rush. She dragged the sharp, glassy point slowly up Jane’s forearm. It was a sensation of pure, concentrated electricity. It didn't scratch. It was so smooth it felt like a needle of ice.
The nail crossed the crook of the elbow and continued its ascent. Jane’s breath hitched, a high-pitched whine building in her throat.
"Steady," Alice commanded.
The nail reached the crest of the bicep and then, with agonizing slowness, Alice hooked it over the tendon and sank it into Jane’s armpit. She dragged it down the center of the sensitive hollow in one long, decisive stroke.
"Eeeep!" Jane jerked, her shoulder trying to collapse to protect the spot, but Alice caught her wrist, holding the arm open.
"Good," Alice whispered, inspecting Jane’s skin. There was no red mark. No scratch. Just a lingering ghost of sensation that made Jane’s nerves sing. "It glides like oil. You have made a perfect weapon, Jane."
Alice released Jane’s wrist. She picked up the towel and draped it back over the girl’s shivering shoulders.
"You are ready," Alice said, nodding toward the door. "It is five minutes to midnight. Go to the East Wing. Go to her door. And Jane?"
Jane paused, clutching the towel.
"When she goes to test them... I pray your hand was as steady on her as it was on me."
The corridor to the East Wing was silent, the plush carpet swallowing the sound of Jane’s bare feet. She wore only the simple white shift Alice had provided, the fabric feeling impossibly light against her scrubbed, oiled skin.
She reached the heavy mahogany doors of the Duchess’s suite. The grandfather clock in the hall began to chime twelve. On the final stroke, Jane knocked.
"Enter."
The voice was low, commanding, and came from the other side of the wood like a summons from the grave.
Jane pushed the door open. The room was vast, illuminated only by the roaring fire in the oversized hearth and a cluster of candles on the vanity. The air was thick with the scent of ambergris and burning wood.
Duchess Annabelle sat at her vanity table, her back to the door. She was wearing a robe of black silk that spilled onto the floor like a pool of ink. She didn't turn around. She watched Jane’s reflection in the mirror—a small, white ghost in the darkness.
"You are punctual," Annabelle said, her eyes meeting Jane’s in the glass. "Come here."
Jane crossed the room, her legs feeling like lead. She stopped a few feet from the chair.
"Kneel."
Jane sank to her knees beside the vanity.
Annabelle finally turned. Up close, her beauty was terrifying. Her face was a mask of porcelain perfection, but her eyes were dark, hungry pits. She extended her right hand, placing it on a velvet cushion on the edge of the table.
"Alice tells me you have a talent for precision," Annabelle purred. "Let us see."
Jane reached out. Her hands were trembling violently. She took a deep breath, remembering Alice’s words: Treat the hand as if it were a frightened bird. She forced her tremors to subside, picking up the silver file from the Duchess's tray.
Jane worked with a focus that bordered on religious devotion. She didn't dare rush—one slip of the file against the cuticle would mean disaster. Annabelle watched her the entire time, her breathing syncing with the rhythm of the file, her eyes heavy-lidded as she seemingly derived a dark pleasure from the sheer tedium of Jane’s labor. By the time Jane whispered, "Done," the air in the room was thick enough to choke on.
Annabelle lifted her hand. She spread her fingers in the candlelight, admiring the lethal glint of the tips. She flexed them, the movement fluid and predatory.
"A distinct improvement," Annabelle noted. She lowered her hand and looked down at Jane, a cruel smile curling her lips. "But as you know... visual inspection is insufficient."
Annabelle stood up. The silk robe rustled. She towered over the kneeling girl.
"Stand, Jane."
Jane scrambled to her feet, her head bowed.
"Raise your arm," Annabelle commanded. "Let me see if you have forged me a worthy instrument."
Jane lifted her arm. She knew what was coming, but the anticipation was worse than the act. She stared at the wall, biting her lip.
Annabelle reached out and placed the tip of her freshly sharpened index nail directly at the base of Jane’s palm. She pressed down—just enough to threaten, not enough to break the skin.
Slowly, agonizingly, she began to drag the nail down.
It moved over the inner wrist, gliding perfectly. Annabelle hummed in approval. She continued down the forearm, the sensation sharp and cold. Jane’s breath became shallow puffs of air.
The nail crossed the elbow. Annabelle slowed down. She traced a swirling pattern on the sensitive inner bicep, teasing the skin, before tracing a slow, serpentine route downward, as though daring her to react.
"Prepare yourself," Annabelle whispered.
With a sudden, fluid motion, the Duchess hooked the nail over the precipice of Jane’s shoulder muscle and dragged it deep into the armpit.
"Eee-eep!" Jane squeaked, her knees buckling. She tried to clamp her arm down, but Annabelle’s other hand shot out, catching Jane’s elbow and forcing the joint open.
Annabelle kept the nail there, in the hollow, wiggling it slowly and lightly. It didn't snag. It was smooth as glass, but the sensation of the sharp point vibrating against the nerves was electric.
"Passable," Annabelle murmured, withdrawing her hand. She inspected the nail, then Jane’s flushed skin. "It seems Alice has taught you well. You have created a beautiful set of claws, my little rabbit."
Annabelle turned and walked toward the center of the room, where a large, X-shaped wooden frame stood waiting in the shadows.
"And now," the Duchess said, her voice dropping to a velvet growl, "it is time to put them to work."
The St. Andrew’s cross dominated the center of the room, a heavy timber construction of dark, polished oak that seemed to drink the light from the fireplace. Leather cuffs dangled from its four extremities, swaying slightly in the draft.
Annabelle stood beside it, her hand resting possessively on the wood. She looked at Jane, her eyes traveling slowly down the length of the white shift.
"The shift," Annabelle commanded, her voice barely above a whisper. "Remove it. I want no barriers between my instruments and your skin."
Jane’s fingers fumbled with the hem. She pulled the garment up and over her head, letting it pool on the floor like a puddle of milk. She stood shivering in the firelight, her skin glistening from the oil Alice had applied, her body a pale map of nerves waiting to be read.
"Beautiful," Annabelle murmured. "You really are a blank canvas, aren't you? Come here, little rabbit. Let us stretch you out so we can see every inch of you."
Jane stepped onto the small wooden platform at the base of the cross. She didn't fight as Annabelle took her wrists, pulling them wide and high to secure them in the leather cuffs. Next came the ankles, spread agonizingly wide and buckled tight.
The position was absolute exposure. Jane’s chest was thrust forward, her ribs expanding with every shallow breath. Her armpits were stretched into deep, taut hollows. Her stomach was a vulnerable expanse of soft flesh.
"Comfortable?" Annabelle teased, tightening the last buckle on Jane’s left ankle.
"I... I am ready, Your Grace," Jane stammered, her heart beating so hard she felt it shaking the wood frame.
Annabelle walked to a small side table covered in black velvet. On it lay a selection of tools arranged with surgical precision. There was a fine-point paintbrush made of sable hair, a silver letter opener, and, of course, her own hands.
She picked up the paintbrush.
"Sable hair," Annabelle said, walking back to the cross. She held the brush up to the light. "It costs a fortune because it is softer than a whisper. Most people wouldn't even feel it. But you... you aren't most people, are you?"
She didn't start with the sensitive spots. She started on the neck. She flicked the tip of the brush against the tender skin just below Jane’s ear.
Jane flinched violently, a gasp tearing from her throat. "Ah!"
"Sensitive," Annabelle noted. She drew the brush down the side of Jane’s neck, over the collarbone, and then began to swirl it in agonizingly slow circles around the swell of Jane’s left breast.
The sensation was maddening. It wasn't a tickle so much as a ghost of a touch—a suggestion that made the skin crawl and the muscles twitch in a desperate attempt to shake it off.
"Mmm-phhh," Jane whimpered, her head thrashing against the wood.
"Quiet," Annabelle ordered softly. She dragged the brush lower, tracing the individual outlines of Jane’s ribs.
Swish.
Swish.
Swish.
Every pass made Jane’s stomach muscles ripple.
Then, Annabelle discarded the brush and picked up the letter opener. The silver was cold, condensation forming on the metal.
She pressed the flat of the blade against Jane’s heated stomach. Jane hissed at the temperature shock.
"Cold?" Annabelle purred. She traced a line from Jane’s navel up to her sternum, the cold metal contrasting with the hot, oiled skin. Then, with a sudden, wicked grin, she slid the cool tip of the opener deep into the hollow of Jane’s right armpit.
"EEE-EEP! NO!" Jane shrieked, her legs straining against the cuffs.
Annabelle twisted the metal handle, letting the cool silver dance against the hottest, most sensitive nerves in the pit. "Does that burn, little rabbit? Or does it freeze? I wonder if you can tell the difference."
Annabelle pulled the opener away and tossed it onto the velvet tray with a clatter. She stepped into the V of Jane’s legs, her face inches from Jane’s heaving chest. She raised her hands, splaying her fingers so the newly manicured nails caught the firelight.
"But we both know why you’re really here," Annabelle whispered, her gaze dropping to the taut skin of Jane’s sides. "You spent an hour making these perfect. It would be a sin not to use them."
"Please, Your Grace," Jane breathed, not sure if she was begging for mercy or for the touch.
"The 'Spider Walk'," Annabelle announced.
She struck.
Her hands landed on Jane’s lower ribs. The nails, sharp as glass and smooth as oil, began to skitter and scratch upwards. They dug into the intercostal spaces, finding every nerve ending that Alice had prepared.
"AHA-HA-HA! OH GOD! YOUR GRA-HAAA-HAAA-CE!"
Jane’s laughter was immediate and hysterical. She thrashed in the bonds, her body bucking, but the cross held her firm. Annabelle was relentless. Her fingers danced up the ribs, higher and higher, until they reached the armpits.
Because of the position, Jane’s pits were stretched wide open, defenseless. Annabelle dove in. She curled her fingers, raking her nails back and forth across the silken skin, digging into the deepest hollows with a predatory ferocity.
"Is this better?" Annabelle shouted over Jane’s shrieks. "Do you feel how smooth they are? Do you feel how they bite?"
"YES! YES! AHA-HA-HA-HAAA-HAAA-STOP! PLEASE! NOT THE PI-HI-HI-HIIITS"
Annabelle didn't stop. She moved her hands down, dragging her nails all the way from the pits to the hips in one long, jagged scratch that made Jane scream with a mix of agony and ecstasy.
"You are loud, little rabbit," Annabelle laughed, her eyes shining with dark delight. "But we are just finding the rhythm. Now... let's see how much you can take before you break."
The frantic laughter in the room slowly subsided into ragged, wet gasps. Jane hung limply from the cross, her head lolling forward, sweat dripping from her nose to splash onto her heaving breasts. Her skin was a map of angry red bloomed from the scratching, but her eyes were glassy, unfocused, and desperate.
Annabelle didn't step away. She moved closer, the heat of her body radiating against Jane’s naked front. The air between them was thick with the scent of sex and distress.
"Look at you," Annabelle whispered, her voice a low, honeyed croon that sent a fresh shiver down Jane’s spine. "You’re practically melting, little rabbit. Dripping onto my floorboards again. Have you no shame?"
Annabelle picked up the sable-hair brush. She didn't strike with it. She brought it to Jane’s right breast, swirling the incredibly soft bristles around the areola.
"Mmm-phhh," Jane moaned, her hips bucking instinctively against the wood.
"Does that feel good?" Annabelle teased. "Or does it tickle? Your poor little brain can’t quite decide, can it?"
While the brush danced hypnotically over the hardening nipple, Annabelle’s left hand crept around to Jane’s side. She didn't dig in. She barely touched the skin. She trailed her nails lightly over the sensitive skin of Jane’s floating ribs, a touch that was halfway between a lover’s caress and a spider’s crawl.
The effect was devastating. The wires in Jane’s nervous system crossed. The brush was soothing, the nails were maddening, and the combination made her knees knock together.
"Please... Mistress..." Jane choked out.
"Please what?" Annabelle purred. She lowered the brush, dragging it down Jane’s stomach, through the trail of sweat, and into the dark, wet forest between her legs. "Please make you cum? Please touch the little bud?"
The brush found Jane’s outer labia. Annabelle used the flat of the bristles to stroke the swollen lips, parting them gently. She painted the inner folds with long, agonizingly slow strokes, coating the bristles in Jane’s own slickness.
Jane threw her head back, a keen of pure need escaping her throat. "Yes! Please! Touch it!"
"Oh, you’d like that, wouldn't you?" Annabelle leaned in, her lips brushing against the shell of Jane’s ear. Her hot breath ghosted over the wet skin of Jane’s neck. "You want me to touch you there with these hands you prepared? You want to ruin yourself on my fingers."
Annabelle’s nails on her left hand suddenly shifted. They stopped their gentle caress on the ribs and fluttered, quick as lightning, into the soft, unprotected skin of Jane’s hip socket.
"Eee-eep! No! Mmm-hmmm!"
"But you’re such a dirty little thing," Annabelle whispered, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Look at how wet you are. Soaking your thighs. Begging like a bitch in heat. It’s embarrassing, Jane. A proper lady doesn't leak like this."
The brush continued to torment the vulva. It circled the entrance, it teased the perineum, it swept around the throbbing clitoris, missing it by mere millimeters every single time. It was a torture of proximity.
"Just... just a little... please..." Jane sobbed, her hips grinding against nothing, trying to force contact.
"You’re close, aren't you?" Annabelle observed, watching Jane’s face flush a deep, violent scarlet. "I can feel your pulse jumping in your neck. You’re right on the edge of the cliff."
Annabelle increased the speed of the brush on the lips, whipping the fluid into a froth. Simultaneously, she dragged her sharp nails up Jane’s side, tickling the under-curve of the breast with a lethal precision.
Jane’s breath hitched. Her toes curled so hard they cramped. "I'm... I'm gonna... ah... AH...!"
"No," Annabelle said, her voice turning cold and sharp.
She pulled the brush away instantly.
In the same motion, she took her left hand and dug her nails viciously into the deep, sensitive hollow of Jane’s armpit, wiggling them with zero mercy.
"NO! NO! AHA-HA-HA-HA-HAAA-HAAA! STOP! I WAS THEEE-HEEE-RE! THAT'S NAAAHAAT FAA-HA-HA-HAAAIRR!"
The orgasm was strangled in its crib, replaced by a shockwave of electric, jarring ticklishness. Jane screamed with laughter, tears streaming down her face as the sexual tension crashed into a wall of panic.
"You don't get to cum, little rabbit," Annabelle laughed, digging deeper, scratching the hollow until Jane was convulsing. "Not when you’re this messy. Not when you’re this desperate. You have to earn it."
Annabelle finally stopped the tickling, leaving Jane gasping, her body aching with the phantom release that had been snatched away.
"Reset," Annabelle commanded calmly, wiping the wet brush on Jane’s thigh. "Let’s try again. And this time, try not to be so loud when I deny you. It’s unbecoming."
She waited ten seconds—just enough for Jane to catch a single breath—before the soft bristles returned to the swollen, aching lips, and the cruel game began all over again.
After another thirty minutes of the constant edging, the room had fallen into a heavy, wet silence, broken only by the ragged breathing of the two women. Annabelle stepped back from the cross, her chest heaving beneath the black silk. She looked at Jane—flushed, weeping, and shivering—and then down at her own trembling hands.
The game of denial had cost the mistress as much as the maid. The air was thick with the scent of Annabelle’s own arousal, a heavy, musky perfume that radiated from beneath her silk robe. She was damp, aching, and positively melting.
"You have been... thoroughly dismantled," Annabelle murmured, her voice breathless and dropping an octave. "But I find myself... unsatisfied. All this noise you’ve made, and I am still waiting."
She turned sharply, her robe swirling, and walked to the vanity. She didn't pick up a tool. Instead, she dragged the large leather upholstered mahogany library steps toward the center of the room. The legs scraped against the floorboards, a harsh sound that made Jane flinch.
Annabelle placed the steps directly in front of the cross. Then she unclasped her robe which spilled to the floor like water, leaving Annabelle naked. The neatly sculpted forest of hair between her legs was soaking with her own arousal.
Annabelle slowly ascended the steps, adding three feet to her height, towering over the bound girl.
"I require service, Jane," Annabelle said, her eyes dark and glazed. "And since your hands are occupied, you will use the only tool you have left."
Annabelle raised one leg, planting her foot firmly on the diagonal beam of the cross, right beside Jane’s shoulder.
The movement spread her wide. The heat coming off her was palpable. Her mound was swollen, dark red, and glistening with slickness that caught the firelight.
"Open up," Annabelle commanded.
She leaned forward and pressed her wet, steaming **** directly against Jane’s mouth.
Jane didn't hesitate. She was desperate to be useful, desperate to shift the focus from her own tormented nerves. She opened her mouth, her tongue darting out to taste the salt and musk of her mistress. She licked fervently, broad, sweeping strokes that lapped at the swollen lips.
"Mmm... good," Annabelle moaned, her head falling back, her fingers gripping the top of the cross for support. "Deep. Find the pearl. Don't stop."
Jane worked her tongue with a frantic rhythm, trying to be the perfect servant. But Annabelle looked down, a wicked glint returning to her heavy-lidded eyes.
"It’s a little too... mechanical, isn't it?" Annabelle whispered. "It lacks that... vibration I enjoy so much."
Annabelle reached down, using her elevated foot on the cross beam to maintain balance, and snaked her hand over Jane’s shoulder. She found the deep, damp hollow of Jane’s armpit, which was stretched taut by the overhead bonds.
She fluttered her long, sharp nails against the very center of the pit—a touch lighter than air, a ghost of a sensation.
"Mmm-mph!" Jane’s eyes flew open. Her body jerked, but she couldn't pull away because Annabelle’s hips were pressed firmly against her face.
"Don't stop licking, little rabbit," Annabelle warned, her voice trembling. "Keep your tongue out. I want to feel you laugh."
Jane tried to obey. She kept her tongue pressed to Annabelle’s clitoris, but the tickle in her armpit was shattering her composure. The laughter bubbled up from her diaphragm, unstoppable.
"Hnnn-gh! Mmm-hmmm-hmmm!"
Because her mouth was blocked by Annabelle’s flesh, the laughter couldn't escape. Instead, it transformed into a series of rapid, buzzing vibrations that traveled straight through Jane’s jaw, into her tongue, and directly into Annabelle’s sensitive bud.
"Oh! Oh, yes!" Annabelle gasped, her hips snapping forward, grinding harder against Jane’s face. "That’s it! Hum for me! Laugh for me!"
Annabelle wiggled her fingers faster in the pit, turning the ghost-touch into a frantic, skittering dance.
Jane was helpless. Her tongue became a vibrating engine of forced mirth. "MMMM-HIIII-HIII-HMMM! MMMM-HAAA-HAAA!" Every convulsion of laughter sent a shockwave of pleasure straight into the Duchess.
It was too much. The combination of the wet tongue and the sonic boom of Jane’s laughter was overwhelming.
"YES! JUST LIKE THAT! DON'T STOP! AHHH MMMMMMPH!"
Annabelle’s back arched violently. She screamed, a raw, primal sound that echoed off the stone walls. Her hips bucked, slamming against Jane’s face with bruising force. She exploded, her release violent and immediate.
Jane was drowned. Annabelle convulsed, her juices soaking Jane’s nose, cheeks, and chin, running down her neck in hot rivulets.
Annabelle rode the wave, her nails digging into Jane’s armpit not to tickle, but to hold on as her knees shook. She stayed there for a long time, grinding out the last aftershocks against the vibrating, whimpering mouth of her servant.
Finally, with a long, shuddering sigh, Annabelle pulled back. She looked down at Jane—whose face was slick as a candied plum, eyes wide and dazed—and smiled a sleepy, satisfied smile.
"Now that," Annabelle purred, wiping a thumb across Jane’s cheek, "was a proper tribute."
Annabelle stepped down from the stool, her naked form glowing like alabaster in the dying firelight. She pushed the large library steps away, the wood scraping against the floor, and stood before the cross, her chest still heaving slightly from her own release.
She looked at Jane with a heavy, lidded gaze. Jane was a portrait of beautiful ruin—her face streaked with Annabelle’s spent desire, her body trembling so violently that the leather cuffs creaked against the oak frame.
"You held it," Annabelle whispered, reaching out to trace a line through the slickness on Jane’s cheek. She brought her finger to her own lips, tasting the mix of sweat and her own essence. "You swallowed my pleasure while your own was wound to the breaking point. That is... commendable."
Jane let out a broken sob. Her hips were twitching involuntarily, thrusting forward in tiny, desperate jerks. "Mistress... please..."
Annabelle’s gaze dropped to the junction of Jane’s thighs. The area was soaked, the hair matted, the lips swollen and dark red with urgent need.
"Oh my little rabbit," Annabelle purred. She stepped between Jane’s spread legs. "You are wound so tight I fear you might snap the wood if I leave you like this. And I do hate broken furniture."
She placed her hands on Jane’s hips, her thumbs digging into the soft flesh.
"You have permission, little rabbit," Annabelle commanded, her voice sharp and clear. "Cum for me. Now. Cum for your mistress."
Annabelle didn't tease this time. She didn't reach for the brush or the side of the leg. She brought her right hand directly to the center of the storm.
She used her index and ring fingers to spread Jane's vulva open, then her middle finger started at the perineum and drew up to the lowest part of her delicate lips
Jane gasped and tried to push her aching core onto Annabelle's fingers but she didn't have the leverage.
"Be patient, little rabbit" Annabelle hissed, watching Jane’s face contort. "All in good time."
Annabelle then applied pressure to her middle finger and it slid between Jane's lips. The servant girl's muscles contracted to pull the digit in, to attempt to milk it. Annabelle's finger went all the way to the knuckle and then curled up. The pad of her finger caressed the sensitive, spongy wall within.
At the same time, Annabelle’s thumb coated itself in Jane's arousal and found the hard, pulsing pearl of the clitoris.
Jane screamed. It wasn't a laugh or a plea; it was a raw sound of shock. The dual contact was electric after hours of denial.
"Yes," Annabelle hissed, watching Jane’s face contort. "Give it to me."
Annabelle began to rub both digits, her motion fast and unyielding. She used the sharp edge of her manicured thumb nail to drag along Jane's clitoral hood, adding a bite of sharpness to the overwhelming pressure.
Jane’s head slammed back against the cross. Her body went rigid as a board. There was no buildup—she had been teetering on the edge for hours. She simply fell.
"OH GOD! OH GOD! AAAAAH!"
The release was violent. Jane’s inner thighs clamped down on Annabelle’s hand, shuddering with massive, racking spasms. Her pelvic floor contracted in waves so powerful that Annabelle could feel them gripping her middle finger in a vice grip. Fluids spurted out, coating Annabelle’s wrist and dripping onto the floorboards.
Jane sobbed through the climax, her lungs seizing, her vision going white. It was a purging, a total collapse of the nervous system that left her gasping for air like a drowning woman.
Annabelle didn't stop immediately. She kept her hand there, riding out the waves, feeling the tremors slowly subside from a tsunami to a ripple. Only when Jane went completely limp, hanging from her wrists like a ragdoll, did Annabelle slowly withdraw her hand.
"Good girl," Annabelle whispered, wiping her slick hand on Jane’s thigh.
She stepped back, admiring the carnage. Jane was wrecked, her head hanging low, her breathing ragged and shallow.
"But..." Annabelle said, a new, mischievous light entering her eyes as she tilted her head. "I wonder..."
She reached out and lightly—feather-lightly—ran her fingernails up the sole of Jane’s foot.
Jane tried to kick out with a fresh, frantic energy, a high-pitched squeal tearing from her throat. "EEE!"
Annabelle smiled, her teeth flashing in the darkness. "Oh my. It seems the storm has stripped the velvet from your nerves. You are even more sensitive now, aren't you?"
Jane’s eyes cracked open, blurry and terrified. "Please, Your Grace... I have nothing left..."
"Oh, you have plenty left," Annabelle corrected. "Your nerves are wide open. They are singing. It would be rude not to listen to them."
She bent down. She took the soft, fine tip of the sable brush and applied it to the sole of Jane’s right foot, right in the center of the arch where the skin was pink and wrinkled from the earlier torment.
She didn't scratch. She didn't press. She simply whisked the bristles back and forth, faster than a heartbeat.
"EEEEEE! NO! STOP!"
The reaction was immediate and electric. Jane’s leg shuddered with a strength she shouldn't have possessed, rattling the timber frame. The sensation wasn't pain, and it wasn't pleasure. It was pure, distilled intensity—like a thousand tiny sparks dancing on raw nerve endings.
"Look at that," Annabelle laughed. "You jump like a startled fawn. It tickles so much more now, doesn't it?"
"IT’S TOO MUCH! EEE-HEEE-HEEE! PLEASE!"
Annabelle moved to the other foot. She swirled the brush around the heel, then traced the line of the toes. Jane was writhing, her head thrashing against the wood, tears springing fresh to her eyes. It was a helpless, whimpering torture, the kind that made the breath catch in the throat.
"And the hands," Annabelle murmured, standing up.
She reached high, where Jane’s wrists were secured. Jane’s fingers were curled into fists, but Annabelle gently pried them open. She ran the brush over the palms, then danced the bristles over the very tips of Jane’s fingers.
"Nnnngh! Mmm-hmmm! Don't! Don't!"
Jane giggled uncontrollably, a wet, exhausted sound that bubbled up from her chest. Her body shuddered with every pass of the brush. She was completely at Annabelle’s mercy, unable to protect her most sensitive extremities, forced to endure the agonizingly light caress while her body was still throbbing from the orgasm.
Annabelle played her for another ten minutes, drawing out every squeak, every twitch, every desperate plea, until Jane was reduced to a panting, incoherent mess.
Finally, Annabelle sighed. She tossed the brush onto the floor.
"Delightful," the Duchess declared. She patted Jane’s sweat-slicked cheek. "But I suppose I must let you go, or you’ll be useless for the silver polishing tomorrow."
Annabelle moved to the buckles. She undid the ankles first, Jane’s legs dropping heavily to the platform. Then she released the wrists.
Jane collapsed. She didn't even try to catch herself; she simply slid down the length of the cross and pooled onto the floorboards in a heap of trembling limbs and exhaustion.
Annabelle stood over her, hands on her hips, looking down with a benevolent sneer.
"You may go, Jane," the Duchess said, turning her back and walking toward the large four-poster bed. "Do try to walk quietly on your way out. I am ready for sleep."
Jane lay there for a long moment, waiting for the room to stop spinning. Slowly, painfully, she gathered her limbs. she found her shift on the floor and pulled it over her raw, sticky skin. She didn't button it. She simply clutched it closed and stumbled toward the door, leaving the Duchess to her dreams.
---
The servant's quarters were silent as a tomb, filled with the collective breathing of the sleeping staff. It was nearly three in the morning. The air was cold, a sharp contrast to the hothouse atmosphere of the East Wing.
Jane moved like a phantom down the row of cots, her bare feet making no sound. She reached the end of the room and slipped into the small room that belonged to the Senior Housemaid.
A single candle was burning on the crate Alice used as a bedside table.
Alice was sitting up in bed, wrapped in a shawl, a book open on her lap. She hadn't read a page in hours. She looked up as Jane entered, her eyes sharp and assessing.
Jane looked like she had survived a war. Her hair was a bird’s nest, her face was scrubbed clean of makeup but red and blotchy, and she walked with a distinct tremble in her legs. She smelled of the Duchess—that unmistakable mix of ambergris, sex, and expensive oil.
Jane collapsed onto the foot of Alice’s bed, unable to make it to her own.
Alice closed her book. She leaned forward, the candlelight casting long shadows across her face. She didn't ask if Jane was okay. She asked the only thing that mattered to her professional pride.
"Well?" Alice whispered. "Did the nails hold?"
Jane let out a long, shaky breath that turned into a delirious giggle. She held up her hands, flexing the fingers. "She used them for everything, Alice. She dragged them, she dug them... she didn't find a single snag."
Alice’s face relaxed into a smile of profound satisfaction. "Good. I knew you had the touch."
"She tested them," Jane continued, her voice gaining a frantic, excited energy. "On the cross. She used the brush... and the letter opener... but the nails... oh god, Alice, the nails."
Jane shifted, wincing slightly as her thighs rubbed together. "She made me... she made me service her. While I was tied up. She stood on a set of steps."
Alice’s eyebrows shot up. A flicker of heat passed through her eyes—a vicarious thrill. She knew those steps. She knew that view.
"And?" Alice pressed.
"And she tickled me while I did it," Jane whispered, her eyes wide. "In the pit. She made me laugh into her. It made her explode, Alice. I’ve never seen anything like it."
Alice let out a low, dark chuckle. She reached out and poured a cup of water from a pitcher, handing it to the parched girl.
"She consumes us, Jane," Alice said softly. "She takes our nerves, our hands, our voices, and she plays us like instruments. Tonight, you were a Stradivarius."
Jane drank the water in one gulp, the cool liquid soothing her raw throat. She lowered the cup, looking at Alice with a new understanding. The fear was gone, replaced by a deep, exhaustion-soaked pride.
"She said I was loud," Jane murmured, a sleepy smile spreading across her face. "She said I was a 'discordant note'."
"You are," Alice agreed, blowing out the candle and plunging the room into darkness. "Now sleep. You have to polish the silver tomorrow. And trust me... your hands are going to be very, very sore."
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.
The new servant, Jane, is getting her first summons to the Duchess' chambers. How will she get on?
All characters are 18 or older
Word Count: 8,200
F/F | Feet Tickling | Tickle Torture | Explicit
The Grand Foyer of Wyckham Hall was less a room and more a cathedral. The morning sun, usually a source of warmth, was reduced to a pale, milky wash of light as it struggled through the high, leaded windows. It cast long, distorted shadows across the checkerboard marble floor, turning the lined-up staff into a row of trembling statues.
It had been three days since the incident in the sewing room—three days of Jane walking on eggshells, her skin still prickling with the phantom memory of Alice’s nails and the Duchess’s cold, terrifying judgement.
Now, standing between the heavy oak door and the sweeping staircase, Jane felt nauseous. The household staff was arranged by rank, a gradient of black wool and white starch. Alice stood at the head of the female line, her posture so rigid she looked as though she had been carved from the same mahogany as the banister. Jane was further down, sandwiched between a scullery maid with a hacking cough and a stoic footman named Thomas.
"Straighten your cap," Alice whispered out of the side of her mouth. She didn't turn her head, her eyes fixed on the empty landing above. "And stop breathing so loudly."
Jane held her breath, her hands clenching into fists behind the white apron. She tried to mimic Alice’s stillness, but her body felt like a coiled spring. Every creak of the house sounded like an accusation.
Then came the sound that stopped everyone’s hearts: the rhythmic, deliberate clack-clack-clack of heels on the upper gallery.
Duchess Annabelle descended.
Today, she was a vision of severe, autocratic beauty. She wore a riding habit of charcoal grey velvet, the jacket tailored to accentuate the terrifying nip of her waist, the skirt heavy and sweeping. She carried a riding crop, tapping it idly against her thigh with a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
She reached the bottom of the stairs and paused. The air in the foyer seemed to drop ten degrees. She didn't speak. She simply began to walk the line.
She passed the housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, with a curt nod. She passed the butler, ignoring him entirely. She stopped in front of Thomas, the footman beside Jane.
The tapping of the crop stopped. The silence stretched, thin and agonizing.
Annabelle reached out with the tip of the riding crop and lifted the edge of Thomas’s lapel. She stared at the fabric as if it were a dead rodent she had found on her pillow.
"Thomas," she said, her voice low and smooth, like silk dragged over a blade. "Explain to me why there is a catastrophic lack of starch in this collar."
"Your Grace, I—"
"Silence," she snapped, not raising her voice but projecting it with a force that made Thomas flinch. She let the lapel drop. "You look wilted. You look like a sack of flour that has been left out in the rain. It offends me."
She moved on, leaving Thomas pale and sweating.
Jane felt the approach before she saw it. It was a pressure in the air, a static charge that raised the fine hairs on her arms. The scent of rain and crushed violets filled her nose.
The Duchess stopped directly in front of her.
Jane stared at the velvet buttons of the Duchess’s jacket, afraid to look up, afraid to look down. She could feel Annabelle’s gaze sweeping over her, dissecting her, peeling back the layers of her uniform to see the terrified girl beneath.
"So," Annabelle said. The single syllable hung in the air.
Jane forced herself to look up. Annabelle’s eyes were cool, devoid of the heat Jane had seen in the sewing room, yet filled with a terrifying recognition.
"The new girl," Annabelle mused. She stepped closer, invading Jane’s personal space until Jane could feel the heat radiating from her body. "You are vibrating, Jane."
"I... I beg your pardon, Your Grace?" Jane squeaked.
"You are twitching," Annabelle observed, tilting her head slightly. She reached out, her gloved hand brushing a stray wisp of hair from Jane’s temple. The touch was possessive, lingering. "Like a moth caught in a jar. It speaks of a chaotic mind. A lack of... discipline."
Jane swallowed hard, her throat clicking audibly. "I am trying, Your Grace."
"Trying is for children. I require results," Annabelle said coldly. She stepped back, looking Jane up and down with a sneer of dissatisfaction. "Your work in the kitchens has been adequate, I am told. But your presence? It is messy. You lack the stillness required of Wyckham Hall."
Annabelle turned to Alice, who was watching the scene with a face of stone.
"Alice," the Duchess commanded.
"Your Grace?" Alice stepped forward, a perfect soldier.
"This one needs to learn focus. She needs to learn that the smallest detail can be the difference between perfection and ruin," Annabelle said, her eyes locking onto Alice’s. A silent message passed between them—a flicker of dark amusement that only they understood. "The tapestries in the East Wing... the hunting scenes. They are beginning to fray."
Alice didn't blink. "They are delicate, ma'am. Very old."
"Indeed," Annabelle purred, turning back to Jane. "Tonight, you will report to the East Wing Tapestry Room at midnight. You are to inspect the threads. You will find the loose ends, the frayed edges, and you will secure them."
Jane’s eyes widened. "The... the tapestry room, Your Grace? At midnight?"
"Do not question me," Annabelle snapped, the riding crop slapping against her palm with a sharp crack that made the entire line jump. "You will not sleep. You will work until your hands cramp and your eyes burn. Perhaps a night of tedious, delicate labor will calm that incessant vibration in your blood."
"Yes, Your Grace," Jane whispered, staring at the floor.
"Midnight, Jane. Do not be late. And do not disappoint me. I have a very low tolerance for loose threads."
With a final, disdainful sniff, the Duchess turned on her heel and swept toward the dining room, the doors swung open by the terrified footmen.
As the heavy doors closed, the tension in the foyer broke. The staff exhaled collectively, moving to their tasks with hurried, nervous energy.
Jane slumped against the wall, her legs turning to jelly. "The East Wing," she muttered to herself. "I don't know the first thing about tapestries."
Alice appeared at her elbow, her voice low and laced with a secret, terrifying thrill.
"You won't be fixing tapestries, you little fool," Alice whispered, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "The East Wing connects directly to her bedchamber."
Jane looked at Alice, the realization hitting her like a physical blow. Her stomach did a somersault that was half terror, half electric excitement.
"She chose you," Alice said, gripping Jane’s arm hard enough to bruise. "You have your invitation for tonight. Now, pull yourself together. You have a lot of work to do today. I will come find you later to prepare you for Her Grace."
---
The rest of the day was a blur of nervous sweating and scrubbing, the hours dragging until the sun finally dipped below the horizon.
The scullery was a humid, clattering hell of steam and grease as the day wound down. Jane was elbow-deep in a basin of soapy water, scrubbing a copper pot with a ferocity born of nerves, when a hand clamped around her upper arm.
She didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The grip was firm, cool, and brooked no argument.
"Leave the pot, Jane," Alice said, her voice cutting through the din of clanging metal. "Your shift is over."
"But the cook said—"
"The cook doesn't control your night," Alice interrupted, pulling Jane away from the sink. She tossed a towel at Jane’s wet hands. "Come. We have two hours, and you smell like rendered fat and fear. It won't do."
Alice led her out of the kitchens, down a narrow stone corridor that bypassed the main servants' quarters, and into the washroom reserved for the senior staff. It was a small, stone-walled chamber dominated by a large, claw-footed copper tub.
Steam was already rising from it in thick, suffocating clouds. Alice had clearly prepared this in advance.
"Strip," Alice commanded, locking the heavy wooden door behind them.
Jane hesitated, clutching her damp apron. "Everything?"
"Do not make me repeat myself. We don't have time for modesty." Alice moved to a shelf and pulled down a jar of coarse sea salt and a stiff-bristled brush. "The Duchess possesses senses that are... predatory. If you walk into her chamber smelling of onions or the lye soap from the laundry, she will send you back before you even cross the threshold. You need to be a blank slate."
Jane unlaced her bodice with trembling fingers, stepping out of her uniform until she stood shivering in the damp air. She climbed into the tub and hissed. "Alice! It’s scalding!"
"It needs to be," Alice said mercilessly. She rolled up her sleeves and knelt beside the tub. "Dunk your head. Get that hair wet. Now."
For the next twenty minutes, there was no tenderness. Alice washed Jane with the efficiency of a stable hand grooming a prize mare for auction. She took the stiff brush and scrubbed Jane’s skin until it turned a vibrant, stinging pink. She scoured Jane’s fingernails, her elbows, the backs of her knees, and the soles of her feet.
"Ow! Alice, you're taking the skin off!" Jane yelped as Alice attacked her heels.
"I am taking the day off," Alice corrected, not slowing down. "I am scrubbing away the scullery maid so that only the woman remains. Her Grace hates the smell of labor."
Once the scrubbing was done, Alice uncorked a small, crystal vial she had pulled from her apron pocket. The oil inside was clear and thick. She poured a generous amount into her palm and began to work it into Jane’s raw, heated skin.
Unlike the scrub, this was soothing. The oil had no scent—it was heavy and luxurious, soaking into Jane’s pores and leaving her skin glistening and supple.
Jane leaned back against the copper rim, her body throbbing with a strange mix of pain and relaxation. The steam curled around them, creating a private, hazy world.
"Alice?" Jane whispered, watching the older woman expertly massage the oil into her calves.
"Hmph?"
"The tapestries... in the East Wing. Do I really need to fix them? I’ve never done needlepoint on something so old. I’m afraid I’ll ruin the hunting scenes."
Alice paused. She looked up, her hands resting on Jane’s shins. A dark, knowing laugh bubbled up in her throat.
"Oh, Jane," she said, shaking her head, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "You really are a sweet little fool."
Alice stood up, wiping her oily hands on a towel.
"There are no frayed threads in the East Wing. The tapestries are immaculate," Alice said, leaning down until her face was inches from Jane’s. "You aren't going there to fix the furniture, Jane. You are going there to fix her."
Jane’s breath hitched. "Fix... Her Grace?"
"The Duchess is bored," Alice said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And when she is bored, she becomes dangerous. She needs a distraction. She needs a challenge. She needs a canvas that reacts." Alice poked Jane’s chest, right over her heart. "You are going to be that canvas. But only if you are perfect."
Alice grabbed a thick, white towel and held it open.
"Up," she commanded. "We are done here. You’re clean enough to eat off of, which is exactly the point. Now comes the hard part."
Jane stood, water sluicing off her reddened body. "The hard part? I thought the scrubbing was the hard part."
Alice wrapped the towel around Jane, pulling it tight enough to restrict her arms. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a serious, hushed tone.
"No, Jane. The scrubbing was merely the canvas preparation. Now comes the art," Alice said, her eyes dark and unyielding. "Tonight, you are not just a maid; you are an armorer. You must prepare the Duchess’s nails—her most favorite and lethal tools. If you leave them dull, she will be bored. If you leave a snag, she will be furious."
Alice turned toward the door. "And since we cannot risk a single mistake on Her Grace’s hands, you are going to practice on mine. Come."
Alice’s Senior Housemaid's quarters were a stark contrast to the chaotic, steam-filled scullery. The room was small, smelling of lavender and beeswax, with everything arranged in a terrifyingly precise order. A single oil lamp burned on a small table, casting a warm, golden pool of light.
Alice pointed to a wooden stool. "Sit."
Jane sat, clutching the towel around her shivering shoulders. She watched as Alice unlocked a small cedar box on her vanity. From it, she produced a manicure set that looked more like a surgeon’s kit than a collection of beauty tools. There were silver files, blocks of chamois leather, and pots of pink polishing paste.
"The Duchess’s nails are not for scratching, Jane," Alice explained, sitting opposite her and extending her right hand. "They are for gliding. They must be sharp enough to wake the nerves, but smooth enough that they do not tear the skin. They must be like cut crystal."
Jane swallowed hard, reaching out to take Alice’s hand. Alice’s fingers were long and elegant, the nails already well-kept, but Alice expected perfection.
"Pick up the silver file," Alice commanded. "And do not saw back and forth like you are cutting a loaf of bread. Long, sweeping strokes in one direction. Shape the point, then smooth the edge."
Jane began to work. Her hand shook slightly at first, the rasp-rasp-rasp of the file sounding incredibly loud in the quiet room.
"Gently!" Alice hissed, pulling her hand back slightly. "You are tense. If you are tense, you will slip. Breathe, Jane. Treat the hand as if it were a frightened bird."
Jane took a deep breath, forcing her shoulders to drop. She started again.
Rasp... rasp... rasp.
She focused entirely on the curve of Alice’s index nail, shaping it into a lethal, elegant almond point.
"Better," Alice murmured, watching Jane’s face. "Now the buffer. Buff it until you can see your own terrified reflection in the keratin."
For the next hour, the room was filled with the soft sounds of buffing and the low murmur of Alice’s corrections. "Sharper at the tip... round out the sides... no, that edge is too square."
Finally, Jane set down the chamois block. Alice’s nails were gleaming, sharp talons of perfection.
"I think... I think I’m done," Jane whispered, setting down the chamois block with trembling fingers.
Alice lifted her hand into the golden pool of lamplight. She turned her wrist slowly, inspecting the work. The nails were shaped into lethal, elegant almond points, gleaming like wet glass.
"They look acceptable," Alice murmured, her voice neutral. She flexed her fingers, testing the air. Then, she lowered her hand and fixed Jane with a look of dark amusement. "But looking is not enough. We must test the edge."
Alice stood up, looming over the seated girl.
"There is an old tradition, Jane," Alice said softly, stepping closer until her knees brushed Jane’s. "When a child is to be punished, they are often told to go out and cut their own switch. They must choose the branch that will sting them. Failure to find a sufficiently punishing branch will make the punisher go and find their own to use on you, and THAT one WILL sting.
Likewise, you have just spent an hour forging a weapon, grinding it to a perfect point. Now, we must see if it is worthy of the woman who will wield it. If it is not, if Her Grace finds her nails are lacking in any way, then she will don her golden nail guards. They are not merely jewelry, Jane. They are long, curved talons of filigree gold, tapered to the tiniest bulbs so as to not break the skin. No amount of manicuring can make nails as lethal. Trust me, you do not want to know how those feel. So..."
Alice pointed a manicured finger at Jane’s shoulder. "Drop the towel. Raise your arm."
Jane swallowed hard, her heart hammering against her ribs. She let the towel slip to her waist, the cool air hitting her heated skin. Slowly, shakily, she raised her right arm, exposing the pale, vulnerable length of her inner bicep and the deep, shadowed hollow of her armpit.
"If you have failed," Alice warned, bringing her hand up, "this nail will snag. It will scratch and tear the skin. But if you have succeeded... it will glide."
Alice positioned the tip of her index nail—the very nail Jane had just perfected—at Jane’s wrist.
Jane squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself.
Alice moved. She didn't rush. She dragged the sharp, glassy point slowly up Jane’s forearm. It was a sensation of pure, concentrated electricity. It didn't scratch. It was so smooth it felt like a needle of ice.
The nail crossed the crook of the elbow and continued its ascent. Jane’s breath hitched, a high-pitched whine building in her throat.
"Steady," Alice commanded.
The nail reached the crest of the bicep and then, with agonizing slowness, Alice hooked it over the tendon and sank it into Jane’s armpit. She dragged it down the center of the sensitive hollow in one long, decisive stroke.
"Eeeep!" Jane jerked, her shoulder trying to collapse to protect the spot, but Alice caught her wrist, holding the arm open.
"Good," Alice whispered, inspecting Jane’s skin. There was no red mark. No scratch. Just a lingering ghost of sensation that made Jane’s nerves sing. "It glides like oil. You have made a perfect weapon, Jane."
Alice released Jane’s wrist. She picked up the towel and draped it back over the girl’s shivering shoulders.
"You are ready," Alice said, nodding toward the door. "It is five minutes to midnight. Go to the East Wing. Go to her door. And Jane?"
Jane paused, clutching the towel.
"When she goes to test them... I pray your hand was as steady on her as it was on me."
The corridor to the East Wing was silent, the plush carpet swallowing the sound of Jane’s bare feet. She wore only the simple white shift Alice had provided, the fabric feeling impossibly light against her scrubbed, oiled skin.
She reached the heavy mahogany doors of the Duchess’s suite. The grandfather clock in the hall began to chime twelve. On the final stroke, Jane knocked.
"Enter."
The voice was low, commanding, and came from the other side of the wood like a summons from the grave.
Jane pushed the door open. The room was vast, illuminated only by the roaring fire in the oversized hearth and a cluster of candles on the vanity. The air was thick with the scent of ambergris and burning wood.
Duchess Annabelle sat at her vanity table, her back to the door. She was wearing a robe of black silk that spilled onto the floor like a pool of ink. She didn't turn around. She watched Jane’s reflection in the mirror—a small, white ghost in the darkness.
"You are punctual," Annabelle said, her eyes meeting Jane’s in the glass. "Come here."
Jane crossed the room, her legs feeling like lead. She stopped a few feet from the chair.
"Kneel."
Jane sank to her knees beside the vanity.
Annabelle finally turned. Up close, her beauty was terrifying. Her face was a mask of porcelain perfection, but her eyes were dark, hungry pits. She extended her right hand, placing it on a velvet cushion on the edge of the table.
"Alice tells me you have a talent for precision," Annabelle purred. "Let us see."
Jane reached out. Her hands were trembling violently. She took a deep breath, remembering Alice’s words: Treat the hand as if it were a frightened bird. She forced her tremors to subside, picking up the silver file from the Duchess's tray.
Jane worked with a focus that bordered on religious devotion. She didn't dare rush—one slip of the file against the cuticle would mean disaster. Annabelle watched her the entire time, her breathing syncing with the rhythm of the file, her eyes heavy-lidded as she seemingly derived a dark pleasure from the sheer tedium of Jane’s labor. By the time Jane whispered, "Done," the air in the room was thick enough to choke on.
Annabelle lifted her hand. She spread her fingers in the candlelight, admiring the lethal glint of the tips. She flexed them, the movement fluid and predatory.
"A distinct improvement," Annabelle noted. She lowered her hand and looked down at Jane, a cruel smile curling her lips. "But as you know... visual inspection is insufficient."
Annabelle stood up. The silk robe rustled. She towered over the kneeling girl.
"Stand, Jane."
Jane scrambled to her feet, her head bowed.
"Raise your arm," Annabelle commanded. "Let me see if you have forged me a worthy instrument."
Jane lifted her arm. She knew what was coming, but the anticipation was worse than the act. She stared at the wall, biting her lip.
Annabelle reached out and placed the tip of her freshly sharpened index nail directly at the base of Jane’s palm. She pressed down—just enough to threaten, not enough to break the skin.
Slowly, agonizingly, she began to drag the nail down.
It moved over the inner wrist, gliding perfectly. Annabelle hummed in approval. She continued down the forearm, the sensation sharp and cold. Jane’s breath became shallow puffs of air.
The nail crossed the elbow. Annabelle slowed down. She traced a swirling pattern on the sensitive inner bicep, teasing the skin, before tracing a slow, serpentine route downward, as though daring her to react.
"Prepare yourself," Annabelle whispered.
With a sudden, fluid motion, the Duchess hooked the nail over the precipice of Jane’s shoulder muscle and dragged it deep into the armpit.
"Eee-eep!" Jane squeaked, her knees buckling. She tried to clamp her arm down, but Annabelle’s other hand shot out, catching Jane’s elbow and forcing the joint open.
Annabelle kept the nail there, in the hollow, wiggling it slowly and lightly. It didn't snag. It was smooth as glass, but the sensation of the sharp point vibrating against the nerves was electric.
"Passable," Annabelle murmured, withdrawing her hand. She inspected the nail, then Jane’s flushed skin. "It seems Alice has taught you well. You have created a beautiful set of claws, my little rabbit."
Annabelle turned and walked toward the center of the room, where a large, X-shaped wooden frame stood waiting in the shadows.
"And now," the Duchess said, her voice dropping to a velvet growl, "it is time to put them to work."
The St. Andrew’s cross dominated the center of the room, a heavy timber construction of dark, polished oak that seemed to drink the light from the fireplace. Leather cuffs dangled from its four extremities, swaying slightly in the draft.
Annabelle stood beside it, her hand resting possessively on the wood. She looked at Jane, her eyes traveling slowly down the length of the white shift.
"The shift," Annabelle commanded, her voice barely above a whisper. "Remove it. I want no barriers between my instruments and your skin."
Jane’s fingers fumbled with the hem. She pulled the garment up and over her head, letting it pool on the floor like a puddle of milk. She stood shivering in the firelight, her skin glistening from the oil Alice had applied, her body a pale map of nerves waiting to be read.
"Beautiful," Annabelle murmured. "You really are a blank canvas, aren't you? Come here, little rabbit. Let us stretch you out so we can see every inch of you."
Jane stepped onto the small wooden platform at the base of the cross. She didn't fight as Annabelle took her wrists, pulling them wide and high to secure them in the leather cuffs. Next came the ankles, spread agonizingly wide and buckled tight.
The position was absolute exposure. Jane’s chest was thrust forward, her ribs expanding with every shallow breath. Her armpits were stretched into deep, taut hollows. Her stomach was a vulnerable expanse of soft flesh.
"Comfortable?" Annabelle teased, tightening the last buckle on Jane’s left ankle.
"I... I am ready, Your Grace," Jane stammered, her heart beating so hard she felt it shaking the wood frame.
Annabelle walked to a small side table covered in black velvet. On it lay a selection of tools arranged with surgical precision. There was a fine-point paintbrush made of sable hair, a silver letter opener, and, of course, her own hands.
She picked up the paintbrush.
"Sable hair," Annabelle said, walking back to the cross. She held the brush up to the light. "It costs a fortune because it is softer than a whisper. Most people wouldn't even feel it. But you... you aren't most people, are you?"
She didn't start with the sensitive spots. She started on the neck. She flicked the tip of the brush against the tender skin just below Jane’s ear.
Jane flinched violently, a gasp tearing from her throat. "Ah!"
"Sensitive," Annabelle noted. She drew the brush down the side of Jane’s neck, over the collarbone, and then began to swirl it in agonizingly slow circles around the swell of Jane’s left breast.
The sensation was maddening. It wasn't a tickle so much as a ghost of a touch—a suggestion that made the skin crawl and the muscles twitch in a desperate attempt to shake it off.
"Mmm-phhh," Jane whimpered, her head thrashing against the wood.
"Quiet," Annabelle ordered softly. She dragged the brush lower, tracing the individual outlines of Jane’s ribs.
Swish.
Swish.
Swish.
Every pass made Jane’s stomach muscles ripple.
Then, Annabelle discarded the brush and picked up the letter opener. The silver was cold, condensation forming on the metal.
She pressed the flat of the blade against Jane’s heated stomach. Jane hissed at the temperature shock.
"Cold?" Annabelle purred. She traced a line from Jane’s navel up to her sternum, the cold metal contrasting with the hot, oiled skin. Then, with a sudden, wicked grin, she slid the cool tip of the opener deep into the hollow of Jane’s right armpit.
"EEE-EEP! NO!" Jane shrieked, her legs straining against the cuffs.
Annabelle twisted the metal handle, letting the cool silver dance against the hottest, most sensitive nerves in the pit. "Does that burn, little rabbit? Or does it freeze? I wonder if you can tell the difference."
Annabelle pulled the opener away and tossed it onto the velvet tray with a clatter. She stepped into the V of Jane’s legs, her face inches from Jane’s heaving chest. She raised her hands, splaying her fingers so the newly manicured nails caught the firelight.
"But we both know why you’re really here," Annabelle whispered, her gaze dropping to the taut skin of Jane’s sides. "You spent an hour making these perfect. It would be a sin not to use them."
"Please, Your Grace," Jane breathed, not sure if she was begging for mercy or for the touch.
"The 'Spider Walk'," Annabelle announced.
She struck.
Her hands landed on Jane’s lower ribs. The nails, sharp as glass and smooth as oil, began to skitter and scratch upwards. They dug into the intercostal spaces, finding every nerve ending that Alice had prepared.
"AHA-HA-HA! OH GOD! YOUR GRA-HAAA-HAAA-CE!"
Jane’s laughter was immediate and hysterical. She thrashed in the bonds, her body bucking, but the cross held her firm. Annabelle was relentless. Her fingers danced up the ribs, higher and higher, until they reached the armpits.
Because of the position, Jane’s pits were stretched wide open, defenseless. Annabelle dove in. She curled her fingers, raking her nails back and forth across the silken skin, digging into the deepest hollows with a predatory ferocity.
"Is this better?" Annabelle shouted over Jane’s shrieks. "Do you feel how smooth they are? Do you feel how they bite?"
"YES! YES! AHA-HA-HA-HAAA-HAAA-STOP! PLEASE! NOT THE PI-HI-HI-HIIITS"
Annabelle didn't stop. She moved her hands down, dragging her nails all the way from the pits to the hips in one long, jagged scratch that made Jane scream with a mix of agony and ecstasy.
"You are loud, little rabbit," Annabelle laughed, her eyes shining with dark delight. "But we are just finding the rhythm. Now... let's see how much you can take before you break."
The frantic laughter in the room slowly subsided into ragged, wet gasps. Jane hung limply from the cross, her head lolling forward, sweat dripping from her nose to splash onto her heaving breasts. Her skin was a map of angry red bloomed from the scratching, but her eyes were glassy, unfocused, and desperate.
Annabelle didn't step away. She moved closer, the heat of her body radiating against Jane’s naked front. The air between them was thick with the scent of sex and distress.
"Look at you," Annabelle whispered, her voice a low, honeyed croon that sent a fresh shiver down Jane’s spine. "You’re practically melting, little rabbit. Dripping onto my floorboards again. Have you no shame?"
Annabelle picked up the sable-hair brush. She didn't strike with it. She brought it to Jane’s right breast, swirling the incredibly soft bristles around the areola.
"Mmm-phhh," Jane moaned, her hips bucking instinctively against the wood.
"Does that feel good?" Annabelle teased. "Or does it tickle? Your poor little brain can’t quite decide, can it?"
While the brush danced hypnotically over the hardening nipple, Annabelle’s left hand crept around to Jane’s side. She didn't dig in. She barely touched the skin. She trailed her nails lightly over the sensitive skin of Jane’s floating ribs, a touch that was halfway between a lover’s caress and a spider’s crawl.
The effect was devastating. The wires in Jane’s nervous system crossed. The brush was soothing, the nails were maddening, and the combination made her knees knock together.
"Please... Mistress..." Jane choked out.
"Please what?" Annabelle purred. She lowered the brush, dragging it down Jane’s stomach, through the trail of sweat, and into the dark, wet forest between her legs. "Please make you cum? Please touch the little bud?"
The brush found Jane’s outer labia. Annabelle used the flat of the bristles to stroke the swollen lips, parting them gently. She painted the inner folds with long, agonizingly slow strokes, coating the bristles in Jane’s own slickness.
Jane threw her head back, a keen of pure need escaping her throat. "Yes! Please! Touch it!"
"Oh, you’d like that, wouldn't you?" Annabelle leaned in, her lips brushing against the shell of Jane’s ear. Her hot breath ghosted over the wet skin of Jane’s neck. "You want me to touch you there with these hands you prepared? You want to ruin yourself on my fingers."
Annabelle’s nails on her left hand suddenly shifted. They stopped their gentle caress on the ribs and fluttered, quick as lightning, into the soft, unprotected skin of Jane’s hip socket.
"Eee-eep! No! Mmm-hmmm!"
"But you’re such a dirty little thing," Annabelle whispered, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Look at how wet you are. Soaking your thighs. Begging like a bitch in heat. It’s embarrassing, Jane. A proper lady doesn't leak like this."
The brush continued to torment the vulva. It circled the entrance, it teased the perineum, it swept around the throbbing clitoris, missing it by mere millimeters every single time. It was a torture of proximity.
"Just... just a little... please..." Jane sobbed, her hips grinding against nothing, trying to force contact.
"You’re close, aren't you?" Annabelle observed, watching Jane’s face flush a deep, violent scarlet. "I can feel your pulse jumping in your neck. You’re right on the edge of the cliff."
Annabelle increased the speed of the brush on the lips, whipping the fluid into a froth. Simultaneously, she dragged her sharp nails up Jane’s side, tickling the under-curve of the breast with a lethal precision.
Jane’s breath hitched. Her toes curled so hard they cramped. "I'm... I'm gonna... ah... AH...!"
"No," Annabelle said, her voice turning cold and sharp.
She pulled the brush away instantly.
In the same motion, she took her left hand and dug her nails viciously into the deep, sensitive hollow of Jane’s armpit, wiggling them with zero mercy.
"NO! NO! AHA-HA-HA-HA-HAAA-HAAA! STOP! I WAS THEEE-HEEE-RE! THAT'S NAAAHAAT FAA-HA-HA-HAAAIRR!"
The orgasm was strangled in its crib, replaced by a shockwave of electric, jarring ticklishness. Jane screamed with laughter, tears streaming down her face as the sexual tension crashed into a wall of panic.
"You don't get to cum, little rabbit," Annabelle laughed, digging deeper, scratching the hollow until Jane was convulsing. "Not when you’re this messy. Not when you’re this desperate. You have to earn it."
Annabelle finally stopped the tickling, leaving Jane gasping, her body aching with the phantom release that had been snatched away.
"Reset," Annabelle commanded calmly, wiping the wet brush on Jane’s thigh. "Let’s try again. And this time, try not to be so loud when I deny you. It’s unbecoming."
She waited ten seconds—just enough for Jane to catch a single breath—before the soft bristles returned to the swollen, aching lips, and the cruel game began all over again.
After another thirty minutes of the constant edging, the room had fallen into a heavy, wet silence, broken only by the ragged breathing of the two women. Annabelle stepped back from the cross, her chest heaving beneath the black silk. She looked at Jane—flushed, weeping, and shivering—and then down at her own trembling hands.
The game of denial had cost the mistress as much as the maid. The air was thick with the scent of Annabelle’s own arousal, a heavy, musky perfume that radiated from beneath her silk robe. She was damp, aching, and positively melting.
"You have been... thoroughly dismantled," Annabelle murmured, her voice breathless and dropping an octave. "But I find myself... unsatisfied. All this noise you’ve made, and I am still waiting."
She turned sharply, her robe swirling, and walked to the vanity. She didn't pick up a tool. Instead, she dragged the large leather upholstered mahogany library steps toward the center of the room. The legs scraped against the floorboards, a harsh sound that made Jane flinch.
Annabelle placed the steps directly in front of the cross. Then she unclasped her robe which spilled to the floor like water, leaving Annabelle naked. The neatly sculpted forest of hair between her legs was soaking with her own arousal.
Annabelle slowly ascended the steps, adding three feet to her height, towering over the bound girl.
"I require service, Jane," Annabelle said, her eyes dark and glazed. "And since your hands are occupied, you will use the only tool you have left."
Annabelle raised one leg, planting her foot firmly on the diagonal beam of the cross, right beside Jane’s shoulder.
The movement spread her wide. The heat coming off her was palpable. Her mound was swollen, dark red, and glistening with slickness that caught the firelight.
"Open up," Annabelle commanded.
She leaned forward and pressed her wet, steaming **** directly against Jane’s mouth.
Jane didn't hesitate. She was desperate to be useful, desperate to shift the focus from her own tormented nerves. She opened her mouth, her tongue darting out to taste the salt and musk of her mistress. She licked fervently, broad, sweeping strokes that lapped at the swollen lips.
"Mmm... good," Annabelle moaned, her head falling back, her fingers gripping the top of the cross for support. "Deep. Find the pearl. Don't stop."
Jane worked her tongue with a frantic rhythm, trying to be the perfect servant. But Annabelle looked down, a wicked glint returning to her heavy-lidded eyes.
"It’s a little too... mechanical, isn't it?" Annabelle whispered. "It lacks that... vibration I enjoy so much."
Annabelle reached down, using her elevated foot on the cross beam to maintain balance, and snaked her hand over Jane’s shoulder. She found the deep, damp hollow of Jane’s armpit, which was stretched taut by the overhead bonds.
She fluttered her long, sharp nails against the very center of the pit—a touch lighter than air, a ghost of a sensation.
"Mmm-mph!" Jane’s eyes flew open. Her body jerked, but she couldn't pull away because Annabelle’s hips were pressed firmly against her face.
"Don't stop licking, little rabbit," Annabelle warned, her voice trembling. "Keep your tongue out. I want to feel you laugh."
Jane tried to obey. She kept her tongue pressed to Annabelle’s clitoris, but the tickle in her armpit was shattering her composure. The laughter bubbled up from her diaphragm, unstoppable.
"Hnnn-gh! Mmm-hmmm-hmmm!"
Because her mouth was blocked by Annabelle’s flesh, the laughter couldn't escape. Instead, it transformed into a series of rapid, buzzing vibrations that traveled straight through Jane’s jaw, into her tongue, and directly into Annabelle’s sensitive bud.
"Oh! Oh, yes!" Annabelle gasped, her hips snapping forward, grinding harder against Jane’s face. "That’s it! Hum for me! Laugh for me!"
Annabelle wiggled her fingers faster in the pit, turning the ghost-touch into a frantic, skittering dance.
Jane was helpless. Her tongue became a vibrating engine of forced mirth. "MMMM-HIIII-HIII-HMMM! MMMM-HAAA-HAAA!" Every convulsion of laughter sent a shockwave of pleasure straight into the Duchess.
It was too much. The combination of the wet tongue and the sonic boom of Jane’s laughter was overwhelming.
"YES! JUST LIKE THAT! DON'T STOP! AHHH MMMMMMPH!"
Annabelle’s back arched violently. She screamed, a raw, primal sound that echoed off the stone walls. Her hips bucked, slamming against Jane’s face with bruising force. She exploded, her release violent and immediate.
Jane was drowned. Annabelle convulsed, her juices soaking Jane’s nose, cheeks, and chin, running down her neck in hot rivulets.
Annabelle rode the wave, her nails digging into Jane’s armpit not to tickle, but to hold on as her knees shook. She stayed there for a long time, grinding out the last aftershocks against the vibrating, whimpering mouth of her servant.
Finally, with a long, shuddering sigh, Annabelle pulled back. She looked down at Jane—whose face was slick as a candied plum, eyes wide and dazed—and smiled a sleepy, satisfied smile.
"Now that," Annabelle purred, wiping a thumb across Jane’s cheek, "was a proper tribute."
Annabelle stepped down from the stool, her naked form glowing like alabaster in the dying firelight. She pushed the large library steps away, the wood scraping against the floor, and stood before the cross, her chest still heaving slightly from her own release.
She looked at Jane with a heavy, lidded gaze. Jane was a portrait of beautiful ruin—her face streaked with Annabelle’s spent desire, her body trembling so violently that the leather cuffs creaked against the oak frame.
"You held it," Annabelle whispered, reaching out to trace a line through the slickness on Jane’s cheek. She brought her finger to her own lips, tasting the mix of sweat and her own essence. "You swallowed my pleasure while your own was wound to the breaking point. That is... commendable."
Jane let out a broken sob. Her hips were twitching involuntarily, thrusting forward in tiny, desperate jerks. "Mistress... please..."
Annabelle’s gaze dropped to the junction of Jane’s thighs. The area was soaked, the hair matted, the lips swollen and dark red with urgent need.
"Oh my little rabbit," Annabelle purred. She stepped between Jane’s spread legs. "You are wound so tight I fear you might snap the wood if I leave you like this. And I do hate broken furniture."
She placed her hands on Jane’s hips, her thumbs digging into the soft flesh.
"You have permission, little rabbit," Annabelle commanded, her voice sharp and clear. "Cum for me. Now. Cum for your mistress."
Annabelle didn't tease this time. She didn't reach for the brush or the side of the leg. She brought her right hand directly to the center of the storm.
She used her index and ring fingers to spread Jane's vulva open, then her middle finger started at the perineum and drew up to the lowest part of her delicate lips
Jane gasped and tried to push her aching core onto Annabelle's fingers but she didn't have the leverage.
"Be patient, little rabbit" Annabelle hissed, watching Jane’s face contort. "All in good time."
Annabelle then applied pressure to her middle finger and it slid between Jane's lips. The servant girl's muscles contracted to pull the digit in, to attempt to milk it. Annabelle's finger went all the way to the knuckle and then curled up. The pad of her finger caressed the sensitive, spongy wall within.
At the same time, Annabelle’s thumb coated itself in Jane's arousal and found the hard, pulsing pearl of the clitoris.
Jane screamed. It wasn't a laugh or a plea; it was a raw sound of shock. The dual contact was electric after hours of denial.
"Yes," Annabelle hissed, watching Jane’s face contort. "Give it to me."
Annabelle began to rub both digits, her motion fast and unyielding. She used the sharp edge of her manicured thumb nail to drag along Jane's clitoral hood, adding a bite of sharpness to the overwhelming pressure.
Jane’s head slammed back against the cross. Her body went rigid as a board. There was no buildup—she had been teetering on the edge for hours. She simply fell.
"OH GOD! OH GOD! AAAAAH!"
The release was violent. Jane’s inner thighs clamped down on Annabelle’s hand, shuddering with massive, racking spasms. Her pelvic floor contracted in waves so powerful that Annabelle could feel them gripping her middle finger in a vice grip. Fluids spurted out, coating Annabelle’s wrist and dripping onto the floorboards.
Jane sobbed through the climax, her lungs seizing, her vision going white. It was a purging, a total collapse of the nervous system that left her gasping for air like a drowning woman.
Annabelle didn't stop immediately. She kept her hand there, riding out the waves, feeling the tremors slowly subside from a tsunami to a ripple. Only when Jane went completely limp, hanging from her wrists like a ragdoll, did Annabelle slowly withdraw her hand.
"Good girl," Annabelle whispered, wiping her slick hand on Jane’s thigh.
She stepped back, admiring the carnage. Jane was wrecked, her head hanging low, her breathing ragged and shallow.
"But..." Annabelle said, a new, mischievous light entering her eyes as she tilted her head. "I wonder..."
She reached out and lightly—feather-lightly—ran her fingernails up the sole of Jane’s foot.
Jane tried to kick out with a fresh, frantic energy, a high-pitched squeal tearing from her throat. "EEE!"
Annabelle smiled, her teeth flashing in the darkness. "Oh my. It seems the storm has stripped the velvet from your nerves. You are even more sensitive now, aren't you?"
Jane’s eyes cracked open, blurry and terrified. "Please, Your Grace... I have nothing left..."
"Oh, you have plenty left," Annabelle corrected. "Your nerves are wide open. They are singing. It would be rude not to listen to them."
She bent down. She took the soft, fine tip of the sable brush and applied it to the sole of Jane’s right foot, right in the center of the arch where the skin was pink and wrinkled from the earlier torment.
She didn't scratch. She didn't press. She simply whisked the bristles back and forth, faster than a heartbeat.
"EEEEEE! NO! STOP!"
The reaction was immediate and electric. Jane’s leg shuddered with a strength she shouldn't have possessed, rattling the timber frame. The sensation wasn't pain, and it wasn't pleasure. It was pure, distilled intensity—like a thousand tiny sparks dancing on raw nerve endings.
"Look at that," Annabelle laughed. "You jump like a startled fawn. It tickles so much more now, doesn't it?"
"IT’S TOO MUCH! EEE-HEEE-HEEE! PLEASE!"
Annabelle moved to the other foot. She swirled the brush around the heel, then traced the line of the toes. Jane was writhing, her head thrashing against the wood, tears springing fresh to her eyes. It was a helpless, whimpering torture, the kind that made the breath catch in the throat.
"And the hands," Annabelle murmured, standing up.
She reached high, where Jane’s wrists were secured. Jane’s fingers were curled into fists, but Annabelle gently pried them open. She ran the brush over the palms, then danced the bristles over the very tips of Jane’s fingers.
"Nnnngh! Mmm-hmmm! Don't! Don't!"
Jane giggled uncontrollably, a wet, exhausted sound that bubbled up from her chest. Her body shuddered with every pass of the brush. She was completely at Annabelle’s mercy, unable to protect her most sensitive extremities, forced to endure the agonizingly light caress while her body was still throbbing from the orgasm.
Annabelle played her for another ten minutes, drawing out every squeak, every twitch, every desperate plea, until Jane was reduced to a panting, incoherent mess.
Finally, Annabelle sighed. She tossed the brush onto the floor.
"Delightful," the Duchess declared. She patted Jane’s sweat-slicked cheek. "But I suppose I must let you go, or you’ll be useless for the silver polishing tomorrow."
Annabelle moved to the buckles. She undid the ankles first, Jane’s legs dropping heavily to the platform. Then she released the wrists.
Jane collapsed. She didn't even try to catch herself; she simply slid down the length of the cross and pooled onto the floorboards in a heap of trembling limbs and exhaustion.
Annabelle stood over her, hands on her hips, looking down with a benevolent sneer.
"You may go, Jane," the Duchess said, turning her back and walking toward the large four-poster bed. "Do try to walk quietly on your way out. I am ready for sleep."
Jane lay there for a long moment, waiting for the room to stop spinning. Slowly, painfully, she gathered her limbs. she found her shift on the floor and pulled it over her raw, sticky skin. She didn't button it. She simply clutched it closed and stumbled toward the door, leaving the Duchess to her dreams.
---
The servant's quarters were silent as a tomb, filled with the collective breathing of the sleeping staff. It was nearly three in the morning. The air was cold, a sharp contrast to the hothouse atmosphere of the East Wing.
Jane moved like a phantom down the row of cots, her bare feet making no sound. She reached the end of the room and slipped into the small room that belonged to the Senior Housemaid.
A single candle was burning on the crate Alice used as a bedside table.
Alice was sitting up in bed, wrapped in a shawl, a book open on her lap. She hadn't read a page in hours. She looked up as Jane entered, her eyes sharp and assessing.
Jane looked like she had survived a war. Her hair was a bird’s nest, her face was scrubbed clean of makeup but red and blotchy, and she walked with a distinct tremble in her legs. She smelled of the Duchess—that unmistakable mix of ambergris, sex, and expensive oil.
Jane collapsed onto the foot of Alice’s bed, unable to make it to her own.
Alice closed her book. She leaned forward, the candlelight casting long shadows across her face. She didn't ask if Jane was okay. She asked the only thing that mattered to her professional pride.
"Well?" Alice whispered. "Did the nails hold?"
Jane let out a long, shaky breath that turned into a delirious giggle. She held up her hands, flexing the fingers. "She used them for everything, Alice. She dragged them, she dug them... she didn't find a single snag."
Alice’s face relaxed into a smile of profound satisfaction. "Good. I knew you had the touch."
"She tested them," Jane continued, her voice gaining a frantic, excited energy. "On the cross. She used the brush... and the letter opener... but the nails... oh god, Alice, the nails."
Jane shifted, wincing slightly as her thighs rubbed together. "She made me... she made me service her. While I was tied up. She stood on a set of steps."
Alice’s eyebrows shot up. A flicker of heat passed through her eyes—a vicarious thrill. She knew those steps. She knew that view.
"And?" Alice pressed.
"And she tickled me while I did it," Jane whispered, her eyes wide. "In the pit. She made me laugh into her. It made her explode, Alice. I’ve never seen anything like it."
Alice let out a low, dark chuckle. She reached out and poured a cup of water from a pitcher, handing it to the parched girl.
"She consumes us, Jane," Alice said softly. "She takes our nerves, our hands, our voices, and she plays us like instruments. Tonight, you were a Stradivarius."
Jane drank the water in one gulp, the cool liquid soothing her raw throat. She lowered the cup, looking at Alice with a new understanding. The fear was gone, replaced by a deep, exhaustion-soaked pride.
"She said I was loud," Jane murmured, a sleepy smile spreading across her face. "She said I was a 'discordant note'."
"You are," Alice agreed, blowing out the candle and plunging the room into darkness. "Now sleep. You have to polish the silver tomorrow. And trust me... your hands are going to be very, very sore."
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