Story: It Wasn't Right. Chapter 13.

by Jackie J

Having been seen, whilst bedded by Mr Rogerson, in such a wanton fashion, the moral high ground I may have clung to, is gone now for sure. A lady of wealth and position, a lady like Miss Millicent Williams, would never have given herself in such a way, no matter what the circumstances. It is strangely comforting to accept that it was the maid Milly Brannigan who aroused and took Rogerson’s passion.  A moment of weakness? Caught at a low emotional ebb?  So why, for the third night running, am I still sharing his bed. I know it wasn’t right, I know it isn’t right, but it is what it is.

I had never linked my desires for the apron and its associated subjugation and servitude with sex, not until I had laid with Daniel these past days. Daniel is not a handsome man by any means, and his personal hygiene leaves much to be desired. There is no tenderness in his manner or touch, taking me roughly and at his will. Allowing one so uncouth, to take unconditional possession of me and use me in such an intimate way, bringing new emotions and imaginings for my perverse cravings for debasement. Whilst tempting to continue to take his seed within me, I am now mindful to enforce the rhythm method, but always make good by slobbering and sucking him clean until drained and flaccid.

Miss Elizabeth, engaged in getting to grips with the running of Mayfair Domestic Services and preparing for the funeral of Agnes, I am instructed, until matters are settled, to return to being the maid at Sycamores.

The tragedy on the river Thames, which took Agnes to meet her maker, is the subject of a coroner’s inquiry and Agnes’s funeral is delayed.  I have now returned to living in my own room, Daniel, well back to Mr Rogerson now, decided he had enough of his harlot, he had his reputation to think of.

Story: It Wasn't Right. Chapter 12.

by Jackie J

Thursday, I call dress down day for Miss Margret. Each Thursday Mistress has business to attend to in the city. Rather plain clothing for a lady of such standing, but the nature of her business requires such, and it is not my place to pry. Having inquired once, and having been severely punished, I know better than to inquire of my Mistresses’ business.

Miss Elizabeth is on time to collect Mistress. Miss Elizabeth, a large and well-spoken lady, now manages Mayfair Domestic Services and from the conversations I have fleetingly overheard, the business is expanding and thriving thanks to the investments made by my Mistress, Miss Margret.

With Mistress and Miss Elizabeth having left Poplars, walking into the kitchen, I contemplate what to prepare for them when they return.  Miss Elizabeth likes my cherry buns, and she did ask for them the previous Thursday. Mistress and Miss Elizabeth are rarely back at Poplars until late afternoon, so I have time to shop and still bake the buns.

The clock in the hall chimes seven, then eight, then nine, Mistress is never this late and I start to worry. A sharp banging of the door knocker makes me jump and I hurry down the hallway to answer the door.

A Tragedy. The ferry from Tower bridge to Greenwich capsized. Five survivors, my Mistress, Miss Margret, Agnes Burtonshaw, not one of them.

Shock, filling my senses at the unthinkable, I stare at a tearful Miss Elizabeth in disbelieve at the news, then collapse in a heap on the hallway tiles.