Adult-FanFiction.org : Anime

Gilded	By : tinkerheck Category: > Black Butler (Kuroshitsuji ???) Views: 3151 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji, aka Black Butler. I make no money from this fanfiction.

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
- 5
+++++++ Please see disclaimer & story notes in chapter one ++++++++

++++++++ chapter notes ++++++++

I fly beta-less. Please forgive the typos.

As always, thanks for reading!

 

+

Gilded

Chapter 4

+

“Mistress… What on earth are you doing?”

Our first night in the manor had gone relatively well. I gave her some of the pain killing medicine prescribed by her doctor at the hospital, and I dare say she was too far gone under their influence to protest, much less be aware of, what I was doing when I gave her a sponge bath on her new bed. I had her dressed in a new pair of silk pajamas and under the covers fast asleep by seven p.m., which was helpful to me as I continued setting up her new home throughout the night. Gilda stayed quiet most of the night, whimpering only once or twice. I checked on her immediately, but she was sleeping soundly each time.

Now, at six o’clock in the morning the following day, I entered the kitchen to discover that she had somehow gotten herself out of bed, hobbled downstairs on her bad leg, and had been poking around in the cupboards.

By the way, I’d heard her, of course. Don’t get all up in arms, I wouldn’t have let her fall down the stairs! After all, if she dies now before I can extract and consume her soul, she goes straight to Hell. More to the point, I go hungry. Can’t have that, now can we? Heh.

“Um… I’m making a pot of coffee?”

Detestable drink. I despise coffee. I only stocked the damnable stuff because, well… it was America. You people wouldn’t know a decent cup of tea if it stood up, sang Rule Britannia, and leapt down your throat.

She’d managed to get a container of Arabica beans down from the top of a cupboard on her own with the help of a stool, though I know not how she did so without falling down and hurting herself further. She would have gotten as far as brewing the black sludge had she not dropped the machine’s carafe and broken it. There was shattered glass all over the kitchen floor. There she stood, leaning up against the counter, gripping the edge and frozen in place in her bare feet.

It was going to be a long haul.

In any case, since I knew there were some things she was going to have to get used to, I decided to use this little moment as an excuse to teach her a thing or two.

“You most certainly are not,” I snapped, perhaps a bit too harshly as I saw her wince. I strode over to her, my perfectly polished black Italian leather shoes crunching bits of glass beneath them as I went. Without another word, I picked her up in my arms and we left the kitchen.

“I don’t know what I am more upset with your for, trying to get out of bed and come downstairs on your own with your injuries still an issue, or nearly cutting the bottoms of your feet to shreds while doing a task that is my responsibility!” I said with venom.

Honestly, did she not have a single concept of what it meant to have a butler?

Gilda remained quiet, holding on to me tightly and staring at my face as I continued my lecture, all the way up the stairs and into her bedroom. She was in a t-shirt and ‘blue jean’ shorts, so she’d managed to dress herself before coming down – if you consider that sort of thing ‘clothing’. I know I don’t.

Her bed was still turned down, because of course she hadn’t made it, so I slipped her right back into it. “Take off those deplorable things immediately. That cannot be comfortable clothing for bed.” Ducking her head from my cold gaze, she unzipped her shorts and began to pull them off. She was moving very slow, and it wasn’t just because her leg and ribs still hurt.

She didn’t want to undress in front of me.

Oh, we had so much work in front of us. Exasperated, I leaned over and brushed her hands away. She stiffened up for a moment as I gently began to pull the ugly garment from her person with much more efficiency. I decided to ignore her apprehension about what I was doing, and continued to let her know how things were going to go.

“You need only say my name – the name you have given me, may I remind you. What did you think that was for? I will hear it, Miss Gilda, no matter how far away I am, and I will come to your side.” Leaving her in her t-shirt and panties, I pulled the covers back up over her. “Whether I am down the hall, or on the other side of the planet, I will hear it. I will come. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

“You need but give me an order, and I will do your bidding. Do you understand?”

Again, she nodded.

I stood up straight with my fists on my hips, satisfied that she would stay put.

“Making coffee is not your responsibility, it is mine, Mistress. In fact, all the menial tasks in your life are my responsibility, as well as most of the major ones. I am to buttle for you. You do not need to manage your household, I do. You do not cook, do laundry, drive, or clean. You do not worry about your revenge concerning your father’s investment firm. Your only responsibilities are to yourself – playing and writing your music, completing your studies, enjoying your status. Are we clear on that?”

She paused, looking at me with wide eyes, then finally, nodded once again.

I think I may have frightened her a little bit. It was just as well!

I came back up to her room some time later and found she hadn’t tried to exit the bed again, which I was thankful for. I brought her a cup of coffee – disgusting, sacrilegious beverage – and a breakfast of fresh melon and citrus, whole wheat toast and a poached egg, all of which was politely organized with her utensils and a linen napkin on a polished silver tray, with the morning paper on the side.

It was a thing of beauty, my first real act of service in several years and I’d lost none of my talent… and she looked at all of it as though she’d never seen breakfast before in her life.

Bother.

I’d hoped that my little lecture would have been sufficient to help her understand my place in her new home… and hers.

I wasn’t even close.

Gilda, it turned out, was proving to have some difficulty with the way I wanted to handle things.

She also wasn’t as easy a mark where sex was concerned now that we were living under the same roof. Perhaps it was because she was three years older than when I’d first met her – what a thrush she had been back then! Young, melodic, vibrant. I knew that Gilda was still in there. It would become my personal mission to make her whole again. Make her happy and fulfilled.

Tasty.

Yes, yes. I am sure that you know my priorities in securing Gilda’s contentedness have a hidden agenda – a desired outcome that only I see the benefits in. We’ve been over this; I will not apologize for my demonic nature.

Keep in mind that I realized her recent rape was playing a part in her reluctance to get closer to me. But there were moments when she was downright uncooperative, and I believe that has more to do with her age and the struggles she had encountered in her life, the bitterness that I had mentioned earlier, than how she was violated. Now she truly was reminding me of Ciel. As with my former Master, I wanted very much to put her in her place – but Gilda was not a twelve-year-old boy.

No matter how angry she made me on occasion, I could not simply take her by the throat and insist that she see things my way. For one thing, that would have been unmannerly, but for another… Well, Gilda was an adult now. She had her own expectations out of her daily life. I soon began to realize that I would need to submit to her will in some areas of our day-to-day existences in order for me to succeed.

I was prepared to do that, of course… but little did I know just how much of it I was going to have to do.

+

From the first moment she’d laid eyes on the new piano I’d gotten her, she wanted to get down from my arms and play something.

Aside from that lavish, brand new bed in her upstairs bedroom, the piano was the only other piece of furniture I had personally purchased the same morning I had brought her home. Those two pieces were the only ones I absolutely had to have in place before I brought her into her new home.

The piano would hold her greatest joy, and the bed – later, hopefully – would hold mine.

I’d had the grand piano express-delivered to her new residence and tuned on site before I even picked her up. On top of the cost of the piano itself, I had to pay a small fortune for this to happen at five in the morning. No matter. Many more items were scheduled to arrive later that very day; clothes, furniture, draperies, kitchen supplies – amazing, your human ‘internet!’ It had only been around for a short time, but merchants everywhere had taken advantage of it. You can spend a great fortune in less than a few hours, and at three o’clock in the a.m. no less! Delightful! I would deal with the bills that were sure to arrive later, but what an amazing time-saver.

At present, the manor was still bare inside, with the exception of her bed waiting for her upstairs and that majestic instrument. It had held her so captive, resting in the front salon, awash in the morning light, beckoning her… I nearly burst out of my pants at her reaction to the thing!

She had cried.

Success!

I insisted she was still too wounded to work yet, but I assured her that the day would soon come when she’d be up and about, composing to her heart’s content. She had pouted slightly then, lower lip jutting out around those wonderfully salty tears of joy, so I sat down on the piano’s bench and let her caress the keys for a bit. When she was satisfied that her new toy was indeed not an illusion, Gilda leaned back into my embrace and there were fresh tears in her eyes. I wiped them away gently and she gave me the sweetest look I had seen on her face thus far. She hugged me fiercely about my neck, saying thank you Alexander around her distinctly feminine sobs.

Have I mentioned how very beguiling that sound is to the male human body? I forgot just how alluring it was, as I suddenly felt a great need within me to hold and mend and caress and claim.

I was going to have to get used to that sort of thing all over again. I was going to have to learn to control my reaction to that sort of thing. I found I had to suppress an intense craving to take her mouth in my own, still-split lips be damned. The blood on them had coagulated, but oh… it would still be so very delectable… In any case, I gave her the accepted polite response to her gratitude and stood up quickly, lest she begin to notice the abrupt hardness in my nether regions.

Too soon for that, Demon. Too soon.

Still, I had to remember this moment. That piano would prove to be her Achilles heel.

I moved on from the salon quickly, and she asked to get down again. I insisted that she was simply to damaged and weak, and that it was nothing for me to carry her throughout the entire house to help familiarize her with her surroundings. It was still an empty shell, but it would soon be a home. Her home.

Our home. For a time, anyway.

+

My happiness was short lived. The first sign of real trouble showed itself within days.

Our first few days living in the new manor were quiet. Other than the incident in the kitchen during our very first morning together, there was not much activity on her part. I learned that Gilda had no idea how to live the life of a woman of means, let alone yielding to being nursed as well as pampered.

For instance, due to her injuries a bath was still out of the question as of yet, and I was still sponge-bathing her as she lay on her new bed, morning and night. However, she was uncomfortable with such familiarity and would only allow me to go so far, ordering me away for the more tender bits. It was highly frustrating for me.

First off, simply put, I’d have done a better job. A much more thorough job. I can see foreign matter, you know.

Secondly, her present reaction to our intimacy was a far cry from the fresh, eager seventeen-year-old I’d approached three years ago. I daresay if I had gotten to her back then, I’d have made my way into her pants before that evening’s meal. I could smell the lust on her for nearly the entire conversation. I can still smell it, now, while I bathe and dress her… only I can add embarrassed and tense to the list.

How do you humans lose that wonderful openness of your youth so easily? If I were in your position, considering how short your lives actually are, I’d hang on to every happiness as though I were defending my offspring.

Then again, most of you are lousy parents. So I guess it’s to be expected.

After most of the décor was in place, I kept asking her what she thought of it all, and at first she refused to comment. When I finally got through to her that this was her home and she had every right to decorate it the way she wanted, she finally told me just what she thought of my decisions.

Gilda had grown into quite the direct adult. She despised my choice in curtains, but adored all the furniture. She was indifferent towards the wallpaper and paint in half the rooms, yet approved of it in the others. The expensive rugs on the hardwood floors? She liked those so much it gave her gooseflesh. But as to the framed painted reproductions on the walls – masters, every last one of them – she said they were trite and that I needed to expand my artistic horizons.

My artistic sensibilities are just fine, thank you. However, I’ll be sure to expand her horizons the first chance I get.

I wasn’t about to change any of those things, of course. In case you haven’t gleaned it yet, I’m a bit of a ‘my way or the highway’ demon. But, it was good that she got it out of her system. In the end it didn’t matter, because I don’t truly believe that furniture and wallpaper were major concerns in her life, even now as she had the money to do something about it. That piano, however... Well, let’s just say that it was a stroke of genius on my part that I had started with it.

Gilda, as I have told you, was a musician. She was studying to be a composer. But more than that, she was an artist, and in every sense of the word. She had every intrinsic negative personality trait that the all the greats were known to possess – traits that, I tell you now, are very difficult to live with, let alone attempt to eradicate.

Stubborn. Easily distracted, with at least one part of her brain constantly focused on music. Densely unreachable for even minor conversation when she is working. Subject to sudden fits of anger, melancholy and elation – fits that diminish as quickly as they start.

Artists are having a laugh at the universe’s expense, and refuse to let anyone else in on the joke.

Highly annoying. And undeniably attractive. Ask yourself this… despite the fact that these days we all know about Edgar Allen Poe’s addiction to drugs, Vincent Van Gogh’s insanity, and Maria Callas’ stormy temper, would you deny the opportunity to spend an afternoon with any one of those geniuses, just to see what they are like? I thought not.

Being that she was still dependent upon me to get around, most of Gilda’s time during that first week was spent reading, studying, or composing while lying in her new bed or on the furniture in the lower rooms. She asked me briefly about fulfilling my end of the contract, but I told her to hush, that we would get to that discussion later. I wanted to get the manor in perfect working order and get her healthy and back to school first.

Despite all that, it was when we got to her clothes that the real arguments began.

Dressing Ciel had been a pleasure. He was thin and young and beautiful… but most importantly he didn’t really give a damn what I put on him or what I clothes bought. The only time he balked was when I dressed him in a frilly girl’s party dress so that he could be a decoy while trying to catch a criminal. He had looked so very pretty, and the corset… I get excited just remembering that day. Boy clothes, girls, it didn’t matter. Every single day with him was like dressing a doll. I enjoyed putting Ciel’s clothing on him almost as much as I loved taking it off of him.

Shopping for him was easy. The styles were what they were back then, and people with money were expected to dress a certain way, and not to veer. Changes were slow, trends were few and manageable, and a fad could simply be ignored if it was garish.

But this was nineteen ninety-seven, and it was America. The term trend didn’t even begin to describe the fashion world.

Gilda had… eclectic tastes, which made decision-making all the more difficult for me. And apparently, I had made all the wrong decisions when I purchased her wonderful new clothes.

Good Lord, the yelling. For someone so pretty and delicate looking, she could give a rabid hellhound a run for its money! My sensitive ears are still ringing from it.

We had been in the manor for exactly three days, four hours and twenty-nine minutes when her coordinated, pretty, expensive new clothing finally began to show up. At first she was eager to see what I had selected, as there had been no true ire on her part regarding the décor; as I said, she didn’t really care about that. But after a few garments were presented to her, she grew quiet. Then she started getting agitated. Then, she began telling me, in no uncertain terms, what she thought of my choices. Within a short time, we were nearly at each other’s throats.

And I am sure I do not have to remind you exactly which one of us would have won that sort of battle.

Here is an example of how the conversation went that evening as we opened package after package of internet-acquired garments and shoes – her sitting against pillows recuperating on her new bed, with me standing at the ready with a hand-held steamer and padded hangers, eager to fill her empty closets.

“Where did you get that?” she asked, pointing at a lovely, one hundred percent cotton button down shirt, in eggshell with pearl buttons. It dangled in my hands, her expression towards it sour, as though it was a box of night crawlers.

“I selected it from the Fall line at Abercrombie and… something or other, Mistress,” I said, holding it up and admiring the delicate, embroidered red detail around the rounded-edge collar. “Considering how late in the season it is, I was lucky to have found it…”

She shook her head in odd circles, eyebrows raised incredulously, and responded with a rather snide tone to her voice. “Oh. Abercrombie and… Did you now?”

“Ah… Yes. It is not to your liking?”

“Gee, Alex… What do you think? Do I look pleased?”

I cleared my throat. “Well. Yes. Not every piece has to be well-loved,” I started, touching it up with the steamer. “Some pieces function quietly, as essentials. This will go lovely with both the red wool skirt and the maroon jumper.” I walked towards her closet to put it away.

“Yeah. About that. I don’t wear sweaters.”

I was aghast. “Nonsense! A good jumper is essential to any young woman’s wardrobe.”

She shook her head, pushing her composition notebook aside. “All right, now, you listen a’ me Jeeves.”

Who was this person?

“Furst off, this here’s ‘merica,” she spat, using an atrocious southern accent that grated on my nerves. “An’ round here we all say sweaters, not ‘jumpers’. “ I turned, looking at her, trying very hard to control my own temper. “Secondly, I do not wear sweaters. I do not wear sleeveless shells,” I knew of at least six of those we had yet to unwrap, “turtlenecks, mock or otherwise,” oh dear, there were eleven of those, “or cardigans.”

Oh my. No cardigans? That little bitch.

“I find most knitted stuff too hot, even in winter. If I get cold indoors, I like sweatshirts and hoodies.”

“Hood-ease, Mistress? What is that?”

She rolled her eyes. “Remember the blue top I was wearing when you picked me up the other morning to bring me here? It had a zipper all the way down the front?”

That thing.

“You mean the navy blue garment you had on over your white t-shirt? The one with the little red skulls all over it and the hood– Ah. ‘Hoodie’. I see.” I pursed my lips and turned back to her closet, and hung the button down shirt on the rod. “It was damaged. Old. I threw it out for you.”

I practically felt her eyes bugging out before they shot daggers into my back. I turned at her silence and found she was staring at me like I had eaten a puppy. Which, incidentally, tastes revolting.

“You what?!” She bellowed. “That was my favorite one, you asshole!”

“Mistress, please!” I said, placing a hand to my ear. “Such language for a young lady! You will cease–”

“I will cease?! Are you kidding me? Who the fuck is the butler here and who the fuck is the Mistress?!”

“You are my Mistress. I am your butler,” I said, stalking towards her. I knew my eyes were glowing at that point and I sounded quite angry, but there was no way I could have stopped myself. When I got to her bed, I leaned down on my knuckles, placing a fist on either side of her hips, and got quite close to her face. “But more than that, I am one hell of a butler, and you would do well to remember just where I come–”

“Okay then, mister,” she cut me off, totally unimpressed with my demonic nature peeking through and not backing away an inch. “You’re so full of hell, so tell me. Just what the hell else of mine have you thrown away?!”

“I threw away all the shoes and clothing you came to me with, except for what you are currently wearing… and that atrocious canvas bag you used for school.”

Her face went positively white with rage.

“Mistress,” I began, forcing the sound of reason into my voice. “It was a ragged, old flea trap, with irremovable coffee rings. It was an old bag when I met you three years ago, for heaven’s sake. ‘Let it go’, as they say.”

“Let it go? That bag was…” she swallowed hard, and I thought she was going to start crying. But she shook her head slightly and went right back to being mad. “Where is it?! I want it back! Now!”

Angry, I turned away from her and rifled through the packages on the floor until I found the one I wanted. Tearing the box open with precision, I threw the packaging aside and held an over-priced but beautiful leather book satchel in one hand, and pointed at it furiously with the other.

“I have replaced it with this one, do you see? New, fine calfskin, stronger, and with sterling silver appointments,” I said through clenched fangs, stomping towards her on the bed. “Why on earth would you want that old piece of rubbish when you can have this?”

I was in her face again by now, leather bag gripped in one hand and her jaw held fast in my other. She grimaced, trying to remove herself from my fingers, but my hands were like iron, giving her a little taste of my immense strength. I was reminded, briefly, of when I had done the very same thing to Ciel.

Gilda glanced from the bag back to my demonic eyes, her eyes showing just the edge of nervousness, and I noticed she was trembling. She was very frightened, she positively reeked of it, and I’d be remiss if I did not admit that I enjoyed it at that moment. Also, I found myself getting aroused again, only this time, it was not out of a desire to soothe and mend… it was to quell and control.

But, despite her fear, she was also not backing down from me, which made me proud. Never before had a mark gotten me so conflicted in such a short time. When she finally spoke, it was quiet, and her voice was shaking, but she got the words out.

“Demon, I… I order you to get that bag back.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. It was an order. I would do it. But not before I found out: “Why?”

She frowned, then squared her shoulders. She moved to slap my hand away from her jaw, and I allowed it to fall away when she made contact. I could give her that much; if I had remained steadfast in holding her jaw, she’d have probably broken her hand on mine when she slapped it.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you! Get my bag back now! Do as you have been ordered,” she yelled in my face.

I stared at her.

“What are you gonna do? Kill me? Break the fucking contract, go ahead! I’ll be dead and you can dance in my blood and jack off to your heart’s content, but nothing else will happen. You certainly won’t get my soul.”

Damn it all. She was brave… and smart.

I sighed, closing my eyes and getting control over myself. Eyes returned to black, fangs retracted, cock went into repose.

“Very well… Mistress.”

I was forced to leave her alone in the manor for about thirty-eight minutes. I began by retracing the route of the dustmen, as they had, unfortunately, done their job and collected the manor’s trash that very morning – including the bag I had filled with her clothing, shoes and that goddamn canvas bag. When I came upon the right spot in the correct refuse dump I searched for her scent and found the bag. Rather than remove the canvas sack, I decided to simply bring all of it back to her, in the hopes that it would pacify her, and I would have a tool to negotiate my way to an agreement with her regarding her wardrobe. By the time I got back, I smelled disgusting and… Well, to be honest… I felt horrible for having scared her.

Things simply couldn’t be left as they were.

After I cleaned myself up and brought her the requested bowl of soup (I will break her of saying ‘please’ to me yet, I tell you), we tried again. It turns out that Gilda did not hate my every purchase. She truly despised some of the pieces, but what really rankled her was the way in which I was planning her outfits in whole, right down to her underclothes.

With her tastes all over the place, she also preferred to mix things up, so some of the newer pieces stayed. Some of the old ones went; she either never cared for them in the first place, or they were too old and she had no sentimental feelings attached to them anyway.

We finally agreed that I would assemble an outfit as I saw fit, then she could rearrange it as she pleased. And, at least one day a week, what she wore was entirely up to her (she went with Saturday, ‘date night’ as she called it. We’ll just see about that.) and I would get one day a week of my choosing when my selections were absolute.

I learned a valuable lesson that day regarding my new Mistress. She was not Ciel. She had different goals and definitely had different tastes than he’d had. And perhaps the most notable difference between them, Gilda hated giving me orders. She preferred to inquire, or worse, discuss.

But as with Ciel, I could manipulate her on some levels. I just had to figure out what they were.

+

“What the heck am I gonna tell people when I get back to school?”

“Simply say that you came into a grand inheritance. If they ask whom, say it was a distant, unmarried, unknown Aunt. Say nothing more. You owe no one an explanation.” I lifted her left leg up, the wounded one, to clean the back of it, and she winced.

“Apologies, Miss. Too fast?”

“No, not really. The muscles are still protesting. I need to flex them more often, anyway. Just ignore me,” she muttered.

I leaned in, hoping to bridge the gap between us during these moments just a bit more. “Ignore you? My word, that would be impossible,” I said smoothly, wiping her leg with the sponge from the back of her knee up to her ankle. Little drops of scented water escaped the sponge and ran down her leg, all the way to the back of her thigh. She shivered, and then tensed.

“Just relax, Mistress. You are too tight, and it will not help your recovery.”

“Doesn’t this bother you? Having to clean me like this?”

“Not in the least. I enjoy serving you in any way that I am able, as you are my–”

“Your delicious prey, yeah yeah. I get it.”

“Well, I was going to say ‘as you are my Mistress’,” I began, bending her leg to relieve the tightness in it. She closed her eyes and bit her lip. It was still painful, but she was quite the trooper. I leaned on her knee and pushed gently as the physical therapist had shown me to do. “But my delicious prey will work as well,” I said, my voice nearly at a whisper for such an intimate moment. She moaned just a tiny bit, and I released her leg, setting it back down on the bed gently.

“All right, Young Miss?”

“Yes. That felt better than it did this morning, but don’t do it again, okay? Once was enough for tonight.”

“As you wish… but tomorrow morning, we do it twice.”

“Whatever.”

I moved up to her torso, and cleansed her arms and underarms, shoulders, neck, and stomach. I wiped her breasts clean as she never seemed to have any concerns about that; it was only when I got to her privates that she balked.

I sat her up carefully and washed her back, then lay her back down again and looked her in the eyes.

“Please let me finish.”

She sighed, closing her eyes and looking away from me. “We’ve been over this, Alexander.”

“Yes, and I have capitulated up until now. But I ask you, please, let me do this for you. Mistress, allow me to be blunt.”

Gilda looked up at me. “Speak your piece, Demon.”

“Every time you try to clean yourself, you strain your ribs again. Your embarrassment causes you to seek to get it over with quickly by scrubbing in too harsh a manner, which is not doing your tender flesh, still raw from being violated, any good.” Her lower lip quivered slightly. “The bottom line is, you need to heal properly. We declined in-home care because I will not allow a stranger to handle you thus, but your stubbornness is not helping matters any.”

She sniffed a bit, and began to cry.

I immediately put down the sponge and sat on the bed next to her side. Wiping away her tears, I said “There, there Miss Gilda,” in my most comforting voice. That particular voice has been known to charm the clothes off of many a human. It is the one that Grell Sutcliff wants to hear personally, and never, ever will.

“You don’t need to remind me I was raped, you idiot. I remember it all now,” she said through her tears.

“I am sorry, Miss. Of course you do. And it was a horrible thing.” Well. The beating was not so horrible – ah, not for me, at least. Opportunity only knocking once, and all that rot.

“You’re gonna have to be patient with me, Alex. I’m used to taking care of myself, you know? It’s been me, and only me, for a long time now.” She hiccupped and her breasts wobbled. Adorable. “If I was freaked out with you just bringing me a cup of coffee, how do you think having you bathe me is making me feel?”

“Amorous?” I asked, my voice filled with a lilting hope.

She turned magenta again. And oh, lucky me, I got to see it all over her person! Even her knees got pink. Huzzah!

Wiping away the rest of her tears, I said, “If I can’t give my Mistress a simple, pleasurable sponge bath, what sort of a butler would I be?”

She tried to hide her smile. A delightfully good sign.

“Now,” I started, effusing my voice with sympathy as well as a little temptation. “Let me finish for you, yes?” I picked up the sponge again, and touched the edge of the soft towel she’d kept draped over her hips since we began this little routine almost a week ago.

Biting her lip, she nodded her assent. “Just… be gentle, okay?”

“Of course, Miss. Leave it to me.”

She surrendered peacefully to my ministrations while I cleansed her most sensitive areas, and I coaxed her to relax even further with soft words of encouragement.

It was the most significant headway I’d made in our relationship since we’d contracted together. And I won’t insult you by pretending that I didn’t enjoy it, either.

The headway, I mean.

+

tbc

+

++++++++ notes ++++++++

If you read it, **please** review it. Thanks!
- 3
- 4
- 5
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Gilded