Mon, February 06 2012
| TITLE: | The Lady's Valet |
|---|---|
| AUTHOR: | Ladyaine |
| CATEGORY/TYPE: | PWP |
| RATING/WARNINGS: | NC-17, Adult-Het |
| MAIN CHARACTERS: | Rebecca\Passepartout |
| DESCRIPTION: | Rebecca has had a very bad day, but Passepartout knows how to remedy that. |
| STATUS: | Complete |
| AUTHOR'S NOTES: | I wrote this for two reasons: 1) there hasn't been much on the adult list lately and 2) Passepartout was getting tired of everyone ignoring his talents. |
| DISCLAIMERS: | These characters do not belong to me and I make no claims on them or their actions, so don't blame me. It was their idea. |
Miss Rebecca Fogg could not remember ever having such a perfectly rotten day. In fact, she did not think that anyone had ever had such misery placed upon them to the degree that she had for the past twelve solid hours. Not a single thing had gone right during the entire time, starting with her discovery that morning that she had lost her favorite pair of earrings (a gift from her late cousin, Erasmus) and continuing to spiral downward from there. As she trudged home through the dismal rain that drenched her, Rebecca thought again of the excruciating meeting with Sir Jonathan as soon as she had arrived at Whitehall, in which she had been forced to endure his condescending attitude while he berated her for a failed assignment. The worst part was that Rebecca knew Sir Jonathan had been well within his rights to reprimand her. It had been her fault that the dangerous suspect she was trailing had slipped away and been lost. For just a moment she had allowed her attention to be distracted and that had been all that was needed for the man to get away from her. It had been a stupid and amateurish mistake. Therefore she had had no recourse except to endure her superior's anger, politely saying "yes, Sir Jonathan" and "no, Sir Jonathan" while he rambled on about women trying to do the work of men. Rebecca could still feel her cheeks burning from the humiliation.
After she had escaped from Sir Jonathan's office there had been nothing but more misery from that point on. As punishment for her loss of the suspect Rebecca had been taken off the case and delegated to paperwork for the remainder of the day: a chore that she detested and that Sir Jonathan knew she detested. Then there had been that long, miserable wait in the rain for a carriage, in which she had ruined her new shoes and got thoroughly soaked to the skin despite her cloak. A cold, horrid lunch and an even worse supper and no tea had only served to make the day unbearable. Rebecca would much rather have been out tracking down her suspect in the worst areas of London, dodging bullets and flirting with danger than spending an entire day in the office going over paperwork while trapped in a damp corset. As the day had worn on her mood had descended further and further into blackness until she was ready to murder the next clerk who questioned how she phrased her reports.
Now, as Rebecca arrived home at house no. 7, Saville Row, wet and chilled to the bone, she was eager to vent her fury on the first person who crossed her path, preferably her cousin, Phileas. If there was one thing she could count on, even after such a rotten day, it was that Phileas would be there, comfortably seated for the evening, ready (if not willing) to endure one of her tirades about Sir Jonathan and his intolerable attitude while she flung every bit of frustration in her cousin's direction until her anger had worked itself out. In fact, Rebecca was looking forward to her tirade so much that she barely noticed Passepartout as he took her wet cloak and hat from her in the hallway and hung them up.
"Phileas!" she called, expecting to find him in the study with a glass of brandy at his elbow. When she discovered the study to be empty, Rebecca stamped to the stairs and called upwards. "Phileas, are you there?"
"My master is not here, Miss Rebecca," Passepartout informed her hesitantly, his manner indicating that he knew he was the bearer of bad news and that he was hoping very much that the lady did not see fit to kill the messenger in her present state of agitation.
Rebecca whirled on him furiously, taking some satisfaction in seeing Passepartout flinch.
"Not here? Where the devil is he then?" she demanded.
"He is...out, Miss Rebecca." Passepartout did not seem willing to divulge any more information than that, but Rebecca was a most persuasive interrogator. With her sharp eyes boring into the hapless servant, she advanced on him until he was backed up against the wall and could not escape. He refused to meet her gaze, however, preferring instead to stare down at his shoes.
"Well?" Rebecca said menacingly.
Passepartout had no choice. "My master, he is to be... visiting a friend."
"Which friend?"
"He does not say..."
"Oh don't give me that! You know perfectly well..." Then Rebecca knew. The valet's reluctance could only mean one thing. "He's with the Marquess, isn't he?"
Passepartout shrugged noncommittally.
"Damn him," Rebecca hissed, feeling suddenly more furious than ever, thinking of Phileas lying in the arms of his beautiful new mistress while she was cold and wet and miserable and needed him there. She turned from Passepartout abruptly and headed for the stairs. "Damn him to hell!" she cursed again.
"Miss Rebecca, are you maybe wanting...." Passepartout began earnestly, trying to placate the lady.
"No!" Rebecca snapped, not giving him the chance to finish. "I don't want anything! I'm just going to bed!"
Once inside her bedroom, Rebecca slammed the door behind her with satisfactory force, causing the various bottles and accessories on her vanity to tremble. She immediately snatched up the book lying on her bedside table and threw it against the opposite wall with a resounding thump. That made her feel slightly better, so she looked for something else to throw, but most items within reach were breakable and even Rebecca in a horrendous mood such as this could not bring herself to be destructive. She had had a friend in her youth who took to those kinds of tantrums, leaving a pile of broken glass or porcelain for the servants to clean up, and Rebecca had always hated such waste and irresponsibility. Still, her fury was so steaming that she was seriously considering the idea of breaking something when there was a soft tap at her door.
Rebecca let out an angry explosion of breath. "What is it?" she shouted, not wishing to be disturbed even if the entire house was about to go up in flames.
The door opened slowly and Passepartout appeared carrying a tray. He glanced at Rebecca sheepishly then hurried to place the tray on her bedside table before she could throw him out.
"Passepartout!" Rebecca snarled in warning. "I thought I told you that I didn't want..." Then she got a good whiff of the tea that he had brought in. The warm, delicate scent immediately turned her anger into curiosity. "Is that jasmine tea?" she asked with sudden hopefulness. It was, after all, her very favorite.
"Yes, Miss Rebecca," Passepartout acknowledged as he poured the tea and added the lemon just the way she liked it.
"I thought we were out of that."
The valet shrugged as he worked. "I am finding some in the pantry."
What he meant, of course, was that he always kept a little of the special tea in reserve, in case Rebecca ever needed to be placated the way she needed to be now. Despite her earlier foul mood she felt a smile tug at the corner of her mouth.
"I see. That was very fortunate, Passepartout."
The good valet smiled as he brought her the tea in a lovely porcelain cup. "You sit now, Miss Rebecca," he suggested. "Here. In your most favorite soft chair." He ushered her over to the chair by the fire and Rebecca did not protest. It was only then that she noticed how cheerfully the fire was burning on the hearth, laid out earlier by Passepartout in expectation of her return, no doubt. She also realized that her clothes were still wet and uncomfortable and she was very cold. The warmth of the fire felt wonderfully good indeed.
Passepartout slipped out of the room and Rebecca sighed as she sipped the hot, delicious tea, closing her eyes to savor the way it warmed her all the way down. When she opened her eyes again Passepartout had returned with a steaming basin of water and a towel, which he set down on the floor beside her.
"Ah!" he said, as if suddenly remembering something. "I am finding these, Miss Rebecca. In the study." He reached into the pocket of his jacket and brought out a pair of pearl and emerald earrings, which he gave over to her.
"My earrings!" Rebecca exclaimed happily. "I thought I'd lost them!" Of course she remembered now. She had taken them off in the study yesterday when one of them had started to pinch just a bit and had forgot to pick them up again. "Oh, Passepartout, thank you."
"You are being welcome, Miss Rebecca. You are having the very bad day, no?" Passepartout said as he knelt down in front of her and began to slide off her shoes.
Rebecca sighed. "Well, yes I was. A very bad day, indeed. You can't possibly imagine it. First of all..." Once started, she rattled through the events of the day with relish, expounding on every rotten thing that had happened to her, barely noticing as Passepartout reached under her skirts to modestly remove her stockings in order to set her feet in the pleasantly hot water that he had brought.
"Ooh, that feels heavenly," Rebecca commented in the middle of her story, wriggling her toes in delight. Passepartout smiled and went to her vanity table where he selected a bottle of rose-scented oil and poured a few drops into the basin water. The sweet smell filled the room and Rebecca made a small sound of pleasure. Passepartout then rubbed a little of the oil on his fingertips and, coming around behind Rebecca, he proceeded to gently massage her temples.
"You were saying about the very bad mutton," the valet prompted, encouraging her to continue with her story.
"Oh yes," Rebecca murmured as she relaxed under his soothing fingers. "Well, it was absolutely horrid. I wouldn't have fed something like that to my dog..."
She went through the rest of her trials with disgusted glee while Passepartout continued rubbing her temples and making appropriately sympathetic clucking noises from time to time. When she had finished her tale of woe Rebecca had to admit that she felt extremely better and her feet were nicely warmed and she had almost forgot about Phileas making love to that catty Marquess, probably at that very moment.
To her dismay, however, Passepartout finished what he had been doing, but he immediately knelt down before her once more and took one of her feet from the basin, drying it gently and unhurriedly with the towel. She thoroughly enjoyed this new and careful attention to her feet, which were actually quite sensitive, as he toweled each toe in turn and lightly massaged her arches until she fairly felt like purring.
"Passepartout, you are a wonder," Rebecca said with affection as he completed the toweling and set her feet down on the rug before the fire.
The valet smiled again warmly as he stood and went to the chest at the foot of her bed, where he took out her favorite, most comfortable nightgown and laid it on the bed for her.
"You are forgiving me, Miss Rebecca," he said apologetically. "But your clothes, they are very wet. You will feel better to take them off."
"Quite right," Rebecca agreed. Then she frowned. "Um, could I get you to help me with that, Passepartout? I know it's a bit improper, but it's such a dreadful nuisance to get out of a wet corset."
Passepartout did not hesitate. Carefully and professionally he helped Rebecca to strip off her skirt and blouse and the numerous stiff petticoats that supported the enormous skirt. With efficient ease he untied her corset in the back and she let out a relieved groan as the hated thing fell to the floor and she could breathe again. Now down to only her camisole and knickers, Rebecca was just about to tell Passepartout that she could handle things when she felt his expert hands taking the pins out of her hair. Gently he worked her radiant locks free of the constraints until she could shake her head freely and feel the loose curls tumble around her shoulders. Then Passepartout's hands were on her shoulders as well.
"You are forgiving me again, Miss Rebecca, but you are needing to be very unwinded before you are sleeping," he said as a matter of fact and, straight away, he began to massage her tight muscles with just the right amount of pressure. Rebecca sighed delightedly as he worked, closing her eyes and melting beneath his touch, rolling her head from side to side as he kneaded out the tension she had accumulated during the day. After a while she could not even remember why she had been so upset before. The terrible frustrations suddenly seemed very far away.
Passepartout continued the soothing work of his hands all the way down her back and, after awhile, Rebecca slowly became aware that the massage, while relieving her tension in one respect, was actually causing a different sort of tension to grow within her: a rather warm, glowing urgency right below her naval that was pleasant, but also increasingly difficult to ignore. She was going to have to do something about that as soon as Passepartout was gone...
Then she had an idea...
Passepartout and his very skilled hands...
A very naughty idea, indeed.
Naughty it may have been, but the thought made Rebecca's heart race faster and she smiled wickedly at her own daring. Passepartout, of course, might think her idea scandalous. In fact, she could picture his shocked expression, but at the moment she was feeling too impish and the pleasant tension was growing too much for her to care. She decided to risk the impropriety.
So, as Passepartout came down to the base of her spine, rubbing his thumbs in little circles on either side, Rebecca reached back to grasp his hands and slowly, very slowly, slid them forward around her waist. He resisted slightly at first, but if he felt any shock at her request, Rebecca could not tell. As soon as she had made it very clear as to what she wanted, he seemed more than happy to comply. Then she shivered as he slipped one hand inside the waistband of her knickers, down across her belly and between her legs. She gasped when he reached that sweet spot, which was the source of her new tension, and began a different sort of massage that made Rebecca moan shamelessly. To her delight, Passepartout seemed well acquainted with this sort of duty and needed no guidance to ensure her pleasure.
Soon Rebecca's knees began to tremble and she knew she would be unable to support her own weight before long. Passepartout seemed to know this as well. He removed his hand briefly and, to her surprise, lifted her off the floor for a moment so that he could take a step backward and seat himself on the bed with Rebecca perched in his lap. That was much better. Rebecca wriggled back against him, resting her head on his shoulder while she spread her legs to allow him free access to her heated femininity, which he resumed stroking with expert care and willingness.
Rebecca gripped the bed covering fiercely on either side and she moaned even louder as Passepartout continued to pleasure her with maddening patience. She was insane with desire. If, at that moment, he had wanted her for himself, she would not have refused him. As it was, she writhed in his lap sensuously, undone by the incredible torment that he managed to create, until his gentle teasing brought her to a splendid height of passion and she cried out as waves of ecstasy soared through her.
Now Rebecca really was purring. She stretched and languished in the lovely tingling sensation that remained after Passepartout had finished, feeling better than she had felt in ages. With her own needs delightfully satisfied, however, she soon became aware of the rather firm and obvious bulge in Passepartout's lap pressing into her backside. The good valet had apparently enjoyed the impropriety as much as Rebecca had.
Immediately she had another naughty idea.
Rebecca smiled as she twisted around to end up on the bed beside Passepartout. He glanced at her shyly and blushed; obviously embarrassed that he could not hide his aroused condition.
"You are...feeling much better, Miss Rebecca?" he asked in a voice that was barely steady.
Rebecca continued to smile mischievously, which seemed to make Passepartout even more discomfited.
"Yes, I'm feeling greatly improved, thank you," she crooned.
"That is very good. Then I will be g..going now..."
He tried to stand up, but Rebecca placed one hand on his shoulder and firmly kept him in place.
"Not just yet, Passepartout. Wouldn't you like me to return the favor?" she asked, moving her hand to his chest where she could feel how rapidly his heart was thumping.
Passepartout stared at her wide-eyed at the suggestion.
"Miss Rebecca! It would not be...be proper..."
"Oh posh," she scoffed and pushed him down flat on his back. She could see perfectly well that there was a terrible desire burning in his dark eyes and she knew how much he wanted her to pleasure him, even if he could never say so.
"But..." He began to protest again, but Rebecca had already started unbuttoning his trousers and the protest turned into a submissive moan. He swallowed hard as her long fingers worked inside his drawers and found the cause of the bulge, which was hot and eager for her attention.
"You were saying?" Rebecca teased.
"If you are to be insisting, Miss Rebecca," Passepartout gasped. He made no more protests and Rebecca, stretched out beside him propped up on one elbow, proceeded to show him that she, too, knew how to relieve someone else's tension in a pleasurable manner.
Rebecca soon discovered that she was enjoying herself very much, watching the expression on Passepartout's face as she fondled him, determining what he liked best and feeling the way his erection responded to her touch until he was fairly whimpering under her ministrations. She hadn't had this much fun since that impulsive romp in the hay with Colonel What's-His-Name from the queen's guard. Even that had not given her as much satisfaction as this did. Passepartout had always been so patient, kind and loyal, even when Rebecca knew she did not deserve it. She took him for granted more often than she cared to think about and so she was delighted to be able to show him her appreciation now in a very artful way.
His climax was magnificent. Rather than trying to repress any of his euphoria, he reveled in it, allowing the intensity to encompass him completely, much to Rebecca's joy and gratification. Afterward, as he lay panting and spent, she reached for the towel where it still lay on the floor and proceeded to gently clean up the result of their impropriety.
"There now," she murmured. "Isn't that better?"
Passepartout smiled at her blissfully. "Yes, Miss Rebecca," he agreed as she finished with the towel and he could button his trousers again. Still trembling a little, he sat up and took a deep breath. He swallowed before he could speak again. "You are...needing something else?" he asked, perhaps a bit hopefully.
"No thank you," Rebecca replied, still smiling with that wicked gleam in her eyes. On impulse she leaned over and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. "I can put myself to bed now, I think."
Passepartout smiled again, with affection this time, and nodded his understanding before he got up to leave.
"Good night then, Miss Rebecca," he said with a small, formal bow. "I hope you are to be sleeping well."
"I shall indeed, Passepartout. Good night."
Rebecca grinned as he made his way out with as much professional dignity as he could still muster. Then she sighed and lazily took off her undergarments so that she could slip into her nightgown and then into bed. Just before she turned down the lamp she wondered if tomorrow would be nearly as rotten a day as this one had been and, with strange delight, she was almost wishing that it might be.