Content notes: D/s, bondage, oral sex
Author’s Note: This story deals with intense subject matter, more the psychosexual than the physical. Nevertheless, danger is omnipresent throughout. While I write erotica that involves loving couples, I also write erotica where lines are blurred, danger is real and feelings and intentions are made complicated by the bondage of the narrative. This is one such story. It is a horror story at its core, excerpted from a much longer novel-length work about desire.
Also of note — this story takes place in 1983. In evading anachronism and historical inaccuracies, I have used accurate language to depict its trans characters. I would rather be realistic about the atmosphere of the time period than disingenuously attempt to paint our current societies’ morals into a place in which they did not exist. To do so, I believe, would gloss over just how far we have come and how much further we can go in the future.
Please enjoy the ensuing grotesque at your own risk.
Southampton, 1983.
The eyes of the two maidservants in the foyer were pointed downwards, with a silent look that told Myra they’d been instructed to do so before she’d arrived at the manor. When Myra shifted her gaze to try and catch those statuesque stares, their eyes avoided falling into contact with hers by gracefully ducking in the other direction.
Myra had been told before she’d arrived at Severton Manor that the other two maids she’d be working with were, like her, transsexual women. For whatever reason, the Countess herself had a thing for girls like them. It was nothing new to Myra. Rich people always seemed to find their way towards the services of girls like her. As long as their plump purses followed, she had absolutely no problem with it. At the end of the day, it was merely the standard machinations of the business.
The two girls’ outfits were gushing with flourish and frills, the erotic lace bouncing down the sides of their figures. A black and white dress adorned each proper lady in a stark contrast reminiscent of a tuxedo. They were maid uniforms — tantalizing, revealing ones, with an air of dignity in their seduction — but maid outfits nonetheless.
The maids stood in sheer black stockings connected to garters at the top. Six inch round-toe black patent leather heels supported their legs, the muscles tight and toned, ripe like the meat packed into the intestinal casings of a sausage. Three black leather buckles were latched across the right opening slit of each skirt, keeping the garments plump while partitioning the bit of thigh showing like prison bars across their legs. The buckles blended in with a black and white lace birdcage-style hoop skirt beneath the uniforms to further accentuate the curves of their clothing. It was a peculiar design choice for a maid outfit, somewhat impractical for long-term cooking and cleaning; that was, until one realized that the garment’s revealing, flirtatious nature was itself half the job. It was the sort of uniform that could only be tailored to elicit an ever-present erotic temptation on display as the maids went about their tasks.
Perhaps even more peculiar — only noticeable if one were actively looking for it — was a bold detail on the skin through the doorway of each skirt, beyond the buckles and the lace. A mark on each girl’s thigh, about three to four inches in length. Black tattoos, of a rather crude type and make. Etched into the center of one girl’s skin was a plus sign with one solitary line beneath it. On the other girl, there was a matching tattoo, though this one was a plus sign with two bars beneath it, like an equals sign. In this way, they seemed like sister markings, denoting “one” and “two” in a way Myra didn’t understand. They gave off the appearance of Latin runes, though if they were indeed runes, they were not ones that Myra could immediately recognize.
On both of the women’s chests were white name tags with names in black cursive. There was no “Hello, My name is” or “Greetings” to preface, and so they seemed more like price tags than pieces belonging to the dollish servants themselves. The girl with the blonde tornado curls and the tattooed “One” had “Raquel” scrawled across her name tag. The girl with the midnight black bangs and the “Two” on her thigh had “Prisstina” adorning her supple bosom. Her straightened hair fell down all the way to her waist, hanging as taught as the lips of the girl they belonged to. The tags were stitched into the fabric, locking in the truth of their names.
Myra thought to herself if these maid outfits, with all their titillation and impracticality, were something she herself would have to put on, and then she remembered that was exactly the reason she had been brought to Severton Manor, to serve the Countess as both a servant and, more importantly, a sexual object. It was in that moment, as Myra realized that she’d been standing silent in the foyer for an inordinate amount of time with her suitcase in hand, a syrupy voice broke through the awkward air in the room.
“Oh dear, let them take your luggage for you. Please accept our hospitality. I’m sure it was a long journey on the train. You must be exhausted. Don’t you worry — we will not be overworking you here, especially not on your first day!” Pushing through the two maids, a woman half a head taller slid forward, her presence somehow brightening up the room while also sucking the life out of it.
Her hair was a breathtaking shade of natural red, a mix between an auburn and a ginger. If she had naturally occurring freckles across her nose, they were covered by her foundation, but then painstakingly replaced with makeup as reddish brown dots to make them stand out even more. Her hair hung very low on one side of her face, but very short on the other. The story of her face was told in a slanted phrase, an off-kilter tone that somehow suited her. Behind her, the rest of her hair (there was a lot of it) cascaded silky smooth down her back, coming to rest right above her lower back.
The woman’s dress was unlike anything Myra had ever seen. The screaming scarlet red matched the woman’s hair, fading between different shadowy shades of blacks and reds along its length. It was almost as if it began from the bottom, rising like the glaring fires of a smokestack, stitched tight near the legs, following every curve of the Countess’ body, then poofing out at the bosom. The top spilled outwards like a bomb cloud. She was the Countess Eleanora Aradia di Volterra, the woman she had been recruited to serve.
The sepia-tinted photographs she had been given as reference did not do justice to the power emanating from the woman standing before her. A Countess, a woman of real life Italian nobility. Eleanora, read with an uptick at the second E, like Ellie-A-Nora. A peculiar name for an even more peculiar woman. She was even more intimidating than Myra had expected, and her expectations had certainly been high.
“Oh, it was just eight hours of sitting, it really wasn’t that bad,” Myra replied as she shifted her footing, her gait thrown off by the sheer aura of the Countess. In the shock, she had dropped her suitcase upright on the glossy wood floor.
“Those trains are…how should I say…” she turned her eyes up in the air, searching for the least offensive word she could muster on her tongue, “…undignified? You never know who’s going to share the space with you. Drunkards, molesters, violent killers, degenerates…I’m quite glad I haven’t used one in years.”
The maid named Prisstina moved to pick up picked up Myra’s suitcase. When she grabbed hold of it, the black leather corners scraped against the floor.
“Um,” Myra spoke up, unsure if she were crossing the boundaries of any pleasantries in front of her new Mistress. “Would you please be careful with that? It’s an antique.”
The Countess narrowed her eyes, and for a moment, Myra thought she had insulted her by speaking completely out of turn. However, in quite the opposite reaction, the Countess’s momentarily ruffled brows and slight frown gradually began to turn up into a friendly, warming smile.
“Good taste, the girl has good taste!” she exclaimed, her eyes darting towards the two maids. “My spotters have never been wrong before, and it seems they continue their perfect record today. A girl after my own heart, who places the well-being of her leathers at the utmost importance! Priss, doll, please do listen to our new sister maid here. As she says, it’s an antique, so please do treat it with the dignity you would afford any of my leathers.” She bent forward and stretched out her neck, her cherry lips poised as if to take a bite from the scolded maid’s ear. “Just try to think about how upset I would be if one of my leathers were scuffed and treat it with the same respect. After all, I can guarantee you — t h e p u n i s h m e n t w i l l b e t h e s a m e.”
With that phrase, Prisstina’s eyes widened for a split second, as if she were recalling a distant memory or a buried dream. As soon as they had flexed, her complexion snapped back to its previous obedient stare. In a tone shift, the fragile girl picked the leather suitcase back up into her grip, her movement like glass. She went down the hallway ahead of them.
“Let me show you to your room. Priss should already have brought your suitcase there, young Myra. Come!” The Countess did a half-turn. The ruffles of her gown floated with her. It was the first command of many at Severton she did not feel she had the option of saying no to.
The three of them walked through halls that were so large that the length felt claustrophobic. Raquel walked three steps behind Eleanora and to her right. Myra joined in on the opposite side, completing the triangle. It was as if the very hallways of Severton pulsed like a beating heart, the ornate patterns along the walls ever-moving, a body breathing in its sleep. She felt as if it could swallow her, until she realized that she had in all likelihood already been swallowed by this curious, elusive beast. Now she was merely navigating its bowels, and soon she would know ever vein like the back of her hand.
They stopped at a door that had already been labeled “Myra,” waiting for her. “Here we arrive at your quarters. They are quite self-explanatory, so I will not intrude on the privacy of your new sacred space. Welcome to Severton, my sweet young Myra. Che la mia bella ragazza! It was a pleasure getting to know you a little better. Now get yourself settled. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, and think of me when you’re scrubbing the bathroom, won’t you?” Her teeth slowly poked through her grin. She kissed the palm of her right hand, a faint imprint of lipstick stuck to the skin, then outstretched her palm to touch Myra’s chest, right above her bosom. She closed her eyes, then took a deep breath and sighed, a satisfied calm moving over her face. “Ciao, my cute little maid. Let us part until the winds of the night.” With that, she turned to leave, leaving Myra in the deep end of her complicated emotions she now felt fluttering inside her heart.
Contrary to what she had expected, there were no servant’s quarters at Severton. In a break from tradition, each maid had their own separate accommodations in three of the four corners of the house. They were effectively not rooms, but separate living complexes complete with their own full bathrooms, walk-in closets and three rooms apiece. These mini-homes were built into the towers dotting the corners of the mansion.
For Myra, a young transsexual woman who had always lived hand to mouth, it was the largest living space she’d ever had. After poking throughout her new spacious living quarters, Myra stood in the middle of her new bedroom. She closed her eyes. It had only been an hour since she’d arrived, and her job had abruptly begun. Three months to go, she reminded herself. Only three summer months of cooking, cleaning and sex.
It was the longest job she’d ever agreed to. The pay was extraordinary, and rich people tended to be experienced in their eroticism. Not to mention, the Countess might’ve been the most attractive woman who’d ever sought out her services. Merely the direct musical quality of her lofty voice had been enough to get Myra in the mood, her heart aflutter at the prospect of servicing the Lady herself. Eleanora was a woman who breathed erotic energy wherever she went, and the scenery of her Manor reflected that.
Myra took a deep, long breath. In, then out. When she opened her eyes, she focused on the garment that was spread across her bed. There, sprawled like a chalk outline, was a disembodied maid outfit. Sewed into the breast of the garment to greet her, in elegant black cursive was the name “Myra.”
Her job was to clean and please, a job she had done many times before, and yet somehow this time felt different. She would have to learn to wear the uniform well and please her new mistress with its curves. They had asked her measurements before she’d arrived, but she hadn’t expected it to be ready so soon. The lace headband, the lace hoop skirt, the blouse, the leather waist cincher that was worn on top of the clothes, the slit skirt with the leather buckles running down it, the lace undergarments, the garter belt, the stockings and the six inch heels. She calmly welcomed her new life for the next three months and began to undress.
It seemed a storm was about to blow through. Branches beat against the house as the wood creaked amidst the atmospheric pressure change. While she was looking up at the ceiling, she heard a soft flutter on the wood floor that she guessed was a mouse. Looking at the door, she saw a small letter on the ground. Apparently, someone had slipped it under her door.
“For the Virgin Girl,” it said in a flirtatious black cursive. It was the same handwriting inked across the envelope that adorned the name tag above her right breast. She undid the wax seal, unfurling the piece of paper.
At 9o’clock, please come to the Volterra quarters as prim and proper as can be. Not a hair out of place. There is some food in your fridge, pick whatever you like to tide you over. I will be expecting you at room 202. I hope you are ready and willing to be initiated into my household.
—The Countess Eleanora Aradia
Myra checked the time. It was quarter past eight. She had better get started on dinner. It seemed there was a lively night waiting for her after all.
Art by Laura Lee Benjamin
Room 202 had seemed as normal and unassuming as the rest from the outside. It was inside, however, that Myra was first confronted with the desires of the Lady who had employed her. After knocking and being told to enter, Myra was astounded at the scene which greeted her.
It was a dungeon, perhaps the most spacious dungeon she’d ever seen. Implements of all kinds lined the wall to her right. There was a spanking bench, several cages including one underneath a bed, a Spanish donkey triangle and a St. Andrew’s Cross. From above her, various chains and ropes hung down from hard points in various degrees.
She had been around many dungeons, but what set this one apartment in particular was a simple, but rare fact: All of these pieces had signs of wear. From faint body marks on the leather padding, to the half-tied ropes up above, to the slight rust smell wafting off the metal, these had all been used a fair amount over a long period of time. This was a room that could be called a favorite of the Lady’s.
Sure enough, across the room, sitting on the bed and peering out from behind her asymmetrical red hair was Eleanora Aradia di Volterra, her sharp teeth baring a grin. The Countess was awaiting her arrival, and in her wonder, she had fumbled a greeting.
“Uh, uhm, good evening, Countess,” she stammered out.
“It is a good evening, now that you’re here.” She licked her lips. “Did you find everything okay? How was settling in?”
She chose her words carefully. “Everything was perfect. It has been a pleasure to serve.”
Eleanora leaned forward. “So tell me, what do you think of my manor?”
“This mansion is incredible. This room in particularly is absolutely breathtaking. I have never seen a dungeon so well-used before.”
“It is my second favorite room in the house.”
“May I ask what the first is?” Myra asked. It had been a bold move, but she had guessed Eleanora was the type who appreciated such gestures.
“My my, I am sure you will find out in due time, my dear. Now then, Raquel, let’s begin.”
Myra was blindsided as she realized they were not alone. On the far left side of the room, Raquel was approaching. Had she been there the whole time? It was this that made Myra realize the maid felt more like one of the implements hanging alone the walls than an equal colleague. She approached with two black objects in her hands. She offered them to Eleanora without a word. Eleanora took them and whispered a thank you. Leather cuffs, clasped together with a chain and rings dangling off of each one. It seemed they would be starting soon.
“Forgive me if I am too presumptuous, but I assume you have been bound before, my dear sweet Myra?” Eleanora asked.
“Why yes, of course. All the time. In fact, I quite enjoy it.”
“Good, good. Forgive me if I insulted your intelligence or experience. I would like to bind your hands behind your back now. Is that okay?”
“Yes, by all means, it’s a position I am very accustomed to. Feel free.”
“Okay, then let us waste no further time. Would you kindly kneel in front of this bed for me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Myra dropped to her knees in one graceful, fluid motion.
“Very good.” Eleanora rose from the bed. Her heels clacked against the polished wood floors as she moved behind Myra. I’ll probably be well acquainted with polishing these floors, Myra thought to herself. A few quick clicks and Myra’s hands were behind her back. Eleanora ran her cold fingers through Myra’s hair, twirling a few strands. It had been a while since she’d been caressed so gently, and Myra welcomed the soft skin of the cold hands as the glided across her neck. Since the cuffs were not padlocked, she could maneuver herself out of them if she wanted, or even loop her legs back through them and bring the leather cuffs in front of her if she tried. It was not a dangerous situation, but it heightened the eroticism of the moment regardless. From the half windows lining the far side of the room, faint starlight beamed in from the stormy sky up above, peaking in and out of existence with each cloud passing by. The wind howled a curious roar.
“Now,” the Countess said, sitting back down on the bed in front of Myra. “I imagine there are probably a few things you’d like to ask me.” The tip of her shoe began to ever so slightly edge beneath Myra’s skirt.
There were so many curiosities she had. Who was this woman? What was her history? Why did her two other maids not even speak? There was, however, one question that burned brighter than the others.
“If I may… why do you only employ… girls like me… at this mansion?” The Countess’ eyes smiled. “I have many questions, but that’s the first one I can’t even begin to make sense of in my mind.”
“You mean to ask why I only employ transsexual girls like you to work at this mansion, correct? I had a feeling that was what you were pondering behind those eyes.”
“How did you—”
“Because I know people.” The Lady cut her off. “I know the bounds of their bottomless greed perhaps more than anyone who has ever lived. Humans are always for want of something, and, thus, one only needs to know the true extent of another’s heart in order to discover the entirety breadth of their story.”
“I’m…not sure I understand…”
The Countess sighed in pleasure, her eyes closed. “I love women. Their soft curves, the elegant way their bodies press against my own, the lovely scent of their skin as it splits, the cries they make, the performative nature of their makeup and dress — I love it all.”
“But why us?”
“I find you elegantly intellectual. Or better yet, intellectually elegant. There is a monstrous fire inside what you want. An ineffable chasm between where you kneel now, and the person you used to be. That is why I employ girls like you to serve me. Because you appreciate and savor it, for every moment you are alive. I have no time for ungrateful tones, for passive aggression, for solipsistic sloth, for sloppy attire. I want an elegant woman to serve me with pride. And the most prideful, I have found, are the ones who desire to be elegant more than anything in the world. Do you understand me now?”
“Forgive me, my Lady, but I am unsure if I fully grasp the concept.”
“I desire a lady like you, and you desire to be desired. What better match in heaven could there be? You will grasp it in due time, more than you could ever know. ”
“When the time comes, I can only hope I will be fit to fully grasp the deep intent of your meaning. I hope it will please you, my Lady, and I hope you will be proud of my service.”
“Ahh, those words are like bloodied wine to my lips. When I am drowning in the fit of elegance, one certainly feels like they can live forever. Isn’t that right, young Myra?” With that question hanging in the air, the Countess rose from her seat. “Raquel, dear, won’t you help unzip me? I believe it’s time for the dress to come off.”
Raquel moved over, wordless as ever, and began to unzip the Countess’ intricate dress.
As Raquel slid the dress down, the Countess lifted her legs out from the garments. Myra had expected to be stricken by the rush of the sight of the Lady’s underwear, but another development had taken priority.
All across the Countess’ body, in small black ink, were words upon words upon words tattooed into the skin.
Up her forearms, around her biceps, across her tits and torso, down her thighs and shins and stopping at her ankles, circling around like a swirling inferno burned across her being. All the places that were covered by the dress, every square inch. Myra didn’t know much about tattoos, but she knew that much work was painful, expensive and time consuming. She had thought the tattoos on the maids were a lot, but she couldn’t possibly have prepared herself for this development.
“Usually, upon seeing a woman in her underwear for the first time, it’s customary to tell her how beautiful she is. Don’t you think?” Eleanora put the back of her hand up against her chin, fingers outstretched, and laughed.
Myra worked the words out of her mouth. “My Mistress, you are absolutely — beautiful.”
It was only after she had said those words that Myra’s vision fully adjusted from the words across the lady’s skin to the undergarments on her body. She wore a red see-through brassiere, along with a black garter belt and stockings synched tight into the claps. Her pussy was bare, unclothed and shaven, except for the words that were also tattooed across it.
“Now now, sweet thing, I am sure I would look more beautiful if your tongue were servicing between my legs.”
Myra grasped the meaning of those words instantly, though she was excited by the direct nature of the Lady’s disposition. “Yes, please!” Myra shouted, a bit too eager. The Countess was breathtaking — perhaps the most curious woman she had ever attended to. She wanted to sense what such elegance tasted like. The Countess licked her lips at those words. She gripped Myra’s hair into a handle like a ponytail, then yanked it up into her crotch.
Myra unfurled her tongue and began to massage it across Eleanora’s labia. She tried to go slowly in an attempt to flex her own skills. Eleanora’s nectar tasted sweet, in a way that was reminiscent of a pomegranate in the notes of its complexity.
As she worked her way further across the Countess’ cunt, Myra could feel her own body stirring beneath her skirt, her girlhood rubbing against the tight pressure of her black underwear. She accidentally let out a moan into Eleanora’s pussy, her voice squeaking out enough for the Countess to hear. In response, Eleanora lifted her leg up into Myra’s crotch, and Myra’s girlhood rubbed up against the Countess’ stockings.
“Making a mess, are we?” Eleanora whispered.
“Mmmhmmmm,” Myra answered, her voice muffled by cunnilingus.
“That’s quite alright, as to be expected. La bella ragazza con la figa bagnata.”
Eleanora lifted her leg up into Myra’s crotch once more, then rubbed her leg back and forth. Myra’s girlhood left a damp wet trail across the countess’ ankles.
The Countess smelled of a rather sweet blood. At her age, she was probably around menopause, and so it couldn’t have been that. It was almost as if the smell radiated off of her tattooed skin, melting into a bitter ashen smell that could only be described as burning. Surprisingly, while the smell was a strange hit to the senses, Myra did not hate it. No, in fact, somehow, it was if the smell were a byproduct of life itself. It quickened the pace of the room, along with Myra’s heart. The elusive Countess who smelled of blood captivated the young apprentice maid. Her intoxicating lust for life drove Myra into a frenzy of pheromones, and sure enough, when she reoriented herself, she was panting like a bitch in heat. Her tongue lapped at the Countess’ clit, which tasted of rust and wet sex.
Responding to the maid’s cries, Eleanora kicked her shoe off and began grinding the sole of her foot against the maid’s girlhood, moving her legs back and forth, back and forth. A faint blotting of juices graced the tips of her stockings, dampening her toes. The pleasant smell of sweaty sex wafted throughout the room, all the way to the silent maid who stood at attention against the wall. As she sunk further into the weight of the moment, Myra had forgotten the obedient girl named Raquel with the One tattooed into her thigh was still there.
From the way the Countess looked down upon her, eyes turned up in bliss, Myra could tell she was doing a good job, and that made her proud. It was her first night being used for her greatest skills, her sexual prowess put to the test, and the new maid was proving her worth.
In a sudden jerk, Eleanora tensed up, gripping Myra’s hair and shoulder harder than before, and Myra could feel her quickening towards climax. The thought caused Myra to begin to peak herself.
“Ahhhh!” the Countess cried, shoving her pussy as hard as she could onto the mouth of the maid, rubbing her lips on the maid’s face like a boot stomping out a cigarette. It was with this motion that Eleanora Aradia came, her cunt quivering as it pressed against the beautiful, mascara teared face of her new hire.
Myra did not ask for permission, but she could not control the weight of her orgasm, and so, allowing her body to climax, she came with her girlhood pressed into the Countess’ foot, humping it back and forth ever so slightly.
The both of them gasped at what they’d just done, the two of them beyond words. Myra felt a wellspring of pride bloom inside her, as she’d gotten her new Mistress to orgasm in a respectable amount of time — not an easy feat for a first time.
“Raquel,” Eleanora said. “Unlock her hands, then get the glasses. It’s time to celebrate.” Myra was confused that the first name out of her mouth wasn’t her own, lavishing praise. It seemed she still had a bit of work to do to win the Lady over. Raquel swiftly moved over and undid the latch locking Myra’s hands together, leaving the cuffs on. Myra flexed her fingers as the blood rushed back into them, then stretched her arms in the air. The rings jangled as she reached up towards the stormy sky, the moon half obscured by a cloud. After that, Raquel just as swiftly left the room and immediately came back with two tall stemmed glasses on a silver tray filled with champagne. They gleamed in celebration.
To be continued…
