Lady: Impossible

by Fraser, B. D.

  This is really happening. The butler and I are fucking. I, Emilia Pembroke, who’s never really been that adventurous in bed, is now being unceremoniously fucked by her butler on the stairs of the family’s London residence.

  Being naughty feels so fucking good.

  I weave my fingers through my hair, so at Blair’s mercy that I’m unable to latch onto anything else. Mustering the strength to lift my head up for a few seconds, I lock eyes with Blair as he continues to drive into me. The brief flicker of shame is quickly consumed by our intensity. We’re completely lost in lust.

  I lay my head back down, whimpering as the tension in my core begins to fray what’s left of my control. I want to rip off my dress and have him devour me completely, feel his heated body on top of mine. But, with that option out of the question, I focus on my expected high.

  ‘Blair.’ I hate that I’m pleading, but it’s all for a higher purpose. ‘Harder.’

  He reacts almost immediately, tightening his grip on my hips and slamming into me as if he’s angry that I’m telling him what to do. He curses, his forehead shimmering from the sweat of his efforts as I start to quiver around him, my moans and his expletives echoing off the walls.

  This is the beauty of being home alone. I can be as loud as I want.

  ‘So close.’ I sound like I’m sobbing, the duality of pleasure and pain reducing me to desperation. ‘More.’

  If I had patience, I would tell him to take it slow and make this last for longer, but I want him so badly that patience is impossible.

  ‘You want more, do you?’

  ‘Yes… please.’

  I steel myself for the deep thrusts I expect, but they never come. He surprises me by slowing his strokes so he can employ another move: pressing his thumb on my clit and rubbing it in tight circles.

  ‘Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.’ It’s several seconds before I realise I’m murmuring his name over and over in a desperate, reverent chant.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re doing this.’ He sounds tortured.

  I start to lift my head, worried about him, but my climax arrives first, sending me into the most intense pleasure I’ve ever experienced. My back arches from the pressure as I convulse and cry out for him. My legs go lame, and my eyes roll back. For me, the release is more than physical. I feel freed from obligation and rules and every expectation by which I’ve been burdened. I haven’t just thrown caution to the wind. I’ve banished decorum and decency as well.

  I slowly come down as Blair thrusts into me, searching for his own high. He feels so amazing inside me that I wish we could stay like this for hours. When he comes, with a strangled cry, I muster the energy to prop myself up on my elbows, expecting to see satisfaction all over his face.

  Blair does appear satisfied, but guiltily so. Mouth slack and eyes unfocused, he pulls out and collapses against the wall, shying away from me and pulling up his trousers in a hurried fashion.

  My heart pounding for a different reason now, I quickly sit up and lower my dress as I move down a step. ‘Everything okay?’

  He immediately shakes his head. I’ve watched people come to terms with bad news before. Their dog just died. A favourite grandparent has had a stroke. They partied too long and completely wrecked their A levels. This is all of those things, squared. ‘I can’t believe I just let that happen. What is wrong with me?’

  I try to keep my tone light as I wipe my brow in exhaustion. ‘It’s just a bit a fun.’

  He’s panicking, and now it’s making me panic. I know my words are hardly convincing, but I don’t know what else to say. Being comforting is not my strong suit. You might even say I’m useless at it.

  I pick his cufflinks up off the stairs and hold them out for him as he rolls down his sleeves. He ignores them, dropping his hands to his lap so he can zip up his trousers. Knowing he needs a moment, I withdraw my hand and close my fist. The cufflinks dig into my palm, a thorny reminder of how we weren’t meant to do this.

  ‘I’m that guy now,’ he says, his voice laced with revulsion. ‘The one who can’t keep his dick in his pants.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’ I laugh nervously, thinking humour might defuse the situation. I’m wrong. He won’t even look at me. ‘I’m not going to tell anyone. And I won’t get pregnant. I’m on the pill.’

  Finally, he meets my gaze. ‘I know. I tidy your bathroom every day.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Trust me to make him feel even more inferior. I open my mouth to apologise, but realise this is beyond that.

  Blair sees me hesitate and speaks before I can recover, disappointment ringing with each word. ‘Please don’t tell your mother. I’m begging you. She gave me a job, a place to stay. This is some way to repay her.’

  This is my fault. I kissed him and then demanded that he have his way with me. I didn’t care about what it would do to him, or how it would make him feel afterwards. All I wanted was gratification.

  I’m crashing, from an incredible high to an incredible low. It’s the ultimate whiplash, and I’m the one to blame.

  ‘I’m –’

  He cuts me off. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s mine.’

  I move a fraction forward on the step. ‘I hardly think you can take full responsibility for this.’

  ‘I can, and I will.’ He stops, averting his gaze again.

  I reach out for his hand, clasping his fingers in mine. While he squeezes my hand briefly, feebly, it only takes another second for him to pull away. I was trying to offer him comfort, but I think I only made him feel worse.

  ‘Please tell me how to make this better,’ I say.

  He stares at the floor between us. It’s then that I realise the truth. He has no immediate answers, and neither do I.

  ***

  I end up having a little cry in the shower half-an-hour later. I’m angry with myself. I’m twenty-eight, not eighteen. There comes a day when one can’t behave so recklessly. Earlier, I felt the glorious rush of being carefree, but the fact is that I was in denial, wilfully believing I could screw Blair without any consequences. All morning, I chastised Abby for encouraging me, but I went ahead and ignored my own advice.

  Checking the time, I can hardly believe that only thirty minutes have passed since the incident. The agony of the aftermath seems to have distorted time. It’s a fitting punishment if ever there was one. I should probably give Blair more time before trying to talk to him, although, the longer I wait for a follow-up, the more he’ll beat himself up.

  Telling myself I have to find him, I first make sure my appearance is as plain as possible. I remove all traces of make-up not already washed away by the shower, and then change into black leggings and an oversized grey top. A glance at my bathroom mirror reveals my eyes are a bit puffy, which is more sympathy-inducing than plain, so I decide to tell Blair that the tears were my own fault, should he notice, and that he’s not to feel any remorse. Whether he’ll accept such a statement is another matter entirely, but at least he’ll have heard what I have to say.

  When I get to the bottom of the service stairs, I see that the servants’ hall light is on. The faint clink of cutlery alerts me to the fact that Blair must be having dinner, which is admittedly better than his returning to regular duties so soon. Still, it’s not like he can’t return to work. He has to push through the regret, whereas I can hide in my room with a tub of ice cream if I want.

  I consider turning back, thinking more time may be the better option. I stand there, cowardly lurking and listening for probably a minute before realising that this makes another form of stalking. With my heart beating rapidly, I approach the doorway to make myself known.

  He must’ve heard my steps, because his body goes rigid, his gaze affixed to the bowl in front of him. Like the first time I followed him down here, he’s sitting at the very far end of the table and, once again, I find myself making that terrible walk from this end of the room. I come to a halt opposite him, placing my free hand on the chair in front of me to steady myself and prevent me fro
m collapsing from nerves. When Blair looks up, his eyes are filled with more guilt than when he walked away from me forty minutes ago.

  ‘Hey.’ I sound breathless, as if the air around me is low on oxygen. ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’

  He leans back in his chair and nods slowly. ‘Go ahead.’

  The scrape of the chair on the floorboards is hardly a pleasant sound. I wince as I sit, wishing there were more tables in this house that didn’t scream ‘conference’ by way of their dimensions.

  Demoralised by the way he’s looking down at his bowl of noodles, I wring my hands in my lap. ‘I don’t want you blaming yourself.’

  He glances at me, ever so quickly, and then goes back to his food before doing a double take and giving me his full attention. ‘I made you cry.’

  ‘It’s nothing. I made myself cry.’

  ‘I made love to you, told you I regretted it, and then left. I’m pretty sure I’m at fault.’

  ‘Made love to me? That’s not the right choice of words.’ As soon as the words are out, I want to reach into the air and stuff them back down my throat.

  His voice becomes feeble, quiet and wounded in a way that does not become the strong man I know him to be. ‘I was trying to be delicate.’

  His demeanour rankles me. ‘Blair, you know I hate it when you do that.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Act all defeated and inferior. Besides, there’s no need to be delicate. In fact, you were anything but delicate.’

  His straightens up a fraction, some colour returning to his face. ‘I suppose that’s true.’

  ‘Suppose?’ I chuckle, but stop short when he glares at me.

  ‘Did you come down here just to talk about how unrestrained I was with you?’

  I ignore his question. ‘Seems like I always have to bait the real Blair into coming out to play.’

  ‘That’s a poor choice of phrase, Emilia.’ His nostrils flare with anger. ‘I didn’t play with you. I fucked you so hard you struggled to even ask for more. There, I said it. Any other sins you want me to lay on the line for you?’

  ‘Are you angry with me, or you? I can’t quite tell, though I welcome anger directed at me because that means you’re not blaming yourself.’

  He shrugs and throws his hands in the air. ‘Fuck knows.’

  There’s no point pushing him further. I try to collect my thoughts while placing his cufflinks on the table and fiddling with them. They’re silver, with an etching of a horse on the decorative side, a detail I failed to notice earlier, mainly because I was too busy doing other things with their wearer.

  I keep my eyes on the horses. ‘You don’t usually wear French-cuff shirts. I know, I shouldn’t notice such things. It means I’m watching you.’ I group the cufflinks together and hold them in my palm. ‘I’m assuming you wore these because of the Derby today.’

  He reaches over and plucks the cufflinks from my hand, the briefest brush from his fingers making my heart flutter. It’s stupid, considering he’s touched me in illicit ways, but I wonder what it would be like to hold his hand.

  Taken aback by this bout of soppiness, I stare at my own hand in bewilderment.

  ‘I watch you more than you think,’ he offers quietly.

  Perhaps I’m hearing things. ‘Sorry?’

  He blanches, as if he didn’t mean to speak and now has to explain himself. ‘I always notice when you stare at me. You’re very obvious. But sometimes I walk by when you’re in a room and talking on the phone or something, and I can’t help but stick around. You’re entertaining, I guess. Pretty, too.’

  I don’t know whether it’s because I’ve already cried over him or because I’m just as confused, but this confession moves me more than it probably should. He becomes even more uncomfortable under my gaze, blushing and pulling at his hair, likely regretting his honesty.

  He tries to backtrack. ‘Of course, I’ve only known you for two weeks. It doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘Right.’

  The next pause stretches on. I think of saying things – more apologies, platitudes on how we shouldn’t overreact – but in the end, he’s the one to speak first.

  ‘Listen, I need to live here to support my siblings. When your mother said she had a daughter, I didn’t think I’d find you so alluring.’ He sighs wearily. ‘You’d think I’d go elsewhere if I wanted… you know.’

  Guilt grips my stomach. ‘You support your siblings?’

  He nods. ‘Yeah. My mother is useless. The less rent I have to pay, the more money I can give to them.’

  ‘Oh.’ I refrain from asking about his father, worried it’ll only make him feel worse. ‘That’s very kind of you – looking after your siblings, I mean.’

  ‘It’s not a matter of kindness. It’s family. I have three sisters, one brother – all younger. If I don’t step up, who will?’

  I don’t pry any further, glad he shared something with me, but now I’m worried I’m exploiting the situation. Resting my chin on my hand, I can’t help pondering what my life would be like if Al hadn’t left.

  ‘My brother would never look after me like that, not now anyway. He used to be a protective older brother, even into our uni years. Then he changed, and buggered off without so much as a goodbye, only sending me a postcard every couple of months. I’m terribly overdue one, actually. The last one was from Santorini, five months ago, and there’s no way he’d still be there. Greece doesn’t exactly scream “cash in and have fun” now does it?’

  Shit. I’m rambling. Blair scratches the back of his neck, and suddenly I think the topic has already exhausted itself.

  ‘You still have your mother and father.’

  I refrain from bringing up the fake threat of divorce, as that affects his employment prospects. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it’s nice that you’re giving up your summer to be with your mother, no matter what you think about her stay here.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  As excruciating as it is, we need to return to the true reason I came down here. Blair looks at me expectantly, the responsibility apparently all mine, but I’m still thrown by the not-so-horrible things he’s said to me.

  When I do come up with something to say, it’s not exactly the warmest of questions. ‘Are you also taking Monday and Tuesday off this week?’

  ‘Uh, no. I don’t think your mother believes in Bank Holidays applying to servants. Not that I mind, really.’ Fiddling with the cufflinks in his hand before clearing his throat, he sits up straight. ‘Would you like me gone? Should I make up an excuse?’

  ‘I…’ I wonder if his absence will actually make things worse. I might end up feeling guiltier for essentially kicking him out for a few days. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I can leave early and return late?’

  I hesitate. ‘I’m worried I’ll think of you more if you’re not around. If you’re here, we’ll be forced to act normally for appearances’ sake.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  Perhaps I’ve been rash not waiting a bit longer to speak to him. I don’t have any real solutions. Blair also seems to be at a loss, idly stirring his noodles with his fork. He starts tapping a cufflink against the table top with his other hand, which unfortunately reminds me of how well he can multi-task. I squirm in my seat, now overly conscious of how tender I still am from his efforts.

  I lean forward in my seat, crossing my arms and resting them on the table. ‘So… we actually had sex.’

  Blair stops tapping the cufflink. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Should we reconvene later when we’ve both had more time to think?’

  He nods slowly, eyes darting here and there. I think the shock is affecting him in stages, hitting him over and over. He sounds almost robotic when he answers. ‘You didn’t finish your dinner, so I’ll bring you something later on. Maybe then. Or tomorrow, when your mother isn’t in earshot.’

  ‘Yes, that’s acceptable.’

  He peers into his bowl and stirs a bit more vigorously, like he’s concoc
ting a potion that will quell our attraction. ‘Should we expressly say that we will never sleep with one another again?’

  I get caught up thinking about how ‘sleep with’ is a better euphemism than ‘make love,’ but then I worry the extended silence makes me seem unsure. ‘It kind of goes without saying.’

  There’s a restraint to Blair’s expression when he looks up – the quintessentially English stiff upper lip. He hasn’t been able to pull himself together until now, and it’s a true contrast to his initial panic and subsequent lashing out. Perhaps I did time this visit correctly. In another hour or two, he might just have retreated into his professionalism, and be unruffled in the face of error and scandal.

  ‘Does half-past nine suit? For an evening snack?’

  Work is his coping mechanism. I push my chair back and get up slowly, tucking my hair behind my ears. ‘Yes, I should be in my room. Do knock before entering.’

  ‘Yes, m’lady.’

  I don’t dare look at him as I hurry out of the servants’ hall, something not necessarily borne out of shame or remorse. It’s more like fear, the fear that, despite how terrible we both feel, we might just slip up again.

  ***

  By the time nine-thirty comes along, I’m so mentally tired that I’m already in bed, ready to call it a night. The strain has been too much, and sleep may be the only way out of it, though, knowing me, I’ll dream of Blair hopping into my bed. Either way, I sit up with only the bedside lamp on for light, and wait for him to knock on my door.

  Ten minutes pass, then fifteen. Part of me thinks he’s forgotten, while the other part tells me he’s simply not ready to discuss the issue again. I try to call him, the uncertainty not something I want to deal with on top of this mess.

  As I do so, I hear the most peculiar, whimsical tune coming from outside my door. At first I don’t recognise it. Then I realise that Blair must’ve chosen it especially for my number last week.

  The Postman Pat theme tune.

  Likely realising he’s been caught out, he knocks on the door, the sound punctuating the air like a death knell.