A Fine Profession (The Chambermaid's Tales Part One)

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  He struck his weapon against my behind, over the cloth, but the bouquet of lethal slim twigs still turned my insides out. He thrashed me for some minutes more, all the while with me gasping and begging for him to stop. The jeers and the hissing of the crowd filled my ears enough to make me forget the pain.

  When he finished thrashing me, which had been sharp but bearable, he insisted, “I will show her how forgiving I can be. I'll take her to the basement and savage her behind.”

  I sensed there was more to the scene but Mark had decided to draw me away from the crowd. I looked Flo in the eye as we moved off and she seemed to agree to his notion with a nod. We went down some steps and into a cellar of sorts. Once inside, he threw off his wig and grasped me in his arms. He kissed me deeply and groaned.

  “I think I'm falling even more deeply in love with you, Lottie.”

  “You can love Lottie as much as you like. Outside of this place, I'm Charlotte,” I stated.

  “No, Charlotte, you know what I mean. I love all of you. I really see you, you know.”

  “No, Mark, you only think you do.”

  He grasped my backside through the dress and I gasped. I kissed him back and he began tugging at my dress to lift it up. He dug his hands beneath the bloomers and ventured toward my womb. He was so methodical with his long, literate fingers and always knew just how to tantalise me. He bit my lip and asked, “You don't even love me a little?”

  “No,” I restated. This seemed to incense him. He worked me harder to mock my desire. As I was pushed back against the cold, concrete walls, I was reminded of the burn against my backside. I orgasmed intensely and he kept on rubbing so that a few smaller orgasms were drawn out on the backend of that one. It took a few minutes to gather myself.

  I pulled my dress down and moved toward the door of that dank chamber. He seemed irate because of my refusal to please him in return and tried to block my way.

  “This has gone too far, Mark. I am going to tell her now.”

  “She knows.”

  “We'll see,” and I snapped his hand away, reminding him just how strong I was.

  “You're not leaving,” he said.

  “I am, Mark. I am.” We both knew that I really was leaving, too. There was no other way.

  “You can't,” he begged.

  “I'm a cancer survivor, Mark. Did Flo tell you that? Did she tell you anything about my life before this place?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “Well, then, you now know that someone like me never minces their words.”

  I made my way out and he didn't try to stop me.

  Back at their house, Flo and I were alone. I started, “Flo, did you realise Mark and I have been sleeping together?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “And it doesn't bother you?” I was a little impassioned. Surely she must have noticed.

  “No. As long as I know about it. It's fine.”

  I knew the real truth would wreck Florence. Mark had previously suggested we marry and he had conjured all kinds of dreamy possibilities for us both, but I knew deep down I did not love him and that a relationship of any sort was not what I wanted. I tried to convince him that it wasn't love we shared. I told him that Flo was his intended and that she wanted his babies. However, infatuation had taken him.

  “He mentioned marriage. He mentioned babies.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Yes, with me. It's gone too far, Flo. I don't love him. I never gave my heart to him. Never. He drew all those possibilities himself.”

  “This is just fantasy,” she said.

  “Ask him,” I suggested.

  We called Mark to the room and he stood uncomfortably between us.

  “Mark, Charlotte says that you as good as proposed marriage to her?”

  His stony face and refusal to respond gave away his thoughts.

  “Listen Flo, she's going to leave us. She told me earlier. If you push this, she will go. And where will that leave us?”

  Flo considered the possibilities and seemed dumbfounded.

  “This has been threatening to come to a head for some time…” she trailed off.

  “I don't know if all this is me, I really don't,” I said.

  “You know this is more you than it is us,” Mark interjected.

  “Mark, how dare you? How dare you? You act like one person with me and another with Flo and another with other people outside of this house. You hypocrite!”

  “Please, can you give us a minute?” Flo asked me.

  I went down to the kitchen and poured myself a scotch to take the edge off my anger.

  I left almost ten months after first meeting Florence and I could still hear the shouting from their house for some days after, haunting my ear canals as though droplets of Florence's very phlegm had infected me.

  It had gone a little something like this:

  Florence: “I thought you were my friend, Lottie.”

  Me: “I am. I'm so sorry. I just thought it was sex and that pleasing him would please you. I wanted to put a stop to it as soon as I realised that it's not me he loves.”

  Mark: “You're a liar! Lottie, you know you and I are meant to be.”

  Me: “We're not. You belong to Florence.”

  Florence: “He's no good to anyone.”

  Me: “You should both work it out.”

  Them: “Time to go Lottie.”

  There was no way to make it better between them. Three was definitely a crowd, as the saying goes. I guess Florence was a woman who had held out hope that Mark would change, and Mark was a man who was driven by passions so blindly that he did not see the reality of a woman's wants. For them, it didn't seem like bridging the gap between their lifestyle and parenthood was possible, not with Mark's deeply embedded working class roots and the denial of his true self that came with that. He was not a true disciple of BDSM because he gained pleasure from real shame (he hid it well but I often saw it in his eyes) and only true love could bridge that. I didn't know if that was what he and Flo shared. I knew I should never try to get in touch with them ever again.

  I had been in Nottingham for three years by that point, and yet I felt I had so far accomplished nothing.

  * * *

  After that, I stopped going to the meetings at the Lodge and returned to my former life of sobriety. I suppose for the first time in my life I actually felt lonely. I had some girlfriends at work who I conversed with and went to the cinema with, but I really hadn't realised how attached I'd become to Florence and Mark's company, not to mention our jaunts to the Lodge.

  I did not know I was sorely missed by the members until I accidentally bumped into one in town one day. I often saw familiar faces around in those days but did not know exactly where I recognised them from. All the people I came into contact with, whether at work or at the Lodge, blurred into one. I was obviously memorable enough to this lady, who said her husband really missed my sessions in the Whip Room. I said I had decided not to attend anymore after getting involved in a complex relationship within the group that had turned sour. She asked whether I might agree to service her husband now and again and gave me her number. That was when it all began.

  My “service” and its reputation spread and I found men in fact preferred one-on-one sessions, without the interruptions of spectators at the Lodge. Most of the time, penetrative sex was off the cards. This was about what I could provide them that their wives maybe felt uneasy about. Some men even liked to talk for the most part, telling me about their day or issues they were finding stressful. An objective ear is sometimes so hard to find and yet such a comfort. It also became clear to me that the wives of these men did not want to dominate their husbands but were perhaps desperate to tell them that they needed to up their game in the bedroom at home. I often spoke to the wives separately and it would all be done very accommodatingly and discreetly so as not to ruin the ego of these fellows. A lot of women sent their husbands to me as a birthday or anniversary surprise. I earned money,
or donations, as most of us liked to term them. I was earning enough to put a deposit down on a loft apartment on Canal Street in the same building Alex used to live in, and I moved in, also furnishing it with my own earnings. An Ikea truck blocked the road for almost an entire day.

  You see, what it was, was that within the confines of the Lodge anything did indeed go. Every art of seduction and pleasure was accepted. But back home, these couples must have felt a little helpless without the setting, the encouragement of their peers or even perhaps the organised manner with which gadgets and props were provided in that realm. The question was, how to have a good sex life without all that rigmarole? My answer always came: be honest with each other and take your time.

  Perhaps I was taking business away from the Lodge. Many of my clients may have stopped attending if they had me to entertain them instead…

  I helped the gentleman I serviced overcome any fears they may have had about their desires in the bedroom and offered suggestions as to how they'd broach certain subjects with their wives. I also added the odd trick or two to their sexual vocabulary. This continued for some months and I felt very happy in both my work and private life. Occasionally I sought intercourse with some of the clients whose wives were agreeable and most of these occasions were very pleasurable. My client list grew to include friends of friends, with my techniques having had great success. However, I was left largely sexually unsatisfied and I yearned for some adventures of my own. Little did I know that a slice of that was just around the corner…

  Chapter XIV

  February 2011

  Like all the other strange happenings of my life, this occurred on a day that could have been just like any other. I was about to head home for the night after clocking off at ten. I had my winter coat and my bag ready and was almost out of the door when a member of staff came running up to me crying. The receptionist, Rochelle, had become an ally of mine. She was such a nice young girl and so bubbly. Someone like her got on with almost anyone. She had just had a call from a foul-mouthed man demanding that he be moved to another suite. The one he had was fucking disgraceful, he said, but all the other suites were occupied. I was good at dealing with people like that, for I never showed an ounce of retort to anything they might spew out of their mouths. I had years of practise. I gave the girl a hug and told her I'd deal with it.

  The man was apparently unhappy about the fact he didn't have a whirlpool bath as promised on the website. His tray of goodies also hadn't been delivered, apparently. Housekeeping often made that slip-up but few guests ever complained. I grabbed a ready-made tray from the storeroom, keeping my coat on but leaving my bag downstairs.

  Laden with a fresh robe and slippers, bottled waters, luxury teas and coffees, fresh fruit, mini packets of biscuits, mint creams, Belgian chocolates and two miniature Irish Creams (the perfect nightcap), I headed upstairs prepared to give the man my profuse apologies and a winning smile to sweeten him up.

  I knocked on his door and waited. He arrived, mobile to his ear, waving me in indifferently. He was mumbling, “Yeah, yeah, no, don't do that…”

  It was the generic spiel of some businessman trying to rid himself of an annoying interruption. When he finally deigned to look at me properly, his demeanour changed entirely. He swiftly ended the telephone call.

  “You work here?” he asked.

  “I am the head housekeeper, and I was informed there was a problem.”

  He had blonde hair. I admit, I have always been a sucker for that shade. He also had terribly plump lips, my god.

  “Website said whirlpool bath. I have a shocking back strain I need to work out.”

  His arms were long, solid and swinging dangerously. I momentarily imagined them wrapped around me. I couldn't help but notice how wonderful his waist and bulge looked in his Armani trousers.

  “I was heading home, but came up here especially, after hearing how you treated our receptionist–”

  “Excuse me! Do you think you can talk to me like that?”

  He was a classic dom, but perhaps up for a little variety.

  “If you read the small print, only select rooms have a Jacuzzi bath, which is what you probably expected. You have a whirlpool attachment under the sink instead. It's written in the welcome pack. Just hang it from the side of the tub and away you go, bubbles galore,” I said coolly.

  “Oh, right,” he stammered, “well, I did have an image of a nice big tub to crawl into, not that puny thing.”

  His southern accent was exceedingly arousing. His face had flushed since I had entered the room and this too ignited my senses.

  “Well, we aren't exactly the Ritz, you know? And the receptionist is a trainee on minimum wage. Perhaps it's out of line for me to point that out, but she was in tears.”

  “Oh, sorry.” He was uncomfortable and looked down at the floor, mumbling, “Bad day. I do normally stay elsewhere but…”

  “Evidently,” I scorned him, feeling bad at seeing him rub at his head in shame. I offered, “Listen, this is not in my remit obviously, but you know, I once did a course in massage.” (Little white lies never hurt.) “Perhaps, I could at least give you a diagnosis? As a courtesy? And in the morning, you say a little apology of your own to Rochelle, downstairs?”

  “Fine,” he muttered, businesslike. A typical brash-mouthed cockney, I decided.

  “Sit yourself down on this stool then, and I'll take a look.”

  When I got him sat down, his proximity knocked me sideways as I stood behind him. His hair was combed back in luscious waves and the blonde on top was complemented by dark-brown locks underneath. His neck was thick, his shoulders were wide and solid and to a woman of medium height like me, he seemed very tall at around six foot two. I imagined being sat behind him naked, with my hands running all over him.

  He pointed to his sides and it was obviously, really.

  “Here?” I asked, rubbing his body.

  “Fuck it, ow! Yeah, right there, oh, yep, there too, and oh, that's only making it worse! It feels red hot back there.”

  “Kidney trouble, get it often? You're actually stone cold. Poor circulation, or something.”

  “Eh?”

  “Been drinking too much caffeine and booze, eating rubbish, no water?” I said, so he grasped my meaning.

  “Err, yeah, possibly.”

  “Seems feasible. Get these aches often?”

  “Only on business trips.”

  “Stress and burning the candle?”

  “Your diagnosis is annoyingly correct.”

  “Sink these bottles, have a swim, then bed I suggest. And stop abusing your body.”

  “I would much rather be abused by you. I never imagined I'd be getting a dressing down by a housekeeper today,” he sniggered, and I ignored the innuendo.

  “Obviously, you were in for a bit of luck, after all.”

  He glanced behind himself to get a look at me. His face was quite handsome in an Etonian, solid old bugger type of way. He was well-built but with boyish features. His eyes were emerald green in the lamplight with light brown lashes. His hair was unruly and I imagined all kinds of naughty things I would do with it. He was at least ten years older than me.

  “Fancy a nightcap?” he asked, winking.

  “You're married,” I said, glancing at his wedding band, “and very rude to hotel staff.”

  “She's leaving me, hence stress, lack of sound business sense and everything generally going down the pan.”

  “Oh,” I acknowledged. “Tell me what happened.”

  I felt sorry for the poor guy, but I also spotted an opportunity.

  “We just grew apart. I work too much, drink too much. She shagged someone else, and…”

  “Kids?”

  “None.”

  “You just cannot forgive her?”

  “It's not even that. It's just, I feel shattered. I have nothing else to offer her. No energy to make it right.”

  “But you love her?”

  “Yeah, I do. Always did.
She's, well, she's my wife.”

  “How was the sex?” I asked, rather confidently. I didn't know this man from Adam but felt we had already made such tracks after our frosty meeting.

  “Lacking,” he freely admitted. It was bizarre how readily he was opening up. He told me, “When we did it, every blue moon, it was a chore. We just didn't seem to connect anymore.”

  “Umm, I see.”

  “We, I dunno, we didn't try to make it work anymore. Just stopped caring.”

  “It happens,” I said soothingly.

  “What's your story?” he asked.

  “My best friend died. He might also have been the love of my life. Now I'll never know.”

  “Shit, that's–”

  “I know. Pretty terrible.”

  “You have terrific eyes,” he said.

  “Don't,” I said.

  “No, darling, honestly. No motive, you have. If I were a scoundrel, I might actually try to fuck you tonight.”

  “Seems like the cheating wasn't only on her side?”

  “No, you're right,” he admitted. “I had planned to call an escort tonight, but, fucking back pain put me in such a bad mood.”

  The staff in the hotel knew that men and women staying there sometimes had a guest or two stay in their rooms. We always turned a blind eye. It was the done thing in such a profession – always had been, always would be. Thank goodness.

  “You paid for company before?” I enquired.

  “Nope. That's how lonely I was feeling.”

  “Man, that's low,” I said, ever drawing him into my confidence. “How long have you been married, if you don't mind me asking?”

  “Eight years. We were both almost 30 and the greatest of friends. It just seemed…”

  “Like the right thing to do, approaching 30 and all.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, how do you entertain yourself during dry periods? Usually?”

  “Quick fucks with colleagues. Birds in bars. I don't know. Inane stuff. And a lot of wanking.”

  “That's quite sad,” I sympathised.

  “You don't have a boyfriend then?” he asked, eyeing me again. “You can't blame a guy for wondering! We seem to get on well, and you read me quite easily.”