Lace

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LACE

Estelle had found the nightgown while she was putting away a pair of Mademoiselle’s stockings she had been mending. It was such a pretty, fragile thing, made of delicate batiste and peach-colored ribbons, trimmed with yards and yards of Belgian lace. Estelle could not imagine how much such a thing would cost, but it was finer than anything she would ever wear. She ran her fingers through the lace, her other hand running over the plain black wool of her uniform.

A mischievous thought struck her (she had so many mischievous thoughts lately) and she gingerly removed the nightgown from the drawer, holding it up so that the light filtered through the fabric.

The family was gone: Mademoiselle had gone out riding with her father and brothers. It was not uncommon for Estelle to be away from the other servants and in her mistress’ rooms alone. She would think of some excuse for her absence, and it would only be for a moment anyway.

She laid the nightgown on the bed with utmost care and reverence, removed her apron, and began undoing the long line of black buttons down the front of her uniform. Both laid aside in such a way as to not wrinkle or disturb them.

The gown felt so soft against her skin, softer than anything she’d ever worn. So thin and light over her breasts and belly that it felt almost like nothing at all, with the lace fluttering around her legs. She caught sight of herself in Mademoiselle’s vanity mirror and felt herself blush. Her nipples showed plainly through the gossamer fabric, bahis firmaları the same rose pink as the ribbons. She ran her hands over herself, shivered, and watched them rise stiff and flushed, rubbing against the fabric.

There was a chaise lounge against the wall behind her, clearly visible in the mirror. She moved to perch on the edge of it and then leaned back to arrange herself as she had often seen Mademoiselle arrange herself, one leg tucked under her, one arm draped along the smoothly carved wood that framed the back of the chaise. She watched herself in the mirror, finding this careless and languid arrangement of her limbs very appealing. The curve of the chaise arched her back, nipples straining against the fabric of the nightgown, and between her legs she could see the soft dark shadow of hair. She traced her fingertips over her body, watching raptly in the mirror as she flushed and shivered at her own explorations. She gasped, exquisitely sensitive over the nipples and along the soft underside of her breast.

One hand slid over her torso and absently traced her thighs. She looked so delightfully debauched in this mirror, spread out over the green silk. She watched the rise and fall of her breasts as her heart started to race, her breath catching. Her face flushed. It all looked very fetching.

Estelle glanced at the door. She was quite sure she locked it. And anyway, Mademoiselle wouldn’t be back for absolute ages.

She turned her attention back to herself in the mirror, this time focusing on that shadow kaçak iddaa between her thighs. She bit her lip and slid her fingers over herself, the pressure all the more teasing with the layer of gossamer fabric between. She’d have to launder the nightgown, but that thought didn’t especially trouble her just now. Estelle locked eyes with herself in the green-flecked mirror, fingers moving faster, pressing a little more urgently. Her eyes slipped closed.

She pictured Mademoiselle, her blonde hair tumbling down over her shoulders, her breasts. In the daydream, Mademoiselle was on her knees, wearing Estelle’s apron and nothing else, her fragile white wrists crossed at the small of her back and tied with the pink hair-ribbon Estelle used to tie off her braid every night before bed. What a charming thought, that her mistress might be so helpless, so obliged to please Estelle and bend to her every whim.

She hiked the nightgown up, found her thighs sticky, a soaked patch on the pale fabric that smelled of rainwater and sweat. Estelle’s fingers ran through the petals of her cunt, stroking and teasing. Sometimes dipping inside, sometimes grinding her palm against her clit, hips jerking in search of increasing stimulation.

In the daydream, Estelle lay on the sofa just as she did now, with her legs spread and the nightgown arranged in a state of picturesque mess, hiked up her sofa, creamy thighs. She’d seen a dirty picture like this once while stripping the bed of Laurent, the butler. He still thought one of the lower footmen had stolen kaçak bahis it.

Estelle imagined laying back on the plush sofa, feeling tufted silk on the backs of her spread thighs, her own loose hair falling in black waves down her shoulders and chest. She’d tell Mademoiselle just what to do. And Mademoiselle would have to do just as she said.

She imagined the feeling of her mistress’ velvet tongue between her thighs, delicate as a hummingbird’s. Tasting every bit of her. She could feel Mademoiselle’s moans, each little sound a spark of pleasure. She liked to imagine that Mademoiselle would fidget in her bindings, would long to touch Estelle or perhaps herself. But she simply wouldn’t be able to. Let her be deprived of something, for once. Made to attend to Estelle’s every whim. And right now her whim was to have her mistress just as she was, just a warm, wet mouth and writhing tongue…

She felt something wind tight like a watch-spring deep in her belly. Tighter, tighter, inexorably tighter by the frantic motions of her fingers. She whimpered, free hand biting into the soft flesh of her breast until the skin threatened to split under her nails. Her eyes squeezed shut so hard she saw peculiar colors on the back of her eyelids. She held her breath. The spring seemed to snap and she came with a choked cry, poorly muffled in the back of the lounge. She lay panting and shivering, watching little pink motes dance across the ceiling and feeling dizzy and drowsy and pleasant.

It was too late by the time she heard footsteps in the hall, the family coming back. Mademoiselle’s little heels tapping down the hall. Estelle was still laid out on the lounge, legs spread obscenely, and slick at the thighs. Too late, by the time she heard the latch click.

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