Paranormal e*****a Box Set

Milady’s Bath | By Giselle Renarde

Milady’s Bath By Giselle Renarde

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No sense asking me why she does it.

Why scamper out the window every time the moon is full? Why flee the comforts of a warm feather bed knowing she’ll return with her gown tattered and her flesh torn to shreds?

Like I said, I’m not the one to ask. I’ve never lusted for any man, and certainly not with such hearty devotion as Milady lusts for that beast she seeks to tame. If ever I had sought the rough touch of man, I might understand why she puts herself in harm’s way every second fortnight. If my inclinations were anything like hers, I wouldn’t be so quick to judge. I also wouldn’t be so quick to run her bath on those nights she returns from the forest, wounded, but happy as a meadowlark.

She wakes me by the rustle of her skirts if I’ve fallen asleep, but it’s rare I should slumber on nights Milady sets off into the woods. I worry about her something dreadful when she’s away. And I always know when she’s gone because, though it in’t the custom with proper folk, I end my day in Milady’s bedchamber.

Most girls who work in great houses share sleeping quarters with other maids. Those lodgings are far away from the family’s own rooms. I am far luckier than all those other chambermaids and servants. Me, I share a bed with the girl I adore more than anything else in the world: Milady, my love.

Ever since she was young, Milady had a wild streak in her. She was always chasing after the boys, and the boys had a name for her I’m sworn never to repeat. The Lord and Lady, her ma and pa, traveled the world over without the poor girl. They often visited the continent, and even ventured so far as India and Africa. I don’t know what they were looking for in all those countries out there, but it seemed to me they’d have been just as happy staying home with their daughter.

When Milady grew into adulthood, her ma and pa tried to make her prim and proper like themselves, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She loved young men below her station, and none of her parents’ persuasions would change that. The Lord and Lady then enlisted my service. I was ‘round about Milady’s age, always a shy girl, but a polite and modest maid. Also, I never broke vases like our Rose always managed to do, and I didn’t cover up the bits on the garden statues with old burlap like our devout auntie Dorcas.

When the Lord and Lady of the manor instructed me to report on their daughter’s comings and goings, I gladly took up the task. Milady was less than thrilled, at first, about the maid sleeping on a cot in her chamber, but before long she did summon me into the big bed. The Lord and Lady expected me to temper her rotten behaviour, but that in’t at all what happened. If anything, my being there made Milady even more unruly.

And then this madness with the creature began. It weren’t quite a year ago she started sneaking off in the night to meet him. Who this beastly man might be, I haven’t a clue. Some sort of nomadic ruffian, perhaps? Or a convict who escapes his prison cell once every month? All I do know is that every time the moon is full, Milady slips out of bed thinking I’m none the wiser. She steals the same blessed frock out from the back of the wardrobe and pours it over her silk underclothes. At one time, she’d looked a dream in that velvet gown the color of fine red wine. Now the fabric is torn from the skirts to the sleeves, and the hems are caked with mud.

When Milady’s gown was new, it had a décolletage of lace which climbed all the way up her thin neck and was secured at the nape with pearl buttons. The lace is gone now. I lay a bet that rakish fellow couldn’t wait to get his filthy paws on what was underneath, and tore the lace clean off. Now her pale breasts cling to the edge of her constrictive bodice as though they might leap out at any moment. And, though I have seen Milady unclothed on many occasions, my pulse always races at the possibility of more.

I do wonder what he looks like, this rake of Milady’s acquaintance. He must be devilishly handsome if she returns to him month after month. Could an ugly man tear a woman’s fine apparel to shreds, leave her body bloodied and broken, and still compel her to return at regular intervals? The thought defies imagining. But, as I’ve said, I am not like her.

When she is dressed in her rags of velvet, Milady tosses a hooded cape over her shoulders and slips out her grand window. Desire is the only force that could compel her to climb down the stonework like an experienced mountaineer. Only when I hear her feet touch the ground do I jump out of bed to watch her race through the gardens and off into the clearing. I lose sight of the cape concealing her long orange hair when she scampers into the woods, fearless as a tiger but vulnerable as a hare. Sometimes I think the girl acts solely on impulse, and how I envy her for it!

As I await her return, I imagine what sordid acts of carnality she dares to engage in with her brute. When we are alone, Milady and me, I am tender with her body. I curl in against her and wrap my arms around her willowy form. She allows me to explore beneath her nightclothes, and I caress her breasts with the gentlest of hands. My fingers traipse between her thighs and dance in the pool she creates just for me. Her arousal stimulates my imaginings, but I can imagine no greater happiness than lying in bed with my love.

Milady’s monster of a man is anything but gentle. His rough treatment is apparent in each incision of her flesh, every bite and every scratch. He devours her breasts until each perfect pink n****e is swollen and red. Clawing at her back with razor sharp nails, he gnaws on her flesh, from her soft bosom to her shoulders. Only when he is satisfied with the damage he’s done to her top half does he tear up her skirts. He searches for warmth between her legs.

He is brutal with her, and somehow she appreciates this quality. Perhaps he throws her to the ground so her face meets the dirt and decay of the forest floor. Perhaps he pins her up against a tree so her naked breasts are further tortured by jagged bark. I can scarcely imagine what pleasure she might derive at being impaled from behind by a hulking creature of the night. Certainly he forces himself upon her—she returns home dripping with his seed.

I imagine the expression on Milady’s face when he enters her body with furious force. Wincing, she grits her teeth and shuts her eyes. I wonder if the act pains her. If it hurt as badly as I presume, she would never return to him. Indeed, no woman would enter into carnal relations with any man. My fingers know the wetness her desire inspires. If only she appreciated the ardor of my love, she would stay in bed with me rather than venturing out to the woods in the middle of the night. Perhaps my kind hand is insufficient to her purposes. It’s possible she savors the sting.

When I catch sight of Milady stumbling out of the forest, I hop back into the bed we share. Under the covers, I wait to hear her footfalls in the garden below, and then her whimpers of exertion as she climbs the old stone wall. The window hardly creaks as she opens it wide and moves through like a specter. Only when I hear the rustle of her skirts do I sit up in bed and rub my eyes as though I had been sleeping all this time.

“Ah, you have ventured out,” I say as she casts off her cape.

I observe the state of her gown and sigh. It has been torn anew where I stitched it up last month. The front of her bodice hangs open, her naked breasts scarcely concealed by underthings. Her n*****s glow pink through dirty white silk. The scratches across her ravaged chest are red and raised, but her wounds are not bleeding tonight.

“I have ventured out,” she concedes at last. When Milady runs her fingers through her tangled hair, twigs and leaves and all manner of things fall to the floor. “But now I have returned and I shall require my bath forthwith.”

She wipes dirt from her cheek, but it persists. Her hands are as muddy as her face.

I slip out from bed and throw a shawl across my shoulders. Bowing ever so slightly, I reply, “Yes, Milady,” and tiptoe from her chamber in my simple cotton nightdress.

Cook ensures the stove is always lit, and water always upon it for those who wish a cup of tea late into the night. I replace the two kettles I’ve taken before leaving the kitchen. The hot water steams as I climb the darkened staircase, quiet as a mouse though my arms shriek with pain. This task is onerous, but there is nothing I would not endure for Milady.

When the lengthy preparations for her bath are complete, she disrobes slowly, dropping layers of torn velvet and then silk to the ground at her feet. Under the dim light of wax candles and oil lamps, I observe her naked flesh marred by scratches and bites. Her pale belly, chest, and thighs have been clawed as if by a biblical beast, but when she turns her back to me I am most frightened of all.

“You’re bleeding, Milady! And it in’t time for Nature’s curse.”

Stepping into the bath, Milady offers a secretive smile that makes me feel foolish. Spreading her cheeks, she looks over her shoulder, but I doubt if she can see the blood and seed dripping from her backside. Those fluids trickle slow as molasses down her thigh, but my eye cannot escape the image of her tortured bum hole, if you’ll pardon my French. The sight turns my stomach, and I clench my buttocks tight as I’m assaulted by the vision of what that beastly man did to my lover.

“Bugger,” Milady says. Her voice is light as a meringue. She seems amused by all that’s happened, and proud of it as well.

“Does it hurt, Milady?”

“Indeed it does, dearest Bet.” She clutches her cheeks with dirty fingernails. “Like a hundred knives shoved up my arse.”

Milady winces as she glides into the bathing tub and dunks her head under the water. Her soft breasts float to the surface even before the tip of her nose rises up. Her wet hair emerges and she gasps for breath. All else but her scraped knees remain underwater.

Seating myself on a cushioned stool at her side, I soak a square of cotton in the fragranced water and wipe dirt from her face. She smiles at me as though we share a secret, but I must admit it’s a secret I don’t fully understand.

“Have you truly never been intimate with a man?” she asks. “You can confide me, dear Lizzie. I promise never to tell a soul.”

Shaking my head, I run the cloth down Milady’s smooth neck. The white cotton turns grey and I must start again with a new square. “I regret I have nothing to confess. I have no desire to be intimate with any man.”

She hisses when I touch the cloth to her chest. Her scratches trouble me deeply, but Milady remains jubilant after such wretched abuse.

“I could never take pleasure in pain,” I tell her. “If this is the mark of man, I am safer in my own leanings.”

“Ah, but this is no mere man,” she says, and closes her eyes. A smile flows from her tender pink lips. “He is a man and so much more.”

As Milady skims her fingers through the hair between her legs, I watch her lovely breasts bob in the water. Those pallid spheres call to me, their poor pink n*****s distended and erect. I roll up the sleeves of my nightdress before drizzling fragranced oil across her chest. She sighs when I rub my cloth the length of her bare breast, but I am hardly satisfied to touch her skin through a square of cotton. Her nudity provokes irrepressible urges in me. I must feel her soft flesh against mine.

Releasing the cloth, I trace gentle fingertips down her breasts. She whimpers when I fondle her n*****s. What that beastly man did to cause her such lasting agony, I’ll never know. What can I do but take those floating orbs into the care of my palms and revere them with my soft caress?

When I press Milady’s breasts together, she smiles and sighs. I squeeze them repeatedly, again and again. Slick as they are with lavender oil, they slip one against the other and glide from my hands. I circle the meat of my palms around her beautiful breasts until the bathwater ripples in the tub. If it weren’t for the pain inflicted by that wretched beast, I would plunge my face into her bath and suckle at her bosom until I drowned.

When she returns from him broken and bleeding, what else have I to offer but my gentle hands? Each time she goes to the forest in search of that beast I must remind myself it is my touch she will come home to. I am the woman she sleeps beside each night. No one else but I may caress her soft body underneath the bed covers. At night, she is mine to embrace. I would never abuse my gift as this horrible man has done time after time. What kind of hideous creature would torture a woman so?

My thighs are slick with juice as I trace my fingers down her stomach. Again I take up my cotton cloth and wipe faint traces of blood from her wounds. Milady whimpers and, opening her eyes, she lifts her hand from the bath. When she quaintly pets my cheek with the back of her fingers, I am in heaven.

“Ah, you are a dear,” Milady sighs.

Her words tremble inside of me, but I only acknowledge her sentiment with the slightest of nods. I know what I will do next and, though I am certain she will not put up her guard, my heart pounds inside my chest.

With cloth in hand, I cleanse the length of her thighs. She murmurs her approval each time I approach the abyss. In the illuminated darkness, I can scarcely see her most intimate hair drifting below the water’s surface, but I know how to find it. I have touched her there so many times before.

When I set my palm against her mound, she seizes the edge of the tub and gasps. Her wet hair casts water across the floor as she tosses her head side to side against the rim.

“My little Lizzie Bet,” she coos. “You take such fine care of your mistress, my dear.”

I press my lips together until a grin breaks free. In truth, there is nothing I love better than Milady’s praise. I rub her mound with the cloth and she writhes beneath my touch.

“All I want is to please you,” I confess, though I’ve told her this many times before.

Her breath is rough and heavy when she replies, “You do naught but please me, my sweet darling Bet.”

With a heart full of joy, I toss away the cotton cloth and kiss her wet flesh with my fingers. The tender place between Milady’s thighs is softer than her fine furs or silks, or anything else my hardworking hands have ever touched. Her body is my cathedral, and she my high priestess. I worship at the apex of Milady’s tremulous cunt.

Her hips rock the bath in time with my tender strokes. Her pale cheeks flush with exertion as her breath grows rapid and unsteady. As my tempo accelerates, her frenzied motion spills fragranced water over the sides. I rub the lips between her thighs with all my love and might, splashing myself with every stroke. With one hand, I cling to the tub, but the front of my nightdress is already soaked through and my n*****s erect with the chill. She stifles the cries I’ve so often heard stifled. We know we must be quiet. In this house, the walls have ears.

When her bliss has ebbed and flowed, I stroke her mound slowly. She mumbles my name in all its forms, calling me Lizzie, Betty, Beth, and Bet, and spouting tender messages of adoration. My heart is never so full as when Milady speaks my name. Her loving compliments are my absinthe. I massage her most tender flesh until the bath turns cold and my wet nightdress chills me to the bone. Then, I wrap her hair in fine linens and cloak her wounded body in fresh silks. For this one night, I will sleep nude.

Milady’s breath grows deep the moment we crawl into bed, but my relief at her safe return overshadows my desire to whisper words of love. I envelope her tender form in my arms. Even in sleep, she flinches at my touch. When I close my eyes, I see the horrific vision of her backside trickling with semen and blood. I shudder and hold her body closer to mine. Seeing her secretive grin in my mind’s eye, I wonder what inspired it.

The full moon shines bright outside Milady’s window. A lone wolf howls in the distance. Despite my exhaustion, I cannot sleep. What creature would do such harm to a lovely young woman? And to what end does Milady seek the damage?