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I started finding gifts in my room. Outfits, always skimpy and lacey ensembles—he’s fond of fine cotton and bows—would be laid out on my bed with notes instructing me when and where to wear them. Then came sex toys. First, they were strictly for us: a riding crop, a blindfold made of handwoven silk, or Florentine leather bindings. Then I found things for private use, like dildoes and vibrators that I’d seen online for more money I could dream of. I even found some vintage designer clothes that seem to be just for me—a genuine, personal gift!
Whether he really feels something for me other than primal lust, I don’t know, but I have my suspicions. What has me more worried is whether I’m starting to feel that kind of thing for him.
That’s where this Sunday morning finds me, dreaming of him taking me onto his yacht across the Irish sea, and I feel his tongue stroking my pussy as Dublin looms in the distance, my naked back pressed against the railing as salty water fills my nostrils. I’m dressed in some old dress I fantasized about in a book, restored and glorious as my Alastair claims me, tasting every bit of me I have to offer…
And I awaken to the sound of the door being thrown open, feeling my wet fingers between my thighs, massaging my clit in my dream’s arousal.
My heart starts to race as I look up, and my eyes widen. Lord Alastair is striding into my room, closing the door behind him, but as soon as he sees me as I am, he flashes a wicked, triumphant grin.
“Well good morning, Maisie,” he says charmingly, his long legs carrying him forward before he throws the sheets off me just as I withdraw my hands, but my fingers are incriminatingly wet. “My my, we’ve been rather bad this morning, haven’t we?”
“L-lord Alastair, I…” I stammer, blinking awake and only just now realizing he’s carrying a covered outfit on a hanger in one hand. But he sets it aside and kneels on the bed, glowering down at me with a dark smile. “I wasn’t expecting-”
“Wasn’t expecting me to catch you, dove?” he says, stepping towards me and I start to cover myself, but as soon as I see his hungry, accusatory eyes, I feel myself wanting nothing more than to open myself to him, and I feel a smile play across my face as I let my hands slide to the sides.
“I was dreaming of you,” I confess as he puts a knee next to me, looming over me and making my heart pound ever faster. Wordlessly, he reaches down and takes a handful of my hair, pulling my head back and exposing my neck, and I feel him lean into my neck and breathe softly, hungrily, a rumble in his chest.
“You thought you could get away with that without my noticing, did you?” he mocks me, and I can feel the grin on his face. “Shame on you, girl.” The next thing I know, his fingers are at my already wet pussy, and my eyes spring open.
“W-what are you doing?!”
“Finishing what you started, my shameful little bird,” he growls, and I whimper as his fingers hook into my pussy, his thumb roving over my clit and rubbing in a circle. As his teeth start to graze my neck, I’m suddenly back in my dream, swimming in my bedsheets as Lord Alastair toys with me, tormenting my clit and sucking at my flesh. I know it’s going to leave a mark, and when he comes to me this early, he won’t give me time to put on makeup to cover it up.
Whatever we’ll do today, everyone will know what I did with him. What he did to me. And the thought sends chills up my back, my whole body waking at his touch, revitalizing, all grogginess leftover from the night flee
ing me at his presence.
I’ve grown to crave his touch over the past few weeks. If I go too long without him brushing against my back, without feeling his hardness, without his lips locked with mine, I start to feel...needy. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to move on from this job — or if I ever will.
My heart races at the thought as he feels me up, his greedy hand exploring my body invasively, groping at my thighs on his way up my back, then to my neck, where he turns me around however he pleases, torturing my poor clit.
It isn’t long before his touch in the haze of the waking morning makes me start to feel tight, and warmth grows in me more rapidly than I thought it could. Suddenly, I feel myself clenching, and honey floods his hand as I come, gasping for breath as he moves his thumb around my clit, then brings his wet fingers up to it to massage it more as pleasure ripples through me.
The sun’s hardly up, and I’m already breathless and blushing in his hands.
“Th-thank you, Master,” I say obediently as he rises up, licking his fingers of my honey and looking down at me with a satisfied smile. I’m surprised he doesn’t take me with that outlined bulge I see in his pants, but I can tell he has something special in mind for today when he walks over to the outfit he’s brought me again.
“Clean yourself up and get dressed,” he says, a simple command. He unzips the outfit to reveal, to my surprise, an old-fashioned riding outfit, complete with a stylish, slim-fitting coat, high, tight pants, and tall boots. “We’re going riding.”
My eyes widen as I look the outfit up and down, feeling the comfortable, rich fabric before glancing up to him. “I’ve never been riding before. Won’t I need a crop?”
He grins as though reading my mind. “No. I’ll be providing that.”
Less than an hour later, the sounds of hooves beating against the soft, dew-covered moors is filling the air as Lord Alastair and I ride.
It was a somewhat awkward process, getting me mounted on Silver, but she’s a sturdy, reliable horse, and Lord Alastair told me she seemed rather more at ease around me than some of the other staff, to his delight. His own horse Dusty is more of an untamed spirit. Nobody else has been permitted to ride him.
But I take to the process of riding like a fish in water. The feeling of such a big animal under me takes a few minutes to get used to, but once I stop being nervous — Lord Alastair at my side does a lot to help that — I find myself able to let go and feel really, truly free.
Cool wind whips around us as we ride, watching the sun rise brilliantly over the hills as we head towards the slowly waking town of Rookswood, passing by pastures and idyllic cottages that dot the countryside.
I feel like I’m in a lucid dream, my heart pounding in my chest as we ride. We make our way up a hill, a breezy vista that overlooks Rookswood like something out of a postcard. As soon as we’re up on the top, approaching an old oak tree that surveys the whole scene like an ancient monolith, I feel almost dizzied by the wonder of it all.
“Lord Alastair,” I say finally as we dismount the horses and he takes the reins from me, leading the beasts to a nearby smaller tree to tie them off, glancing over his shoulder at me with a wolfish smile. “I never knew the countryside could be so beautiful.”
“Still nothing compared to the Welsh Marches, my darling,” he says, striding over to me, his height imposing as ever in his black riding outfit and blood-red shirt, riding crop dangling at his side. “And nothing still compared to the locals found there,” he adds, lifting my chin with his fingers.
I’ve come to adore his touch so, and my body leans forward into the motion, warming at the thought of him already.
