From Roué 18. The main gallery is at the end of this (rather unconnected) story.
Julie-Anne certainly didn’t object to doubling as a serving-maid on special occasions, such as those elegant and exciting cocktail parties the Loiseaus threw quite regularly. She always enjoyed herself carrying around trays of drinks, meeting all the people and venturing in French to ask them what they wanted. Lots of handsome, suave men would chat her up politely, and M. Loiseau would slip her a few crisp, unfamiliar banknotes the next day. At the second of these parties Julie-Anne became so tipsy from sampling a mixture of liqueurs in substantial quantities that Mme. Loiseau had to undress the dizzy English girl and put her to bed herself. ‘Excusez-moi madame,’ Julie-Anne attempted as her nude body slipped between the sheets with helping hands. But the tall, dark-haired French-woman with sparkling eyes, high cheekbones and wide, sensual lips just giggled and murmured a term of endearment which Julie-Anne couldn’t translate. Julie-Anne was speechless when Mme. Loiseau, who often put her arms around her shoulders to cuddle her, now kissed her on her lips and then, rolling back the bed-cover, kissed her bare tummy and for two moments very lightly stroked the outline of her hip. The woman looked at her.
‘Tu es très jolie, ma cherie,’ she said.
Smiling with happiness as the lights went out, Julie-Anne responded: ‘Merci! Bonne nuit.’
Only later as she lay there drunk, appreciating the unaccustomed feel of her nakedness against the soft voluptuous sheets, did she think of what the woman had said, in English: ‘You are very beautiful, my darling.’ After she had slept a short while she awoke from a wet dream featuring her female employer’s unforgettable face and fleeting fingertips, and was obliged to finish herself off with her own fingers. Later still, she realised that her present normal guardians, both madame and monsieur, often said flattering and erotic things to her, which created a sensuous, warm and cosy mood between them all in French, but which when translated into brute English sounded almost pornographic. But Julie-Anne was not analytic enough to realize that, like so many on holiday abroad, she had unconsciously adopted a different standard, even a new personality, for her life in Paris. The old rules from the land of the dole queue and job-creation schemes simply did not hold. She was innocent and open and hence vulnerable, physically on the point of turning into the irresistible sylph with a cheeky nymphet grin and slim, petite and very sexy figure that all men hankered after; in a few months that transformation would be complete, although at present she still sometimes looked more like a schoolgirl. But this was another world from home, and it was going to her head like champagne.
Back in her parents’ cottage the idea of spending half an afternoon sunbathing in the nude with a woman nearly two decades older than herself, shielded from peeping toms by a frilly lace panoply, could not have conceivably entered the young girl’s head; here it was a regular fixture. By the same token, when Mme. Loiseau caressed her bare limbs or kissed her on the mouth, inserting her tongue into it, as she occasionally did, it never once occurred to Julie-Anne to protest or pull away or hide herself for shame, for she luxuriated in the woman’s demonstrations of affection. Nor, when M. Loiseau came out to the veranda, did she want to cover her body; she liked to lie there in the sun pretending to sleep while he ran his eyes appreciatively over her nudity; it made her feel sexy.
At dinner one evening M. Loiseau, who was in his forties, said that he had bought Julie-Anne’s party dress. ‘My party dress?’ she asked in surprise. She had a flash of intuition at that instant as she sat with the smart Parisian couple at their circular oak dining table in the warmth of a summer evening. All she could hear was the drone of insects, the muffled sound of traffic in the street below the window and the muted general rumble of the city, and Mme. Loiseau’s caressive voice saying: ‘Mais oui! Don’t you remember I measured you the other day, because the dimensions you told me were those of a large mouse — your English inches?’
Julie-Anne joined in their laughter, and flushed and smiled when M. Loiseau rejoined: ‘Ah, but let’s face it my darling, she is beautifully slender — what a sweet figure!’
As they rose from the table the smiling conspirators handed her a pile of white boxes. ‘A little present from us both, a small token of our esteem for you, my darling,’ Mme. Loiseau said, and kissed the girl.
‘Run along and try it on, honey-petal,’ her husband added. ‘See how you like your maid’s outfit.’
Julie-Anne ran to her bedroom and opened up the boxes on her bed. Inside them she found a pair of sexy high-heeled black ankle boots, five pairs of black seamed stockings, three tiny pairs of frilly white micro-panties, a low-cut white satin blouse with ruffled cuffs, a tiny white maid’s bib and hat, and by far the sexiest of all, a black slit-sided skirt made of shiny latex. This felt so erotic, rustling between her fingertips, and Julie-Anne trembled with excitement at the sight of the entire uniform laid out on her bed. She couldn’t wait to change into it.
The Loiseaus were ecstatic over Julie-Anne’s new appearance. Julie-Anne felt turned on beyond belief by the saucy, kinky vision of herself she saw in the gothic mirror and in the shining eyes of her stand-in parents. She knew it was very naughty of her to fit in with their fantasies, but Gosh? what a ravishing, sexy little outfit — she’d never dreamed of anything like it!
Back home her parents, who’d had her educated at a convent school till she’d been expelled, had never allowed her even to wear make-up. As if to give them a pert V-sign, Julie-Anne had administered a salacious dash of scarlet to her lips and then fastened her hair at the sides with two rubber bands as the final touch to her transubstantiation into a pearl of a maid, smart and sexy as hell to watch in her black seamed stockings and stiletto heels. But she looked if anything a trifle too young for the role, a sexually precocious schoolgirl wearing the wrong uniform. M. Loiseau, who had purchased the outfit that afternoon at great expense in a Fauborg St Germain speciality store, a pervert’s haven, murmured that their servant girl was ‘a mouth-watering delicious spectacle,’ and he expressed his rapture in a torrent of incomprehensible eulogies whose ultimate meaning was obvious to the blushing, overjoyed girl.
‘Hush Louis,’ Mme. Loiseau scolded, you’ll make our darling embarrassed.’ She embraced the wonderful apparition with lavish loving words spoken with deliberate slowness, and the tip of her tongue flicked with wickedly potent delicacy inside the trembling girl’s ear.
‘Our delectable Mademoiselle Julie-Anne,’ murmured M. Loiseau, ‘Mathilde and I would be so honoured if you would kindly consent to serve the drinks at our gathering this coming Saturday evening, wearing this lovely outfit which becomes you so completely.’
‘Oh would you, please, as a special favour to us?’ the French-woman beseeched. ‘It would give ourselves and our guests so much pleasure to be waited upon by such a sweet angel of a maid.’
Julie-Anne heard herself agreeing with genuine happiness, spontaneously carried away by the onrush of giddying sensations her hosts were creating in her. Monsieur’s soft aside that her pocket money would naturally be increased — multiplied out of all proportion for missing her evening off — hardly registered. But his insinuating promise that ‘we would wish to treat you more than ever as our own daughter,’ had its expected effect, for M. Loiseau well knew that Julie-Anne, despite all her exquisite appeal, had suffered an unhappy childhood.
Mme. Loiseau couldn’t fail to notice that their au pair was now feeling somewhat emotional. Once again she embraced her, kissing her upon the mouth. Julie-Anne let her eyes half-close in a dreamy trance, allowed the foreign female to ravish her body through her kinky clothes. The ingénue’s budding post-juvenile passions were raised. The warmth that was building up in her as those lascivious long-nailed fingers tactilely explored now under as well as over her satin and latex sex-wear, stirring her delicious half-exposed erect tits, made her sigh and shudder all over from head to toe.
‘We shall of course have to train her for her role,’ M. Loiseau was saying, in another dimension.
Anyone looking at her now could tell that Julie-Anne, the latex servant girl, was becoming really aroused. She gasped and swept her head slowly from right to left, chin tilted back and mouth open, as Mme. Loiseau stroked and probed her through the gauzy gusset of her gossamer-thin knickers. Her own hands ran agitatedly over the shiny skin of her latex skirt. Even with her eyes closed she felt terribly aware of her erotic costume, the little cap tied on her head, the unfamiliar compression of her thighs and calves inside those sheer black-magic nylons, her skimpy skirt and revealing shirt, and the sexy feeling of standing higher than normal, her feet arched inside her brand new patent leather stiletto ankle-boots. All her perceptions were altered by this outrageous get-up. She felt like a pure sex object, bathing in the radiant rainbow of their adult libido-worship.
‘And naturally,’ Monsieur professed — and his et naturellement somehow made her knickers damp — ‘I shall have to spank our exquisite maid if her service is less than perfect, spank her over my knee like the naughty little girl she is.’
‘Oh yes!’ Julie-Anne’s feminine infiltrator laughed. ‘How perfect!’
The girl giggled too, but she felt the current changing, a thrill of fear made her flesh prickle, yet she was fascinated by the vibrant imagery of their words and her acting-mother’s scintillating caresses. She was breathing very hard, her small breasts heaving as she clung panting to Mme. Loiseau.
‘I think she should know just what to expect, don’t you, Mathilde?’
The woman was kissing her face, crushing her body, licking her cheekbones, breathing in the scents of Julie-Anne’s hair, stroking her side-pigtails electrifyingly.
‘But certainly, it is essential,’ she murmured. Then she pulled back and gripped the maid by her waist.
‘Our maid must learn the rules,’ she said to her face.
Julie-Anne was speechless, not least on account of her never-before-experienced intensity of arousal, but also because this game they were suggesting, the part they were so skilfully manipulating her into playing, seemed to connect with something in her genetic code, an unconscious impulse that was taking her over. For her, the aura of sophisticated appreciation and mysterious unknown power in which she was held fast, a prisoner of her own yielding wish and her mock-parents’ mastery, for her it was an emotional orgasm of sorts — an absolute frazzle of excitement and nervous joy, verging on to a knife-edge of real fear.
Mme. Loiseau now had one arm crooked behind Julie-Anne’s latexed waist and was propelling her forwards towards her husband who had just sat down. There was no way for her to resist that gentle but insistent hand pressing into the small of her back. Julie-Anne leant over M. Loiseau’s legs. What could she do but lower her body and lean right over him, as his wife so subtly counselled? Her hips were supported in his lap, her palms pressing on the carpet gave her balance. She had no willpower to counter her overriding compulsion to obey her master and mistress. On top of all that claret she had drunk with the meal, the Loiseaus’ concerted, synthesized injunctions and flattering entreaties washed over her mind in overlapping waves. Aroused and excited by her strange clothing, by Mme. Loiseau’s love-making and this entirely novel situation — a breakthrough in her sexuality, which for all she knew might be a common adult practice — Julie-Anne meekly submitted to her guardians’ wishes.
As M. Loiseau lifted the latex skirt up above the girl’s waist, ruffling the material under her tummy, and Mme. Loiseau encouraged her tenderly, egging her on, Julie-Anne found her excitement growing, and with it her fear. By conscious design, having planned this moment for several days, the aristocratic-looking French solicitor with silver highlights in his hair, had selected the chair in front of the immense mirror for his new maid’s demonstration punishment. It meant that he enjoyed a panoramic omnidirectional view of their youthful servant girl in her tempting costume lying over his lap for a spanking. But it also meant that Julie-Anne could turn her very pretty face, fringed by her straight blonde hair spilling out from her white maid’s cap, and witness everything that was being done to her — which was precisely what M. Loiseau intended.
The young girl, her bum thrust up far higher than any other part of her, had watched in the mirror M. Loiseau peeling back her smooth latex skirt like cellophane and she had seen the expression on his face. She had felt and seen his manicured hands with the thick golden ring on his marriage finger, pulling down her silly little knickers, and she had lifted her booted feet to assist their complete removal. She had caught a glimpse of the tall, dark-haired sensualiste, her mistress, getting something out of a drawer… some kind of short leather strap. A tawse with two split ends, in fact. She did not know the name for it, either in English or in French, but she more than vaguely suspected its purpose. She had felt her spine tingle, and she had felt those queasy-making sensations, that super-tactile erotic tingle, spreading out to consume the whole of her bare backside with M. Loiseau’s palms and fingers running all over it. Julie-Anne held her breath, not wanting to believe it, as she felt a hard, trousered prong press up into her flat, denuded tummy and then the softer thrill of his kisses trickling freely over the curved surfaces of her small, raised bottom. She just gasped to feel his tongue lingering in the cleft between her nether cheeks, and the added intimations of his fingertips zithering pizzicato over the tacky entrance lips to the throne-room of her stiffening clitoris. She was amazed that his wife didn’t explode with jealousy, but instead stood leaning against a bookcase looking on, her eyes flashing like a ravenous tigress’s as she tried to hide that object behind her back. She gathered from their wild French phrases that they found the delicate shape of her exposed rear a succulent treat. M. Loiseau swelled harder into her pelvis, and her bottom-surfaces’ erotic static increased in a sharp peak as her male guardian’s fingers trifled more intimately. ‘Quel postérieure! Madame Loiseau exclaimed in a tone of blissful astonishment. ‘C’est absolument adorable!’
In her emotional state Julie-Anne scarcely noticed herself accentuating her over-lap posture of her own accord, raising her bum and stretching out her stockinged legs on the other side of the chair. She was well aware, however, that M. Loiseau intended to smack her bottom. The butterflies fluttering in her tummy allowed her to think of nothing else. She felt sexy and frightened all at once, a combination she was now discovering to be far more powerful than mere arousal alone. Something about getting her bare bottom smacked over a grown man’s knee in a very daring outfit excited her considerably; but as well as launching her into a new adult orbit it also brought flooding back childhood memories of similar punishments and made her feel very small and helpless. And scared, too.
M. Loiseau was telling her in a stern voice that naughty maids needed to have their bottoms smacked. ‘Young girls must be treated strictly,’ he said. ‘You, Julie-Anne, must mend your sloppy ways and learn to behave correctly. You are our servant and our employee and it’s high time you became more respectful to your superiors. From now on, we expect you to show the submissive disposition proper to your station in life, and the smallest breach of perfect servant’s manners will be severely punished in the good old-fashioned way,’ he stated forcefully.
Despite the suggestive thrust of M. Loiseau’s erection underneath her, Julie-Anne knew that her employer meant every word he said, and it was a shock for her to realise that her old relationship with M. and Mme. Loiseau had finished; they had switched to a new footing. This was no longer play-acting, it was real. She thought, ‘What on earth am I doing here?’ but the answer was obvious. If she didn’t like it, she could go home, but that was a prospect she dreaded. As if divining the girl’s thoughts, Mme. Loiseau said, in a totally changed character: ‘Yes, my dear Julie-Anne. In the future you will be our au pair in public, and in private our personal pleasure. It will be as in the reign of your Queen Victoria, but we shall take more liberties with you than the laws of that time permitted, in your country or in mine; and I must warn you now, my darling, that if you disappoint us we will have no option but to dismiss you and send you back to England. But I know it won’t come to that. Louis and I will be patient, teaching you your new duties, which you may perhaps find a trifle strange now and then, but you will grow accustomed to them. I am certain, quite certain, my sweet one, that you will find pleasure in our service. You will not want for anything, you know how dearly we both love you, it is just that we want you to behave in a particular manner. Of course you will not allow your parents or your friends to suspect the true nature of your duties with us; we will help you to grow into them, by correcting your faults with a spanking occasionally or’ — her voice faltered with excitement — ’we may have to resort to more authentic measures, such as this strap.’ At that moment she produced the supple leather tawse from behind her back.
‘Oh, madame…’ Julie-Anne gasped. She felt trapped, not only between the devil and the deep blue sea of her only two lifestyle alternatives, but quite literally besides. During his wife’s harangue, M. Loiseau had intensified the pressure of his left hand between Julie-Anne’s slender shoulder blades and the reciprocal entrapment of her knees under his right-hand grip, so even if she had wanted to escape it would have been almost impossible. It was awful to lie there keeled over M. Loiseau’s lap, her humiliation made absolute by the arched nakedness of her backside before both their eyes.
Whack! M. Loiseau’s palm slapped hard across her bared bottom. ‘Pas “madame” — Maitresse!’ he insisted.
‘Quoi?’ Julie-Anne shrieked. Her bum hurt!
Slapp! ‘I said, “not madame”.’ Whack! His hand fell mercilessly across the poor girl’s rear. ‘You do not address my wife as “madame”!’ His palm dealt her bottom another stinging slap.
‘You call her “Mistress”!’ he roared.
‘Don’t you, Julie?’ Mme. Loiseau asked.
‘Yes — yes, Maitresse,’ Julie-Anne whined. Tears — of shame more than pain — had filled her eyes, and were now spilling out on to her cheeks. It was as if the bottom had dropped out of her universe.
‘Get your head down!’ M. Loiseau demanded, in a voice she’d never heard him use before. His hand closed around the back of her neck, forcing her forehead almost to the floor. Unavoidably, her backside popped up higher, lifted off his lap, her legs straightening from her stilettos to her hips.
‘Oh no, please don’t…’ she whimpered, her bum now that much more of an inviting target. But M. Loiseau’s answer was a sharp reprimand delivered with the flat of his palm, not once but many times.
‘Julie-Anne!’ he said firmly. ‘I am master here! I decide what treatment to give you, not you! Your status in my home is now that of a serving maid.’ He punctuated these sentences with rhythmic, hard slaps. Poor Julie-Anne was reduced to squealing and squirming over his lap. The slap of his hand on her bare bottom made a loud and most satisfying sound and the hot little buttocks wriggled round and round, mad to escape the blows that were landing with wildly stinging, percussive ferocity.
‘Oh! Oh! Ohh! Ow! Ohhh!’ she gasped, jerking with each slap. Instead of looking in the mirror, her head was turned towards her tormentor, her tearful but still very cheeky elfin face with beautiful pointed features and blonde flaxen hair, twisting round to look up at him out of wide-open eyes, the sweetest little pussycat chick of all the Frenchman’s wet dreams come true at once. She nibbled her bottom lip nervously.
M. Loiseau was running his right hand up and down her stockinged thighs. Mme. Loiseau was standing right behind her, staring so hard she could have cracked an egg with one glance.
Julie-Anne smiled impishly through her weepiness. ‘You like spanking me, it’s sexy for you,’ she said to his face.
Julie-Anne’s cute bottom could not have asked for another dose more plainly. The sound of it echoed off the walls. ‘You’ — slap! — ‘do not’ — slap! slap! slap! — ‘speak until you’ — slap! slap-slap! — ‘are spoken to’ Whackk! ‘You understand?’ He continued to spank her vigorously until he heard the answer he wanted.
‘Y-y-yes m-master, I w-w-will ob-obey you. I b-b-beg y-you not to-to…’
But by this time her pixie-face was streaming with tears again and she seemed to have lost control of her speech as well as her quivering, writhing buttocks.
‘GET UP!’ Mme. Loiseau shouted at her, at the top of her voice. She yanked Julie-Anne to her feet by her slender arms. The girl’s cheeks were blushing furiously, but she was yielding and easily manageable.
‘Now run into the bathroom, wash your face and brush your hair, and come back and serve us some drinks.’
The wretch did as she was told. She managed to stop crying. She cleared away the evidence of her tears, perfected her appearance, and applied more lipstick. She lifted her latex skirt and studied her red and throbbing bottom in the bathroom mirror, quite shocked.
She had already taken her decision to stay with her present employers, who altogether had been very kind to her. She understood that all this was a sexy game, and she felt in the mood to play it. Before returning to the Loiseaus’ lounge, looking perfectly demure and composed, in fact a truly exquisite servant-girl, Julie-Anne stayed away as long as she dared, teasing herself.
She knocked on the door, because she thought that would be the most subservient way to enter the room. Her master and mistress were waiting for her. It did not escape the attention of either of them that whilst out of the room Julie-Anne had tugged her skirt up so that its hem now showed a one-inch flash of thigh above her stocking-tops.
‘Bring me a glass of champagne,’ Mme. Loiseau commanded languorously.
‘Certainly mistress,’ Julie-Anne almost whispered, curtseying better than any fantasy in her black-seamed stockings. ‘And for you master?’ she turned to face M. Loiseau.
‘The same, girl.’
‘Yes, master.’ Julie-Anne’s voice was melting nectar.
Ten minutes later she got the strap. The nasty, double-ended tawse of genuine Scottish manufacture, wielded by her libidinous mistress. Bending over the back of the sofa, while M. Loiseau held her hands so that she couldn’t jerk free. Or perhaps, rather, to comfort her and assure her of eventual forgiveness. Those twin tongues of supple, snapping leather slashed across her already heated posterior, smarting so much she couldn’t help yelling and shrieking, then giving way to the voluptuous self-indulgence of weeping her heart out. The last time she’d let herself go like that was when she’d been about three years old.
It was all her own fault. After opening the second bottle of champagne she’d asked M. Loiseau, very saucily, if she might have a glass. She did so on purpose, to give them a fresh opportunity, should they need it. She had no one but herself to blame for her subsequent strapping and her subsequent sending-to-bed. Though M. Loiseau had to take some of the responsibility for the thorough shafting with which she was finally lulled to sleep.