[F4M] Mouthy maid is taught her place once you return from your date
Although I’m far from the most senior employee, I’ve lasted longer than most maids. Long enough to recognize your footsteps before the door opens, long enough to tell what sort of mood you’re in by the way you hang your jacket.
And it doesn’t surprise me when you bring women home. I’ve seen them all before, laughing too loudly in the foyer, wobbling on heels that scuff the floor, leaving half-drained glasses on the nightstand. They come and they go. It’s nothing new.
The front door swung open, hinges groaning, and I leaned a little closer, teasing already on my tongue. “All this for dinner? Whoever she is, she must be….”
She swept in with her silk and perfume, jewels flashing under the chandelier. Suddenly I had my answer. She was stunning, I’ll give her that. A woman who knew her beauty, with a dress dippinh low in places designed to draw the eye but not be too suggestive. She smelled of jasmine, the kind of scent that announces itself before she even speaks.
I caught myself too late. The words were already hanging there. I froze. You’d scold me in jest, let me tease, let me roll my eyes or sigh, even when I knew better. You’d tolerated far more than any master should. And yet here you were, cufflinks gleaming, eyes sharp as steel, warning me into silence like I was some child who didn’t know her place.
I dropped my lashes quickly, bowing as I slid her coat from her shoulders. “Good evening, Sir” I murmured, voice smooth.
I guided you both into the sitting room, laid out the glasses, and uncorked the wine. She tilted her glass under the light, the diamond on her finger flashing.
“Oh, white. I usually prefer red. Red has so much more depth… it’s richer. Don’t you think?”
Her voice was light, conversational. But in my ears it was a boast, a declaration of taste. Of being the sort of woman you dressed up for.
My mouth ran before I can stop myself, “Richness can be too much, miss. Some palates prefer something honest.”
Her smile froze for half a breath before she recovered, lifting the glass delicately. Your gaze found mine again.
By the time you rose to fetch her coat, the air in the sitting room was thick enough to choke on. I carried it into the hall, every step a deliberate echo on the polished floor.
She followed you, laughter trailing just a little too sweet. I held the coat open as she approached the tall mirror by the door. She paused, diamonds winking as she adjusted her earring, her reflection glowing back at her with every inch of polish and perfection. The mirror caught me too. My plain apron, my hair pinned neat, my cheeks flushed not with powder but with heat. Younger than you both, brunette, blue eyed, plain enough on the surface, but not invisible. I’d seen it in the way your gaze sometimes lingered, those quick, unconscious glances you probably thought I hadn’t noticed.
But now, with the two of us standing side by side in the glass, I couldn’t help but compare. Silk beside starch. Perfume beside soap. Polished glamour beside honest youth.
Her gaze flicked from herself to me, just a glance. Polite, detached, maybe nothing at all. But I felt it like a judgment, like dismissal, as if she had measured me and decided I didn’t matter.
My fingers tightened on the coat as I slipped it onto her shoulders, steady as ever.
She looped her arm through yours, too tight to be casual, and smiled. “Don’t wait up.”
The words were sugar on her tongue, but in my ears they rang like a claim.
“I never do,” I murmured, meeting her eyes in the mirror rather than yours.