The House at Rothsmere was in uproar: after a prolonged absence, the Baroness was returning from London with her daughter. The Barons daughter, Lady Victoria, was only a few months younger than Mary. At 18, she had been in London for her first season, enjoying all the gaiety the city had to offer. And now they were returning, full of news from the capital, of the new fashions and all the society gossip. The house staff had been run ragged with cleaning and polishing. Knowing that the Mistress had been staying in the grandest houses that London had to offer and determined that they wouldn't be found wanting the housekeeper had ordered a spring clean. Mary and Betsy were exhausted: Betsy still came to Mary's room for a late night chat, but they had had no further intimacies since their first few nights together. Betty had resigned herself to this, knowing that she would always want Mary, but accepting that Mary was not for her.
She didn't know why Mary felt this way; surely she had enjoyed what they had done? What was so different between the caresses of a man and those of a woman? What had Jack to offer that Betsy couldn't? Knowing that she wasn't likely to find out, Betsy set to with her cleaning, rubbing vigorously with the ash-covered cloth to clean the silver in the great hall.
Mary, meanwhile, was accompanying the chimney sweep around the house, draping the furniture to protect it from the ashes. They had reached the Master's study, almost the last room to be sorted. Mary looked around her, taking in the familiar surroundings. The hearth, where she had first felt her Master's hands on her as she leant over to lay the fire: the wall, where he had pushed her in a rage: the chaise and the desk where she had been taken by both him and Jack, and where she had realised that she would always be a slave to her passions and desires. What had made the blood in her veins run so hotly?
She shuddered, her thoughts turning to Jack. The stable hands were also busy, cleaning up the yard even though the mistress of the house didn't ride. She hadn't seen him for days, except at the stiff and formal staff dinners, and her Master was also keeping his distance. She understood why: she had taken her Mistress's place for a while, but not for much longer. She would miss him: he seemed to understand instinctively what she wanted, what she needed. No desire was too much for him and he revelled in it, enjoying all that her body had to offer. They were alike in that, both able to give in and release themselves to their passion. Jack understood this as well: he had accepted that the woman he loved had the same needs as he did, and that she enjoyed meeting those needs. Not for her the coy, affected shyness that a young woman was supposed to exhibit: Jack let her test the boundaries of her desire. She had been surprised at his reaction to their meeting with their Master: Jack had enjoyed every aspect of it, and had talked about it on the few occasions they had managed to speak together since. She knew that he was willing, eager, to go further, and wondered if she should tell her Master of this. She had seen what Phillip had enjoyed on her evening with his friend Thomas, and wanted to see both men together.
That night, Betsy crept into her room again. The two girls lay together in Mary's narrow bed. Mary had enjoyed their past dalliances, but knew that it had meant more to Betsy than it did to her. Mindful of the other girl's feelings, she had tried not to upset her: Mary didn't want to lead Betsy on, or pretend that she felt something she didn't. But tonight, with both Jack and her master distant, she needed some human contact.
Betsy, lying with her head on Mary's shoulder knew somehow what was going to happen. She felt Mary's hand stroke her shoulder and back tenderly, and Mary hadn't made a sound when Betsy had dared to reach up and caress Mary's breasts.
Betsy tried to ask the question that had been on her mind for so long. Why did Mary want Jack so much? Mary tried to explain, but as before she couldn't find the words. She tried to tell of the sensation of being filled by a meaty cock, or the sweet weight of her lover pressing into her, inhaling the musky male scent that caused her so much excitement. She had revelled in the masculinity of her lovers, the hard iron of muscle in their shoulders, the crispness of the curls of hair on their chest and trailing down their flat stomachs. Betsy, who craved the soft warmth of womanly flesh, didn't understand much of this, but wanted to experience as much as possible. Begging Mary to help, she went in search of a substitute for the girls to use, returning with a silver-backed hairbrush, the only thing of value she owned. The handle was broad and rounded, nowhere near as thick as a man's cock, but enough for her.
Mary laid Betsy on her front, stroking her back and caressing her plump buttocks. She could feel Betsy trembling under her fingers and knew that this was partly fear, partly excitement. Betsy lifted her body slightly, the movement causing her buttocks to spread a little, exposing the deep cleft between them. Mary leaned in close to nuzzle, her fingers slipping down to delve in the wet folds of flesh at the juncture of Betsy's thighs, burrowing like a little animal there. She could feel the slippery heat, and, holding the hairbrush by the bristled end, she slid the handle down to Betsy's sex. The girl jumped slightly when she felt the cold silver against her, but it warmed in the heat of her body and Mary began to push it inside her. Betsy was on her hands and knees now, and Mary was able to reach under the plump girls body and caress her pleasure bud with her free hand. She was careful to pump slowly at first, knowing Betsy's inexperience, but soon began to pump harder, thrusting the brush deeper into Betsy, rubbing and stroking her clitoris. Betsy pushed her face into the pillow to stifle her cries; the sensations were overwhelming her.
