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What the Valet Did (Smutathon 2018)

My first Smutathon story is live! A mournful tale of unrequited love across the classes in 1920s Britain.
With thanks to KP for the kind use of this image.

I want him. I want him the way I want air to breathe and a bed to sleep in. I want him in every moment he’s here and every moment he’s away. I live to serve him.

I went into service at fourteen. A groom. Always loved horses. Drew horses with chalks and bits of coal on the pavement outside our house every Saturday.

Fourteen, they say there’s a stable lad needed up at the big house. Hard work. Important work. Off I go.

The first time I saw him, it was summer. Hotter than a flat iron.

“The young Master wants his filly, Sandra.”
Head stable-hand says.

“Stupid name for a horse.” I say, and get clipped round the ear, before he shrugs and says “named it after his sister. Hates her. Now shut your trap and fetch the filly.”

He was beautiful then. He’s handsome now but back then, no more than twenty two or three, he was beautiful. Prettier than a girl. Prettier than his sister or the horse. The horse was prettier than the sister unfortunately.

Once I heard Lady Amelia refer to him as incandescent in his youth, though she said it behind a glass of champagne with harshness in her eyes. Never liked her. Never thought he should have married her. All wrong.

He was fair, like a cornfield ripe for harvest. But dark eyes – there were whispers his mother came of Spanish stock and people nodded their heads and said that explained everything but it didn’t explain anything.

Not too tall, not too skinny either. He reminded me of the men I’d see walking past our house of a Friday evening, half cut from the pub and ready to challenge anyone in their path. Powerful men in body.

Casper, a powerful man in body as well as stature. Strode over to me with his hand outstretched for the bridle. Smiled at me like I was someone. Didn’t say a word but made me feel queer, like a sickness had come over me.

Love. Lust. Infatuation. Call it what you will.

Albert Potter. Fourteen years old. In love with the lord of the manor.

“Never done a day’s work in his life.”

People say that one a lot. That or “he’d never last a day out in the field.”

On Sundays after church when I’d go home to see Dad – He’d take me to the Talbot for one swift drink after dinner. Before I had to walk back to the big house.

Always the same words in the same order. No one ever had anything new to add. Us and them. The big nobs and the worthless servants.

You’ll know what became of us in 1914. I was eighteen then. Went from keeping horses fed and watered and beautiful in a stable to keeping them strong and well-fed for the battlefield. Looked after the horses for Casper’s men. He remembered me.

“Albert. Keeping my horses wherever I may be!”

That same smile.

Made me shiver.

Looked after his horses; looked after him, too. Little errands.
“Albert, what would I do without you?”

Four years, barely left his side. Watched the village lads fall like dominoes around us. Only him and me left standing.

Sometimes he’d say he owed me his life. 1918 we come back and rebuild ourselves into the men we were before. Or what look like them at the least. To the eye the same faces just a little worn. Those that know, know.

He asked me formally to be his valet not long after. Said it would be an honour. He blushed. I blushed.

I said yes.

I said I do.

I said I will.

Just like a girl playing at brides.

So I loved him since the day I met him, really. Fiercely, protectively. Loved him without words. Tending to him as his manservant is the greatest act of love I can give him. Bringing his tray in the morning. Running his bath – the water always a fraction cooler than I might like myself.

The first time I dressed him, I blushed again. But I’d seen it before. I’d seen him caked in mud, blistered, bleeding, beautiful. I didn’t quite know why to see his lily white body naked before me made my chest feel all at once like a cage full of fretful pigeons all flapping their wings against one another. There was a lurch in my stomach mimicking a lurch in my underwear. The unmistakable thickening of his cock as he dried himself and handed the towel to me. Unashamed, reading for his undergarments as I quietly choked on my stirrings.

It was all I could do not to claim sudden illness and step quickly to my room to curl my fingers around my straining cock and think of his smooth, blemish-less body as I relieved myself.

He married Amelia the year after the end of the war. Father’s orders. A bad match. She wanted to be spoilt and indulged and Casper wanted to be as far away from her as he possibly could. A marriage of convenience and nothing more. He’d often tell me, in private, how little he cared for her habits, her manner.

“And the sex. God. The sex. There is none. There could never be. Not with that witch. Have to handle oneself in that respect, Albert.” And here he gave me a look, to suggest male conspiracy but which made me blush again, until surely he must have noticed my hot look. But if he did, he made no mention of it.

A valets tasks are many and varied. Selecting an appropriate outfit for any occasion – riding, the opera, a dinner with his parents or an evening at his club. I am almost his secretary. His confidante. His barber, at times. Applying the soap to his throat, tracing the outline of his strong, aristocratic jaw. Applying the knife with care and precision. His life in my hands.

Rare is the evening he spends in the house. Any and all excuses to flee from the marital bed. This night he is playing cards with friends. His silk-lined suit, heavy and decadent in my hands as I help him dress. My lips achingly close to the back of his neck. A kiss might do me in. The brush of his hand against my hip or even daringly closer to the part of me that desires him most; perhaps apart from my own heart.

“Ta ta, Albert. My one true companion.” he says as he departs.

My heart is full.

My cock is thick between my thighs, and as I try to turn my mind from lust I see his briefs – discarded, forgotten, flung into the corner without my knowledge. I stoop to retrieve them and they are warm, still. Warm, with a lick of him, under the print of my thumb. Warm and wet.

I bring the thumb to my mouth, my cock now painful, daring me, forcing me to reach to the buttons of my britches as my tongue tastes him for the very first time, the salt of his existence in my mouth and the warmth of his body wrapped around my pulsing cock, my hand jerking back and forth, unthinking of who could enter, find me here, desperate, beyond hope and help. A slave to base desire. To wrongness. Beautiful, aching wrongness.

I think of this wrongness, this wrong love as my crisis forms, and spendings lash through my body into the crumpled item in my hand.

The cage of pigeons in my chest are quelled, for now.

My love will remain unanswered, for now.

My love will remain, for now.

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