Chapter 8: Ivories tinkled
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Just another day in servitude as a maid, I helped prepare breakfast, served Mummy and Daddy at their table, cleared up, and started my cleaning chores.
That morning, I had to clean and polish the drawing room.
While I was working, I pondered a question in my head. Why did they call it the drawing room? For most people, it’s a sitting room or lounge. Perhaps they thought it was posh, something a wealthy household with a fleet of domestic servants would have. Such is the mental process of a lowly maid engaged in her duties.
As I flicked my feather duster around in one corner, Daddy came in, stretched out on the big sofa, and picked up a tablet from a coffee table to read something.
I shuffled around slyly to see what was so interesting, and I was disappointed to see it was just a boring news website. Boredom seemed appropriate. I wanted some action, something to make Daddy happy and for me to feel I had done my subby duty for the day.
So, from standing beside him, dusting the coffee table, I dropped to my knees and started to rub my hands over the front of his trousers. Daddy pretended to be engrossed in a news article, but I knew his mind was no longer on that as he had a hardening lump under my hands.
Everything was going according to plan until there was a huge crash in the kitchen. Daddy jumped up and bolted out of the room, followed by a very curious me.
In the kitchen, there was chaos. Great shards of china lay all over the floor, and looking aghast at the mess was a very frightened-looking Babaa.
"Clean this up, then come to see me in my office."
"Yes, Daddy. I’m sorry, Daddy, I tripped carrying a load from the dishwasher. I’m truly sorry, Daddy; please don’t punish me."
Babaa’s plea fell on deaf ears. Daddy had gone. I went to comfort him, wrapped my arms around him, and cuddled tight. The poor man was distraught, sobbing on my shoulder.
"Come along; I’ll help you clear up."
I went to the cupboard and pulled out brooms, brushes, pans, and bags before starting work on clearing the mess. After a while, Babaa stopped snivelling and joined me in the task.
When order was restored and everything was tidy, he looked at me balefully.
"I’m going to the punishment room for sure. I’m not like you; I won't last very long, and the pain will be horrible. Oh, Christ, I’m in deep shit."
With that, he shuffled out of the kitchen and headed for the study. I looked around and decided there wasn’t anything there for me, so I went to the drawing room to continue my cleaning duty. This time, the room remained unoccupied. Daddy did not return for a continuation of my loving attention to his cock.
As I worked around the room, piece by piece, my eyes were drawn to the baby grand piano in one corner. I loved playing, and from an early age, I always had an upright instrument at home and took lessons from a doughty old lady who rapped my knuckles with a ruler every time I hashed up a chord. By my mid-teens, I was quite proficient and knew many solo pieces by Chopin, Mozart, and Beethoven by heart. Somewhere along the line into adulthood, I gave up trying to be a perfect player and just played for my amusement. Sometimes I was paid a small amount in clubs where the style was jazz and blues; Joplin was my favourite then.
As I dusted the shiny, black wood, I lifted the keyboard lid and whisked my duster over the ivories. The temptation was too great; I dropped my duster and sat on the stool. My right index finger hovered over the D key, and then I was off, fingers dancing as the sounds of jaunty ragtime filled the space.
Completely lost in the music, I was oblivious to the fact that I was no longer the sole occupier of the room. I finished the piece with a flourish, lifting my hands from the keys like a concert pianist. In my head, there was thunderous applause from a great audience, but in my ears, there was just a single slow clap.
I twisted around to see Mummy standing in the middle of the room. Smartly attired in a knee-length skirt and crisp blouse, she walked slowly towards me until she stood beside the stool. Her hand floated down and cupped my chin, her soft fingers exploring my flesh.
Suddenly, she jerked my head up and said, "Do you think you can touch my piano without asking? Don’t you know you are just a fucking maid here?"
"Yes, Mummy."
"Do you know you need my permission for everything?"
"Yes, Mummy."
"You deserve to be punished."
"Yes, Mummy. Thank you, Mummy."
"Tell me you deserve my punishment."
"I deserve your punishment, Mummy. I’m sorry, Mummy. Please forgive me, Mummy."