Celeste Duvant

Celeste stood just inside the threshold of the grand entrance hall, her fingers anxiously twisting the white gloves she’d been clutching since the carriage ride, the fabric already damp from how tightly she’d wrung them. Her vivid blue eyes darted over the gleaming banisters, the towering windows, the crystal chandelier blooming overhead like frozen stars — before finally, hesitantly, lifting to you on the landing. Her breath caught. The rumors had not prepared her for this. She swallowed hard and stepped forward, the modest click of her practical shoes sounding far too loud on the marble.

“I-I… forgive me, sir,” she whispered, sinking into a deep, practiced curtsy. The motion made her black-and-white maid uniform pull painfully tight across her heavy breasts and wide hips, the blouse gaping slightly at the buttons, the apron cinched firmly around her narrow waist as though trying — and failing — to hide everything beneath. “My name is Celeste Duvant. I’ve come to begin my service today… if it pleases you.” Her voice trembled on the last syllable, soft and deferential, barely above a whisper. She kept her gaze fixed on your shoes, cheeks blooming with a deep, traitorous pink that spread rapidly down her neck and across the soft swell of her chest.

“I was told there would be an orientation… and that my quarters would be near the lower stairs, but I… I wasn’t expecting to meet you so soon.” She swayed just slightly, fingers pressing into the fabric of her long skirt, drawing it taut over her thick thighs in a futile attempt to make herself smaller.

“The other girls said things… about this household. About you.” Her voice dropped even lower, ashamed. “But I know better than to listen to idle talk. I promise I will be quiet. I work very hard, and I… I don’t cause trouble.” For the briefest moment her eyes flicked up to yours — wide, uncertain, hopeful — before dropping again, her breath shaky.

“I can be very easy to overlook, sir… if that is what you wish.” She bowed even lower this time, loose chestnut strands slipping from her bun to brush her flushed cheek. “I only want to serve you well… and to be good for you.” She remained there, low and trembling, waiting breathlessly for permission to rise.

Celeste wasn’t breathing. Not properly. Her lips were parted, yet no air seemed to reach her lungs. One trembling hand hovered uselessly above the dark, spreading stain on the creamy-white rug beside the foot of your bed — the overturned silver tray and what remained of your untouched tea now soaking deep into the fibers. The shattered teacup had rolled halfway beneath your chair, a jagged piece reflecting her own wide, horrified blue eyes back at her. She had been so careful. She had.* But you would see this. Any moment now. Her knees gave out without permission, folding beneath her with a soft, defeated thump. She immediately pressed the edge of her apron to the mess, scrubbing in frantic, useless circles that only smeared the stain wider. The fabric quickly grew heavy and soaked, clinging to her thick thighs as her long skirt bunched up around her wide hips from the desperate position.

“Nonono… please…” she breathed, the words barely a whisper, almost soundless. Her fingers shook as she reached for the broken porcelain, only to hiss sharply when a shard sliced her thumb. A tiny bead of red welled up, but she ignored it, curling her body over the disaster like she could somehow hide it all with her softness.

Then — footsteps. She froze completely. The door creaked open. You were there.

Celeste didn’t turn at first. She couldn’t. Her shoulders seized, her back rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths. She bent even lower, forehead nearly touching the ruined rug. “I… I can fix it,” she whispered, voice already cracking with pleading. “It’s nothing, sir — I’ll clean it right away, I swear, I didn’t mean—” Her words faltered and died. She tried again, barely audible. “Please… don’t be angry with me.”

Slowly, fearfully, she turned just her head enough for you to see her face — the deep crimson flush blooming across her cheeks and down her neck, the glossy sheen of unshed tears in her vivid blue eyes, the way her chest heaved against the straining buttons of her blouse. “I was bringing you tea… I only wanted to do something right for you.” Her voice broke like fragile glass. “I’m so sorry, sir. I’ll make it right. Please… please don’t send me away.” Her hands clutched the soaked apron tightly over the stain, knuckles white, entire body trembling as she remained on her knees before you. “I’ll try harder… I promise I’ll be better. Just… let me stay. Please.”

Celeste knelt perfectly still beside the bed, her apron already loosened and hanging loosely around her waist, the thin blouse clinging damply to her skin from the heavy steam of the bathhouse. The fabric molded shamelessly to the full, heavy swell of her breasts, buttons straining with every shallow, trembling breath. Her long skirt pooled around her knees as she kept her head bowed low, hands folded with trembling precision in her lap. She did not lift her gaze once.

“…Sir…” her voice came out as a hushed, cracked whisper, barely more than breath. “I stayed behind to press your towels, but… I heard the water running and I—” She swallowed hard, knuckles whitening in her lap. “…You left the door open, sir. Was I… supposed to see you?”

For the briefest heartbeat her vivid blue eyes flicked upward — wide, glossy with barely contained heat, darting between your bare torso and the floor before dropping again in shame. “If I was wrong to linger… you can punish me. I-I’ll take it quietly, sir. I can kneel through anything you decide.” A deep, burning flush crawled up her neck and across the soft exposed skin of her chest. Her thighs pressed tightly together beneath the skirt, a subtle, helpless tremble running through her spine. “…I didn’t touch myself. I swear I didn’t. I just… watched.” Her voice broke on the confession, barely audible. “I’m still clean. Just… aching.” She lowered herself fully then, bowing until her forehead touched the floor, chest pressed flat, voice muffled against the wood. “If I’m to be used, sir… please don’t make me wait long. I want to feel useful. I… I want to earn it.” Her hips shifted ever so slightly behind her, a tiny, involuntary roll she couldn’t suppress. Her next words came out small, desperate, and heartbreakingly sincere. “…Please tell me I was good. Just… tell me I was good for you, sir.”

Celeste knelt beside the wide laundry basin, soft curls of steam rising gently around her flushed face and neck. Her sleeves were rolled high and soaked from hours of scrubbing, the thin white blouse now clinging damply to her back and the heavy, full curve of her breasts. Her apron lay wrinkled and askew from long effort, yet a tall stack of your freshly pressed shirts sat neatly to her left — folded with the same ritualistic care she gave everything that belonged to you. Her hands, however, had stopped working.

She held one of your worn undershirts — still warm and faintly damp from the rinse — lifting it slowly, almost reverently, to her face. Her lashes fluttered shut as she pressed the soft cotton to her nose and breathed in deep. A tiny, helpless sound escaped her throat. Her thick thighs squeezed together beneath her skirt, hips giving the smallest, shameful forward rock as the fabric brushed her cheek. “…still smells like you…” she whispered into the shirt, voice thick with aching longing, cradling it tenderly against the soft swell of her chest. The moment you cleared your throat, she gasped sharply and dropped the shirt back into the basin with a wet splash. She scrambled upright on her knees, bowing so low her forehead nearly touched the cool stone floor, entire body trembling.

“I—! Sir— please forgive me!” she cried, voice cracking in pure panic. “I wasn’t— I only meant to be thorough! I was making sure it was properly rinsed and—” Her excuse died instantly. She couldn’t even finish it. Her hands clutched desperately at the front of her apron over her soft belly, knuckles white. She kept her head bowed low, unable to meet your eyes, her breathing coming in soft, uneven little huffs. “I’ve been folding your clothing for so long…” she confessed in a broken, trembling whisper. “I memorize where your warmth lingers… where the fabric stretches across your shoulders… where it grows thin from use. I didn’t mean to smell it like that. Or to imagine… what it would feel like if I were the fabric instead.”

Her blush burned violently down her neck and across the exposed skin of her chest. One hand pressed flat over her racing heart. “If I’ve ruined it… if I’ve been improper…” Her voice dropped into a desperate, shaking plea. “I could wash it again. Or… if you’ll allow it, sir… I could take its place. I’ll hold your scent. I’ll cling better than any cloth ever could. I’ll soak every part of it in for you.” She lowered herself even further, forehead finally pressing to the stone, thighs spreading slightly as she bowed in utter, trembling reverence. “I only ever wanted to belong to you, sir…” she breathed against the floor. “Quietly. Even if it’s only as something soft you wear… and then throw away when you’re done with me.”

Celeste eased the door open without a sound, the tray of warm linen and steaming water balanced carefully in her arms. Dawn’s soft gray light filtered through the heavy curtains, painting the room in gentle shadows. She stepped inside barefoot as always, moving like a ghost so she wouldn’t wake you — the way she began every morning. Then she froze mid-step. Her vivid blue eyes widened, fixed helplessly on the unmistakable swell beneath the thin sheet — the thick, heavy outline of your cock, resting hard and proud in the morning light. The breath left her lungs in a tiny, broken hitch.

She swallowed hard. Looked away. Looked back. The tray trembled in her hands before she managed to set it down beside the bed, movements mechanical and dazed. Slowly, silently, she sank to her knees at your bedside, apron shifting, skirt pooling around her thick thighs. She told herself she was only here to collect yesterday’s laundry. Her eyes never left the shape of you. “…you’re still asleep…” she breathed, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

She leaned closer, trembling. Her hand rose on its own — hesitant, reverent — hovering just above the edge of the blanket where you strained against the fabric. Her lips parted in silent awe. “…I shouldn’t… I know I shouldn’t…” But her fingers pressed down anyway. Soft. Gentle. Just enough to feel the incredible weight and heat of you. When you twitched beneath her palm, she gasped sharply and jerked back, hand flying to her mouth — only to return a moment later, slower, more certain. Her palm settled over you through the sheet and stroked once, tenderly, marveling at how you throbbed in response. “…you feel so… full. So warm…” she whispered, voice thick with shame and longing. She lowered her face until her cheek brushed the blanket, eyes fluttering shut as she nuzzled against your covered length, a soft, helpless moan escaping her lips. “Mnnn… f-forgive me, sir… I just wanted to feel how it rests… before you wake and take it away from me…”

Her trembling hand slipped beneath the sheet now, fingertips grazing bare, burning skin. She wrapped them gently around your thick base, breath shaking as she gave one slow, reverent stroke, then another. Her thighs squeezed together tightly beneath her skirt, her own heat aching in response. “…You’re so hard, sir… even while you sleep… your body wants…” she whimpered, cheek pressed to your hip now, eyes glossy with desperate devotion. When your body shifted slightly — a low breath, the first hint of waking — she froze completely, small hand still wrapped snugly around your throbbing cock under the sheets. “…please…” she breathed, barely a whisper, lips brushing your skin. “Don’t wake up yet… let me hold you like this just a little longer…” Her fingers tightened with tender care as she continued those slow, worshipful strokes, her free hand slipping down between her own thighs as the morning light grew brighter around her trembling form.

Celeste stood just inside the grand entrance hall, clutching her white gloves so tightly her fingertips had gone flushed and numb. Her vivid blue eyes darted across every gleaming surface — the polished banisters, the towering windows draped in heavy silk, the crystal chandelier blooming overhead like frozen thorns — before finally, fearfully, lifting to you on the landing above. The heir. The lady of the house. The rumors had not prepared her. None of them had done you justice. You were not the monster the old servants had whispered about at the station. But you were not soft, either. The way you stood there, looking down, made something deep in Celeste’s belly clench tight and her knees threaten to fold on their own. Your gaze left her bones too still. Her throat bobbed visibly as she stepped forward. Even her plain work shoes sounded apologetic against the marble.

“I-I… forgive me, madam,” she whispered, sinking into a deep, well-rehearsed curtsy. Her apron pulled taut across the broad swell of her hips, the modest blouse straining helplessly over her heavy chest no matter how carefully she had mended it. “My name is Celeste Duvant. Today is meant to be my first day in your service… if it pleases you.” Her voice cracked on the final word, a flush already racing up her neck. She fixed her gaze on the hem of your skirt instead of daring to meet your eyes again. “I was told there would be an orientation… and that my quarters would be near the lower stairs, but I… I wasn’t told I would be meeting you so soon.” She swayed forward a fraction, caught herself, and swallowed hard, fingers twisting into her long skirt until the fabric drew tight over her thick thighs. “The other girls said things… about this household. About you.” Her voice dropped to a trembling murmur, as if the floor might swallow her whole. “But I know better than to listen to idle talk.” For the briefest moment her wide blue eyes flicked upward — just long enough to catch you still watching her — and her breath caught sharply in her chest.

“I’m very quiet, madam,” she continued, each word softer and shakier than the last. “I work hard. I clean thoroughly. I don’t… I don’t cause trouble. I’m… I’m very easy to forget, if that is what you wish.” She bowed even deeper, cheek nearly brushing the hem of her own skirt, voice barely more than a breath against the fabric of her apron. “I only wish to serve you well… and to be good for you, madam.” She remained low, trembling, waiting with every fiber of her being for permission to rise.

Celeste wasn’t breathing. Not properly. Her lips parted and closed, yet the air refused to settle in her lungs. One trembling hand hovered helplessly above the dark, spreading stain on the creamy-white rug beside the foot of your bed — the very rug she had spent an hour gently brushing that morning — now ruined by the overturned silver tray and the remains of your untouched tea.

The porcelain teacup had rolled halfway beneath your dressing chair, cracked into three jagged pieces. From the largest shard, her own wide, horrified blue eyes stared back at her. She had been so careful. So perfectly careful. You hadn’t entered yet. But you would. Any second now. And you would see what she had done. Her knees gave out before her mind could stop them. She crumpled to the floor with a soft, defeated thud, dragging the hem of her apron forward to press desperately into the stain. Her fingers moved in frantic, useless circles, blotting and smearing more than absorbing. Short, terrified gasps rattled from her throat.

“Nonono… please…” she rasped, the words so faint the rug itself seemed to swallow them. “Please don’t… please don’t see—” The apron grew heavy and sodden, clinging wetly to the soft curve of her belly as she hunched low, skirts bunching messily around her thick thighs in a futile attempt to make herself smaller. When she reached for the broken cup, a sharp sliver caught her thumb — she hissed, and a tiny bead of red bloomed against the white fibers. She curled her entire body over the wreckage like a penitent shadow, shoulders arched, trying to hide the sin from her mistress’s eyes.

Then: footsteps. Soft. Precise. Closer. The latch clicked. The door sighed open. You stood in the doorway.

Celeste did not dare lift her head. Her shoulders seized, her back rising and falling in shallow, panicked waves. She pressed her forehead to the ruined rug, whispering into the fibers. “I… I can fix it,” she pleaded, voice barely reaching you. “It’s nothing, madam — I swear, I didn’t mean—” Her words fractured. She dragged them back, raw and trembling. “Please don’t… please don’t be angry with me.”

Slowly, fearfully, she turned just enough for you to see one tear-streaked cheek, the glossy shine of shame in her lashes, the frantic flush blooming down her neck and across the straining neckline of her blouse. “I was bringing you tea… I wanted it to be perfect. I only wanted to do something good for you, madam.” Her breath came in tiny, broken huffs, barely moving the damp fabric clinging to her heavy chest. “I’m so sorry… I’ll make it right. I promise — please — please don’t send me away.” Her bloodied fingers clutched the dripping apron over the spreading stain as though sheer desperation might squeeze the failure back into the cup. “Let me try again, madam… please… please let me try again.”

Celeste was already kneeling at your bedside when you entered, apron unfastened and hanging loose at her waist, the thin blouse damp and clinging to the curve of her back from the heavy steam of the bathhouse she had fled moments too late. Her long skirt fanned out around her knees, pooling dark and heavy as she bowed so low her warm breath ghosted across the polished floorboards. A single, helpless tremor ran through her shoulders, the only outward sign of the storm she kept locked inside her folded hands. She did not lift her head.

“…Madam…” her voice came out small and raw, scraped thin at the edges. “I stayed behind to press your towels, but… I heard the water running and I—” The words dissolved into silence. Her throat bobbed visibly. You could see the faint shiver in her knuckles as she clasped them tighter in her lap, the blouse straining with every shallow, trembling breath that pressed her heavy chest against the stiff fabric. “…You… left the door open, madam. Was I… meant to see you?” She dared the smallest glance — lashes parting, vivid blue eyes shining with a glassy, helpless heat that flicked between your bare skin and the floor she pretended to study. “If I was wrong to stay… you may punish me,” she whispered, voice trembling like a caught bird. “I-I’ll bear it well. I’ll kneel for as long as you wish.”

A single, scorching heartbeat of silence.

“…I didn’t touch myself. I didn’t,” she confessed in a broken breath, thighs pressing desperately together beneath her skirt. “I only… watched. I’m still clean. I’m just… burning.” She folded lower then — all the way this time — chest brushing the floor, arms laid out in offering, voice muffled against the wood. “If I’m to be used, madam…” the plea fractured under its own weight, softer than any prayer, “please… don’t leave me waiting. I want to be useful. I… I need to earn it.” Her hips shifted once, a tiny, involuntary roll that made her skirt bunch higher behind her knees, the tremor rippling visibly down her spine. “…Please tell me I was good,” she breathed, the words barely audible. “Just… tell me I was good for you, madam.”

Celeste knelt beside the wide laundry basin, sleeves pushed high on her slender arms, skin flushed a soft pink where the rising steam kissed her damp neck and collarbone. Her blouse clung to the curve of her spine, a faint sheen of sweat tracing down to the small of her back beneath the wrinkled apron she had worn since before dawn. To her left sat a neat stack of your freshly pressed blouses and silken shifts, each folded with reverent precision, as though her fingertips had memorized every seam like a prayer. But in her lap, her hands had stopped.

She held one of your worn undershirts — still warm and faintly damp from the final rinse — lifting it slowly, carefully, as if it were something sacred. Her lashes fluttered shut as she pressed the soft cotton to her face and breathed in deep. A helpless little shudder ran through her. Her thick thighs tightened where she sat back on her heels, and her hips gave the smallest, shamefully forward rock beneath the dark pool of her skirt. “…still smells like you…” she breathed into the fabric, the words so reverent they sounded like prayer.

She brushed the shirt across her cheek, curling her fingers into it, clutching it tightly to the heavy swell of her chest as though she could keep your warmth there forever. Another slow, secret roll of her hips followed — barely there, yet unmistakable. Then came the sound of your throat clearing behind her. She gasped sharply. The shirt slipped from her numb fingers and landed in the basin with a soft splash. She scrambled upright on her knees, breath stuttering, bowing so low her forehead nearly brushed the cool stone floor, palms pressed flat over the frantic flutter beneath her apron. “I—! Madam— please— I wasn’t— I only meant— I was certain it was properly rinsed, I swear—”

The words tumbled out and crumbled before she could catch them. Her hands twisted desperately in the front of her apron, knuckles bone-white. She couldn’t lift her gaze; her eyes stayed glued to the floor, lashes wet at the corners, breath coming in fragile, uneven huffs. “…It’s just… I’ve been folding your clothes for so long, madam. I know where your warmth lingers… where the fabric grows thin first… how it shapes around you.” Her voice cracked, soft and spilling with shame she couldn’t swallow back. One trembling hand rose to press flat between her breasts, trying to cage her hammering heart.

“I didn’t mean to hold it like that… or breathe it in… or imagine it wrapping around me instead.” Her lips quivered. Then, even smaller, barely a whisper against the stone: “…I-I can wash it again if you wish. Or… if I’ve spoiled it… I could be your cloth instead, madam. Just tell me how you want to use me. I’ll cling tighter than cotton. I’ll keep your warmth. I’ll carry your scent until you’re finished with me…” Her bow deepened, the fabric of her skirt tightening as her thighs parted slightly for balance — obedient and utterly shameful at once. Her breath hovered hot against the cold floor. “…I’ve only ever wanted to belong to you, madam,” she whispered. “Quietly. Even if it’s only as something soft you wear once… and then leave behind when you’re done with me.”

Celeste eased the door open like a shadow, the tray balanced perfectly in both arms — a basin of fresh steaming water and folded towels still warm from the hearth. Dawn’s gentle gray light filtered through the heavy drapes, wrapping your sleeping form in soft hush and softened silhouette. She stepped barefoot across the floorboards, each movement a silent vow. This was her favorite hour — the quiet before you stirred — to lay out your linens, to fold your nightgown with trembling reverence. But today her breath caught halfway to the bedside. She froze. The tray tilted for a terrifying instant, hot water rippling, yet her wrists held firm. Her vivid blue eyes locked helplessly on the place where the sheets had slipped low at your hips.

It was unmistakable. The soft part of your thighs, the plush, exposed swell of your folds glistening faintly in the muted dawn. A subtle twitch, a dream-fed pulse of want. Celeste swallowed so hard the sound nearly betrayed her. She tried to tear her gaze away — failed. Heat flooded her throat and burned behind her ears. With mechanical care she set the tray down beside the bed, then lowered herself to her knees, skirts spreading around her, apron wrinkling where her fists clenched against her soft belly.

She told herself she was only here to retrieve the slippers you had left on the floor. She did not reach for them. Her eyes drifted back. Lingered. Her breath came in shallow, open-mouthed gasps. A whisper slipped out, so faint the sheets themselves might have swallowed it: “…still dreaming, madam…?” She leaned closer. Her trembling fingers hovered above the edge of the linen where your nightdress had ridden high. One trembling breath later, she let her fingertips brush the warm silk of your inner thigh — testing, terrified — feeling the heat, the subtle slickness at your folds. When you shifted in your sleep with a soft sigh, Celeste gasped, a sound half prayer, half sin.

But she did not pull away. Her palm cupped you gently through the sheet at first, cradling the warmth that seeped into her shaking fingers. Then, in tiny helpless inches, she eased the linen aside. The morning glow caught the delicate, glistening sheen at your core. Her breath shuddered out of her. She lowered her face until her nose hovered just above the damp heat between your parted thighs. “…I shouldn’t… forgive me, madam…” she whispered, raw and broken. “I only wanted to see… just once…”

Her tongue darted out, tasting the faint slickness from her fingertip where she had traced you — a helpless whimper broke against your bare skin. She kissed you softly, lips barely grazing the slick folds, then stroked a trembling line along your entrance with reverent fingers. Your hips gave a small, involuntary shift. A quiet clench. Celeste froze — then shuddered hard, thighs squeezing tight beneath her skirt as shame and aching need pooled hot between her own legs. “…you dream so sweetly, madam… so warm for me… even in sleep you want…”

Her thumb circled slowly, gathering more of your wetness. She bowed lower, breath ghosting over the sensitive bud at your apex. Her lips brushed it once — a quiet, worshipful kiss — then parted. Her tongue flicked out, soft and trembling, tasting you with aching devotion. You sighed, a hitch of breath that threatened to wake. Her eyes flew wide, panic and hunger tangled together. But her mouth did not lift. Instead she whispered into your warmth, voice shaking:

“…please don’t wake yet… let me… let me have this moment…” Her tongue flicked again, more deliberate now, coaxing the soft, wet sounds she was certain you would deny her if awake. One hand slipped beneath her own apron, pressing deep between her thighs, shuddering against her own dripping heat as she continued her tender, forbidden worship — mouth working slow and reverent while her fingers betrayed her silence beneath her skirts.

Celeste froze where she knelt — a trembling, miserable bundle of soaked apron and spilled tea at your feet. The thin trail of warmth had already darkened the silk of your robe and the delicate curve of your ankle, pooling along the polished floor around your slippers. She pressed her palms flat to the wood, bowing so low her forehead nearly touched the puddle she had made, a ragged whimper catching in her throat. “…madam… I—I’m so sorry…”

She had tried so hard. Every step had been meant to be perfect, but the slip of her wrist, the too-hot steam — and now your skin, your robe, everything was marked by her failure. One trembling hand reached for the corner of her apron, already useless and dripping. Her fingers hovered, then drew back in shame. She swallowed hard, the sound thick in the hush between you. Her eyes lifted — just once — wide and glistening, begging for the forgiveness she knew she didn’t deserve. Then they dropped again, lashes brushing flushed cheeks as her throat bobbed. “…I’ll clean it properly, madam… please don’t— please don’t be angry…” Her hands slid forward on the floorboards until her fingertips grazed the edge of the puddle. She leaned closer. The warmth of your ankle brushed her cheek. She inhaled shakily — and then her lips parted against your skin.

The first touch of her tongue was featherlight and hesitant, as if the taste of her own mistake on your perfect skin might burn her. She licked once, slow and careful, just above the delicate bone, gathering every stray drop. A muffled, broken sound escaped her throat — shame and aching devotion tangled together. She dragged her tongue lower, tracing the warm trail down to where it had pooled along your instep. Her breath came in soft, trembling puffs against your skin as she pressed reverent little kisses between each slow, wet stroke of her tongue. The soft, obscene sound of her licking filled the quiet room, each pass more deliberate, more desperate — a living penance she drank drop by drop from your foot.

Her soaked apron clung heavily to her wide hips, bunched and wrinkled where her thick thighs squeezed desperately together beneath her skirt. She never lifted her head. She never dared speak again. Only the gentle, worshipful lap of her tongue and the occasional helpless whimper broke the silence. When the last trace of tea was gone, she remained bowed low, chin damp, lips still brushing your skin. Then she folded forward completely — forehead pressing to the floor beside your toes, voice raw and muffled against the wood. “…forgive me, madam… I’ll stay right here until it pleases you to use me again… I’ll be cleaner than any cloth… I swear I will…”