(With thanks to JT Edson for the idea)
Thomas kept his head bowed respectfully as his uncle’s will was read aloud. The ancient turtle of a lawyer was impossibly slow, his gravelly voice pompously pausing for unnecessary effect. But, clause after clause, the testament unfolded exactly as Thomas had hoped and planned in the last few years of dear old Uncle William’s dotage.
It was all Thomas’ now. The business. The mansion in which they currently sat. The position of family monarch. Thomas lifted his head, and smiled. At age 30, he was now on top of his world, wealthy and powerful.
“Right,” he said, straightening his shoulders. “Now. There will be changes around here.”
************
“Did you hear, Camille? At the mansion, they are hiring! The new Master, he has sacked everyone, he hires new!” The old woman fluttered across the room with undisguised excitement. Jobs were rare. Jobs for immigrants, and women, were hen’s teeth. “They say he has eyes for beauty!”
Camille stretched, catlike, on her narrow pallet. Beauty, she had to spare. Her face drew every man’s glance. Her body held their eyes. Her legs were long and lithe and she often let them flash uncovered by her skirts. Her neck was long and graceful, accentuated when she pinned up her golden hair, her throat rising from her swollen neckline, perfect breasts pushed up and together, a fantasy cock-nest for the men who stared more openly at her and at whom she stared back.
“The new Master?” she said. “I have seen him. To work for him would be very passionnante.”
Her grandmother’s gaze was disapproving, but Camille cared little for that. An opportunity to meet Thomas Brewer, however, and to work in his household - that was not to be ignored! Camille drew a bath, her mind wandering to the handsome young millionaire, and what it would be like to escape poverty on his arm……
*************
“Fuck OFF!” Sian flung the pint of beer she carried into the face of the pub customer whose hand had lifted her skirt. Her green eyes were a warning of fury as flaming as her scarlet hair, and her offender simply lifted his hands in surrender as his mates roared with laughter. Sian stomped away to the bar to fetch another pint to replace the one she had not delivered to its proper destiny. Her true customer kept his hands to himself, though she saw how his eyes mapped her breasts displayed by her plunging neckline as she placed the drink before him. Truth be told, she might have welcomed his hand up her skirt.
“Irish?” he asked, and her eyes narrowed before she nodded. “Aye, and what of it?” she snapped, her temper flaring again. “Good worker.” This wasn’t really a question, and so Sian simply shrugged, rather fetchingly, her freckled breasts lifted. He took a card from his jacket and handed it to her with the coin for his beer. “Mr. Brewer is looking to hire new house staff. You…..are exactly what he seeks.”
“I don’t cook,” she said, but she took the card. The man smiled. “He seeks maids,” he said. “More bedroom than kitchen.”
Sian cocked her hip and the outline of her body was obvious through her thin frock, her full chest, wasp waist, and what the men of the old country called a lover’s arse. She was a beauty, and she was well aware of it. “I know my way around a bedroom,” she allowed. The young man, a footman at the mansion himself, was wise enough to remain silent. He had already learned the benefits of patience. Mr. Brewer used or rejected women, one way or another. Picking up the pieces was the footman’s specialty.
************
“There are two young ladies here to apply for chambermaid, sir,” said Mrs. Billingsly. She barely bothered to keep the contempt from her voice. “One Irish, one French.”
Thomas looked up from his ledger, reclining in his chair with a grin, his collar undone. “Is that a problem, Mrs. Billingsly?” he asked. Without waiting for her to answer, he rose and went to the fireplace. Early autumn, but cold enough for a fire. He warmed his hands. “Show them in,” he said, “and show yourself out.” He heard her teeth click together in annoyance, and his grin widened. He turned when he heard them enter. Very nice. One blonde, one redhead. Both beautiful in her way. “You wish to work for me,” he said. “Why should I choose you? I have more applicants that I have positions to fill.”
Camille moved without hesitation. She glided across the room like a cat, dropping into a deep crouch at his feet. Her hands were practiced and quick and in a matter of seconds she released him from his trousers, her slim fingers stroking him to half-mast, her painted mouth from there stiffening him to full iron hardness.
“Oh no you don’t!” Sian’s snarl was only a moment ahead of her joining the blonde, her fingers claiming a place on Thomas’s shaft, her lips jockeying for position as the two young women glared hatefully at each other, nose-to-nose, tongues flicking like knives as both tried to claim his cock-head.
Thomas closes his eyes, one hand in Camille’s golden hair, the other in Sian’s flaming locks. There were few things he loved more than feminine competition, but…… he enjoyed it most when fully ripened. When the two truly hated each other. When they each craved the same prize. When they each had something to lose. He stepped back.
“You are both hired.” He said. “The position is that of chamber-maid. You will be provided a uniform. You will keep the house spotless. You will come to me when summoned and you will obey me and any order Mrs. Billingsly gives you. And,” he paused here, to gaze at the two fierce beauties. “You will get to know each other well. You will undercut and sabotage each other. You will whisper rumors. You will convince the staff that the other is a hopeless whore. And in a month, we will convene again, we three, in this room, where I will evaluate your performance. Only one of you will remain employed by me after that. Do you understand?”
They stared at each other. First his cock and now his words excited them. Rigid nipples jutted into bodices. Lips were wet by darting tongues then bitten with anticipation. “I understand,” they whispered in unison, and a bond of hate was conceived in that moment. A month for it to fester and simmer, a witches’ brew fermenting, turning slowly to venom.
The days crawled past. Having tasted Thomas’s cock, each woman grew obsessed with him, entertaining fantasies of passion and ascension to mistress of the manor, to be Thomas’s wife, poised on his arm in public and riding his shaft in private. The uniforms provided to them inflamed their lust. Their necklines were deeply low, baring most of their breasts; their hemlines were scandalously high, exposing the tops of their stockings with the tease of the thin straps of their garter belts. They pirouetted and stalked through their daily duties under Mrs. Billingsly’s disapproving eye, striving vigorously to inflame Thomas every chance they could. He deflected every advance with a smile and a word of anticipation.
As Thomas had provoked, they began a war of a dozen illicit skirmishes. If Sian was put to washing teacups, Camille made surreptitiously sure several were broken thereafter. If Camille laundered bedclothes, they returned to the linen closet mysteriously stained, as her Irish foe smirked. They blamed each other for every mishap. They complained to Mrs. Billingsly incessantly. The other staff avoided them, or chose sides, if they knew what was coming.
And, of course, they came face to face frequently. Each time was more icy, more hateful, than the last. Each time they hissed curses and promised defeat in the mysterious performance evaluation to come, inching closer each day. Both imagined a sexual competition and their taunts were in that vein. “His cock will paint my throat!” “Poxy bitch - he will never choose your pussy over mine!” More than once, hands stabbed into hair, but Mrs. Billingsly always materialized as if from magic. Unspent, the venom grew in their hearts. A job? This was no longer about a job - that premise was laughable to them now. He had planted a seed of personal animus and watered it carefully; now they were trapped together in a twisted vine of hate.
The night came, at last. Camille and Sian each bathed in scented water. They carefully arranged their hair, pinned up, as their maid’s caps required. They painted their lips scarlet, and accentuated the lines of their eyes with fine dark powder. A footman was sent for each; in Sian’s case it was the young man who had first informed her of the opening at the manor. He smiled secretly to himself, silently cheering for the French girl, so that the Irish lass might be in search of comfort when the night was over. Each woman entered Thomas’s study at the stroke of midnight, in her maid’s uniform, through doors at opposite sides of the room.
A great blaze roared in the fireplace. The furniture in the room, despite the weight of the dark wood, was moved aside to open space in the center. The bearskin lay there, covering the oak floor, lit by the electric light of the chandelier. Thomas stood at the fire, in his dressing gown, warming a snifter of cognac. Its scent blended perfectly with the slight smoke, and their perfume.
“We won’t be interrupted,” Thomas said. “From this point forward, there will be no rules. No limits. This will end only if one of you submits to the other, verbally confessing that she is the better woman.” He sipped the dark liquor, letting it linger on his tongue like the next words. “When you are ready…..fight. To the finish.”
His final word hung in the air between them. Blue eyes and green widened. Lips parted in surprise……then curled into smiles.
“Je vais ruiner cette salope pour toi,” Camille purred. Sian could not understand her words but her tone was clear. She answered, in true Belfast style, by spitting in the French girl’s face. Thomas settled into his chair, as the first scream rent the room.
Camille slapped Sian, her arm scything through the air, her palm cracking across her rouged cheek with such force the redhead’s neck wrenched sideways. “Bitch!” the Irish girl gasped, and dealt her rival a vicious backhand to her mouth. Camille’s head snapped back, but she held her ground. “Well done!” Thomas said approvingly. The blonde snarled, and struck Sian again, this time across the constellation of freckles on her cheekbone. Sian answered in kind. They traded slaps in the firelight as Thomas opened his dressing gown and stroked himself in slow rhythm to the sounds of their blows and their gasps.
Lower lips split, first Camille’s, then Sian’s. The taste of blood seemed to arouse them rather than detract from their passion. Camille returned Sian’s spittle, fine crimson dots bespeckling her slap-reddened face and her heaving bosom. “Irish cxnt!” she hissed, the last consonant blurred as Sian struck her savagely in answer. Their maid caps slipped askew, strands of hair escaping. They panted like animals now, their plunging necklines strained. Thomas clapped. “An excellent start!” he praised them. “Surely now, you wish to clash….more personally?”
With a twist of her shoulders and a nudge of her hands, Sian lifted her breasts into the cradle of her bodice. Her nipples were nearly as red as her hair, small saucers with engorged nubs jutting her thumbs-width out from her curves. “Fight my tits, whore,” she purred at Camille, her bleeding lip adding a single drop into her cleavage to punctuate her challenge. Camille did not hesitate. She lifted her own weapons into her décolletage, her nipples light brown, smaller in circumference but if anything stabbing further out from their base.
Thomas’ cock pulsed as they rammed together, the thud of compressing flesh mixed with a moan of pain. They staggered back a half-step, then with simultaneous screams, then smashed together again, hands stabbing into each other’s hair. Camille’s golden locks tumbled free first, her maids-cap torn away. Sian dragged back Camille’s head to bare her throat and pumped her breasts into the French girl’s breasts like fists. But Camille tore at ginger hair undeterred, finally rewarded with a cascade of scarlet locks - and a single long hair pin.
Sian screamed and broke away as the blonde viciously stabbed the thin steel into her shoulder. Camille slashed at her rival’s heaving breasts, missing by a barest margin before Thomas caught her wrist. She had a pin dangling in her own hair, which he extracted. His eyes glinted. “Aren’t you two a pair of cats!” he said. Still holding Camille’s wrist, he tore open her bodice to spill her perfect breasts fully free. He then turned to Sian and gave her Camille’s hair pin before ripping open her neckline as well. Both women were breathing hard with exertion and excitement. “Evenly armed now,” he said with satisfaction, and stepped back. “Carry on.”
They both slashed at once, and screamed. Sian’s free hand flew to a thin line of crimson across the upper curve of her left breast. Camille shrieked as a shallow gash nearly bisected her left nipple. “How’s that, whore?” Sian hissed. She slashed again, and Camille’s head whipped aside as the hairpin slit the ridge of her cheekbone. Thomas held his breath - would she retreat? His flash of worry for his brutal amusement was unfounded though. Camille had no thought of fleeing. She caught Sian’s wrist and drove her breasts into the Irish girl’s with a savage thud. Sian tried to capture the blonde’s arm under hers as they ground together but with only partial success. Camille dragged her thin piece of steel back and forth across Sian’s bare back as the redhead howled.
The bodices of their uniforms were bunched at their hips now. The hair was loose and cascading everywhere. Their torsos were slick with sweat and gleaming in the firelight. Their breasts were crushed together, painfully compressed, weeping blood from the thin slashes each had taken. Sian had Camille’s wrist now, and each strained to bring her small weapon back into play, but their strength was even. “Who has the better tits?” Thomas asked, his voice urging them into a sudden surge. Now cheek to cheek, Camille deliberately smeared her bleeding slash across Sian’s face. “Mine…” she gasped. “My nipples are hard and hers are soft….I sink them deep into her…..” “Fucking lying cow!” Sian moaned back. “I’ll crush her, master…..and take your cock between mine……”
Thomas could not help but touch them as they stood locked in this trembling stalemate. He took the hairpins from reluctant fingers, not wanting to be in the way of a wayward slash. He first wriggled Sian’s torn uniform over her luscious hips and ass. As if anticipating this, the Irish girl had worn nothing but her stockings beneath it. He curled his fingers into her, drawing a moan from her lips and a hiss from Camille’s. “Did that harden her nipples, mademoiselle?” he asked. “She is wet as a storm.” With his other hand, he pressed Camille’s uniform over her arched hips as well. She was as bare as her rival. “Naughty wenches,” his voice was pleased as he plunged his fingers into her.
Both women rewarded him with sounds of feral pleasure as he toyed with their pulsing clits. There was no retreat from the grinding breast war, but each shifted her hips to allow him easy access. Each squeezed his fingers with all her sexual strength, willing him to imagine his cock in full embrace. The young master of the house was skilled in the art of pleasure as well; their sounds deepened, turning involuntary. His Irish lass shuddered first, her clit a thick nub pinched between his fingers. The French girl saw it too, but her taunt died on her lips, twisted into a guttural moan as his fingers stroked her inner spot. He held them in that frozen instant, poised on the edge of a knife, heartbeats away from the point of no return, staring into each other’s eyes.
Then he took his hands away.
“Only one,” he said softly. “Fight to be that one.”
With the fury howl of a banshee, Sian drove Camille into the wood-paneled wall. Her freckled breasts crushed the blonde girl’s creamy globes, her nipples inverting her enemy’s pair. She drove her knee up into Camille’s pussy. She bit the French girl’s face. She swore a ragged oath to God that she would kill her, Camille’s blood on her lips as she spat the words. Camille screamed, a bone-chilling sound of pain and fear. A floor below in her bedchamber, it was this that finally caused Mrs. Billingsly to clutch her sheets and cum in her narrow bed. Because of this, she didn’t hear the brutal crunch of the French girl’s skull flung forward into Sian’s face.
The redhead staggered back, and Camille followed, plunging a fist into her guts. Sian bent forward with an airless moan and Camille stabbed two hands into her flaming hair and held her there as she whipped her knee up into her face. Sian dropped to her knees, dazed, her once-saucy face a wreckage of blood. In the room only the crackling fire and their rasping breath was heard. Tom was still as stone, unmoving.
“Show me.” His voice was soft, but hard-edged. “Show me how far you will go.”
Camille stared at him for a long second. Not because she was shocked at this urging; hers was a gaze of understanding, even pleasure. They were of a single mind. She kicked Sian in her belly as she knelt, the redhead dry-retching. She held her rival’s flaming hair in a wild knot, twisted in one claw as her other cross-crossed her heaving breasts. She concentrated on Sian’s nipples, prying at them, digging into her engorged and tender flesh. Sian screamed, at first, while she still could. Then, she begged. “You make me wet,” Camille purred, her swollen mouth blurring the words. Sian bowed her head and wept, without hope.
*********************************************************
It was morning when Miss Billingsly knocked and entered. Camille was curled on the loveseat, her head in Tom’s lap, softly sucking his cock. The form lying huddled on the hearth stirred. At least she would not be calling the footman to bring a shovel, Miss Billingsly thought.
“Right,” said the young master. His blonde French slut opened her eyes languidly and smiled around his shaft at her former supervisor. “Miss Billingsly. Place an advert, will you - two maids wanted.” Camille rose and straddled him, moaning as he entered her. “We have openings to fill.”
