bimbo in heat

You lean into tile and heave, senseless, mindless, numb yet feeling every breath and every tingle.

His lips trails from your lips through your wiry curls and long the crease of your pelvis and thigh. He kisses along the top of your leg and slowly grazes upward. He slaps his hand onto the wall beside you, then the other. He lifts himself with a deep grunt and sways.

You puff through your dewy lips. “Le…”

He hushes you. “I got you…” his damp hair hangs over his face as he stares at your body.

He watches his hand as his fingertips, some sliced and scabbed, brush along your hip and stomach. He feels along your flesh and fondles your chest. He hums and bows his head, taking your nipple in his mouth. You gasp and clasp on loosely to his silvery blond strands.

“I’m sorry… I need you.” He breathes into your skin, his tongue tickling your hard bud.

He sucks and teethes at you, nibbling between your breath as he leaves a path of saliva between your tits. He tends to your other nipple, swirling his tongue and groans. His hand hooks around your bottom and he squeezes, kneading the flesh hungrily as he bites down just hard enough for you to moan.

“Now.” He growls.

He loops his arms around you and lifts you. He sways but not much. He hikes you up until you latch on, scared of falling onto the hard porcelain. He turns and lifts one knee. He angles over the edge of the shower stall, lumbering across the bathroom, dripping onto the floor without heed.

He staggers into the bedroom with you locked in his arms. He dips his head and buries his nose into your neck. He inhales and snarls again.

“You smell… good.” He walks blindly, each step slightly clumsy.

He stops as he nuzzles into you then grazes his teeth against your flesh. He falls forward and you cry out, relieved to land on the spring coil of his bed. Your arms flail wide as your tits bounce against his chest. He holds himself over you as he lifts his head. His blue irises are thin around his large pupils.

“You’re gorgeous.” He drawls and brushes his nose up yours. “I can’t stop…”

“Leon…” you breathe. You don’t know what to say. That it’s okay, but it’s not.

The comfort of his warmth, the intimacy you’ve never truly known, the feeling of being wanted all smother the doubt and fear. This man took you off the street, from the lowest of the low, for himself. For his needs, not yours.

But you don’t care. No one wanted you out there. He does.

He steadies himself and the tip of his nose presses firmly to yours. His eyes swallow you up. He tilts his head slowly and kisses you. His tongue glides over your lips. You open for him, your legs falling limp away from his hips.

His tongue delves hungrily into your mouth. He groans and moans and growls. He eases back, nibbling your lip just before he parts. He pants lightly as he gazes down at you.

“When I was out there, this is all I thought of.” He rasps.

You can’t speak or move. You won’t stop him but you don’t know if you can embrace him back. If you can make yourself touch him like that. To believe that this won’t end with you back where you started. He’s a man, after all. He’s proving that right now.

“So beautiful.” He pets your cheek as he props himself up on one elbow, his other hand feeling between your bodies.

He follows the line of your cunt and rubs between your lips. You’re still wet. His jaw tense and his lashes flutter. He stretches his fingers along your folds and spreads you wide.

He shifts his hips, angling around cautiously. He hooks his tip between his index and middle fingers. He shudders as he bends his neck to rest his forehead against yours.

He slowly delves inside you. Your breath ebbs from between puffed lips and his eyes roll back in his head. He plumes out a dusky groan as he sinks in, inch by inch. He tenses until he's almost bottomed out. The last little bit has him collapsing down with a great huff.

He reaches blindly to pet your hair. He moans your name. Slowly, he slides back then back in. His hips roll carefully, in, out, in, out.

His long strokes pick up and he pushes his elbows down into the mattress. He lifts himself and curls his shoulders and neck to look down between your bodies. You drone out as your walls squeeze him, clinging to the closeness, the fervour of his need.

You spread your hands over his chest, tracing the scrapes and bruises along his torso. He keeps himself up on one arm as his other snakes between you. He times the deliberate swirl of his fingertips with the rhythm of his pelvis. He leans into the back of his hand, adding to the pressure blooming inside you.

You bite your lip and turn your head as you arch your back. You curl your legs around his and cum, rattling out a surrender from your throat. He drops his head down and kisses your neck.

“I'm almost there, sweetheart. Almost.”

He slams his hips down and falls into a full rut. The bed shakes, you shake, he shakes. The storm rages around your bodies as he forces another flare of delight from you.

He grunts and turns his arm, slipping his forearm under you. With all his effort, he pulls you up into his lap. You hang from his embrace as he pumps into from beneath.

He rests his head on your shoulder as he quakes and his climax rolls out from his chest. He fucks you until he's whimpering and weak. He slumps onto his side, taking you with him.

You lay in the hazy afterglow as your shallow breaths fill the lull. He hums as he inhales.

Chris rubs you dry with a towel, his own slung low around his hips. The bottom of the fabric splits around his thick thigh as he bends to rub every crevice and curve through the towel. He pushes firm between your thighs until you move your feet apart and he dries your cunt intently.

“Nice and clean… for now.” He winks as he wiggles his fingers through the fluffy cotton then continues down your thighs. You shiver. Not just out of fear, but shame. You don’t even think of fighting him. How quickly you just folded into the shape he wanted you.

He finishes and drapes the towel over your shoulders. He pets the sides of your neck and cheeks with his knuckles. He draws his arms away and leans in to kiss your lips. As he does, he loosens the towel at his waist and lets it fall away.

He stands straight and offers it to you. “My turn.”

You stare him in the face, not daring to look lower than his thick neck. The top of his fuzzy chest teases the edge of your vision. You gulp and take the towel as you step closer. You reach to dab away stray rivulets along his throat as he bends his knees to help.

The cotton slips as you gently swipe away the moisture. He catches your towel and brings it around you. He folds the top above your chest, his palms grazing your tits through the fabric as he drags them down and growls. You focus on drying away the moisture rather than his body. 

As you get lower, your hands shake. Even if you’ve seen it all, felt it, you still don’t feel right about it. Your insides clench and you shift on your feet. His stomach is thick, barrel-like, but not soft. The lines are shallow but his torso no less strong.

He turns for you to get his back, lowering himself so you can get his shoulders. You can’t help but notice his bulging muscles all around. You didn’t think men really looked like this.

“You don’t gotta be so gentle. I can handle it.” He grabs your hand and presses it through the towel as you get to his ass, guiding it along the musculature. You squeak. He chuckles. “This is what I know, baby girl. You never had a man to handle you right.”

He turns again and yanks away the towel. He takes your wrist and puts your hand against his rigid dick. He purrs.

“We gotta get dressed before I forget what I had in mind,” he tilts his hips to pump against your limp hand.

“Yes, sir… Chris.” You say.

He exhales and tosses his towel. He cradles your hand and brings it up to kiss your palm. He toys with it as his eyes bore into you. “You’re so delicious but it’s too early for dessert.”

You smile, or try to. He clings to your hand and stands at full height. He’s a mountain in flesh. He turns and drags you from the bathroom. He leads you to the bed and sits you on the end.

He saunters away, naked and shameless, and slides open the closet.

“I don’t got much of an eye for these things. I wear black and black.” He snickers under his breath. “But I was thinking this’d look cute on you.” He faces you and shows you the two piece outfit. A gingham set in lilac and white, a flutter short skirt and off-the shoulder top. “Nice for a picnic.”

He stops in front of you. You’re eye level with his pelvis and… that. He holds out the clothes. You take them reluctantly. You glance up as he watches you. Shoot.

“Um, thank you. They’re cute.” You say.

“Cuter on, I bet.”

You look down at the gingham. What about a bra? Underwear? You’re too afraid to ask. Just like you’ve been scared to do anything but roll over and let him–

Ugh. Why do your insides do that? Why do you get all tight and tingly at the thought.

“Yeah, probably.” You agree.

“And I got ya some stuff in the bathroom. For your hair and all. Not that I think you need anything. You’re a natural beauty. Soft…” He pets your chin and his dick twitches inches from your forehead, nearly touching your nose as you look up at him.

“I don’t want to waste time,” you point your toes to the floor. “So… I’ll get ready.”

He drones and runs his fingertip down your neck. He slowly backs up. “Me too, baby girl. I wanna look good for you.”

🧺

Chris wears a robin’s egg shirt and jeans. You don’t know much about him but it doesn’t feel like him. He’s out of place in the pastel button-up. He holds your hand, in his other, a wicker basket. You don’t know where you are. Somewhere desolate but balmy with the scent of pollen and dew.

He stops you at the peak of a rolling hill. He lets you go and unfolds the blanket nestled on top of the basket. You peer around at the endless green. You could run but to where?

He hums as he opens the basket. He pauses, drawing your attention, and you turn to him.

“It’s pretty around here,” you say, hoping he doesn’t suspect your true thoughts.

“You’re pretty,” he says. He goes back to sifting through the basket. “Sit.” He commands. His voice is even but his tone is enough to make you obey.

You sit on your knees and fold your hands patiently. He unpacks some containers.

“I had some help.” He explains as he uncovers a bowl of berries. “My sister gave me good tips for keeping the berries from getting soggy.” He takes out sandwiches wrapped in parchment paper. “And her recipe for chicken salad. Hope I got it right. Don’t cook much. Field rations come ready to eat cold.”

You nod. Military? That would explain the guns and his posture. The way he orders you around.

He sets out a whole lovely meal with cucumber salad and little angel food cakes for the berries, with a can of whipped cream. He tries to settle on the blanket, too big to be sitting on the ground. 

He bends his legs, jeans straining, and clears his throat. He looks at you. Thoughts line his forehead and swim in his eyes. His jaw clenches. The sunlight illuminates the strands of grey hidden in his hay brown hair. He’s older than you. A lot older, you think.

“I can’t get comfortable, why don’t you come here and help me out?” He waves you over.

You stare for a moment before you understand. You lift yourself up on your knees and carefully move around the picnic dishes. Before you can sit beside him, he scoops you into his lap, sitting you sideways, right against his chest.

“Better,” he growls as his hand skims down your thigh, the skirt flipping up dangerously as you squeeze your legs together. He leans in, his lips closer to yours. “Forget the picnic, I could eat you up.”

Your lashes flick and you squirm. A deep tone rumbles up from his chest. He squeezes your thigh, fingertips digging in, then lets you go. He tuts and leans over you. He grabs a fork and scoops up some salad. He brings it in front of your mouth.

As you look down at your hands, him tucking the end of a bandage into place by your wrist, the words finally register. That pain in your palms pulses and you strain to recall how it came to be. How can the heat of a pan hurt more than the death of your own husband?

You stare at the neatly bound bandage. You bend your fingers and hiss then let them fall limp. “Thank you, Mr. Shelby.”

He hovers his hand over yours then touches your forearm, squeezing lightly. “Not at all. Those burns were not nothing. You’ll need to be easy, lamb. Rest.”

You blink and let your hands slide inward and fold together gingerly. “Lamb… Stuart… called me that.”

Shelby sits back slightly, resting his elbows on his thighs. His jacket is off, he remains in his vest and shirt, his tie tucked in tidily. There’s a strand of black hair sticking up crookedly.

“I didn’t mean…”

“When he was annoyed with me. Or wanted something. S’pose I don’t need to worry for it no more. For him.” 

You straighten on the cushioned bench though your shoulders hang heavily. You lift a hand shakily and brush along your cheek. Not a tear for the man that took up more than a decade of your life. You peer around the room and your lips tug down.

“You said you’d take me home.” You utter quietly.

He clucks and grabs his jacket. He digs out his cigarette case. “Ma’am, you’re in no state. Your hands. Dare I say, your head, isn’t right for it.”

“I’m fine.” You insist. “You’ve done a good job.” You look at the bandages again.

“No. You will not chance infection. Or worse. Those burns… I saw men with lesser wound in the trenches. They made a great deal more fuss over it too.” He traces his lips with the end of his cigarette then rests it between them. He tucks away the silver case of tobacco and strikes a match.

“May I trouble you?” You watch the end of the match turn to smoke.

He lifts a brow. He looks down and pulls the cigarette from his lips. He examines it for a second before turning it and placing it before your mouth. You take it between your lips. He lets it go and once more removes the case from his jacket.

“Didn’t think you were of the sort.” He tamps the case on the heel of his hand before he opens it.

“Not. Hate the smell.” You bring your hand up and delicately take the cigarette between your fingers. “I only suddenly had the yearning.”

You let the smoke furl in your mouth and throat and let it free. It’s hot and acrid and bitter. He watches the plume as he repeats the gesture of running his own around his lips. You sit and puff on the smoke in silence as he lights his own.

“You been having dreams?” He asks abruptly.

You watch the embers at the end of the cigarette then reach to tap it over the tray. “Everyone dreams.”

“Yes, but only certain people have dreams that mean anything.” He dusts off his cigarette in turn.

You hum. “Magpies. A watch. Storms.” You shrug. “It’s all vague.”

He’s quiet again. Thoughtful. He slowly rotates the cigarette.

“What did you really see in those tea leaves?” He prompts.

You stare at him and can’t help but scoff. You push down the cigarette and put it out. You recoil as your hands radiate with heat.

“What’s happened. That’s all.”

He nods.

“That aunt of yours…”

“Witch.” You hiss softly. “So they said.”

“Hm. A name people give when they are scared. Or ignorant.” He muses then sucks on his cigarette. “Is that why you don’t care? Because you knew he was dead already?”

Your brow crinkles. “I didn’t know. And who are you to say I don’t care?”

“Who am I?” He repeats the question lowly. “Ma’am.”

“You aren’t wrong. But I don’t think you’re right either. I can’t feel it but it does matter. He’s gone…” You shake your head and sigh. You go to push on the bench but you stop yourself. You bend forward and stand. “I should go.”

“I told you, you’re staying.” He insists.

“I’m fine. Besides, there are things to sort out. I will need to inform his mother. Arrange the burial.” You look around. “Sir, where is my handbag?”

“I don’t usually give the same order more’n once.” He drawls as you hear him stand. “I’ve a telephone. You can call his mother or the closest postal service and get the news to her. I’ll see to the funeral.”

“It’s not your responsibility.” You argue as you face him. “You’ve taken on more than you should, as it were.”

“As it were, I watched him walk off that day. He’d just snitched on some very lowly types. I knew it wasn’t smart but I didn’t stop him.” He shrugs.

“Not your fault.”

“Even it if it were. He made a stupid decision. No. He’s not my responsibility. You are. You burnt your hands in my kitchen. You are my employee and I’ll need a full recovery.” He puts out the cigarette and dusts of his hands. “So you,” he approaches. “Will rest.” He grips your shoulders and guides you so your back is to the chaise. “Here.”

“Mr. Shelby–”

“You won’t disappoint Charlie, will you? He wanted another story.” Shelby says.

Your eyes meet and you deflate. You sit beneath the weight of his hands. They linger.

“It’ll do you both some good.” He drags his hands away.

🖤

You close your eyes but don’t sleep. Your mind isn’t racing, it’s just blank. You can’t muster a thought or a feeling. You’re keenly aware of everything wrong yet you just don’t care.

You clench your hands without meaning to. You wince and let them open. You exhale as you try to picture Stuart’s face; living or dead. You can’t.

A knock breaks through your desolation. You sit up and turn your legs over the edge of the chaise. You cough before you find your voice.

“Yes? Come… in.” You croak.

Margaret, the maid, opens the door from the other side and peeks in. “Miss, you’ve a visitor if you’re well enough.”

“Visitor?” You murmur.

“It’s me!” Charlie hollers. “Miss, it’s me!”

“Oh. Oh.” You feel your nerves soften. “Right, then, you can let young Mr. Shelby in. It is his house, after all.”

Margaret retreats and holds the door open for the boy. He toddles in, wearing a grey vest and shorts with long socks. His confidence is more than one ten times his age.

“Good morning, Charles.” You greet.

“Morning? It’s afta’noon!” He claps. “Time for tea and biscuits.”

“Oh, yes.” You smile. “I fear I lost time.”

“Ma’am,” he nears and tries to climb up next to you. You help him up. “I like your biscuits.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Not Margaret’s?”

“Margaret doesn’t cook!” He harrumphs. “She only tells me go to bed or stay in my room. Like Papa.”

You suppress a frown. You can only imagine how lonely the boy must be. His mother’s gone, and in her place, only maids who can’t be expected to fill her place. And a father who is too busy to truly give him more than a safe house and all his materials wants. You were once a child with neither.

“Biscuits sound delicious. And tea,” you reach and gently nudge his hand with your bandaged one.

“Oh! Missus!” He claps his cheeks dramatically. “Your hands hurt.”

“A little but… not so bad as before.”

Truthfully, they do. A lot. But you’ve dealt with pain before and the physical sort is easier to ignore.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his Rs more like Ws. “Papa didn’t say… he only says you are ill.”

“I’m well enough.” You assure him. “I can make biscuits. It is only, you might need to hold the whisk again. Can you do that, Charles?”

He giggles. “I like that you call me Charles. It makes me feel big!”

“You are a big boy and you won’t grow if you don’t get your biscuits, right?” You tease. “Well, then, let’s go. The longer we sit around, the longer we must wait for our tea.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He reaches for your hand but grabs your wrist instead. “Come on!”

You help him off the high chaise and he holds onto your skirt as you leave the room. You pause outside. “You’ll need to be my guide. This is a rather big house you have, Mr. Shelby.”

He laughs again and points ahead. He drags you by your hem to the grand staircase. You descend and he takes you to the kitchen.

Mildred is there. You say hello. She notices your hands and asks if you’re well. You assure her you are but ask that the could help Charlie with the biscuits. She agrees and you guide her to gather what you need; bowls, sifter, wooden spoon.

You get Charlie sifting flour into a bowl. He dusts some up his nice vest. Mildred cracks the eggs and separates the whites from the yolk. You feel useless with your bandages.

“Do you make cookies for your son?” Charlies asks as you have him add honey to the eggs and Mildred whisks.

“I don’t have a son.” You say.

“Oh… I don’t have a mama so… suppose we have each other.”

“That’s a very sweet way to think of it, Charles.” You feel that. Nothing else, but that. It’s not just regret or mourning for what could have been. It’s anger. For all the years and effort Stuart cost you and for what? Nothing to show for it. Not even love.

You continue through the steps. Mildred rolls out the dough and you suppress the pain as you help Charlie press the cutter down. The maid carefully sets them onto a floured tray for baking.

“Do not let her touch that.” Shelby’s rigid tone jolts you all. “She is not to be near anything hot. She should not even be here.”

“Mr. Shelby, apologies–”

“Put those in the oven and set the time for fifteen minutes, Mil,” you say gently. “Nothing you need be sorry for.” You step past her. “It was my idea. Not anyone else.”

“Hm, I’m sure,” he glances past you to his son.

“They did all the work,” you show your bandaged hands “Not as if I can.”

“Mm, suppose not.”

“There’s enough for you too, papa!” Charlie chirps. “We’re gonna have tea!”

“Ah, well, then, let’s do it proper. Mildred, the fine china.” He demands.

She twists the small metal time and places it down. “Yes, sir.”

You step closer to him and lower your voice. “I was bored. It isn’t the boy’s fault.”

“No, no. Thank you for looking after him.” He says. “And tea sounds rather nice.”

You stare at Shelby, gauging his temper. When people were around, Stuart would conceal his agitation well. Hell, even if it was even just the two of you, he never was outrightly cruel. He’d only do things he could excuse as unintentionally cruel.

Mr. Shelby goes to step around you and you wince. Just a twinge. You stop yourself and turn to Charlie as he claps his hands.

“Papa, can she be my friend?” He asks.

Shelby picks him up from the counter, “Isn’t she?”

“I hope so. Is she yours?” Charlie cheeps.

“Well, of course,” Shelby answers. “So, what kind of biscuits have we made?”

“Lemon shortbread.” You answer.

“Sounds wonderful. Is it another from your recipe book?”

“No, standard shortbread from my gran’s kitchen. Though, she never let me do more than watch.” You say, rubbing your fingertips along the back of the bandages.

“I’ve yet to taste anything less than delightful from you,” he says. “Oh, Charlie,” he swipes a dishcloth. “You cannot have tea with flour all over.”

🖤

You stand and reach for the empty tea pot. Shelby tuts. “No, you will not dare think of tidying up.”

You stop and sit back down. “Habit.”

“Mm, yes,” he intones. “Those bandages will need to be redone.”

You look down. They’ve come loose already. You chew your cheek.

“No matter.” Mr. Shelby takes his final gulp of tea and pockets a biscuit as he stands. “I’ll have Mildred clear this away and Ellie will take Charlie for playtime.”

“Ellie! She’s no fun. She won’t play with my train cars.” Charlie pouts. “Can’t miss come play?”

“How can she without hands, boy?” Shelby chides. “Come, she needs to get better.”

Charlie huffs. “What happened to her hands? Did you hurt them, papa?”

Shelby drags his sole slightly but quickly recovers. “Only an accident in the kitchen. Now, Charlie, I’m sure you might convince Ellie to let you be conductor…”

You remain at the table, restless. You would usually busy yourself with cleaning but it isn’t permitted. You will not press your constraints, not in another’s home.

You look down at your hands. You’ve already done too much. Certainly, you were only trying to be kind to the boy but you did disregard his father’s own kindness. You can tell Mr. Shelby is not one to offer it so easily.

Mildred comes to take the pot and cups, putting them all on the painted tray. You thank her and she nods with a smile. You insist she takes a biscuit for herself.

Alone, you look round at the wooden panels and beautiful chandelier. Mr. Shelby’s home is immaculate. You think of your own and the dingy wallpaper and yellowed bulbs. Yes, you are a pathetic creature.

“Right then,” Shelby enters with a roll of bandage and pot. “We’ll clean you up then.”

He comes around and sets down the handful. He pulls a chair to face you then grabs the arms of your chair. He turns you as the feet scrape on the carpet. He sits.

He reaches for your hands. You stiffen. He stops.

“I scare you?” He wonders.

You shake your head.

“You tense when I’m near. You did so earlier.” He counters.

You shove your hands toward him. “No, it only… conditioned.”

He stares then pulls his attention to your hands. He unravels the bandages gently. You stay still.

“I’m sorry for riling the boy, if I did.” You say. “I do not mean to overstep.”

“He likes you. He doesn’t like everyone.” He insists as he bunches up the soiled bandage.

“Then I’m honoured.” You say.

He takes a folded cloth from beneath the roll of bandage and uncaps the jar of salve. “He’s a good boy. Lively. A gentle soul.”

“You’ve raised him well.”

“He doesn’t get it from me,” he grits as he leans over your hands.

“No? You say this as you tend to my hands diligently,” you muse.

As you look down at your hands, him tucking the end of a bandage into place by your wrist, the words finally register. That pain in your palms pulses and you strain to recall how it came to be. How can the heat of a pan hurt more than the death of your own husband?

You stare at the neatly bound bandage. You bend your fingers and hiss then let them fall limp. “Thank you, Mr. Shelby.”

He hovers his hand over yours then touches your forearm, squeezing lightly. “Not at all. Those burns were not nothing. You’ll need to be easy, lamb. Rest.”

You blink and let your hands slide inward and fold together gingerly. “Lamb… Stuart… called me that.”

Shelby sits back slightly, resting his elbows on his thighs. His jacket is off, he remains in his vest and shirt, his tie tucked in tidily. There’s a strand of black hair sticking up crookedly.

“I didn’t mean…”

“When he was annoyed with me. Or wanted something. S’pose I don’t need to worry for it no more. For him.” 

You straighten on the cushioned bench though your shoulders hang heavily. You lift a hand shakily and brush along your cheek. Not a tear for the man that took up more than a decade of your life. You peer around the room and your lips tug down.

“You said you’d take me home.” You utter quietly.

He clucks and grabs his jacket. He digs out his cigarette case. “Ma’am, you’re in no state. Your hands. Dare I say, your head, isn’t right for it.”

“I’m fine.” You insist. “You’ve done a good job.” You look at the bandages again.

“No. You will not chance infection. Or worse. Those burns… I saw men with lesser wound in the trenches. They made a great deal more fuss over it too.” He traces his lips with the end of his cigarette then rests it between them. He tucks away the silver case of tobacco and strikes a match.

“May I trouble you?” You watch the end of the match turn to smoke.

He lifts a brow. He looks down and pulls the cigarette from his lips. He examines it for a second before turning it and placing it before your mouth. You take it between your lips. He lets it go and once more removes the case from his jacket.

“Didn’t think you were of the sort.” He tamps the case on the heel of his hand before he opens it.

“Not. Hate the smell.” You bring your hand up and delicately take the cigarette between your fingers. “I only suddenly had the yearning.”

You let the smoke furl in your mouth and throat and let it free. It’s hot and acrid and bitter. He watches the plume as he repeats the gesture of running his own around his lips. You sit and puff on the smoke in silence as he lights his own.

“You been having dreams?” He asks abruptly.

You watch the embers at the end of the cigarette then reach to tap it over the tray. “Everyone dreams.”

“Yes, but only certain people have dreams that mean anything.” He dusts off his cigarette in turn.

You hum. “Magpies. A watch. Storms.” You shrug. “It’s all vague.”

He’s quiet again. Thoughtful. He slowly rotates the cigarette.

“What did you really see in those tea leaves?” He prompts.

You stare at him and can’t help but scoff. You push down the cigarette and put it out. You recoil as your hands radiate with heat.

“What’s happened. That’s all.”

He nods.

“That aunt of yours…”

“Witch.” You hiss softly. “So they said.”

“Hm. A name people give when they are scared. Or ignorant.” He muses then sucks on his cigarette. “Is that why you don’t care? Because you knew he was dead already?”

Your brow crinkles. “I didn’t know. And who are you to say I don’t care?”

“Who am I?” He repeats the question lowly. “Ma’am.”

“You aren’t wrong. But I don’t think you’re right either. I can’t feel it but it does matter. He’s gone…” You shake your head and sigh. You go to push on the bench but you stop yourself. You bend forward and stand. “I should go.”

“I told you, you’re staying.” He insists.

“I’m fine. Besides, there are things to sort out. I will need to inform his mother. Arrange the burial.” You look around. “Sir, where is my handbag?”

“I don’t usually give the same order more’n once.” He drawls as you hear him stand. “I’ve a telephone. You can call his mother or the closest postal service and get the news to her. I’ll see to the funeral.”

“It’s not your responsibility.” You argue as you face him. “You’ve taken on more than you should, as it were.”

“As it were, I watched him walk off that day. He’d just snitched on some very lowly types. I knew it wasn’t smart but I didn’t stop him.” He shrugs.

“Not your fault.”

“Even it if it were. He made a stupid decision. No. He’s not my responsibility. You are. You burnt your hands in my kitchen. You are my employee and I’ll need a full recovery.” He puts out the cigarette and dusts of his hands. “So you,” he approaches. “Will rest.” He grips your shoulders and guides you so your back is to the chaise. “Here.”

“Mr. Shelby–”

“You won’t disappoint Charlie, will you? He wanted another story.” Shelby says.

Your eyes meet and you deflate. You sit beneath the weight of his hands. They linger.

“It’ll do you both some good.” He drags his hands away.

🖤

You close your eyes but don’t sleep. Your mind isn’t racing, it’s just blank. You can’t muster a thought or a feeling. You’re keenly aware of everything wrong yet you just don’t care.

You clench your hands without meaning to. You wince and let them open. You exhale as you try to picture Stuart’s face; living or dead. You can’t.

A knock breaks through your desolation. You sit up and turn your legs over the edge of the chaise. You cough before you find your voice.

“Yes? Come… in.” You croak.

Margaret, the maid, opens the door from the other side and peeks in. “Miss, you’ve a visitor if you’re well enough.”

“Visitor?” You murmur.

“It’s me!” Charlie hollers. “Miss, it’s me!”

“Oh. Oh.” You feel your nerves soften. “Right, then, you can let young Mr. Shelby in. It is his house, after all.”

Margaret retreats and holds the door open for the boy. He toddles in, wearing a grey vest and shorts with long socks. His confidence is more than one ten times his age.

“Good morning, Charles.” You greet.

“Morning? It’s afta’noon!” He claps. “Time for tea and biscuits.”

“Oh, yes.” You smile. “I fear I lost time.”

“Ma’am,” he nears and tries to climb up next to you. You help him up. “I like your biscuits.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Not Margaret’s?”

“Margaret doesn’t cook!” He harrumphs. “She only tells me go to bed or stay in my room. Like Papa.”

You suppress a frown. You can only imagine how lonely the boy must be. His mother’s gone, and in her place, only maids who can’t be expected to fill her place. And a father who is too busy to truly give him more than a safe house and all his materials wants. You were once a child with neither.

“Biscuits sound delicious. And tea,” you reach and gently nudge his hand with your bandaged one.

“Oh! Missus!” He claps his cheeks dramatically. “Your hands hurt.”

“A little but… not so bad as before.”

Truthfully, they do. A lot. But you’ve dealt with pain before and the physical sort is easier to ignore.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his Rs more like Ws. “Papa didn’t say… he only says you are ill.”

“I’m well enough.” You assure him. “I can make biscuits. It is only, you might need to hold the whisk again. Can you do that, Charles?”

He giggles. “I like that you call me Charles. It makes me feel big!”

“You are a big boy and you won’t grow if you don’t get your biscuits, right?” You tease. “Well, then, let’s go. The longer we sit around, the longer we must wait for our tea.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He reaches for your hand but grabs your wrist instead. “Come on!”

You help him off the high chaise and he holds onto your skirt as you leave the room. You pause outside. “You’ll need to be my guide. This is a rather big house you have, Mr. Shelby.”

He laughs again and points ahead. He drags you by your hem to the grand staircase. You descend and he takes you to the kitchen.

Mildred is there. You say hello. She notices your hands and asks if you’re well. You assure her you are but ask that the could help Charlie with the biscuits. She agrees and you guide her to gather what you need; bowls, sifter, wooden spoon.

You get Charlie sifting flour into a bowl. He dusts some up his nice vest. Mildred cracks the eggs and separates the whites from the yolk. You feel useless with your bandages.

“Do you make cookies for your son?” Charlies asks as you have him add honey to the eggs and Mildred whisks.

“I don’t have a son.” You say.

“Oh… I don’t have a mama so… suppose we have each other.”

“That’s a very sweet way to think of it, Charles.” You feel that. Nothing else, but that. It’s not just regret or mourning for what could have been. It’s anger. For all the years and effort Stuart cost you and for what? Nothing to show for it. Not even love.

You continue through the steps. Mildred rolls out the dough and you suppress the pain as you help Charlie press the cutter down. The maid carefully sets them onto a floured tray for baking.

“Do not let her touch that.” Shelby’s rigid tone jolts you all. “She is not to be near anything hot. She should not even be here.”

“Mr. Shelby, apologies–”

“Put those in the oven and set the time for fifteen minutes, Mil,” you say gently. “Nothing you need be sorry for.” You step past her. “It was my idea. Not anyone else.”

“Hm, I’m sure,” he glances past you to his son.

“They did all the work,” you show your bandaged hands “Not as if I can.”

“Mm, suppose not.”

“There’s enough for you too, papa!” Charlie chirps. “We’re gonna have tea!”

“Ah, well, then, let’s do it proper. Mildred, the fine china.” He demands.

She twists the small metal time and places it down. “Yes, sir.”

You step closer to him and lower your voice. “I was bored. It isn’t the boy’s fault.”

“No, no. Thank you for looking after him.” He says. “And tea sounds rather nice.”

You stare at Shelby, gauging his temper. When people were around, Stuart would conceal his agitation well. Hell, even if it was even just the two of you, he never was outrightly cruel. He’d only do things he could excuse as unintentionally cruel.

Mr. Shelby goes to step around you and you wince. Just a twinge. You stop yourself and turn to Charlie as he claps his hands.

“Papa, can she be my friend?” He asks.

Shelby picks him up from the counter, “Isn’t she?”

“I hope so. Is she yours?” Charlie cheeps.

“Well, of course,” Shelby answers. “So, what kind of biscuits have we made?”

“Lemon shortbread.” You answer.

“Sounds wonderful. Is it another from your recipe book?”

“No, standard shortbread from my gran’s kitchen. Though, she never let me do more than watch.” You say, rubbing your fingertips along the back of the bandages.

“I’ve yet to taste anything less than delightful from you,” he says. “Oh, Charlie,” he swipes a dishcloth. “You cannot have tea with flour all over.”

🖤

You stand and reach for the empty tea pot. Shelby tuts. “No, you will not dare think of tidying up.”

You stop and sit back down. “Habit.”

“Mm, yes,” he intones. “Those bandages will need to be redone.”

You look down. They’ve come loose already. You chew your cheek.

“No matter.” Mr. Shelby takes his final gulp of tea and pockets a biscuit as he stands. “I’ll have Mildred clear this away and Ellie will take Charlie for playtime.”

“Ellie! She’s no fun. She won’t play with my train cars.” Charlie pouts. “Can’t miss come play?”

“How can she without hands, boy?” Shelby chides. “Come, she needs to get better.”

Charlie huffs. “What happened to her hands? Did you hurt them, papa?”

Shelby drags his sole slightly but quickly recovers. “Only an accident in the kitchen. Now, Charlie, I’m sure you might convince Ellie to let you be conductor…”

You remain at the table, restless. You would usually busy yourself with cleaning but it isn’t permitted. You will not press your constraints, not in another’s home.

You look down at your hands. You’ve already done too much. Certainly, you were only trying to be kind to the boy but you did disregard his father’s own kindness. You can tell Mr. Shelby is not one to offer it so easily.

Mildred comes to take the pot and cups, putting them all on the painted tray. You thank her and she nods with a smile. You insist she takes a biscuit for herself.

Alone, you look round at the wooden panels and beautiful chandelier. Mr. Shelby’s home is immaculate. You think of your own and the dingy wallpaper and yellowed bulbs. Yes, you are a pathetic creature.

“Right then,” Shelby enters with a roll of bandage and pot. “We’ll clean you up then.”

He comes around and sets down the handful. He pulls a chair to face you then grabs the arms of your chair. He turns you as the feet scrape on the carpet. He sits.

He reaches for your hands. You stiffen. He stops.

“I scare you?” He wonders.

You shake your head.

“You tense when I’m near. You did so earlier.” He counters.

You shove your hands toward him. “No, it only… conditioned.”

He stares then pulls his attention to your hands. He unravels the bandages gently. You stay still.

“I’m sorry for riling the boy, if I did.” You say. “I do not mean to overstep.”

“He likes you. He doesn’t like everyone.” He insists as he bunches up the soiled bandage.

“Then I’m honoured.” You say.

He takes a folded cloth from beneath the roll of bandage and uncaps the jar of salve. “He’s a good boy. Lively. A gentle soul.”

“You’ve raised him well.”

“He doesn’t get it from me,” he grits as he leans over your hands.

“No? You say this as you tend to my hands diligently,” you muse.