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danwriteskinkTitle: Come In(to) My Parlour
Fandom: House MD
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1900
Warnings/Content: Spanking, maid service
Characters/Pairings: Lisa Cuddy/Remy Hadley, established D/s relationship
Summary: Lisa is having a tea-party, and she needs a perky maid
Notes: Written for the "Service" square for![[community profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kink_bingo 2011
Lisa is giving instructions between swats. "My friends expect decorum and humility, so no eye contact. Ladies are addressed as 'Ma'am', gentlemen as 'Sir'. "
Over Lisa's knee, Remy winces as a hand comes down on her backside with a slap. It's starting to feel like a bad sunburn down there. These things would be much easier to remember if they weren't delivered with a spanking.
"When you answer the door, offer to take their coats."
Another stinging slap, this time to the top of Remy's thighs. It occurs to Remy, as she wiggles and bounces over Lisa's lap, that this is a challenge, that Lisa expects her to fail. It's only natural, isn't it? Then Lisa can punish her in front of her friends. Well, damned if she'll give Lisa the satisfaction. Anyone who's been through medical school can memorise facts while in pain.
"Show them to the living room. I assume you know how to curtsy? You may speak."
Remy waits for the slap, gasps as the pain rises and falls, then answers. "Yes, Lisa. I know how to curtsy." The words come out more insouciant than she meant, and she cringes. Lisa doesn't like to be mocked.
Instead, there is gentle laughter from above. Lisa's hand rubs Remy's inflamed backside, obviously pleased with the colour there. "Good. That's the kind of thing I want to hear." She pulls Remy off her lap and onto the sofa beside her. The throw, usually so soft and velvety, feels like bristles on Remy's ass. Lisa leans over and strokes a thumb across Remy's cheek, where her eyes have watered with the pain. "A tea-party calls for a saucy maid. Go and get changed; your uniform is on the bed."
Remy trots obediently upstairs, and stops in the doorway. Now she gets it – why Lisa wants a maid with a reddened, sore backside. The uniform is classic French maid, and the skirt is going to sit just below her buttocks. There's no underwear that she can see, just a garter belt with little black satin bows. She rolls her eyes, and starts working on the stockings.
When she's properly dressed, apron and all, she turns in a circle and checks the rear view in the mirror. The lacy under-petticoats lift the hem of the skirt a little, giving peak-a-boo glimpses of reddened skin. It's patently obvious what has happened to her, and every time she moves, anyone standing behind her is going to get a lovely display.
She takes the stairs carefully; the heels are viciously high. Then she teeters to the front door, where Lisa is waiting, hands on hips.
"They'll start arriving in the next half hour. Put their coats in the closet. None of them should be bringing pets, but if anyone's ignored that –" she makes a face, as if she expects someone to do it "– then put them in the closet, too."
Remy feels her eyebrows going upwards to make a face, then schools herself. Lisa has a look about her, as if she'd quite like to have another go at Remy's backside.
"Hm," says Lisa, and disappears into the living room.
Remy waits in the hall, which is warm and welcoming, flooded with sunlight through the stained glass window. It's odd and slightly luxurious to be so turned on in the middle of the afternoon. A shadow moves across the door then the bell rings once, a quick decisive pull. Remy waits a beat and opens the door, hoping to heck that it's a guest and not, say, a random neighbour. When the door opens, she can't be completely sure, since the woman standing there is dressed in neat afternoon wear, with her dark hair combed into a chignon. She's around Lisa's age, sleek and well-kept, and she gives Remy a supercilious stare. Remy decides to edge her bets.
"Please come in, Doctor Cuddy is waiting in the living room." She holds the door open and, at the last minute, remembers to curtsy as the woman walks past. She hasn't curtsied since she was eight and in ballet class.
The woman waits in the hall way with one eyebrow raised. Remy curses herself, remembering her defiance of earlier. "May I take your coat, Ma'am?"
The woman nods, and Remy helps her out of it, then turns to hang it in the closet. When she looks back, she sees the woman has been looking at the reddened skin with a measured gaze. She blushes – blushes! Remy, who has fucked and sucked her way in and out of people's beds and should have no shame – and holds out her hand towards the living room. "Please, this way."
The whole kitchness of the French maid thing is working on her, she decides, after admitting the fourth guest. The lack of eye contact, the demureness and the rustle of petticoats, as well as the admiring glances of the visitors when they catch a glimpse of Lisa's handiwork, all add up to make Remy feel dainty, feminine and submissive as fuck.
There is only one pet – a woman Remy vaguely recognises as a pathologist brings her slave along, a tall man who lumbers behind her on a leash, head bowed and hands folded in front of him. Remy is glad she didn't have to walk from the car to the door in a leather posing pouch and a head harness. The man is six foot tall, which makes the thin leather leash even more ridiculous.
Remy clears her throat. "May I take your coat, Ma'am? And perhaps I could take care of that for you?" She tilts her head in a ladylike way towards the man, and he shivers. The woman hands the leash to her, and shrugs out of her coat. Remy takes a certain delight in tugging hard on the man's collar. When she has shown the woman to the living room, she opens the closet and hangs the coat, then looks at the man. "In you go," she gestures with her head.
The man sighs, and folds himself into the closet. He has to kneel, and even so, with all the coats, it's going to be a tight fit.
Remy closes the door on him with a smile. At least someone is lower down the pecking order than she is today.
A silvery bell draws her attention to the living room, and she bustles in, hands folded over her skirt. "Ma'am?" She makes a little curtsy, just in case.
Lisa is sitting on the arm of a chair, legs crossed neatly. Her guests gather around her, in armchairs and on the sofa. "Bring the tea."
Pouring tea is harder than you'd expect, especially when your ass is hanging out of your dress for the whole room to see. Remy needs both hands: one for the lid of the silver teapot and one for the handle, which means none to press her skirt down. She concentrates though, remembers Lisa's instructions. Milk first, then tea. Offer lemon first, don't ask about sugar. She's congratulating herself on getting everything right when fingertips brush her buttocks and she jumps. It's the woman who arrived first, the dark-haired one, and she's using her nails over the reddened skin.
Tea splashes from the spout of the teapot onto the table, and there's a collective intake of breath, then a murmur of disapproval. Remy straightens up, confused. This wasn't covered in the instructions, of course, because why would Lisa tell her what to do when she makes a mistake?
She bobs an uncertain curtsy. "Excuse me, please." Then she flees for the kitchen and a cloth, while the room behind her bursts into laughter at her distress.
In the kitchen, she's tempted to just sit her hot ass down on the marble slab and masturbate. She might as well – there are certain to be consequences for her actions, and she doubts that orgasm is going to be one of those consequences. Then she thinks of that woman's pet, still kneeling obediently in the closet until he's needed, and she decides that she can do just as well at this game. She takes a cloth back to the living room, and bends to clean up the mess with straight legs, so that the skirt rides up all the way, and her ass is facing the woman who felt her up before. Let her get a good look if she wants, Remy's not ashamed. Her marks are hard-won, and she's proud of them.
When she straightens up, she picks up the tea service from where she left off, and this time she's ready for the pinching fingers and scraping nails. She's a doctor. She can keep her hands steady under more ridiculous situations than this.
She's in the flow of it all now: passes around the tiny cakes on the two-tiered floral tray, collects the cups and saucers and carries the laden tray back to the kitchen. Her ass has been pinched, rubbed, patted absently, slapped, scratched, tickled and (she's fairly sure, but she didn't move fast enough to see who) licked. But she has served tea, and it was fucking elegant. When she is done and there is nothing left but pleasant conversation, Remy kneels by Lisa's feet, while Lisa feeds her pieces of cake with her fingers. She kneels prettily with her hands crossed, opens her mouth like a bird, and all the women admire her.
It's bizarre, but at the end, when she has helped the last lady into her coat, and let that poor guy out of the closet, there is a certain satisfaction to knowing she has put on a good show. She comes back to Lisa, loading the dishwasher.
"I can do that, Ma'am." It comes out automatically.
Lisa laughs as she slides the plates in one by one. "You did a great job, thank you. They'll be talking about this for weeks."
Remy fists her hands into the small of her back and arches. The heels were murder on her back. "I'm glad it worked out. I nearly stayed in the kitchen, playing with myself."
Lisa closes the drawer with her hip and starts the cycle. Her expression is meditative. "Here?" she says, putting a hand on the cold marble slab. "I imagine that would have been something to see."
Remy twists her hips and the petticoats swish back and forth around her. "I'd be happy to oblige, Ma'am."
The marble is as cool as she imagined on her ass. When she spreads her legs, the ridiculous heels hook neatly into the toddler locks on the cabinet doors. Lisa sits on a kitchen chair in front of her, crosses her legs and watches with an appreciative expression.
Remy spreads herself with a finger, throws back her head with a laugh, and gets to work.
Fandom: House MD
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1900
Warnings/Content: Spanking, maid service
Characters/Pairings: Lisa Cuddy/Remy Hadley, established D/s relationship
Summary: Lisa is having a tea-party, and she needs a perky maid
Notes: Written for the "Service" square for
kink_bingo 2011Lisa is giving instructions between swats. "My friends expect decorum and humility, so no eye contact. Ladies are addressed as 'Ma'am', gentlemen as 'Sir'. "
Over Lisa's knee, Remy winces as a hand comes down on her backside with a slap. It's starting to feel like a bad sunburn down there. These things would be much easier to remember if they weren't delivered with a spanking.
"When you answer the door, offer to take their coats."
Another stinging slap, this time to the top of Remy's thighs. It occurs to Remy, as she wiggles and bounces over Lisa's lap, that this is a challenge, that Lisa expects her to fail. It's only natural, isn't it? Then Lisa can punish her in front of her friends. Well, damned if she'll give Lisa the satisfaction. Anyone who's been through medical school can memorise facts while in pain.
"Show them to the living room. I assume you know how to curtsy? You may speak."
Remy waits for the slap, gasps as the pain rises and falls, then answers. "Yes, Lisa. I know how to curtsy." The words come out more insouciant than she meant, and she cringes. Lisa doesn't like to be mocked.
Instead, there is gentle laughter from above. Lisa's hand rubs Remy's inflamed backside, obviously pleased with the colour there. "Good. That's the kind of thing I want to hear." She pulls Remy off her lap and onto the sofa beside her. The throw, usually so soft and velvety, feels like bristles on Remy's ass. Lisa leans over and strokes a thumb across Remy's cheek, where her eyes have watered with the pain. "A tea-party calls for a saucy maid. Go and get changed; your uniform is on the bed."
Remy trots obediently upstairs, and stops in the doorway. Now she gets it – why Lisa wants a maid with a reddened, sore backside. The uniform is classic French maid, and the skirt is going to sit just below her buttocks. There's no underwear that she can see, just a garter belt with little black satin bows. She rolls her eyes, and starts working on the stockings.
When she's properly dressed, apron and all, she turns in a circle and checks the rear view in the mirror. The lacy under-petticoats lift the hem of the skirt a little, giving peak-a-boo glimpses of reddened skin. It's patently obvious what has happened to her, and every time she moves, anyone standing behind her is going to get a lovely display.
She takes the stairs carefully; the heels are viciously high. Then she teeters to the front door, where Lisa is waiting, hands on hips.
"They'll start arriving in the next half hour. Put their coats in the closet. None of them should be bringing pets, but if anyone's ignored that –" she makes a face, as if she expects someone to do it "– then put them in the closet, too."
Remy feels her eyebrows going upwards to make a face, then schools herself. Lisa has a look about her, as if she'd quite like to have another go at Remy's backside.
"Hm," says Lisa, and disappears into the living room.
Remy waits in the hall, which is warm and welcoming, flooded with sunlight through the stained glass window. It's odd and slightly luxurious to be so turned on in the middle of the afternoon. A shadow moves across the door then the bell rings once, a quick decisive pull. Remy waits a beat and opens the door, hoping to heck that it's a guest and not, say, a random neighbour. When the door opens, she can't be completely sure, since the woman standing there is dressed in neat afternoon wear, with her dark hair combed into a chignon. She's around Lisa's age, sleek and well-kept, and she gives Remy a supercilious stare. Remy decides to edge her bets.
"Please come in, Doctor Cuddy is waiting in the living room." She holds the door open and, at the last minute, remembers to curtsy as the woman walks past. She hasn't curtsied since she was eight and in ballet class.
The woman waits in the hall way with one eyebrow raised. Remy curses herself, remembering her defiance of earlier. "May I take your coat, Ma'am?"
The woman nods, and Remy helps her out of it, then turns to hang it in the closet. When she looks back, she sees the woman has been looking at the reddened skin with a measured gaze. She blushes – blushes! Remy, who has fucked and sucked her way in and out of people's beds and should have no shame – and holds out her hand towards the living room. "Please, this way."
The whole kitchness of the French maid thing is working on her, she decides, after admitting the fourth guest. The lack of eye contact, the demureness and the rustle of petticoats, as well as the admiring glances of the visitors when they catch a glimpse of Lisa's handiwork, all add up to make Remy feel dainty, feminine and submissive as fuck.
There is only one pet – a woman Remy vaguely recognises as a pathologist brings her slave along, a tall man who lumbers behind her on a leash, head bowed and hands folded in front of him. Remy is glad she didn't have to walk from the car to the door in a leather posing pouch and a head harness. The man is six foot tall, which makes the thin leather leash even more ridiculous.
Remy clears her throat. "May I take your coat, Ma'am? And perhaps I could take care of that for you?" She tilts her head in a ladylike way towards the man, and he shivers. The woman hands the leash to her, and shrugs out of her coat. Remy takes a certain delight in tugging hard on the man's collar. When she has shown the woman to the living room, she opens the closet and hangs the coat, then looks at the man. "In you go," she gestures with her head.
The man sighs, and folds himself into the closet. He has to kneel, and even so, with all the coats, it's going to be a tight fit.
Remy closes the door on him with a smile. At least someone is lower down the pecking order than she is today.
A silvery bell draws her attention to the living room, and she bustles in, hands folded over her skirt. "Ma'am?" She makes a little curtsy, just in case.
Lisa is sitting on the arm of a chair, legs crossed neatly. Her guests gather around her, in armchairs and on the sofa. "Bring the tea."
Pouring tea is harder than you'd expect, especially when your ass is hanging out of your dress for the whole room to see. Remy needs both hands: one for the lid of the silver teapot and one for the handle, which means none to press her skirt down. She concentrates though, remembers Lisa's instructions. Milk first, then tea. Offer lemon first, don't ask about sugar. She's congratulating herself on getting everything right when fingertips brush her buttocks and she jumps. It's the woman who arrived first, the dark-haired one, and she's using her nails over the reddened skin.
Tea splashes from the spout of the teapot onto the table, and there's a collective intake of breath, then a murmur of disapproval. Remy straightens up, confused. This wasn't covered in the instructions, of course, because why would Lisa tell her what to do when she makes a mistake?
She bobs an uncertain curtsy. "Excuse me, please." Then she flees for the kitchen and a cloth, while the room behind her bursts into laughter at her distress.
In the kitchen, she's tempted to just sit her hot ass down on the marble slab and masturbate. She might as well – there are certain to be consequences for her actions, and she doubts that orgasm is going to be one of those consequences. Then she thinks of that woman's pet, still kneeling obediently in the closet until he's needed, and she decides that she can do just as well at this game. She takes a cloth back to the living room, and bends to clean up the mess with straight legs, so that the skirt rides up all the way, and her ass is facing the woman who felt her up before. Let her get a good look if she wants, Remy's not ashamed. Her marks are hard-won, and she's proud of them.
When she straightens up, she picks up the tea service from where she left off, and this time she's ready for the pinching fingers and scraping nails. She's a doctor. She can keep her hands steady under more ridiculous situations than this.
She's in the flow of it all now: passes around the tiny cakes on the two-tiered floral tray, collects the cups and saucers and carries the laden tray back to the kitchen. Her ass has been pinched, rubbed, patted absently, slapped, scratched, tickled and (she's fairly sure, but she didn't move fast enough to see who) licked. But she has served tea, and it was fucking elegant. When she is done and there is nothing left but pleasant conversation, Remy kneels by Lisa's feet, while Lisa feeds her pieces of cake with her fingers. She kneels prettily with her hands crossed, opens her mouth like a bird, and all the women admire her.
It's bizarre, but at the end, when she has helped the last lady into her coat, and let that poor guy out of the closet, there is a certain satisfaction to knowing she has put on a good show. She comes back to Lisa, loading the dishwasher.
"I can do that, Ma'am." It comes out automatically.
Lisa laughs as she slides the plates in one by one. "You did a great job, thank you. They'll be talking about this for weeks."
Remy fists her hands into the small of her back and arches. The heels were murder on her back. "I'm glad it worked out. I nearly stayed in the kitchen, playing with myself."
Lisa closes the drawer with her hip and starts the cycle. Her expression is meditative. "Here?" she says, putting a hand on the cold marble slab. "I imagine that would have been something to see."
Remy twists her hips and the petticoats swish back and forth around her. "I'd be happy to oblige, Ma'am."
The marble is as cool as she imagined on her ass. When she spreads her legs, the ridiculous heels hook neatly into the toddler locks on the cabinet doors. Lisa sits on a kitchen chair in front of her, crosses her legs and watches with an appreciative expression.
Remy spreads herself with a finger, throws back her head with a laugh, and gets to work.
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(And thank you for the lovely banner! It's so perfect!)
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You are very, very welcome to podfic anything at all that I've written! But, and I feel wretched for saying it, I won't be able to listen to it... I have a thing about audio books and podfics for some stupid reason, I can't handle spoken words, they freak me out. I feel really crap about it, because I'd love to squee and offer you support and comment love. You podficcers deserve it mightily.
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And hey, please don't feel bad about not being a podfic listener! I actually really appreciate you telling me now - I think some authors try to force themselves to listen out of a sense of obligation, and that is a drag for everyone. Will drop you a link when I'm finished!
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