This is Narcissa's favorite game, playing the maid. Of course, they have real maids: upstairs maids, and downstairs maids, kitchen maids, and parlor maids, scullery maids and nurse maids, and of course Narcissa's lady's maid. Despite all the various maids, Narcissa is the only maid of her sort in the whole house; she is Lucius's lady's maid.
On the servant's day off, Narcissa is the only maid left in the vast manor.
There's a sort of ritual to the beginning of the game. Narcissa draws Lucius a bath, as she always does, and he gets in, as he always does. She washes his hair for him; her fingers relish the chance to tangle in those silky platinum blonde locks. Her own hair is washed, combed, and put up for her by a maid in the mornings, and taken down, brushed, and braided for her, by the same maid in the evenings, so it's a pleasurable novelty to play with Lucius's.
After she's finished combing conditioner through his white blonde mane, she collects a loofa and sweet scented soap imported from France, and she scrubs every inch of his snowy skin, except for the bit she isn't allowed to touch, or well isn't allowed to touch yet. Still, she loves this time, sponge foamy with lather running up her husband's hairless leg, along his shapely calf to lean inner thigh, oh so close to the forbidden place. It's pink, so different from the rest of his snowy skin, and half erect from her ministrations.
Really, when they're playing this game, it's the one thing that makes him Lucius and her Narcissa. They are both tall, marble pale, and slim with long manes of platinum hair. If they were to go out in one another's clothing it's very likely that no one would notice anything was amiss until one of them spoke, but she knows the differences between them, her small pert breasts, and the one variation between the legs, he crested, she cloven.
He rinses off, the way bubbles slide over damp skin makes Narcissa lick her lips. She brings fresh water, and all the elixirs and potions one uses on one's face to keep it fresh. The room smells delicately floral by now, and the vapor from the hot water has left dew drops everywhere, and roses in Lucius's cheeks. She steps away for a moment, returning with two fluffy monogrammed towels warmed with a charm, an exquisite brocade dressing gown and delicate little high-heeled slippers.
He steps from the clawfooted tub, into the embrace of the towel. She dries him, wraps his hair turban style, and helps him on with the robe, just as her maid does. The bath is over, but Narcissa knows the best is yet to come, and so she doesn't regret its ending.
In her boudoir, he sits at her dressing table examining himself in the vanity glass. His features are perhaps, a touch sharper than hers, with a more angular jaw. The long lashed grey eyes and high cheekbones though are nearly identical. His lips normally pressed thin together in annoyance are almost voluptuous curved in a sensual smile.
They start on his face. His skin is quite perfect already, dewy, flawless ivory, but she spreads concealer under the his eyes to negate any chance of a hint of violet appearing there, and smoothes foundation over his skin, making him look yet more like a china doll, skin impossibly perfect.
His eyebrows are lovely delicate arches, which she fills so that they show up on the whiteness of his skin. She paints his lids a gleaming silver, fading into shimmering scintillating black for the outer corner and crease. Her clever brush adds dramatic shadows, emphasizing the slight upward tilt of his eyes and finishes by lining them with thickly with kohl, brush flicking out in an exaggerated cat eye. She tints his long feathery lashes jet black with a spell, and he flutters them experimentally. The cosmetics they use are a mix of muggle and magical, enchanted for perfect application, and perfect finish on the skin. Narcissa thinks the effect better when they do it this way.
Next comes the softest pink blush with just the barest hint of shimmer goes on, accentuating his high cheekbones, fluffy brush tickling, caressing. He almost can't hide his pleasure seeing himself in the mirror, exotic and unearthly. His lips are the final touch, she accents their pouty almost bee-stung shape with rich crimson, opaque and glossy as vinyl. She allows her fingers to brush the velvety softness of his cheek. He gives her the tiniest sidelong glance, to show he approves. The anticipation hums in the air, with the crackling hum of electricity, and the smell of a coming storm.
Now, as always, comes his hair. She releases it from the towel turban, and dries it quickly with a spell, so it falls like silk nearly to his trim waist in soft platinum waves. She pulls it half up, leaving a few tendrils to fall prettily around his face, and curling the ends. He gazes at himself in the mirror and smiles, pleased by the ethereal androgynous creature staring back at him from the mirror. Narcissa can't help but smile slightly as well, seeing her beautiful husband made more beautiful, though for the moment she's not his wife, but his maid, and must play the game by its odd rules.
She offers a hand, a sign he should rise. He takes the hand, and stands, allowing himself to be lead to the wardrobe. If this were not a game, Lucius would request an ensemble, and Narcissa would bring it for him. It is a game though, so he lets her pick knowing how much she enjoys it. He enjoys it too, finds he likes being tended to, treated like the haughty princess he now resembles.
The dressing gown falls away leaving his lithe graceful form bared before her. She's seen it all before, but it's still beautiful, still makes her feel the same way it always has. She selects garments from the wardrobe, exotic lingerie, delicate silk stockings, garter belt, and all the rest of it. In other words, she collects everything she needs to complete the image of her lovely in-between of a husband. The garments match perfectly, crimson and black with accents of silver.
She roles fine silk stockings up his legs, after the scrap of jet black satin that passes for underwear is positioned to at least make a show of covering Lucius's not unimpressive erection. Next is the garter belt, a lacy, beribboned confection so charmingly flimsy looking one would think it does nothing at all, but for the practical steel clips that Narcissa bends to attach the the stockings, sheer black silk ones with a seam up the back. The next comes the slip, it ends high above the knee, leaving several inches of garter on tantalizing display. The soft fabric clinging appealingly to his slender angular frame.
She sets out pretty black leather victorian boots, laced with dark red ribbons, kneeling to help him on with them. Their stiletto heels adding at least five inches to his already imposing height.
She almost can't resist ending the game now, he looks so pretty like this, but she doesn't. She gets a corset, red velvet and dripping with jet beads and black lace, and he holds the bedpost while she laces it, and pulls the lacing tight.
"Tight enough, Madam?" she asks, admiring how his already small waist looks positively tiny when she's pulled the laces tight.
"Not yet, you ought to know better, girl," he reprimands, knowing she likes it when he calls her that. She shivers in delight, loving that she is this exquisite creature's maid, that he is the lady, and she the servant.
"Yes, Ma'am," she says, yanking the laces harder, reducing his waist even more. He makes a soft noise, a sign to tell her it's enough. She stops, smiles, ties up the laces so no ends show.
She knows the routine by heart. Next come the petticoats, long and full reaching the floor, red trimmed with yet more black lace, forming a graceful bell, making his regal form look all the more haughty and aristocratic.
She's so close to finished, flushed and eager for him as she fetches the gown. The dress is heavy rich crimson brocade in a twining spiraling floral pattern done in black and silver with a deep square neckline revealing a vast expanse of her husband's milky chest. The tightly fitted bodice is decorated with black silk bows down its front, and the over skirt is parted at the front, held back with more bows to reveal a matching black velvet underskirt, this with silk bows above its ruffled hem. The sleeves are three quarter length, trimmed with long loose ruffles of black velvet and a perfusion bows, and the neck with a small ruffle of black silk.
She loves this dress on him, the back with its long train and big black bow at the small of his back, the bodice extending down in a point, making his waist look that much narrower, and the dark crimson contrasting beautifully with his fair hair and pale skin.
The gown is heavy, and she must be careful as she lowers it over his head, buttoning it reverently up the back. She fetches jewelry, and the elegant tricorn hat with ostrich plumes that goes with the gown. She fastens an ornate silver choker dripping with deep red stones around his elegant neck, helps him on with matching earrings, slips rings onto his long elegant fingers, their nails long and crimson, before finally setting the hat on his head at a jaunty angle. He turns to face the mirror and smiles.
"pictures, love?" he purrs, and she retrieves the camera, taking a few of him against the window, looking the part perfectly.
"Very good, pet," he purrs, drawing her close beside him, viewing them together in the mirror. She's in uniform, the dress is short and full skirted, black satin with a deep sweetheart neckline and puffed sleeves. She looks at him, as if looking for praise, and indeed his image in the mirror is something to be praised, elegant, icy, beautiful... and yet somehow sensual as well. He is at the moment, the princess, the queen, the mistress of the house, and she? She in her ruffled white apron, her breasts pushed up by the corset beneath her dress, in black patent leather heels, and fishnet stockings, her garters on display, she is the maid.
"You did well, my pet," he purrs, knowing fingers trailing over her cheek, thumb grazing her prettily pink lower lip. Her makeup is always perfectly applied, and her hair is worn down under the frilly little maid's cap. He tilts her chin up.
She swallows, aroused, nervous. He smiles, gazing down into her eyes, the look he finds there making him smirk.
"I know what you want, love," he murmurs, leaning in close and she's stuck, like a deer in the head lights, unable to take her eyes from him.
She can't explain how it happened but he's kissing her, and she's drawn close against him, his arms around her waist, and hers around his neck. He tastes of lip gloss and promises. His tongue finds its way into her mouth, and she moans, as he reaches up her skirt to squeeze her pert buttocks.
He pulls away, lipstick still perfect for now, it never smudges till just the right moment. He smirks.
"You've been bad though, pet, I knew you thought I'd forget," he purrs, again tilting her chin up.
"Yes, madam," says Narcissa, avoiding his gaze.
"You were staring at me in the bath again, weren't you, slut?" he says, picking up an ornate ebony backed hair brush, fingers closing around its ivory handle.
"No, madam," she says softly.
"Oh, come on now," he purrs, looking her over. "I know what a slut like you needs,"
"Madam," she says, giving him a pleading look, and he grabs her by the wrist and tosses her over his lap, flipping her skirt back, and drawing off the little black lace thong.
She groans, wriggling, trying to get away.
"You're mine, whore," he growls, smacking her with the brush, drawing a yelp from her, making her writhe. He grabs her hair with one hand, repeating the smack with the brush again and again. Her pale skin grows pink and she tries desperately to hold back tears. The sting of each stroke draws a cry from her, and he makes her count them, threatening to start again if she loses count. She whimpers, and obeys, getting to thirty before he finally stops.
She loves it though, despite the writhing, and whimpering. She drives him crazy like this, needy, and driven past the last of her self control. He's finished the spanking but she's still wiggling in his lap, as if she's still experiencing the beating. He watches for a few moments, before grabbing her by the hair. He's taller than she by a good four inches, and he takes her back to the mirror, picking up a tube of lipstick as he does.
His cock aches, as she obeys, eyes glazed with desire, standing on shaky legs in front of the mirror.
"Inspection time," he purrs, and her eyes gleam with fear and anticipation, as she leans forward, hands on the heavy gilt mirror frame. He flips her skirt up again, examining her, appraising her the way one might appraise a fine antique, or a well bred bit of live stock. He runs a fingers over the front of her panties and between her legs, wet and warm of course. He loves the way she quivers, wanting it desperately, half feigned fear mingling with ill disguised lust in her eyes. She's beautiful, he thinks, and she's mine. He loves the sight of his usually haughty wife twisting her hips in undignified need. He snaps one of her garters, checking that her stockings are even, measures her skirt, checking to see that it's as short as he prefers, examines her shoes for the least sign of dirt, checks that there is not a hair out of place. He smirks when he gets to her corset.
"This, my pet, is too loose," he says, voice a cold impassive drawl, as she straightens, and looks at him. He undoes the back of her dress and undoes the tie holding the laces, puts a knee in her back and yanks till she yelps, exaggerating the hourglass shape of her figure, pushing her breasts up yet more. He does the dress up again, manner chilly and distant as his actions are brutal.
"Very nice," he says, and as he speaks, she can't meet the cool stare of his demonically calm grey eyes, "get rid of the dress," he adds a moment later, and she jumps to get it off. Unbuttoning it clumsily and getting it off over her head, leaving her maid's cap askew. He likes that, likes seeing her flustered, mussed, like a pretty little doe just cornered by the sleek panther that has been chasing her.
He considers her for a moment, a big cat toying with its prey, appreciating the contrast of black fabric against white skin, before he tears off the little black panties, letting the shredded garment fall away, smiling as he pulls the cap off the lipstick, and twists it up.
She looks at him, unsure of what's about to happen, a frightened animal look in her eyes that draws a low growl from him as he pulls her close, turning her towards him, looking her over, and considering the lipstick for a moment before he slides it over her pale skin, writing, leaving pinky red lines. It feels slick, creamy and silky on her skin, and she holds as still as she can with him so close. He writes a word over the top of her breasts "whore" like a banner, like a title. He turns her to see it and she moans. She loves it, craves his touch, loves to be reminded of just how wicked her exquisitely beautiful husband is. He unlaces the corset, and she's naked in front of him, but for garter belt, stockings, and pumps. He writes "Dirty slut" on her lower back, "Use me" between her hip bones. Tracing red words on white skin as he starts to push her back towards the bed.
"What are you?" he demands, using her hair as a leash, forcing her to look at him.
"A-a-a whore," she stammers, and he smiles.
"Yes, you're a common cheap little tart, a pretty little trinket, nice to play with, but of no real worth," he purrs, giving her that feline smirk of predatory satisfaction. He's backed her against the bed, and he extends a long pale finger, decorated by a monstrous blood ruby on a beautifully wrought platinum band, and tilts up her chin. She's trembling, and he likes it, makes him feel pleasure, a warm sinuous ribbon of heat slide up from his erection under its layers of skirts. She allows him to examine her, stock still, frozen by her own fear or is that arousal, it doesn't matter.
He smirks and picks up his wand, toying with something. An idea he's toyed with before but never executed pops into his head, and he moves her hair, flicking the wand and causing silvery script to flow from its end and become black ink on the nape of her graceful neck. She can feel it biting, and she whimpers, she knows what he is doing. It shocks her, she never thought he'd... mark her, but he has, and it sends a delicate silvery little shudder of ecstasy through her, even as she blushes, and opens her mouth to demand to know what the hell he thinks he's doing. The ink burns for a few moments, then it fades to a dull throb. The result pleases him, there on her white skin in elegant spidery script is simply "Lucius's"
He remains distant, letting her imagine the possibilities. He's aching now, cock leaking, but he refuses to take what he wants just yet.
"You're all mine now, slut," he purrs, running a finger over the tattoo, watching her shudder. "You want something don't you, love?" he adds, a wicked smile forming on his lips.
She nods meekly.
"Yes," she says, her voice barely above a whisper, cheeks flushed, looking at her feet.
"Tell me what you need," he purrs.
"I need you," she says, looking him in the eye, the anguish of unfulfilled desire on her features.
"Need me to what?" he asks, and she breaks, unable to hold back any longer.
"Goddamn it, Lucius, I need you to fuck me," she says, eyes blazing, "I need you to stick your cock in me, and use me like your personal whore."
"Get on the bed," is all he says, and she does, cheeks flushes, on her back legs spread "and beg for it."
"Fuck me, please, I need you," she moans, not sure if she's following orders, or she just can't shut her mouth once the flood gates are open. He watches for a moment, before he lifts his skirts, moves his underthings aside, and lifts her hips. Lucius looks at her, flushed and panting, one long finger sliding across her clit casting a vibration charm that never fails to draw screams. She bucks, pleasure rising in her, a warm wave. She is the ocean, and he the moon, he governs her tides, and she responds without question, because that is the order of things.
He groans, Narcissa is hot and tight and right around him. His hand fists in her hair and he drags her into a rough kiss. She clings to him, kissing back desperately, bucking against him, needing more. His hips move worlds, using her like a cheap toy, slamming against her spot until she forgets to breathe.
"Whore," he growls, between animalistic kisses, biting her neck, leaving marks on her white skin, marks that will bruise with time. She can feel every inch of him, feel something bright and piercing inside of her, something growing, about to burst into a flood of stars. The way she looks, back arched, hair fanned on the pillow, her eyes half shut and her lips parted in a silent scream draws out the beast in him, and he grabs her hips, nails digging into the pale flesh.
She screams, seeing him above her, makeup perfect but for smeared red lips, eyes practically glowing with pure carnality is almost too much, as if her husband, set free is some mad avatar of lust. He's been so cold till now, so removed, like a distant god, and now, he's hot, and close, warm breath on her neck, passionately ferociously alive,. The petticoats swish, soft material slipping over her legs, his silken hair flicking across her bare breasts as he slams into her, every sensation sends electric shocks dancing over her sensitized skin,. She feels everything, despite the flood of heat pooling between her legs, despite the cosmic pleasure that shatters thought, burning away everything but their bodies entwined, fitting together like lock and key.
She aches for more, sobs for the exquisite blissful need of him, something vast flutters just beyond her reach, and she cries out for the need of it. He pulls her hair, pins her shoulder, claiming her. Again, she sobs, the black silk sheets, the ornate furniture, the bedroom, the world except for him, lost in a haze of lust. He is the world for the moment, everything. He screams, a primal howl of desperation that rings in her ears, his back arched, head thrown back, a look of ecstasy beyond ecstasy on his aristocratic features, except his fine boned face no longer suggests refinement, they have the elegant brutality of a wild beast.
"Lucius!" she cries, legs wrapping round him under his skirts, feeling herself tense around him, knowing she's close. He knows the same, wants to feel her lose herself to him. He moans, growls, slams himself into her.
The vibrations, his wicked little charm, tease her till she's in tears, spilling down her face as she gasps, and shakes, sensation almost too much.
"You want to come, don't you?" he growls, slowing down, pace teasing now. She nods desperately, her voice cracked from screaming.
"Yes," she says, the word is barely a whisper, but the need in her voice is overwhelming, and with that, he cannot resist, cannot tease, cannot do anything but take her, claim her, show her that she is unquestionably, eternally, undoubtedly his. She is his wife, his maid, his lover. Her exquisite face, her glorious body belong to him. He's rougher now, and the slight pain draws whimpers and more blissful cries from her throat.
He uses her until he knows she's at her limit, and then he pins her shoulders and commands his voice rough and sinful, as if speaking directly from the darkest depths of himself "Come for me, Narcissa, show me who you belong to," and she comes, everything explodes, light is blinding and he's still holding her, still slamming into her, faster, harder as she's bucking, shock waves going through her, forgetting her name, forgetting who they are, but never forgetting him. She clings to him, as if fearing she'll be consumed by her own pleasure if she doesn't hold on for dear life, and he keeps going, the vibration keeps going.
She keeps coming around him, keeps coming until her body's shaking and weak, each climax more intense than the previous until they threaten to rip her apart. She's crying again, the pleasure too much, the intensity driving her over the brink of madness. She's gone, arching, writhing and screaming without any restraint. He can't take anymore, she's beautiful, too beautiful, and the knowledge that he's done this to her, made her like this over powers him, he pulls back, in utter ecstasy spurting his seed across her face, her breasts, marking her. She arches again, calling out his name as he roars hers, raw, unhinged, clutching at one another, bodies entwined as they pant together, recovering themselves, gazing at each other, makeup smeared, blissful together.
He kisses her, and this time it's gentle, a lingering kiss on the lips.
"I'm quite in love with you, my darling Narcissa," he says, smoothing hair from her face, and she smiles.
"and I am quite in love with you, my exquisite Lucius," she responds, trailing fingers down his arm, affectionate, content.