The Loves and Labours of Doris Sloane, Chapter 3

  • Posted on July 5, 2024 at 5:32 pm

by JetBoy & BlueJean

A brief summary of what has transpired thus far. (To get a more detailed breakdown of the earlier chapters, please see Chapter Links for descriptions)

Orphaned at the age of eight, sixteen-year-old Doris Sloane has spent half her life in a Catholic orphanage, where she was trained to care for young children. Our story begins when she is taken into service at the home of Victoria Shaw, a widow with three daughters: Melinda (ten), Sophia (eleven) and Becky (fourteen). Doris is thoroughly satisfied with this new life, but her orderly world takes an odd turn one night when she is seduced by her mistress Victoria. Surprising herself, Doris responds eagerly, fully returning the pleasure she has been given.


When I ventured downstairs the next morning to see to the girls’ breakfast, I had no idea how Mrs. Shaw would behave toward me. I desperately craved an affectionate glance from her, a soft word, a smile – something, anything more than the polite regard with which my mistress had always afforded me until last night.

But Mrs. Shaw remained business-like when she asked me to pass word to Mrs. Broomfield that she wished to have onion soup with the evening meal, and there was not even a hint of acknowledgement of the passions we had indulged in, nor that her soft mouth had kissed my cunny mere hours before. Indeed, had I not still borne a tiny red mark on my shoulder, where she had playfully bitten me in the midst of our pleasures, I might have thought I’d dreamt the whole thing.

I was beginning to wonder if I might be a mere plaything to my mistress, a toy to be used and discarded as she saw fit. The thought of it filled me with heartache, as well as anger at Mrs. Shaw for taking advantage of me. Was it not the way of things that the privileged took what they wanted from their lessers, without a thought for the consequences? At the same time, I was upset with myself for allowing it to happen. And the worst of it was, if she continued to use me, I would keep allowing it. Because I wanted it. I wanted it and could not stop.


For a rather plump woman, Mrs. Broomfield seemed to whirl around the kitchen like a dervish – a relentless force of nature that scrambled eggs, brewed tea, flipped sausages and bacon, and made sure the toast didn’t burn. To this day, I’ll never know how she juggled everything so efficiently. That said, her age did seem to be catching up to her lately, hence my assistance at breakfast time.

“Good morning, Mrs. Broomfield,” I said as I entered the kitchen.

She gave me her usual scowl. “Can’t say I’s had time to notice. Be a good girl and turn that bacon over ‘fore it ends up like strips o’ charcoal, would you?”

I picked up a spatula and flipped the rashers. “Mrs. Shaw asked if you might do some onion soup with supper.”

“Course she did. As if I ain’t got enough on me plate,” she grumbled, then gestured to the teapot nearby. “Make yourself a cuppa.”

I poured myself some tea, then took a seat at the table where I ate my meals – where the servants ate their meals. Because that’s what I was, wasn’t I? A servant.

Mrs. Broomfield spared me a glance when I heaved a sigh. “Our mistress workin’ you too hard, girl?”

“Hmm? No. No, I’m fine. Just a little tired this morning.” Emotionally tired, I might have added, but didn’t.

“Been burnin’ the candle at both ends, have we?”

I ignored that, not least because the old woman would never know how close she’d come to the truth. Instead, a question rose to my lips, and in spite of my better judgement, I gave voice to it. “Mrs. Shaw’s husband – what kind of man was he, Mrs. Broomfield?”

My query seemed to come out of the blue, and surprised me as much as Shadowglen’s resident cook, but I found myself wondering what the Shaws’ relationship had been like, and if my employer had been warmer towards her husband than she was to me. As soon as the thought entered my head I berated myself for it. Did I really believe I could ever be as important to my mistress as the father of her children?

“Mr. Shaw?” Mrs. Broomfield paused, and for a moment I thought she wasn’t going to answer my question. Eventually she spoke. “Well, it ain’t right to speak ill of the dead, and you didn’t ‘ear this from me, mind… but he weren’t a good sort. Drank somethin’ fierce. Not what you’d call a kindly man, neither. Truth be told, the bottle’s what done for him in the end.”

“But they were in love, weren’t they? They had children together.”

The old cook gave a derisive snort. “You’ve a lot to learn, girl. There’s many the marriage that has naught to do with love, children or not. All I know is Mr. Shaw was cold as a gravedigger’s bum, and he ‘ad a furious temper on ‘im. Ended up on the receivin’ end of it a couple o’ times meself.”

“How awful.”

Mrs. Broomfield made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Anyway, he’s gone now, and I don’t reckon Mrs. Shaw would appreciate you an’ me gossipin’ behind ‘er back, do you?”

“No, of course, you’re right. Forget I said anything.”

“Breakfast’ll be ready to put on the table soon.”

Draining my cup, I got to my feet. “I’ll see to it after I’ve roused the girls.”

“Right you are. And Doris…?”


“Cheer up, girl. You look like a bulldog chewin’ a wasp.”


Once the girls were up and about, the morning fell into its usual mad scramble – dressing and grooming the two younger girls, locating stray books and pencils, and reminding Melinda that speaking was usually preferable to shouting. Each girl demanded my attention in some way, yet despite being so hard-pressed, I hadn’t failed to notice Mrs. Shaw’s absence at the breakfast table.

Much as I adored the girls – even Becky, whom my interactions were far less frequent than that of her younger sisters – on that particular day it was a relief to have them gone from the house, as I was feeling increasingly uneasy.

Usually, their departure was my cue to take a short respite, stopping by the kitchen for a cup of tea and some toast before moving on to the day’s chores. On that day, I did go to the kitchen – Mrs. Broomfield had already gone to her next job until her return later that afternoon – but found myself much too restless to sit. I paced the room like a caged animal, trapped by a rising fear.

What if, having had her way with me, Mrs. Shaw now planned to cast me aside like a worn stocking, my services no longer required? Might I be… dismissed?

A cold knot of terror took shape in my belly at the very idea. The possibility of never lying with my beloved mistress again was painful, but it was a hurt I could endure. Losing my position in the Shaw home, though, would be a catastrophe. Despite my perplexing relationship with Mrs. Shaw, I had come to love my life there, and hoped that I might be kept on in some capacity once Melinda turned twelve and the girls no longer required a nanny. But to be cast out… Not only would I lose my home, but the chances of finding a similar position with another family would be all but nonexistent. And the thought of being at the mercy of the state once again made me shudder with dread.

Eventually, I managed to calm myself. Surely if Mrs. Shaw meant to dismiss me, she would already have done so. Besides, such callous behaviour seemed completely out of character from the kindly mistress I knew. Best to simply carry on as if nothing had changed between us, I decided.

The rest of my morning passed with little consequence. Chores were undertaken with military precision, tables and shelves polished until they gleamed; clothing and bedding ironed out so thoroughly not a single crease was given quarter. Immersing myself in work that way took the mind off things, but perhaps there was a hint of madness to it.

As the afternoon arrived, my mood was lifted somewhat when Mrs. Shaw joined me in the drawing room for tea. We spent an hour or more discussing the latest book I’d borrowed from her library, and I found myself glad of her company.

There was no mention of the passions we had shared, and I wondered in some fanciful, dream-like way if Mrs. Shaw might in fact be two completely different people. There was the stoic but friendly mistress who occupied Shadowglen by day – the churchgoer, the responsible mother, the modern woman running her own business.

And then there was the other Mrs. Shaw: the seductress. The one who emerged at night like something predatory, intent on satisfying her carnal desires, no matter the cost.

I couldn’t deny that I liked both versions of my lady, but I considered the possibility that perhaps there was another iteration of Mrs. Shaw I had yet to meet, a third personality that somehow reconciled the other two, creating a whole. Was it possible this elusive third dwelled somewhere in her past, concealed behind memories and events I knew nothing of? What had happened in Mrs. Shaw’s life, I wondered, to shape her into the woman she was?

But such mysteries were no concern to a mere servant girl. I would have to be content with whichever version of Mrs. Shaw decided to make an appearance – the mistress, or the seductress. But oh, how I longed for the latter.

She did not come to me that night as I lay awake in my bed. And so I made do with my own fingers, and the memory of her mouth upon my sex.


Though a portion of the weekend was usually devoted to helping the girls with unfinished homework and school projects, I was otherwise free to spend my time as I saw fit. When I awoke that Saturday morning I had a very clear and resolute thought: Today I shall purchase something new to wear. It was a small thing, I know, but at that particular moment it seemed like the best idea in the world. I’d never had the means to buy myself much of anything before, and the thought of spending my own hard earned money on a dress or a new blouse filled me with a kind of fierce pride.

But I had another reason: I wanted to impress Mrs. Shaw. Not that I had the money or the need to acquire anything too sophisticated – I was still a working class nanny, after all – but if I came home with something smart and appealing, something that was figure-hugging and showed off my curves, what message would that send to my mistress?

Do you remember making love to me, my lady? I’m still here, still willing.

If that seems a little childish, a little needy… well, I suppose it may have been. But then, I was only sixteen, not yet the worldly woman I so longed to be.

When I let Mrs. Shaw know that I planned to take a trip up to town and asked her if she needed anything, she said no, she did not, but suggested I take Becky along. Her eldest was happy enough to join me, the girl’s purse filled with as much money as she was able to cobble together from her savings.

The walk to town was a good mile or so, but it was a pleasant day and the journey gave us a chance to talk. There hadn’t been much opportunity to spend time with Mrs. Shaw’s eldest daughter up until then, occupied as I was with the two younger girls, but I was as curious about her as I suspected she was about me. We’d become more comfortable around each other recently, at least, and there was only two years difference between us. Yet we knew so little about one another. I pondered ways of getting closer to her without seeming overly intrusive, but as we strolled towards the small parade of shops, it was Becky herself who made the first move.

“Do you think about your mother and father much?” she asked.

The question took me aback a little. No one had really asked about my parents before – when all of us orphans had such similar stories, there was little need to speak of it, I suppose. “Mama and Papa? Yes, of course. They’re often in my thoughts.”

“How old were you when you lost them? You mentioned it once, but I can’t remember…”

“I was eight.”

“Really? That’s how old I was when Father passed away. I think about him too, sometimes.”

“May I… may I ask about how he died?” I knew I was on rocky ground. It wouldn’t do to pry, and the last thing I needed was Becky repeating any of my queries back to her mother.

“I’m sure it was drink,” Becky replied after some consideration. “Mother wouldn’t tell us much. I knew he wasn’t well, though. I wish I could have helped him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He wasn’t exactly the best father, and he was awful to Mother, but I was still his favourite. He used to read to me. Always from his own books, which weren’t that interesting, but it was his voice I liked. And just being with him, I suppose.”

“I have similar memories of my own papa. And my mother, of course.”

She gave me a look that was almost apologetic. “At least I still have Mother. I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose both parents.”

“Just remember,” I said to her. “When I tell you I understand how you feel, you’ll know it’s the truth. And you can always talk to me about anything.”

Becky laced her arm through mine and gave me a smile. The realisation struck me that somewhere along the way the two of us had become tentative friends. Being the closest to my age, and with little opportunity to socialise, I suppose she may have been my only friend during those days.

The town had a single clothing shop, a humble affair with two display mannequins in the small storefront that frequently rotated outfits: expensive looking party frocks, tweed suits, the latest tennis fashions, even a wedding dress or two. We browsed through their stock, almost more interested in choosing things for each other than we were for ourselves. Becky was the expert, of course. And though shopping for clothes was a new experience for me, I took to it like a duck to water.

Becky handed me a tight wool sweater in white and blue, its sleeves short and frilly. A long blue skirt in the same soft wool accompanied it. “This’ll look perfect on you,” she declared.

“It is rather nice,” I agreed, then as matter-of-factly as I was able: “Do you… do you think your mother would like it?”

“Oh, yes, it’s very fashionable. Try it on. There’s the changing booth over there.”

“As you wish, bossy boots!” I said, then took her selections to the back of the shop.

In the few short seconds it took me to pull my tatty old sweater over my head, the curtain of the booth had peeled back and Becky slipped inside.

“What’re you doing?” I asked, my hands instinctively moving to cover my chest, even though I was still wearing my brassiere.

Becky held up a pink cardigan with huge black buttons. “I want to try something on, too.” Before I could point out there was an empty booth next to this one, she unbuttoned her blouse and slipped it off her shoulders.

I certainly wasn’t going to act like a timid mouse in front of my young companion, so I simply slung the sweater over the rail and stepped out of my skirt. Becky followed suit, but my indifference seemed to have knocked the wind out of her sails a little. If her goal was to try and embarrass me, I had called her bluff. Her eyes wandered over my body shyly, but she made no effort to look away, not that there was anywhere else to look in such a confined space.

It struck me how alike she and her mother were. Becky’s hair was a darker blonde, but she had the same shapely hips and flat belly, the same striking blue eyes. Like me, she wore a brassiere, but I found myself wondering if she had inherited the same firm, full breasts, or would do once she’d fully developed. Becky really was just a younger version of Mrs. Shaw.

I could detect her fragrance in that cramped changing booth: soap, shampoo; the subtlest hint of her own natural scent. We stood there and appraised one another for what seemed like an age, but must have only been a few seconds. When we found each other’s eyes, I was sure something passed between us. As if things weren’t complicated enough already.

I shook myself out of my reverie and slipped on the new outfit. I liked it right away, and thought Mrs. Shaw would too, so I decided to buy it. It didn’t escape my notice that Becky’s cheeks were slightly flushed as the shopkeeper wrapped my purchases with paper and string, and she kept giving me discreet little glances. It only occurred to me later that she’d stripped down to her underthings when she only had a cardigan to try on. Did she want me to see her that way?


I very much wanted to wear my new togs to church that Sunday, but elected not to, certain it would’ve scandalised much of the congregation – back then, churchgoers wore formal attire, and usually in dark colours.

I made up for it the next day, changing into the jumper and skirt before coming down to assist with breakfast. When Mrs. Shaw saw me approach the dining table, she lowered the morning papers she’d been reading and peered at me over the top of her glasses. I felt a little self-conscious, but I couldn’t deny the pleasure I felt at her look of surprise.

Later that morning, when the girls had been sent off to school, my lady called me from the kitchen. I quickly set my cup of tea down and took a deep breath, then hurried to answer her summons.

Mrs. Shaw was seated in her chair, a large Chesterfield with a good view of the garden. She smiled at me as I entered, and I did my best to appear calm, meekly intoning, “Yes, Miss?”

She stood, her eyes burning into mine. I quivered inside, but managed to hold her gaze as she drifted across the room to me.

And suddenly her soft mouth was brushing my lips in the tenderest of kisses. My eyes drifted shut as she cupped my face in both hands, then kissed me more forcefully, her tongue claiming me for her own. I submitted joyously, moaning into my lady’s kiss as my own tongue darted out to meet hers.

She broke away, then stepped back to let her gaze travel the length of my body with sultry regard. I knew how she felt… oh, yes, I knew. “I adore your new outfit, Doris,” she told me, her voice soft and measured in the face of the passion that I saw raging inside her. “But now I want you to take it off. Take everything off.”

And with that, I was filled again by that deep, throbbing heat I had no word for yet. My hands were clumsy as I fumbled with my new sweater and the matching skirt. Each time I glanced at Mrs. Shaw she was watching me intently, her eyes eager and greedy as she waited for me to finish peeling away the layers of clothing that concealed my body.

I stepped out of my knickers and straightened, completely exposed and on display for my mistress. I was an object to be used, commanded. My nipples ached for her caress, my cunny pulsing with an urgent need.

Mrs. Shaw reached out to gently touch me between the legs. I trembled, then breathed a sigh, welcoming her fingers as they began to trace the curve of my vulva. Though we had only made love once, she seemed to know my body like a well-read book – divining my pleasure, coaxing it forth, making it glow like some primal thing forged in arcane fire.

I was swaying like a sapling, on the verge of release. When she pulled away I choked down a frustrated cry and stood open-mouthed and heavy of breath, heart pounding in my chest as I stared at my lady with beseeching eyes.

She smiled at me, then placed a soft kiss on my mouth. “Very good, Doris. Collect your clothes and go to your room. Wait for me there… I’ll be along shortly.”

I did as I was told, blushing hotly as I gathered my things and exited the sitting room, then made my way upstairs.

Though feeling uneasy at first, I quickly discovered that walking through the house in the nude gave me a deliciously illicit feeling that I liked very much. I reflected again on the changes that had been wrought in me since my first encounter with Mrs. Shaw, the day I had been confined to my bed. I was the meek virgin who had been ensnared by sins of the flesh, tempted into forbidden carnal acts – and instead of feeling guilt or shame, I hungered for more.

Once in my room, I put my clothes to one side and lay down on the bed, awaiting my mistress.

A short while later the door swung open and Mrs. Shaw stood framed in the entrance, now as naked as I was. She stepped inside the room, and the way she casually left the door ajar seemed thick with meaning.

Unable to restrain myself, I rose and went to her. She opened her arms to me, and we embraced, our mouths meeting. She kissed me warmly, her lips lingering against mine, then gently drew away to stroke my hair. “Lie down,” she murmured. “I want to make you feel good.”

I longed to seem womanly, rather than the awkward girl I was, so I sauntered over to the bed and crawled upon it on all fours, peering back at my mistress while I allowed my arse to sway seductively. I slowly rolled over, my eyes locking with hers as I parted my thighs, offering her all I had to give – indeed, perhaps the only thing of mine she truly wanted.

It was all a thinly veiled facade, of course. For all my bravado, there was still something of the timid child in me. But the fire I saw in Mrs. Shaw’s eyes told me she was pleased by my boldness.

“Saucy bitch,” she purred, climbing onto the bed to kneel between my legs, her face so close to my sex that I could feel the warmth of her breath caress the moist flesh there. “Keep your eyes open, Doris. Watch me as I lick you.”

And with that, she pressed her mouth into the sparse tuft of hair that adorned my cunny, nuzzling and teasing me for a few brief moments before the wet heat of her tongue seared into me like a fiery brand.

My breath came in tiny, frantic gasps as I watched my lady claim me with her mouth, possessing me, yet also giving as much as she took, bestowing the sweetest of affections upon me. When she tasted me a few days before, I was so deeply enmeshed in the act of pleasuring her that I was scarcely able to truly savour the experience of being kissed and licked in return. Now, though, I was fully focused on my own pleasure as Mrs. Shaw performed this wondrous act, with nought for me to do but gladly receive what she chose to give.

Her tongue wandered up and down, to and fro; then traced a circle round my tight opening before slipping inside again. I moaned as Mrs. Shaw probed me with that wicked, delightful tongue, wielding it like a soft finger inside my body. My hands clutched frantically at the sheets, legs quivering while the fire in my belly expanded, its heat flowing through me like warm honey.

Then her mouth was moving once more, gliding upward, latching onto the throbbing nubbin at the apex of my cunny – that wondrous, fleshy key that unlocked the most powerful feelings of all. A cry broke from me as she rapidly flicked at it with the tip of her tongue.

The very earth seemed to shift as I was consumed by a wave of euphoria, sweeping over me before I was prepared for its arrival. My back arched upward from the bed, and I clenched my fists so tightly the fingernails bit into my palms, leaving small marks there that would remain for the next few days – stigmata borne of true passion. At that particular moment, though, I barely noticed the pain. All I knew was rapture.

And my mistress kept kindling that rapture, stoking the flame with every touch of her lips and tongue, drawing forth more pleasure when it seemed as if there could not possibly be more. Higher and higher she took me, until I could bear it no longer.

“Please, Miss,” I gasped, scarcely able to speak, “please… I c-can’t…”

Mercifully, Mrs. Shaw lifted her mouth from my sex after adorning it with a few final kisses. She swept the golden tresses from her face with a toss of the head, then peered down at me with sparkling eyes while I lay limply, weak as a newborn kitten.

She lay down beside me, her mouth seeking mine, lips sweet and sticky with my juices. Her tongue slipped languidly between my lips to share the taste of our pleasure. I reached up to drape my arms round my lady’s neck as I returned her kiss, our tongues dancing together in a ballet of desire.

Mrs. Shaw gently drew away, then asked the question that I could already read in her eyes. “Will you make love to me, Doris?”

I saw the need in my mistress, burning fiercely in her gaze – and my only thought was of her happiness. Seizing her hand, I pressed my lips to her soft palm, then lifted my face to hers. “Yes, Miss,” I whispered.

She rolled onto her back, her body open to me, waiting. I raised myself to kneel on the bed, heart aflutter at the sight of my lady’s bare beauty. I hungered, thirsted for her.

Her luscious mouth demanded attention, and not wanting to disappoint I bent to kiss her, lightly tracing the lower lip with the tip of my tongue. She sighed with contentment, her lips parting, and I deepened the kiss, my tongue delving inside to meet hers.

I placed a hand upon her breast, her body responding to my touch with a faint quiver. I fondled the soft orb, brushing the nipple to tautness with my fingers, then pinching the tip, causing Mrs. Shaw to gasp in surprise. “Yes,” she breathed, her lips still moving against mine, the word more felt than heard.

Encouraged, I let my hand glide over to her other breast, this time pressing the flesh more firmly. I felt the gallop of her beating heart, and delighted in the realisation of how very excited my lady had become. And yet her tongue did not engage mine as we kissed; her hands remained inert by her side. She simply remained passive, letting me have my way with her.

A flash of excitement surged through me at the realisation. Mrs. Shaw was allowing herself to be taken, offering her virgin partner the chance to assume the role of aggressor.

I began to kiss my way down the landscape of her body, my lips tracing along the neck, pausing at the hollow of my lady’s throat. While I nuzzled her there, my emboldened hand set forth on its own journey, trailing over her belly and beyond. Finding the soft curls that adorned her pubis, my fingers curved to cup Mrs. Shaw’s sex, and I found myself awed anew by the raw heat that pulsed between her thighs.

Her breasts were before me now – soft, pale globes that demanded homage. I parted my lips, drawing a taut nipple between them. She gave a soft moan, her thighs scissoring together as my fingers traced the moist opening. Using touch to learn the music of her body, I found myself eager to discover which notes pleased my mistress the most without causing her to spend too quickly. Meanwhile, my mouth was occupied with her breasts – nursing from each in turn, then kissing the valley between them.

A gasp broke from Mrs. Shaw’s throat as my finger entered her. She stiffened against my touch, then cried, “Doris, please – lick me… taste m-my cunt… I need to feel your mouth on me…”

Lifting my face from her breasts, I slid down to position myself between my lady’s legs, poised there for a moment to drink in the sight of her sex – the fiery pink flesh that glistened so exquisitely. I cocked my head to the side and brought my mouth to it, planting kisses upon her inflamed lips before snaking my tongue out to sample and savour the warm nectar that flowed freely. When I slipped inside she held me against her with trembling hands, fingers tangling in my long brown hair, now loose from the bun I usually wore.

I explored the inside of my lady’s cunny for a while longer, savouring the sharp tang, then began to work my tongue over her once more, bathing the musky flesh with long, leisurely strokes.

“Doris,” she gasped, her voice thick with lust, “p-put your finger inside while you lick me…”

I paused to place a fingertip at the threshold of Mrs. Shaw’s sex, then as my mouth reclaimed her, I pushed the length of a digit into the heat of her vagina with a single fluid motion. She whimpered, a shudder rippling through her thighs. I began to roll my finger around inside her body, still servicing my mistress with my mouth as best I could, despite the way she writhed beneath me.

Her swollen clitoris had emerged from its sheath, a beckoning finger of flesh begging to be sucked. I joyfully obliged, drawing the inflamed node between my lips and circling it with the tip of my tongue.

An ecstatic wail burst from Mrs. Shaw’s throat, her entire frame bucking wildly. “Yes, yes! Oh, my g-gracious… ohhhh!” she cried out, clutching her breasts as she spent in my mouth. I drank deep of my lady’s essence as it flowed from her… a rich, heady vintage that seeped into my very soul.

Finally I felt her hand grip my shoulder. “No more, my s-sweet,” she gasped. “No more…”

I lifted my face from her sex; raised myself to a sitting position. Suddenly shy, I trapped my lower lip between my teeth, feeling timid and unsure as a schoolgirl. I braced for another brusque dismissal, telling myself not to fret, that these lust-driven liaisons were enough to sustain me, and surely more than a mere servant deserved.

But Mrs. Shaw extended a hand to me instead. “Come here, darling,” she crooned, her eyes warm with affection.

I sank into her embrace and she drew me close, arms twining silkily round my back as our damp, naked bodies pressed together. Her mouth sought mine, and we shared a kiss infused with the essence of our mutual pleasure, a kiss not of urgent requirement, but rather acknowledgement, grace; tribute.

We lay together quietly, listening to our twinned heartbeats, my lips touching her neck, her fingers trailing down my back to pause at the cleft of my buttocks. “Exquisite…” she murmured. “Simply exquisite…”

I breathed a sigh of relief and smiled, happy that we were able to lie in one another’s arms like this. “Yes, Miss,” I whispered.

At that, Mrs. Shaw drew back, looking thoughtful as she carefully appraised me. She smiled, lightly brushing my cheek with her fingertips. “Doris… When we’re together this way, I’d like it very much if you’d call me Victoria.”

Stunned, I gawped at my mistress, unsure I had heard her correctly.

“I’m your employer outside the bedroom,” she continued, “but here, we are lovers. Here,” she patted the bed for emphasis, “we are equals. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I replied, my heart and soul instantly alight with a blinding joy. “Yes… Victoria.”

“Good,” she whispered, and we cemented our new accord with a kiss.

And all at once we were there again, our kiss deepening as the heat of passion enveloped us anew.

With nary an inkling to the forbidden places our lust would take us in the months to come.

Soon to come: Chapter Four!


14 Comments on The Loves and Labours of Doris Sloane, Chapter 3

  1. Kim & Sue says:

    Fantastic chapter! ‘cold as a gravediggers bum’ a beautiful description of the late husband by the cook. The growing friend ship with eldest daughter Becky. And the warm moment in the dressing room with Becky and Doris.

    And that so very erotic touch of Doris stripping for her ‘Lady’ and walking nude to the bedroom. And the sex in the bedroom so well written in such great prose. We felt like we were there watching.

    Most intriguing of all, why was that door left ajar? We like to think that Becky was watching. Very eager for the next chapter. This is now a must read for us. Well done lads.

  2. Mystery Mouse says:

    Three chapters down and things are only getting hotter!

    I know I’ve said it before, and I suspect I’ll be saying it yet again, but I really do have to commend the tone of this story. It STILL feels like a period piece – the writing has just the right style to it. Whether it’s the dialogue, the phrasing, the vocabulary, or even just the overall cadence, this feels like it was written at the time.

    And that’s a darned difficult thing to keep going. My everlasting compliments to you both.

    For this chapter, special praise goes to Mrs Broomfield. Perfect accent and perfect phrasing. She’s an absolute delight!

    The sex is truly scintillating as ever. I am very curious how the children will be worked into the naughtier parts of the story – that’s something I’ve seen so many authors fall down on in the past. But I’ll just have to wait for the rest of the story to find out. Darn it.

    Top quality storytelling and top quality erotica. Thank you again for sharing!

  3. Powertenor246 says:

    I really must agree most whole heartedly with Mystery Mouse above. Everything he said, counts for me as well. Except for one thing…I am glad I was reading this story when my housemate was not home. “…you look like a bulldog chewing’ a wasp!” When I read that line, I burst out with a laugh that I am astonished did not bring the roof down upon me! I giggled over that line for a good fifteen or twenty minutes. This is the first story I have read on this site that has done this to me. This is why I am exceedingly glad I found this place and it is one of the permanently open tabs on both my laptop and my kindle.

    See Ya!!!

  4. kinkys_sis says:

    Tension, feelings, apprehension, passion, and all very believable.

    This is the kind of story I enjoy reading when I’m not immersed in some ridiculous adventure.

    Sis says she loves it as well.

  5. Quinlan says:

    This story is very well-written and the characters seem natural in their demeanor and actions. The scene in the changing room was charged with a mix of curiosity and arousal and who knows where that and the open bedroom door later on will lead?

  6. Lacy says:

    I’ve been following from the first chapter, the unending amount of possibilities has my mind swimming. Anxiously awaiting the next installment.

  7. Lisa Taggert says:

    Oh, my! Suz and I were ready for something good, but this story is amazing! I can’t wait until the daughters become involved. I expected someone to be watching from beyond the open door, and so did Suz. We’re going to make love now. Later!

  8. BlueJean says:

    Gracious thanks, pilgrims. May your bodily fluids be copious and flow freely.

    That open door reference seems to have thrown people somewhat. Apart from Doris and Victoria, the house is empty, but I think Victoria is making the point that she wouldn’t much care who sees them anyway. There’s something deliciously wanton about it. Maybe JetBoy has a different interpretation. That said, your assumptions concerning prying eyes and ears (can ears pry?) are not so far from the truth. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves…

  9. JetBoy says:

    Many thanks to you noble souls who took the time to rate this chapter. And triple thanks to them as left comments. Your kind words mean more than I can say.

  10. Duine says:

    Sir, please allow me to congratulate you on the latest (but hopefully not last) chapter of your scintillating tale. As much as I am enjoying the erotica presented it is the burgeoning relationship between Doris and Victoria that I find most captivating. The balance between outright sexual pleasure and building passion is exquisite, the anticipation of pleasures to come is beautifully rendered. More power to your keyboard.

  11. Erocritique says:

    Erotic art. Pure and simple. I have a favorite author on another site who does period pieces, and this rivals her work, which is as high of a compliment as I can give. Really great work guys. And one side note: Don’t leave the damn door open if you don’t want us to invent sexy scenarios that could possibly result from it!!! *chuckles* ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

  12. Dondo says:

    I am enjoying this tale tremendously. The tone of the piece and the story are unfolding nicely and I am looking forward to how it progresses from here, but I can guess. One has to wonder when Chapter 4 will be revealed to us.

  13. Christina K says:

    Where can I find Blue Jean’s story “Girl panties?”
    Loved that story.

    • BlueJean says:

      Little Girl Panties is out of print right now, but after I’ve finished my current story (The Beekeeper’s Lament), I’ve set myself the task of rewriting it under the new title ‘Down the Rabbit Hole’. I’ve already rewritten the first chapter as a tester for JetBoy, who expressed an interest in publishing it here. Rest assured, it’s still unapologetically kinky – I wouldn’t want anyone thinking I was watering it down. Watch this space, or a space in the general vicinity.

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