BySandra Harris, writer at


Bessie Stoker, the Carfax family’s kitchen maid, brushed her long brown hair as best she could in the one bit of mirror she possessed. It was woefully inadequate and her hair got so tangled, pinned up and stuffed under her kitchen maid’s cap all day long. The huge kitchens were almost unbearably hot in all weathers, even in the colder months. Now that it was April, the days were growing warmer, and soon the kitchens would be too.

Still, Bessie preferred slogging from morning till night as a domestic dogsbody to filling in as personal maid to Lady Athena and Lady Abigail Carfax, Sir Blaise’s two uppity young cousins. They were selfish, lazy, arrogant, oversexed little privileged bitches. There was no other word for the two sisters. Thank goodness they had a new full-time maid now, Sarah Parrish.

Bessie had had to take over the duties of their personal maid when Hester Price killed herself, and she’d hated it with a vengeance. She’d hated them, the pair of vipers. The whole household knew what they were up to with their Cousin Blaise, sneaking in and out of his bed like two filthy Jezebels. Everyone except Sir Blaise’s mother, that was, Lady Grace Carfax. Her Ladyship lived in a world of her own, she did. She never noticed the things that went on right under her nose.

The door to Bessie’s small boxroom opened quietly and someone crept up behind Bessie and grabbed hold of her breasts, bare now beneath her long, voluminous nightgown after the confines of the day. Bessie squealed and whirled round to face the newcomer.

“Terry Fisher!” she scolded. “What have I told you about sneaking up on me like that? And what do you think you’re doing, coming to my bedroom? Do you want us to be caught by Mr. Wilkes or Old Ma Quincey or Mrs. Whitby? You might not need this bleedin’ job but I do!”

“Don’t fret, Bessie,” said Terry, grinning. “The whole house is asleep. There ain’t no-one about, I swear.” Bessie sniffed disbelievingly and sat down on her bed. She knew she would not be able to stay angry at Terry for long. He had such a cheeky grin and endearing manner.

He did not have the handsome, romantic dark looks of Thomas Renfield, her first and only lover so far. In fact, he had red hair and freckles, of all things, both of which commodities had nearly resulted in his not being engaged as the new Carfax family footman after Thomas Renfield died.

But his pleasing manner and willingness to work hard and take instruction had prevailed, and now Terry Fisher, along with his best friend Freddie Francis, were comfortably installed in Richmond House, Terry as footman and Freddie as the new under-coachman. There had been an instant attraction between Bessie and Terry. Some of the other housemaids had joked about how Bessie always fell in love with whoever was the footman of the day. Bessie refused absolutely to comment.

“Come on, Bessie love, give us a kiss,” said Terry now, sitting down beside her on the bed and beginning to massage her left breast. For a moment, Bessie closed her eyes and gave herself up to the wonderful feelings that Terry’s touch aroused in her belly and even lower down than that, in that part of her between her legs that she sometimes touched when she was alone in bed at night. Then she hardened her heart and said:

“You’re wasting your time, Terry Fisher, if you think I’ll lie down for you without a care in the world! If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, I don’t want to end up like Hester Price!” She slapped away Terry’s wandering hands and folded her arms across her chest resolutely.

Hester, who had been Lady Anna’s personal maid before being ordered to skivvy for Lady Abigail and Lady Athena, had been several months pregnant when she hung herself from a beam down in the cellar of Richmond House. She’d done it after her lover, Thomas Renfield- hers and Bessie’s- had been found stone-dead in his bedroom, drained of every drop of his blood.

The whole episode had been horrific. No-one who witnessed the removal of either body to a place of autopsy would ever forget it. It was Bessie who’d found Hester, swinging from a beam in the basement. Her belly had looked enormous in her thin white nightgown. It hadn’t taken anyone in the household long to work out that Hester had been pregnant by Thomas. With Thomas no longer alive to marry her and lift her out of the shame in which she’d become mired, she’d taken the only way out she could think of.

Bessie did not like to think about how easily that could have been her in that shameful situation. The number of times she’d heedlessly lain with Thomas Renfield…! If she’d fallen pregnant, she’d have lost her job and been sent packing, home to her mother Vera in Whitechapel who had seven children younger than Bessie to care for on a seamstress’s wages.

Bessie’s disgrace and the stress and worry of the extra mouth to feed would have killed poor Vera, a deserted wife living in two rundown rooms with her children. Bessie was determined to keep her drawers firmly on in future. If only she didn’t always feel so hot and bothered down there, between her legs…! It was like having a permanent itch or something, that only a man could scratch. It was the bane of her bleedin’ life, that itch. She hadn’t had a lover since the death of Thomas Renfield, and she was beginning to feel the lack of a man in her bed.

“I won’t get you pregnant, I promise, Bessie,” wheedled Terry now. “How could I, when I don’t even expect you to do nothing? We can just take off our clothes and lie together. I could just hold you, and you could hold me too, if you wanted. We don’t have to do nothing you don’t want to do, I swear.” He looked so earnest that Bessie relented.

“Just holding each other?” she said, regarding him suspiciously.

“I swear,” he repeated, looking to Bessie like he was ready to swear on the Bible itself.

“Well, all right, then,” she said, beginning to pull her voluminous nightgown over her head. When they were both naked, huddling together in Bessie’s single bed, she felt the stiffness of his male member poking into her thigh. It seemed the equal of Thomas Renfield’s, at any rate.

“You’re so pretty, Bessie,” Terry said, stroking her loose brown hair and her face. He was breathing all funny, like Thomas Renfield always did when he’d been trying to get Bessie to do the bad thing. Bessie couldn’t help it. Her nipples were stiffening and she was growing moist between her plump white thighs. She felt like she really wanted Terry to put his thing in there. Nonetheless, she tried to remain strong.

“Here, leave off talking all soft-like, will you?” she chided him. “I’ve already told you I’m not having any of it, haven’t I?”

“At least let me do something for you, my sweet pretty Bessie,” said Terry slyly, putting a hand between Bessie’s legs and gently stroking the thick tangle of brown hair that covered her mound. He stroked only the hair at first, so lightly and teasingly that eventually Bessie could stand it no longer. She released the breath she’d been holding in a long shuddery sigh and opened her legs wide.

Terry needed no further invitation. He parted the hairs and found his way to her secret soft centre, that stiff little nub which, when rubbed the right way, turned little kitchen-maids and scullery maids into putty in a footman’s hands. When Bessie’s orgasm came and her plump body was racked with shudders that seemed to travel all the way down to her toes, Terry climbed on top of her and said:

“You’ll let me now, Bessie, won’t you? I won’t go all the way in, I promise. I’ll pull out, I swear. And even if I do knock you up, I’ll take care of you, I promise. I’ll look after you. We’ll get married. We’ll get ourselves a nice little cottage by the sea. We’ll be happy, we will. You, me and the little ‘un. You’ll see. You’ll let me now, won’t you, Bessie?”

His male member was at the entrance to her sex now. It was as hard as rock and damp at the tip. Bessie nodded wordlessly. She wasn’t going to end up like Hester Price, pregnant and unmarried at twenty. She was Bessie Stoker. Hester had been unlucky, that was all. She, Bessie, would not be so unlucky. She would not get caught. She would just do it this one time and that would be that…


This story is a work of fiction and comes (almost!) entirely from the imagination of Sandra Harris. Any resemblance to any persons living or un-dead is purely coincidental.

This story is copyrighted material and any reproduction without prior permission is illegal. Sandra Harris reserves the right to be identified as the author of this story.

Sandra Harris. ©


Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based performance poet, novelist, film blogger, sex blogger and short story writer. She has given more than 200 performances of her comedy sex-and-relationship poems in different venues around Dublin, including The Irish Writers’ Centre, The International Bar, Toners’ Pub (Ireland’s Most Literary Pub), the Ha’penny Inn, Le Dernier Paradis at the Trinity Inn and The Strokestown Poetry Festival.

Her articles, short stories and poems have appeared in The Metro-Herald newspaper, Ireland’s Big Issues magazine, The Irish Daily Star, The Irish Daily Sun and The Boyne Berries literary journal. In August 2014, she won the ONE LOVELY BLOG award for her (lovely!) horror film review blog. She is addicted to buying books and has been known to bring home rain-washed tomes she finds on the street and give them a home.

She is the proud possessor of a pair of unfeasibly large bosoms. They have given her- and the people around her- infinite pleasure over the years. She adores the horror genre in all its forms and will swap you anything you like for Hammer Horror or JAWS memorabilia. She would also be a great person to chat to about the differences between the Director’s Cut and the Theatrical Cut of The Wicker Man. You can contact her at:

[email protected]



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