The House of Lesslie

"You must tell me about it, one of these days," I told him.

"Yes, Ma'am," he said. The lust had won, I could tell. I smiled. Against shame and embarrassment, lust would always win.

"James doesn't just take anyone," I said, letting the words linger with the smoke that came with them, just as a cruel smile had come with them, turning my lips into a knowing sneer. "You should be proud, darling."

"I am aware of that, Ma'am."

"At all times."

"Yes, Ma'am."

I laughed quietly. No, not too many things had changed.

Except me, of course.

II.

James was the first in line, just as he was supposed to be, a mountain of muscles that could not be concealed, not completely, by the butler's uniform that showed off his position in my mother's household. Already in his fifties, his black marbled face had gathered some cracks and wrinkles, the perfectly shaved head from my memories now replaced by a distinguished stubble of white hair.

The crack I loved the most was the smile that split his fleshy lips open as the Rolls came to a halt, his walk still a show of strength and grace, an older panther, still on the prowl.

He opened the door for me, not without subservience, bowing down as I stepped out, my high heeled boots first, before I took his gloved hand, offered as a sign of help, not needed, but certainly appreciated. I snaked my body out of the back of the car, stretching it and looking at all that become mine.

The staff had been neatly placed to the left and right of the mansion's main doors, the maids all neatly dressed and at full attention, their postures rigid, their uniforms black and white and tight all over. There were a dozen of them, and their faces were turned down, their eyes firmly locked onto the ground.

I smiled.

The male staff was easy on the eye, most of them unknown to me, butlers and gardeners and handymen, more than enough to keep the household running smoothly at all times.