Maid For My BOSS: A Steamy Boss

Romance, Dark Romance (Boss Series

Book 1) (BOSS: Dark Romance) Mia Hill
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 Maid For My BOSS
A Dark Boss Romance

Mia Hill
Copyright © 2023 Mia Hill

All rights reserved

 Contents

Title Page
Copyright
the naughty step
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
About The Author
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 CHAPTER ONE
My hand had drifted down my bare stomach, over my navel,
and between my sweaty legs, to the warmth of my pussy.
Sleep had been intermittent, and I just needed… it. That
feeling. That release. To calm my nerves. And with those two fingers
disappeared into my wet and pungent twat flaps, that familiar warm
flesh that I loved to feel.
I curled my fingers against my mound, groaning as my other
hand found my nipple and pulled on it, squeezing and teasing.
Fuck yes.
All those first-day nerves sinking away with every curl and
stroke in my cunt, images of cocks, squirting my face with cum…
furry pussy lowering itself into my hungry mouth… tongue licking
every inch of my body.
I’d earned this.
Morning masturbation always sorted me out.
I rolled onto my front and spread my legs, letting a third finger
sneak inside.
Oh fuck, my whole body quivered as I pressed and poled and
my palm massaged my clit. I bit down on my pillow and moaned into
it, feeling beads of sweat roll off my back.
Being single was shit, but I still knew how to get myself off.
The shrill beep of my alarm jolted me out of my fantasy.
So much for beauty rest before my big first day of work.
I fumbled to silence the disruptive noise, squinting against the
sunlight already streaming through my bedroom curtains.
Ugh, morning. Fuck you, so, so much.
I considered hitting snooze and stealing a few more minutes of
fingering, but my eagerness and anxiety about this new cleaning job
overrode my horniness.
I had to make a good first impression on my new employers,
the...Thornes was it?
Sounded like an old-money type of family.
 I rolled out of bed and stood on the cold floor, stretching my
stiff limbs that protested being upright this early.
After a quick shower to revitalise me, washing the slick arousal
from my pussy and fingers, I opened my closet to pick out an outfit
that struck the right balance between professionalism and
approachability.
A floral print blouse and skinny tan combats should do the trick.
Not too formal, not too casual. Ready to get on my knees and work.
In the kitchen, I prepared a small breakfast but barely tasted it
as I reviewed the Thornes’ lengthy list of cleaning instructions.
“Use only lemon-scented products.”
Oddly specific preferences, but hey, it’s their house.
By 7:15 am, I was loading my creaky Honda Civic with supplies
— vacuums, dusters, and scrub brushes galore. I smiled, feeling
prepared and capable.
This job may be demanding, but I was ready to take on the
challenge.
And the pay bump over my last job at the bakery didn’t hurt
either.
With one last check of the Thornes’ address on my phone, I
pulled out of the driveway and headed across town toward the
affluent neighbourhood where my employers apparently resided.
This was it.
Game time.
Let’s get cleaning.
After a twenty-minute drive, I pulled up to the Thornes’ address
— or should I say estate.
My jaw nearly hit the floor taking in the sprawling brick mansion
and immaculately manicured grounds. I triple-checked the house
number. Yep, this was alright.
I suddenly felt underdressed and out of my league.
The other homes along this tree-lined street oozed old-money
sophistication.
Whereas I...well, I oozed my dad’s hand-me-down Honda Civic
that was guzzling oil.
Don’t psych yourself out, Mia.
 I grabbed my supplies and walked up the winding path to the
imposing front door. I double-checked for any instructions from the
Thornes about where to park or enter. All I found was a reminder
about today’s cleaning schedule.
Guess they expected me to figure out the rest.
After an awkward moment of indecision, I tried the ornate door
handle.
Unlocked.
Pushing it open, I stepped into a marble-floored foyer flanked
by a sweeping staircase.
“Hello?” I called tentatively. My voice echoed against the high
ceilings. This place was straight out of a design magazine. And a
little intimidating if I was being honest.
No answer.
Looked like the Thornes were out.
Thank fuck for that — less pressure without anyone watching
me work.
I found my way to the kitchen to set down supplies. The fancy
French press and espresso machine made my convenience store
coffee thermos feel even more inadequate.
Focus, Mia.
Clapping my hands together, I decided to start upstairs and
work my way down. I slipped on rubber gloves and grabbed the
vacuum.
“Alright, Mia,” I muttered under my breath. “Time to get this
show on the road.”
I decided to start my cleaning routine in the kitchen. Might as
well get the heart of the home polished up first. As I filled a bucket
with hot soapy water, I noticed a piece of paper on the granite
countertop.
"Welcome, Mia!" it reads in an elegant, looping script. "We're
delighted to have you cleaning our humble abode."
It was signed "Preston Thorne" with a smiley face. Make that a
winky face, I realised.
I felt my cheeks flush. That was a flirty wink, right? I re-read
the note. Was I reading too much into an innocent welcome
message? Stop overthinking, Mia. But that wink…
What in the actual fuck?!?
I didn't know much about the Thornes yet. The agency had
mentioned the husband was a lawyer named Preston. He was
probably just a friendly, outgoing guy. Maybe winks were his
signature?
Still, something about it seemed suggestive.
The exaggerated swoop of the letters, the abundance of
exclamation points. It had an energy I wasn't expecting.
Don't let your imagination run wild, I told myself.
But I caught my reflection in the chrome refrigerator and
realised I was grinning like an idiot. There was something exciting
about this flirtatious introduction from my new employer, and my
recently fingered pussy was starting to salivate.
Focus, Mia. Shit!
I filled my bucket in the sink, adding a lemon-scented cleaner
per the Thornes’ instructions. As I scrubbed the granite countertops,
I kept glancing back at the note.
Should I say something if I run into Preston?
Thank him for the nice welcome?
Make it clear I'm not interested in anything unprofessional?
Ugh, so fucking awkward.
I was probably reading too much into a simple friendly gesture.
Still, that wink lingered in my mind, sparking my curiosity about the
man behind the message.
Okay Mia, I thought, spraying down the gleaming kitchen island.
Only one way to find out what the deal is with Mr Thorne. Time to
get to work.
 CHAPTER TWO
After tidying up the kitchen, I moved to the living room,
grabbing my duster. I had to pause for a minute to take in the high
ceilings, crown moulding, and lavish furnishings.
This room alone was nearly the size of my entire apartment!
I noticed signs of life among the interior design magazine-
worthy scene - a quilt draped on the sofa, a well-worn recliner, and a
pile of books on the antique coffee table.
Good, real people lived here.
I swept the duster over picture frames and shelves, working
carefully around the crystal vases and other breakables that seemed
strategically placed to taunt clumsy maids like myself.
As I leaned to dust underneath an end table, the front door
suddenly banged open, making me bump my head. "Ow!" I yelped,
nearly toppling into a precarious tower of books.
"Oh no! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."
I turned to see a tall man with salt and pepper hair hovering in
the foyer, looking a little sheepish. He wore a tailored suit and held a
leather briefcase, and had that weathered, exhausted but handsome
type of face.
He was pretty cute.
"You must be Mr Thorne," I said, hoping I looked more pulled
together than I felt.
"Please, call me Preston." He smiled. "And again, my apologies
for the rude entrance. I was rushing in from a morning meeting and
didn't expect to find someone...in that position."
I realised I was still bent over from dusting, my ass cheeks
stretching my combats, my fat pussy lips swallowing as much of
them as they could.
Shit.
Great first impression, Mia.
What a sight it must have been for him.
 I quickly straightened up, feeling my cheeks flush. "No worries
at all. I should have been paying more attention."
Preston chuckled, moving farther into the living room. "Well, it's
still my fault for not announcing myself properly." His eyes flicked
over me. "You must be Mia, the new cleaner."
I nodded, willing my embarrassment to fade. "That's me. It's
nice to meet you, Preston."
He smiled again. "The pleasure is mine."
I tried to return to my dusting as Preston settled on the sofa
with his newspaper.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him flip through the
pages. He had a distinguished salt-and-pepper beard and sharp
jawline for a man his age.
I wondered what else he was hiding under that suit…
Focus, Mia, I scolded myself, forcing my attention back to the
shelves lined with antique vases and ornamental plates.
After a few minutes, I leaned down to dust under a side table.
As I did, Preston suddenly stood up from the couch, clearly not
noticing me bent over behind him.
He took a step back and bumped right into me, and I felt his
firm ass cheeks knock me. I lost my balance and toppled sideways
into an armchair, just barely avoiding crashing into the floor.
“Oh my god, Mia! I'm so sorry!” Preston cried, rushing over. “Are
you alright?”
“I'm fine!” I said quickly, straightening up and smoothing my
shirt, hoping I didn't look as frazzled as I felt. “Just clumsy on my
part.”
“Please, it was entirely my fault.” Preston leaned in close, his
brow furrowed with concern. “Did I hurt you at all?”
“No, not at all,” I assured him.
Was that a hint of aftershave I smelled? Something woodsy and
warm. It made my nostrils feel warm and the hairs on the back of
my neck stand on end.
Preston exhaled with relief. “I just didn't see you there. Though
I should have been more aware of your… presence...”
 He trailed off, gazing at me intently. Was he standing closer
than necessary?
I noticed his eyes drift down the nap of my neck, over my perky
little breasts wrapped like a gift in my shirt, and down my legs.
His eyes were like a heat ray, each part of my body feeling the
heat when his eyes hovered over it.
Tan combats were not the best if my pussy started dripping with
arousal. I had to cool off.
“Such a lovely perfume you're wearing,” he added after a pause.
“Oh, uh, thanks,” I stammered. Why did he seem nervous all of
a sudden? “It's just my body spray, nothing fancy.”
“It suits you.” He smiled slightly. “Forgive me, I should let you
get back to your work.”
Preston returned to the couch, sneaking glances at me as I
dusted. I could feel his eyes following my every move. What was
going on with him?
I tried to stay on task.
But… I kind of liked being watched.
I tried to focus on my dusting, but I could feel Mr Thorne's gaze
following my every move.
Each time I glanced over, he'd pretend to be engrossed in his
newspaper.
But the moment I looked away, his eyes would be right back on
me.
He was checking me out—no question about it. I saw him
craning his neck to get a better view each time I bent over to reach
a low shelf or table.
Should I give him a better view?
Try and spread my ass cheeks wider?
Pull my combats for a bigger camel toe?
Maybe even give him a sneak peek at my underwear somehow?
Stop it! Act normal, Mia. I made a show of being completely
absorbed in my work, all while watching him watch me out of the
corner of my eye.
This was getting awkward.
And my nipples were beginning to harden.
 “This is a lovely bookshelf,” I remarked, trying to cut through
the thick tension. “You have quite the collection.”
“Oh yes, I’m quite the bibliophile,” Preston replied with a polite
smile. “Let me know if you need any books moved while you dust.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
I continued working, feeling his gaze following my backside as I
wiped down the bookshelf. This was ridiculous.
Should I say something?
Tell him to stop ogling me?
You’re imagining things, Mia. Don’t embarrass yourself by
accusing your employer of leering at you, I reasoned. Even if he
blatantly was.
I noticed Preston peeking over again as I stretched to reach a
high shelf. Our eyes accidentally met and he averted his gaze
quickly, a flush creeping up his neck.
Busted.
My face grew hot. I wasn’t sure if I was more annoyed or
turned on by his attention. Maybe both. But I wasn’t about to let it
mess with my job.
“Well, the living room is all dusted,” I announced brightly,
collecting my supplies. “I’ll tackle the bedrooms next. Let me know if
you need anything.”
I didn’t wait for a response before hurrying out. As I climbed
the stairs, I felt his eyes following me once again. This man was not
as subtle as he thought.
He stood and watched me go upstairs at the doorway.
I turned and gave another polite smile, only to see the outline
of a long, thick cock in his trousers.
The sight of just the outline sent my clit wild and I suddenly felt
that familiar ache, the ache that always gets me in trouble. All I
could think about was rushing down the stairs and rubbing that cock
hard until he decorated my face with thick mature old-money cum…
Fuck.
Not again Mia. Don’t do this again!
 CHAPTER THREE
After the awkward encounter with Mr Thorne, or Preston as he
liked me to call him, I was relieved to escape to the second-floor
guest bedrooms that needed tidying.
I could still feel his gaze following me as I hurried up the stairs.
Part of me wanted to pull my combats down and let some of my
cheeks get some air, show him what he so clearly wanted to see.
Focus, Mia.
I did my best to lose myself in making the beds and scrubbing
the bathrooms.
But my mind kept wandering back to Mr Thorne's wandering
eyes. Was he just a harmless flirt, or was there something more
going on?
The thick long shape pressing against his tailored trousers from
the inside suggested it was the latter.
And I couldn't help but wonder what it looked like in the flesh…
The jangling of the front doorbell interrupted my spiralling
thoughts.
I could hear women's voices chatting excitedly downstairs. That
must be Mrs Thorne
I should go introduce myself, I thought. I didn't want to seem
like I was hiding. After giving myself a quick pep talk in the mirror, I
headed for the stairs.
“Oh my goodness, you must be Mia!” a melodic voice exclaimed
before I even reached the bottom. A petite woman with short blond
hair stood in the foyer, laden with shopping bags.
She was stunning, with the help of some filler and plenty of free
time for the gym it appeared.
But she was.
She was smooth, tanned, and toned, with large tight breasts to
match her juicy smile and high cheekbones.
She looked too hot to cheat on.
 "We're so delighted to have you help us out,” she gushed,
rushing forward to envelop me in an unexpected hug. “I’m Bitsy
Thorne, Preston’s better half.”
I awkwardly returned the embrace. Bitsy's enthusiasm was
certainly friendlier than her husband's ogling.
But the hug was nice, with her firm tits pressed against mine
and her skin that smelled like Sex On The Beach and expensive
perfume.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs Thorne,” I replied politely.
“Oh nonsense, call me Bitsy!” She squeezed my arm. “Any friend
of Preston's is a friend of mine.”
I smiled.
Did she know about her husband's flirtatious behaviours? Did
she know he had a hard-on while he watched my butt make its way
upstairs?
Better to stay mum for now.
“Well, I’ll let you get settled back home,” I said. “Just let me
know if you need any help with anything.”
“You’re a doll.” Bitsy beamed. “I just know we’re going to get
along deliciously.”
I nodded and made my escape back upstairs as she chattered
away.
What an odd couple the Thornes were shaping up to be.
This cleaning job might prove more interesting than I'd
anticipated.
I managed to avoid the Thornes for a little while as I finished up
the bedrooms.
The spare bedroom was bland and ordinary, but their bedroom,
well…
On what I guess was Bitsy’s side of the bed, on the bedside
cabinet, were two recently used butt-plugs, that familiar smell of
sweating that comes from spending time inside an asshole still
pungent on there.
I wasn't one to judge.
I fucking loved anal, and rarely didn’t have a butt plug in
myself!
 But they knew I was coming. And left it clearly on display.
Unwashed.
What were they playing at?
Just as I was gathering my supplies to start at the home office,
I heard Bitsy calling my name enthusiastically.
"Mia! Come down here this instant!"
I hesitantly made my way downstairs, wondering if I was in
trouble.
Maybe they caught me sniffing and gently licking her butt plug…
"There you are!" Bitsy exclaimed as I entered the kitchen. She
was seated at the island, an open bottle of white wine and two
glasses before her. "I insist you take a break and join me for a
drink."
"Oh, I shouldn't..." I protested weakly, eyeing the cleaning tasks
still on my schedule.
"Nonsense, it's just one quick glass." She patted the stool next
to her. "We simply must get to know each other better."
I reluctantly took a seat, not wanting to seem rude on my first
day. Bitsy filled the wine glasses generously and slid one to me.
"So tell me all about yourself," she prompted before taking a
long sip of wine. "Any juicy sins in your past?"
I giggled nervously. "Um, not really. Just work hard, stay
afloat..."
"And what about men?" Bitsy pried with a conspiratorial grin.
"Any romantic prospects for a gorgeous girl like you?"
"Oh, not at the moment." I gulped wine to buy time.
Bitsy seemed nice enough but her probing questions were
getting personal fast.
"Well, that just won't do!" She waved her glass dramatically. "A
pretty young thing like you should have suitors lined up around the
block. Your smile, your tits, your peachy butt!"
I smiled tightly, unsure how to respond.
I ended up indulging in more gossip and wine with Bitsy than I
intended.
She refilled our glasses repeatedly as we chatted and laughed.
 I had to admit, her bubbly, outgoing personality was endearing,
even if her probing questions kept me on my toes.
And she was just so good to look at, especially as she loosened
up and drew my attention to her bulging breasts, and the warmth
between her toned legs…
"Well aren't you just the sweetest thing," Bitsy crooned,
touching my arm frequently. "We're going to be close friends, I can
already tell."
"You're too kind," I said with an uncomfortable laugh, as her
fingertips glided with a feather touch across my knee, and ever-so-
slightly up my thigh.
The further she graced up my thigh, the more my clit swelled,
the wetter my hungry pussy became, and the more likely I was to
fuck up.
Shit!
"Nonsense, I have exquisite taste in friends," Bitsy proclaimed.
"And you, my dear, are simply delectable."
I smiled politely, taking another sip. Bitsy was
certainly...friendly. But why was she fawning all over me so much?
We'd just met.
"You know, Preston never hires female cleaners," she remarked,
refilling my glass again. "But I insisted he makes an exception for
you after the agency sent us your details and… picture."
She gave me an odd smile I couldn't quite interpret. I felt her
stocking-clad foot brush against my ankle under the counter.
Must be an accident, I figured.
But I didn’t want it to be.
I wanted her to take that foot and massage my clit with it.
Maybe slip a toe or two inside my sloppy flaps…
"Well I appreciate you giving me the opportunity," I said.
Was she sitting closer now? I could smell that Sex On The
Beach cocktail on her warm, wet breath as it skimmed my lips.
"Of course, of course." Bitsy absently twirled her necklace chain
around her finger. "We just couldn't pass up someone so..." Her eyes
darted down my frame. "Qualified."
 I had to get out of this before the temptation to kiss her and
become unemployed again got too much.
I stood abruptly, the wine making me sway slightly. "I should
get back to work," I announced. "The office won't clean itself!"
I thought I saw a flicker of disappointment in Bitsy's eyes.
Or was I imagining things?
Either way, it was past time I exited before I started kissing the
nape of her neck down to those big round nipples that I could see
through her dress.
"Of course, don't let me keep you." Bitsy's bubbly demeanour
returned instantly. "We'll have to pick this up again soon. I enjoyed
our little chat."
I nodded uneasily and made my escape, feeling her watch me
as I went.
The gaze of her eyes made my pussy swell and ache, I wanted
to reach back and spread my ass cheeks and let her enter me and
make me scream, and then maybe Preston could come and release
that monster under his trousers and fuck my face and…
Shit! Fuck! No, Mia!
 CHAPTER FOUR
After my odd wine date with Bitsy, I decided to tackle the spare
bedroom to avoid any more awkward and arousing encounters with
the Thornes.
I was still puzzled by Bitsy's over-the-top flirting. Was it just
eccentric rich people's behaviour, or was there more to it?
I started carefully making the large four-poster bed with its
numerous throw pillows.
As I smoothed the comforter, a piece of paper fluttered to the
floor.
Curious, I picked it up. Elegant handwriting filled the page:
“Her hair shines like spun gold
Her smile makes the dawn jealous
How I ache to caress her peaches and cream skin
To inhale her sweet jasmine scent
This siren has captured me, heart and soul”
A love poem.
In the spare bedroom.
Who was it for? Who was it about?
About me?
My pulse quickened. Surely this romantic little thing wasn't
referring to plain old Mia.
I was just dressed down, sweating from cleaning, and this was
the first time they’d even met me. Except, Bitsy said she’d seen my
photo from the agency.
And my golden hair and perfume did match the description
eerily well...
I peeked around guiltily as if the author might emerge at any
moment. Should I put it back and pretend I never saw it?
What the fuck was going on here?
The poem wasn't signed. The handwriting didn't match the flirty
note from Preston. Could Bitsy have written these passionate words?
No, impossible.
 Maybe I was misreading the meaning entirely?
Anyway, back to work.
The library was next on my cleaning list.
I loved this room as soon as I stepped inside, with its cosy
ambience and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves brimming with well-worn
titles.
As I dusted the shelves, I daydreamed about curling up on the
leather armchair by the fire and losing myself in a smutty novel.
Some of these books looked like dirty classics..
While reorganising a shelf, a sheet of paper fluttered out of an
ornate copy of Pride and Prejudice. I picked it up curiously. More
old-fashioned script filled the page. It appeared to be a letter
addressed to "My Filthy Whore."
Oh my god.
That’s an escalation…
I knew I shouldn't snoop, but I couldn't help skimming the spicy
phrases:
"Your laugh turns me on so much..."
"I love it when you stick your tongue deep in my ass..."
"Spit in my fucking mouth you filthy whore..."
I smiled but also felt an agonising twinge between my legs.
This was not meant for my eyes. Which made it even hotter
somehow.
It seemed one of the Thornes had tucked a sexy letter into this
book for safekeeping. Probably hoping the other would find it and it
would trigger a little fuck-session. I shouldn't invade their privacy by
reading further, I thought.
But the butt plug, the flirting, the poem, the dirty message…
What a first day this was turning out to be!
Gently folding the letter, I slipped it back between the
weathered pages.
Whoever the author was, their filthy words showed how deeply
they wanted to fuck the living shit out of this mystery person. I felt
so turned on thinking about it, like they were describing some kind
of kindred spirit.
I often thought of myself as a filthy whore.
 It wasn’t something I was ashamed of, even if my mouth, pussy
and ass seemed to get me into trouble.
Dusting finished, I pushed my cleaning cart towards the door,
casting one last curious glance back at the bookshelf.
The Thornes' home seemed to hold more sexy secrets than I
realised.
As I cleaned the main floor, I tried to shake the discovery of that
hidden kinky letter from my thoughts. It wasn't my business,
however tempting the contents were. Time to focus on the tasks at
hand.
But…
Who was “the filthy whore”?
Two in the house, including me?
That was a recipe for unemployment for me.
The more I thought about it, about Bitsy finding it, as she
paraded herself around the house with the butt plug stretching her
sphincter, her pussy dripping wet, her nipples standing hard and
firm, then finding me and sliding her butt plug out and letting me
taste it while she filled my cunt with her fingers, the more out of
control I felt.
I knew I had a problem.
And the Thorne’s were making it worse.
Arousal had started soaking through my combats.
Oh no…
 CHAPTER FIVE
I was vacuuming the foyer when Mr Thorne emerged from his
study.
"Good afternoon, Mia," he greeted me with a smile. "I apologise
for interrupting your work, but I was hoping you could assist me
with something. Would you come to take a look?"
I turned off the vacuum. "Of course, how can I help?"
"Please, follow me."
I trailed Mr Thorne up the stairs to a room I hadn't entered yet -
his private study.
He held the door open for me.
"Watch your step please."
I moved cautiously into the dimly lit room lined with
bookshelves and antique furnishings. The heavy drapes were drawn,
giving the space an intimate feel that made me a little horny.
Did he bring me up here to have his wicked way with me?
Did I want that?
Did I want his cock deep inside me, thrusting…
…In…
…Out…
…In…
"I have a small art collection I keep in here," Mr Thorne
explained, gesturing to a wall of paintings. "Some of these pieces
are quite valuable. I need advice on the proper way to clean them."
I scanned the artwork:
Every painting was of tangled but beautiful naked bodies, men,
women, both, contorting and posing and…oh my god…fucking.
He gazed at me, clearly looking for a reaction.
"I see. Well, oil paintings need to be approached gently," I
advised. "I'd start by dusting the frames lightly with a soft brush to
avoid damaging the canvas."
Mr Thorne nodded thoughtfully. "Here, let me show you what I
mean."
 He selected a still life of a buxom blonde, squeezing her breasts,
in a heavy frame, and carried it nearer. I tensed as he positioned
himself close beside me in the cramped space to point out details on
the painting.
His warm breath on my neck.
His hardness hinted at itself through our clothes.
I clenched my butt cheeks, and he grew harder. I don’t even
know why I did it.
I tried focusing on his instructions but felt distracted…
Fuck me, Mr Thorne. Bend me over and violate me.
"Does that help explain the type of care these require?" he
asked, gazing down at me intently.
"Yes, I understand now," I assured him with a polite smile,
hoping it didn't look like a grimace.
I had no idea what he had said.
My pussy was whispering to me. And that’s all I heard.
Mr Thorne gestured to a large painting on the far wall. "Let me
show you this particular piece," he said, moving nearer. "It's an
original work by a local artist."
I took a cautious step closer, very aware of the scant distance
between our bodies in the enclosed area.
Focus on the art, I told myself.
Which did not help, as the art was all fucking hot as fuck.
"You see the texture he achieved with the brush strokes," Mr
Thorne noted, shifting even closer as he pointed his finger at a
splayed pussy. I felt his arm graze mine and had to fight the urge to
graze over his hard-on.
Don't be silly, Mia.
He's just trying to show you the painting. The painting of a…
pussy. I kept my eyes fixed on the artwork, hoping my hammering
heart didn't betray my nerves.
"What do you think?" Mr. Thorne asked. I turned to find his face
mere inches from mine. My pulse quickened as he met my gaze with
an unreadable expression. It would’ve taken me barely a second to
make our lips meet.
"It's lovely," I managed. "You have an impressive collection."
 I took a small step to the side to subtly increase the space
between us.
Had to stay professional. No matter what.
"Why thank you," he replied. "I'd love to show you some of my
other favourites if you have time."
"I wish I could, but I should get back on schedule..." I edged
carefully around him towards the door.
My eyes glanced towards the tent in his pants.
I was sure he caught me, a wry grin curling on his face.
"Of course, my apologies for delaying your work." Was it my
imagination, or did he sound vaguely disappointed? "Perhaps
another time."
"Definitely," I said lightly, exiting with as much composure as I
could muster. I didn't relax until I was halfway down the hall, his
muffled gaze no longer following my every step.
Fuck these freaks made my clit throb.
Could I resist all this every day?
I hurried downstairs after the odd encounter with Mr Thorne,
hoping to avoid any more testing situations. But as I passed by the
study to collect my cleaning supplies, I heard footsteps behind me.
"Just what do you think you're doing?" a voice demanded.
I whirled around to see Mrs Thorne in the doorway, arms
crossed, glaring between me and her husband.
"Bitsy, dear, I was simply asking Mia's advice about properly
caring for the artwork," Mr Thorne explained calmly.
"Oh, I'm sure that's all it was," Mrs Thorne replied, her tone
dripping with scepticism.
I shifted awkwardly, wanting to vanish on the spot. "I should be
going now..."
"No, stay right there, young lady." Mrs Thorne fixed me with a
piercing look. "I want to know exactly what's going on between you
and my husband."
"Nothing!" I insisted, mortified. "He was just showing me some
paintings in his study, that's all."
Mrs Thorne raised one eyebrow. "His paintings? His “tasteful
paintings”? And you expect me to believe you didn't notice him
making eyes at you the entire time?"
"Honey you've got it all wrong," Mr. Thorne implored.
I felt my face turn scarlet. "I promise, he didn't do anything.
Please, may I be excused?"
Mrs Thorne pursed her lips, eyes flicking between us
suspiciously. "Fine, go on then."
I practically fled down the hall, cringing at her bark of "We'll
discuss this later, Preston!" before the study door slammed shut.
I was so fucking confused.
Was I that much of a sex addict that I was hallucinating all the
signals they both sent me all day?
 CHAPTER SIX
I retreated downstairs, but couldn't tune out the sound of the
Thornes arguing bitterly behind the closed study door.
"I always knew you had eyes for that little slut!" Mrs Thorne's
shrill voice carried through the hall. “Ever since we saw that little
picture on the agency website. You were so insistent on Mia!”
"For heaven's sake, Bitsy," Mr Thorne replied in an exasperated
tone. "I was simply asking her professional opinion on caring for the
paintings. Nothing happened."
"Oh please, I saw the way you were ogling her!" Mrs Thorne
shot back. "Sneaking off alone together to your private little love
nest! You want to fuck her, don’t you?"
I cringed, wishing I could evaporate on the spot. This was so
mortifying.
But I also wanted to hear his answer.
"You're being utterly absurd," Mr Thorne said.
Mrs Thorne made a derisive noise. "Yes, you've made that quite
clear with all your secret notes and dirty letters lately!"
Secret notes? Dirty letters? I froze, realising she must have
found one of the hidden love letters.
Were they...meant for her?
Of course, they were. What was I thinking?
"There's no reasoning with you when you're like this," Mr
Thorne said. I heard the study door wrench open and his footsteps
come down the hall.
"Don't you walk away from me!" Mrs Thorne yelled after him.
"We're going to get to the bottom of your wandering eye if it's the
last thing I do!"
A door slammed, shaking the walls.
I slumped against the counter, letting out a shaky breath.
What was I in the middle of here?
I stood frozen for a moment after the Thrones' blowout, my
stomach knotted. This was all my fault. I never should have let Mr
Thorne lure me to his study alone.
How could I have been so naïve?
I was going to lose another fucking job!
The sounds of the Thornes still yelling echoed through the halls.
I had to get out of here.
Hands shaking, I hastily threw my cleaning supplies into my
cart. I couldn't bear to be in this house another minute with tensions
running so high. I felt like a foolish interloper caught in a lover's
quarrel.
Wheeling the cart quietly towards the front door, I prayed I
could slip out unnoticed while the Thornes continued their fiery feud
elsewhere.
The last thing I wanted was to get dragged even deeper into
their drama.
It wasn't fun anymore.
I cracked the door open, cringing as it creaked loudly on its
hinges. Don't look back, just go. Gripping the cart tightly, I scurried
outside and pulled the door shut behind me.
My heart was pounding wildly even once I reached the
sanctuary of my car.
Starting the engine, I peeked back apprehensively at the
looming house.
What if they saw me flee the scene of the crime?
But the Thornes' bedroom curtains were suddenly wide open.
I peered closer.
There was movement.
And suddenly the palms of a pair of hands hit the window from
inside the bedroom, and I could see what was happening:
The Thorne’s, they were fucking.
Bitsy was against the window, her heaving tits hanging out over
her dress and bouncing as Preston rammed her from behind,
slapping her ass as he did.
I wasn’t close enough to see too much.
But I did notice a crooked smile on Bitsy as her man pounded
her.
The smile was aimed at me.
 I… Was this a game?
Was all that an act?
Why?
I sped away down the winding driveway.
My mind raced as I drove home, replaying the bizarre incidents
from my day cleaning the Thornes' house.
The dirty notes, the unnecessary touching, the not-so-subtle
innuendos...
Were they competing for my attention the whole time?
Were they testing me?
At first, I'd chalked it all up to harmless flirtation and
friendliness.
I grimaced, thinking back on every charged interaction.
Bitsy insisting I stop working to gossip over wine.
Preston "accidentally" bumping into me while I dusted.
Them watching me when they thought I wasn't looking.
I liked that part. I don’t know why. I felt… like I was… like my
body was humming when they watched me work.
And I liked watching them fuck.
No. Stop.
From now on, I resolved to be unfailingly professional. No more
accepting wine invitations or alone time with either of them. They
were just another client, regardless of whatever fucked up sex
games were at play in their marriage.
But I knew I had to fuck myself as soon as I got back to the
apartment, I was so far beyond horny.
 CHAPTER SEVEN
Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
I pulled up to the Thornes' house for my next cleaning day.
After the drama surrounding me last time, I was determined to
avoid any tempting invitations or compromising situations with either
of them.
Strictly business today.
I knocked on the front door, rocking on my heels as I awaited
an answer.
To my relief, it was Bitsy who greeted me with her usual bubbly
demeanour. No lingering awkwardness over her accusations, or the
sexual performance she did for me.
"Mia, darling! So wonderful to see you again." She air-kissed my
cheeks. "Come in, come in."
No, it was still awkward.
I smiled tightly. "Morning, Mrs Thorne. I'll just get started on my
cleaning routine."
I collected my supplies and headed purposefully upstairs before
she could engage me in any distracting chitchat.
So far so good.
After quickly tidying the bedrooms, with no sign of a butt plug
or dirty letter anywhere, I hesitated outside the closed door of Mr
Thorne's study.
Should I risk cleaning there?
Better to skip it just in case.
Safely in the kitchen, I was scrubbing the sink when Mr Thorne
strolled in, humming under his breath. Clearly, somebody was happy
after some nice doggy-style sex with his wife. I braced myself.
"Good day, Mia!" He greeted me jovially. "How are you finding
the housekeeping so far?"
"Just fine, thank you," I answered brusquely, focusing on my
work.
 Mr Thorne lingered, as if waiting for me to say more. I kept
scouring the sink, avoiding eye contact. Finally, I heard him shuffle
out, sounding almost dejected.
What did he want me to say?
Thanks for the show?
I exhaled, relieved.
If I kept my exchanges brief, this just might work. Now I just
needed to power through the day without getting pulled into any of
the Thornes' kinky games.
But that would be so boring.
I managed to avoid Mr Thorne for a while as I cleaned the main
floor. But I should have known he wouldn't make it easy to brush
him off completely.
I was dusting the living room when he appeared in the doorway,
leaning against the frame in what I suppose he thought was a
casual, charming stance.
And he watched me.
It felt… nice.
And naughty.
I didn’t want him to stop.
Did I owe him a show in return now, was that how it worked?
"The place is looking spotless, Mia," he commented with a smile
that looked slightly strained. "You do such meticulous work."
"Thank you," I replied briskly, moving to dust the bookshelves
across the room from him.
Mr Thorne followed, hovering nearby as I worked. "I apologise
again for that awkward incident yesterday," he said. "I hope you
know I think the world of you. Both of us actually."
I suppressed an eye roll.
No wet pussy today, Mia.
Behave yourself.
"No need to apologise. Let's just forget it happened."
Forget you fucking in front of me, yeah easy.
I shifted to dust another shelf, but Mr Thorne side-stepped into
my path again. "Please, allow me," he murmured, taking the duster
from my hand.
 Our fingers grazed and he held my gaze for a moment too long
before clearing his throat and pretending to dust haphazardly.
Oh, god.
It wasn’t over.
"You missed a spot there," I pointed out, grabbing the duster
back. "I've got this covered, but thanks."
Mr Thorne's face fell slightly. "Of course. Well, do let me know if
you require any...assistance."
"Will do." I gave him a sarcastic smile before turning my back.
Take a hint already.
I heard him shuffle out and had to stifle a smug grin.
Message received: this housekeeper was here to work, not fuck.
Now, on to the next room…
I tried to continue my cleaning duties, but it was inevitable that
Mrs Thorne would make her attempts at engaging me.
I was scrubbing the bathroom sink when she appeared in the
doorway, casually nibbling a cherry.
Looking stunning.
Shit.
"Working hard as always, I see," she purred, leaning against the
frame. I sensed Mr Thorne hovering behind her, watching.
Both watching me.
"Just trying to be thorough," I replied.
"Mm, I can tell." She dragged her gaze over me slowly. I
shifted, focusing intently on scrubbing a stubborn spot.
Mrs Thorne wandered closer, perching on the edge of the tub
near me. "We should chat more again," she said, touching my arm
lightly. "I did enjoy our private little moment together."
Every time I looked at her, all I could see was her smiling at me
as her husband's cock thrusts in and out of her.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Mr Thorne bristle in the
hallway. Mrs. Thorne noticed too and leaned in even closer to me.
"Do you mind us watching you clean, Mia?" She reached out
and gently tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, holding my gaze
pointedly.
Her fingers lingered on my face longer than expected.
 I pulled back and cleared my throat. "Well, no. Not really. It’s…
quite… I should be getting back to this sink..."
Mrs Thorne sighed, rising slowly. "Pity. We'll have to pick up
where we left off another time." She shot a knowing look at her
husband before sauntering past him.
I scrubbed the sink vigorously.
I glanced over my shoulder, to see Mr Thorne leering directly at
my ass. And the feel of his eyes on my rear, made my asshole
pucker, like a hungry little fish, gasping for air, gasping for food.
This job felt like it was going to end with me gaping, one
way or the other.
 CHAPTER EIGHT
I was relieved when my cleaning tasks were finally complete
and I could make my escape from the Thornes' steamy drama.
But as I went to grab my purse, they suddenly appeared in the
foyer, blocking my exit.
"Mia dear, do you have a moment to chat before you go?" Bitsy
asked with a cheerful tone that seemed forced.
"Oh, well I should be..." I trailed off at their expectant looks.
They weren't taking no for an answer.
"Wonderful!" Bitsy gripped my elbow and steered me to the
living room couch, sitting on one side of me while Preston occupied
the other.
I perched stiffly on the edge of the cushion.
I felt like I was being stalked by velociraptors.
"It seems there's been a misunderstanding between us,"
Preston began solemnly. "We recognize we may have made
you...uncomfortable with our interactions as of late."
I blinked, surprised by this acknowledgement. "Oh. Well, I
appreciate you saying that."
"Yes, looking back, we should have been more clear about our
intentions from the start," Bitsy added. She looked at her husband
pointedly. "About our mutual intentions."
I felt my cheeks flush, realising where this might be going.
I was right.
I knew I was.
"You see, darling, we have a rather...progressive marriage."
Bitsy patted my knee with a coy smile. "We thought you were
interested in a…in a… a more intimate arrangement between the
three of us."
My eyes nearly popped out of my skull.
They thought I wanted a threesome?!
"I...you...what?" I finally stammered, my face burning. "You
thought I wanted to...with both of you?"
 Bitsy laughed lightly. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about,
darling! We're all open-minded adults here. It’s just... You are very
sexy, especially when you are cleaning, and you are… sweaty. We
both are very taken with you”.
She and Preston shared a knowing smile that made me want to
sink into the cushions and disappear.
And then rise back up with no clothes on ready to be ravaged.
And yet, I needed a job. Just a job.
Rent wouldn’t pay itself.
"I'm flattered," I managed weakly. "But that type
of...arrangement would be completely inappropriate."
Preston raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure? We thought the
attraction was quite mutual."
I shook my head, shrinking against the couch. "You're my
employers. My role here is strictly as your housekeeper."
Bitsy waved a hand. "Labels and roles are so boring. Can't we
all just enjoy each other's company? After all, you enjoy us watching
you clean. It would just make it more fun!"
"I'm sorry, but I could never...get involved with clients that
way," I insisted, although they seemed undeterred.
"We understand this is rather sudden." Preston stood and pulled
Bitsy up with him. "Take time to consider it. The offer stands."
"We're so eager to get better acquainted," Bitsy said as she
trailed a finger lightly along my arm.
I shifted away from their attempted caresses. "As I said, I'm
flattered, but it just wouldn't be appropriate," I replied evenly.
"Are you sure about that?" Bitsy pouted dramatically. "We could
show you such a good time..."
"I have no doubt, but my answer is still no, thank you." I stood
abruptly. "Now I really must be going."
I darted for my car.
For fucks sake, what was I doing? This was exactly what I’d
been fantasising about, the reason my nipples were so hard it hurt,
the reason my clit throbbed so hard it ached, the reason my pussy
was so wet I could drown.
But I was driving away from it.
 Like a real, mature woman.
A boring fucking woman.
I wanted them so bad. I’d never had sex with a couple before.
And they wanted me!
I was so torn…
 CHAPTER NINE
I tossed and turned all night.
Fuck.
It had been so hard not to slide my fingers into my pussy as
Bitsy and Preston- I mean Mr and Mrs Thorne, made their
proposition to me.
Did I want it?
To be shared between two sexy, horny…
Oh shit! SHIT.
Why was I denying myself? Why was I denying what my slick
folds were telling me?
The shrill beep of my alarm jolted me out of my debauched
fantasy.
Why was I so torn over this?
They wanted me. I wanted them. And who said it would mean I
would lose my job? I could still clean for them.
Afterwards.
Should I? Can I?
Yes.
Fuck it.
This was who I was.
I entered the Thorne’s house, a sense of anticipation tingling
beneath my skin.
I was really doing this.
Dressed provocatively, my outfit left little to the imagination,
designed to entice and tease. I wanted them to see my intentions.
My tight little cleavage. My toned legs. My lickable ass cheeks, just
peeking out of the bottom of my shorts.
Subtlety was over.
Fuck the pretense.
The slow-build had killed me.
It was time.
 The room's atmosphere crackled with tension as I stood before
Bitsy and Preston, who were seated on the couch, their nerves
palpable.
Waiting for me.
For their dirty maid.
"Look who's here, Preston," Bitsy's voice quivered slightly as she
spoke.
Preston's response came out as a surprised whisper, "Wow, I
didn't think you'd come, Mia."
A smirk curved my lips. "Well, you both seem to enjoy watching
me clean. And I must admit, I like it when you watch me. So… here
I am."
Bitsy exchanged a quick glance with Preston before gesturing
toward the cleaning supplies. "What are you waiting for, then, Mia?
Clean."
With deliberate sensuality, I kicked off my shoes and began a
slow and deliberate strip, shedding my clothes piece by piece.
First my trainers, and angle socks, letting them see my dainty
feet.
Then my vest, my push-up bra leading down to my slender abs,
as I ran my fingers down it, until they reached my hotpants, which I
slowly slid down, turning my back to them so they could see the
thong disappearing into my crevice.
I felt so sexy.
I knew he was hard, she was wet.
Fuck, my nipples were hard, my pussy was wet.
Their poker faces were fixed on me,taking in every little wrinkle,
every freckle.
I took off my bra, letting air reach those hard nipples, and
slowly slid off my little panties, a thin string of arousal clinging
desperately from my cunt as I kicked them to one side.
Naked. Everything. For them.
I could practically see the hot blood pulsing around them as
they judged me like a panel on a talent show.
Preston feigned clumsiness, spilling his coffee as if by accident.
"Oh dear. I made a mess."
 "I guess I should clean that up?"
"I would say so”, Bitsy said, voice tinged with a seductive edge.
“Isn't that your job, Mia?"
Preston leaned back, his gaze heated. "It's what we're paying
you for, after all."
I moved closer. I could literally smell how turned on they were.
"It's quite a big mess," I mused, playing along.
Preston's lips curled into a wicked smile, his eyes scanning my
naked body. "Such a… such a… big mess."
I noticed they had placed the cleaning supplies around the room
for me.
Already.
They knew I’d come.
Sinking to my knees, I retrieved a towel, the plush fabric cool
against my skin. Bitsy's playful tone shifted, and a hint of command
threaded her words. "Oh no. What are you doing? Didn't you get this
table really clean the last few days?"
I nodded, my heart pounding with anticipation.
She leaned in, her gaze smouldering. "I think it's safe for you to
clean that mess with your tongue."
The challenge in her voice sent a shiver down my spine.
She was the boss.
I obeyed her, my movements deliberate as I leaned down, the
towel forgotten in my hand.
With a slow, deliberate lick, I traced the edges of the coffee
spill, tasting the faint bitterness as I gazed up at them.
"Mia, rub up the spill with your tits, please. They look like they
will do a great job”, Mia insisted, her finger tracing the rim of her
wine glass.
Without hesitation, I pressed my breasts against the table's
surface, the smooth wood cool against my skin. I moved with a
deliberate sensuality, the friction between my flesh and the table's
edge making my nipples razor sharp.
"Now you're getting the hang of it," I heard Bitsy's sultry voice.
A slow, satisfied smile curved my lips as I continued my task,
licking up the spill from the table's surface.
 "That table's going to be real clean," Bitsy purred.
As my tongue danced over the table's surface, I glanced up at
the couple.
Their faces were flush red, so turned on over little old me.
My cunt dripped, at the thought of them getting harder and
wetter while they watched me clean. Probably making more of a
mess on the floor…
"I do think she's flirting with us, Preston," Bitsy observed, her
voice like velvet and honey.
I don’t know if she was already tipsy or something, but she
sounded loose, seductive, purely sexual.
"Definitely,” Preston muttered.
I couldn't help but smile, coffee dribbling down my tits as I
giggled like a teenage girl with a crush.
"Why don't you stand up for me?" Preston suggested, leaning
forward.
Without hesitation, I rose to my feet, my body completely
theirs.
"Turn around," Preston's voice held an irresistible pull, urging
me to submit to his will.
I obeyed, my pulse quickening as I turned.
I fucking loved being their slave.
"Bend over," he ordered.
I took a deep breath.
I slowly leaned over, bending and making sure my tushy was
sticking out, back arched as I touched my dainty toes.
I felt cold air touch my taint, and my blood raced.
“Mia, you are so sexy," Preston sighed.
I reached back, desperate for more kind words. My fingers
brushed against my own skin, and I gently grabbed my ass cheeks
and spread, giving them a better view of my smooth little asshole.
I could hear their breaths. Next I wanted to feel the, on my skin
"You were talking about how much you liked her ass, dear”,
Bitsy remarked. “ It looks better now, I think."
"Just as tight as I dreamed it would be."
 I couldn't suppress the teasing smile that tugged at my lips,, my
asshole responding to the sensation of being spread open,
puckering, blowing kisses at them.
"Why don't you spank yourself," Preston mused.
I couldn’t think of a good reason not to.
So I did.
The sound of the impact reverberated in the room, the sting
mingling with pleasure as I obeyed, my pussy throbbing, clit
begging.
"She listens well, doesn't she?" Preston considered, impressed.
"Indeed, she really does," Bitsy's voice floated through the air.
"Though it seems she's more occupied with other tasks. The house
is getting filthier by the second"
"No need to worry, Mia. Just a bit more cleaning, if you would”,
Preston suggested.
"Of course. I'll get the broom”, I said, standing back upright and
noticing a trickle of pussy juice rolling down my inner thigh.
This was so much fun.
As I moved to fetch the broom, their eyes followed my every
step, and my body began performing for them, tensing and
clenching and jiggling.
"Come over here and sweep for us”, Bitsy ordered as she took
another sip of her wine.
Positioning myself close to them, I swept gently, not even
interested in any actual mess. The broom glided over the floor, as I
got closer and closer to the couple.
Preston's voice was a low murmur, infused with a hint of
dominance. "Yeah, really put your back into that."
I complied willingly, my body bending over as I swept, the curve
of my back accentuated as I ensured they had a clear view of my
two filthy, eager, desperate holes.
I was so swept up in sweeping that I almost didn’t notice Bitsy
leave her seat.
She stood close behind me. Her fingertips graced my arms until
they were over my hands, like she was teaching me how to play golf
in the most inappropriate and fun way..
 "You know," her voice was a sultry whisper, "I find the best way
to clean is to really press down."
I could feel her breasts pressed against my back through her
dress.
The heat from her mature mound against my ass cheeks.
Her fingers making goosebumps rattle up my arms.
Her warm breath finally stained the nape of my neck.
Oh fuck.
Every orifice wanted her inside in some way…
"Like that?" I asked, my voice a mixture of innocence and
seduction, a performance I was enjoying.
“Yeah, you're doing really well”, she said, her body dancing
slowly against me.
I continued to bend over, my body tantalisingly close to Bitsy's,
the anticipation building as I carried out the task.
Bitsy held my hips, pulling my ass against her crotch, my pussy
leaving a snail trail of nectar on her dress.
Her touch was like a silken caress on my skin, her fingers
stroking my shoulder, twinking down my spine toward the back of
my hips.
My heart was pounding out of my chest.
"We truly admire your dedication," Bitsy teased. "You're such a
hard worker, Mia. Don't you think you deserve a little reward?"
A fervent nod escaped me, my heart pounding in agreement as
I turned to face her.
Her luscious lips finally met mine in a hungry kiss, our sloppy
sounds echoing through me as she moaned into my mouth, our
tongues wrestling, the taste of alcohol and lust on her breath.
I wanted more.
Her fingers found their way to my breasts, a possessive squeeze
that stung in the best way. Our lips found each other again, her
tongue slicing at mine, her teeth nibbling my lips.
She was animalistic. She was unleashed.
“You won’t stop cleaning for us, will you Mia?” She whispered,
as her fingers pinched my nipples, a single drop of milk sneaking out
and riding her palm.
 "Never”, I promised, as I quivered at her touch.
Preston interrupted with his deep commanding voice. "Come
over here."
Like a puppet, I obeyed.
 CHAPTER TEN
The couch became my stage as I positioned myself on all fours,
knowing Bitsy was close behind and within licking distance of my
starving sphincter.
Bitsy sat beside her husband, who had that wry grin on his face
again.
"Would you be so kind as to help me with my shoes?" Bitsy
asked, as she stretched out a long, lean leg.
I nodded, my pussy throbbing.
Slowly, I removed Bitsy's shoes, my fingers tracing patterns over
her skin as I peeled them off, to reveal her gorgeously dainty bare
feet, toenails painted white. She was remarkably clean.
So I told a lie.
"Your toes are a bit dirty," I sighed, a touch of playfulness in my
voice.
"Well. You're the cleaner, so…” Bitsy remarked, her hands
roaming her thick thighs.
A surge of submission coursed through me as I lowered my
head, my lips brushing against Bitsy's feet.
And then my tongue.
My heart pounded, my clit vibrated.
I was so damp it was almost uncomfortable.
With each lick and suck, I polished her toes, sucking them like a
bunch of little cocks that needed milking, my tongue wandering
between them and making sure every trace of sweat was replaced
by my spit.
I gazed into her eyes as I worshipped her feet, and could see
her chest heaving, her breath speeding, her eyes watering as she
watched me.
Another shoe came off, and my tongue worked diligently to
cleanse the slightly hardened heel skin.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Preston’s hardening
cock pushing up against his pants as he watched me make out with
his wife’s feet.
Bitsy slowly pulled her knee towards her chest, giving me a
glimpse at her polkadot panties as my lips stayed clamped around
her toes like a pacifier, drool from my stretched mouth slapping my
tits.
She drew me in, bringing me close.
Her hand took my face, and she put me back on all fours, over
her lap, one hand caressing my ass crack, the other holding my hair
and using it to guide me towards her husband.
"What do you want?" Preston whispered with command..
I met his gaze, my eyes watering as Bitsy pulled harder on my
hair. "Whatever you want," I answered, my mouth practically
watering for his cock.
"Whatever I want?" He replied mischievously.
"You're the boss, Mr. Thorne," I said, my eyes drawn like
magnets towards his growing crotch area.
He grinned, and took a long, deep breath, as if all of this was
just… exhausting to him. "I want you to take off my shirt," he said.
With steady hands, I moved forward, fingers deftly undoing the
buttons of his shirt. I revealed his toned, leathery abs, still tanned
from his last holiday in the Sun.
All the while, Bitsy’s other hand explored my ass. Cupped my
cunt, her wrist teasingly bushing over my winking rectum.
As the shirt slipped from his shoulders, my gaze lingered, on his
dad-I’d-like-to-fuck torso. My fingertips brushed against his skin,
making him quiver, tense, hundreds of dark goosebumps appearing.
Fuck he was hot.
They both were.
But it was his crotch area that looked the tastiest.
I let my hand graze over it, as Bitsy tipped me forward gently
like a see-saw, my spread ass cheeks getting closer to her face, as
my face got closer to Preston’s trouser-tent.
"What do you want?" He asked again, stroking my face with the
back of his hand.
I found his thumb with my lips and sucked it in, gazing into his
eyes as my tongue swirled around it.
 A coy smile curved my lips, and I whispered. "I want to clean
your cock, Mr. Thorne”.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
of his execution. I regret that my engagements and duties were such
that I could not then and there accept his invitation, for I could not
doubt the sincerity with which it was given, or fail to see the value of
compliance. Mr. Hunter not only congratulated me upon my speech,
but at parting, gave me a friendly grip, and added that if Robert E.
Lee were alive and present, he knew he would give me his hand
also.
This man’s presence added much to the interest of the occasion
by his frequent interruptions, approving, and condemning my
sentiments as they were uttered. I only regret that he did not
undertake a formal reply to my speech, but this, though invited, he
declined to do. It would have given me an opportunity of fortifying
certain positions in my address which were perhaps insufficiently
defended. Upon the whole, taking the visit to Capt. Auld, to Easton
with its old jail, to the home of my old master at Col. Lloyd’s, and this
visit to Harper’s Ferry, with all their associations, they fulfill the
expectation created at the beginning of this chapter.
 CHAPTER XVII.
INCIDENTS AND EVENTS.

Hon. Gerrit Smith and Mr. E. C. Delevan—Experiences at Hotels and on

Steamboats and other modes of travel—Hon. Edward Marshall—Grace
Greenwood—Hon. Moses Norris—Rob’t J. Ingersoll—Reflections and
conclusions—Compensations.

IN escaping from the South, the reader will have observed that I did
not escape from its wide-spread influence in the North. That
influence met me almost everywhere outside of pronounced anti-
slavery circles, and sometimes even within them. It was in the air,
and men breathed it and were permeated by it, often when they were
quite unconscious of its presence.
I might recount many occasions when I have encountered this
feeling, some painful and melancholy, some ridiculous and amusing.
It has been a part of my mission to expose the absurdity of this spirit
of caste and in some measure help to emancipate men from its
control.
Invited to accompany Hon. Gerrit Smith to dine with Mr. E. C.
Delevan, at Albany many years ago, I expressed to Mr. Smith, my
awkwardness and embarrassment in the society I was likely to meet
there. “Ah!” said that good man, “you must go, Douglass, it is your
mission to break down the walls of separation between the two
races.” I went with Mr. Smith, and was soon made at ease by Mr.
Delevan and the ladies and gentlemen there. They were among the
most refined and brilliant people I had ever met. I felt somewhat
surprised that I could be so much at ease in such company, but I
found it then, as I have since, that the higher the gradation in
intelligence and refinement, the farther removed are all artificial
distinctions, and restraints of mere caste or color.
In one of my anti-slavery campaigns in New York, five and thirty
years ago, I had an appointment at Victor, a town in Ontario County.
I was compelled to stop at the hotel. It was the custom at that time,
to seat the guests at a long table running the length of the dining
room. When I entered I was shown a little table off in a corner. I
knew what it meant, but took my dinner all the same. When I went to
the desk to pay my bill, I said, “Now, Landlord, be good enough to
tell me just why you gave me my dinner at the little table in the
corner by myself?” He was equal to the occasion, and quickly
replied: “Because you see, I wished to give you something better
than the others.” The cool reply staggered me, and I gathered up my
change, muttering only that I did not want to be treated better than
other people, and bade him good morning.
On an anti-slavery tour through the West, in company with H.
Ford Douglas, a young colored man of fine intellect and much
promise, and my old friend John Jones, (both now deceased,) we
stopped at a Hotel in Janesville, and were seated by ourselves to
take our meals, where all the bar-room loafers of the town could
stare us. Thus seated I took occasion to say, loud enough for the
crowd to hear me, that I had just been out to the stable and had
made a great discovery. Asked by Mr. Jones what my discovery was,
I said that I saw there, black horses and white horses eating together
from the same trough in peace, from which I inferred that the horses
of Janesville were more civilized than its people. The crowd saw the
hit, and broke out into a good-natured laugh. We were afterwards
entertained at the same table with other guests.
Many years ago, on my way from Cleveland to Buffalo, on one of
the Lake Steamers, the gong sounded for supper. There was a
rough element on board, such as at that time might be found
anywhere between Buffalo and Chicago. It was not to be trifled with
especially when hungry. At the first sound of the gong there was a
furious rush for the table. From prudence, more than from lack of
appetite, I waited for the second table, as did several others. At this
second table I took a seat far apart from the few gentlemen scattered
along its side, but directly opposite a well dressed, finely-featured
man, of the fairest complexion, high forehead, golden hair and light
beard. His whole appearance told me he was somebody. I had been
seated but a minute or two, when the steward came to me, and
roughly ordered me away. I paid no attention to him, but proceeded
to take my supper, determined not to leave, unless compelled to do
so by superior force, and being young and strong I was not entirely
unwilling to risk the consequences of such a contest. A few moments
passed, when on each side of my chair, there appeared a stalwart of
my own race. I glanced at the gentleman opposite. His brow was
knit, his color changed from white to scarlet, and his eyes were full of
fire. I saw the lightning flash, but I could not tell where it would strike.
Before my sable brethren could execute their captain’s order, and
just as they were about to lay violent hands upon me, a voice from
that man of golden hair and fiery eyes resounded like a clap of
summer thunder. “Let the gentleman alone! I am not ashamed to
take my tea with Mr. Douglass.” His was a voice to be obeyed, and
my right to my seat and my supper was no more disputed.
I bowed my acknowledgments to the gentleman, and thanked
him for his chivalrous interference; and as modestly as I could,
asked him his name. “I am Edward Marshall of Kentucky, now of
California,” he said. “Sir, I am very glad to know you, I have just been
reading your speech in Congress,” I said. Supper over, we passed
several hours in conversation with each other, during which he told
me of his political career in California, of his election to Congress,
and that he was a Democrat, but had no prejudice against color. He
was then just coming from Kentucky where he had been in part to
see his black mammy, for, said he, “I nursed at the breasts of a
colored mother.”
I asked him if he knew my old friend John A. Collins in California.
“Oh, yes,” he replied, “he is a smart fellow; he ran against me for
Congress. I charged him with being an abolitionist, but he denied it,
so I sent off and got the evidence of his having been general agent
of the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society, and that settled him.”
During the passage, Mr. Marshall invited me into the bar-room to
take a drink. I excused myself from drinking, but went down with him.
There were a number of thirsty looking individuals standing around,
to whom Mr. Marshall said, “Come, boys, take a drink.” When the
drinking was over, he threw down upon the counter a twenty dollar
gold piece, at which the bar-keeper made large eyes, and said he
could not change it. “Well, keep it,” said the gallant Marshall, “it will
all be gone before morning.” After this, we naturally fell apart, and he
was monopolized by other company; but I shall never fail to bear
willing testimony to the generous and manly qualities of this brother
of the gifted and eloquent Thomas Marshall of Kentucky.
In 1842 I was sent by the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society to
hold a Sunday meeting in Pittsfield, N. H., and was given the name
of Mr. Hilles, a subscriber to the Liberator. It was supposed that any
man who had the courage to take and read the Liberator, edited by
Wm. Lloyd Garrison, or the Herald of Freedom, edited by Nathaniel
P. Rodgers, would gladly receive and give food and shelter to any
colored brother laboring in the cause of the slave. As a general rule
this was very true.
There were no railroads in New Hampshire in those days, so I
reached Pittsfield by stage, glad to be permitted to ride upon the top
thereof, for no colored person could be allowed inside. This was
many years before the days of civil rights bills, black Congressmen,
colored United States Marshals, and such like.
Arriving at Pittsfield, I was asked by the driver where I would
stop. I gave him the name of my subscriber to the Liberator. “That is
two miles beyond,” he said. So after landing his other passengers,
he took me on to the house of Mr. Hilles.
I confess I did not seem a very desirable visitor. The day had
been warm, and the road dusty. I was covered with dust, and then I
was not of the color fashionable in that neighborhood, for colored
people were scarce in that part of the old Granite State. I saw in an
instant, that though the weather was warm, I was to have a cool
reception; but cool or warm, there was no alternative left me but to
stay and take what I could get.
Mr. Hilles scarcely spoke to me, and from the moment he saw
me jump down from the top of the stage, carpet-bag in hand, his face
wore a troubled look. His good wife took the matter more
philosophically, and evidently thought my presence there for a day or
two could do the family no especial harm; but her manner was
restrained, silent, and formal, wholly unlike that of anti-slavery ladies
I had met in Massachusetts and Rhode Island.
When tea time came, I found that Mr. Hilles had lost his appetite,
and could not come to the table. I suspected his trouble was
colorphobia, and though I regretted his malady, I knew his case was
not necessarily dangerous; and I was not without some confidence in
my skill and ability in healing diseases of that type. I was, however,
so affected by his condition that I could not eat much of the pie and
cake before me, and felt so little in harmony with things about me
that I was, for me, remarkably reticent during the evening, both
before and after the family worship, for Mr. Hilles was a pious man.
Sunday morning came, and in due season the hour for meeting.
I had arranged a good supply of work for the day. I was to speak four
times: at ten o’clock A. M., at one P. M., at five, and again at half-
past seven in the evening.
When meeting time came, Mr. Hilles brought his fine phaeton to
the door, assisted his wife in, and, although there were two vacant
seats in his carriage, there was no room in it for me. On driving off
from his door, he merely said, addressing me, “You can find your
way to the town hall, I suppose?” “I suppose I can,” I replied, and
started along behind his carriage on the dusty road toward the
village. I found the hall, and was very glad to see in my small
audience the face of good Mrs. Hilles. Her husband was not there,
but had gone to his church. There was no one to introduce me, and I
proceeded with my discourse without introduction. I held my
audience till twelve o’clock—noon—and then took the usual recess
of Sunday meetings in country towns, to allow the people to take
their lunch. No one invited me to lunch, so I remained in the town
hall till the audience assembled again, when I spoke till nearly three
o’clock, when the people again dispersed and left me as before. By
this time I began to be hungry, and seeing a small hotel near, I went
into it, and offered to buy a meal; but I was told “they did not
entertain niggers there.” I went back to the old town hall hungry and
chilled, for an infant “New England northeaster” was beginning to
chill the air, and a drizzling rain to fall. I saw that my movements
were being observed, from the comfortable homes around, with
apparently something of the feeling that children might experience in
seeing a bear prowling about town. There was a grave-yard near the
town hall, and attracted thither, I felt some relief in contemplating the
resting places of the dead, where there was an end to all distinctions
between rich and poor, white and colored, high and low.
While thus meditating on the vanities of the world and my own
loneliness and destitution, and recalling the sublime pathos of the
saying of Jesus, “The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have
nests, but the Son of Man hath not where to lay His head,” I was
approached rather hesitatingly by a gentleman, who inquired my
name. “My name is Douglass,” I replied. “You do not seem to have
any place to stay while in town?” I told him I had not. “Well,” said he,
“I am no abolitionist, but if you will go with me I will take care of you.”
I thanked him, and turned with him towards his fine residence. On
the way I asked him his name. “Moses Norris,” he said. “What! Hon.
Moses Norris?” I asked. “Yes,” he answered. I did not for a moment
know what to do, for I had read that this same man had literally
dragged the Reverend George Storrs from the pulpit, for preaching
abolitionism. I, however, walked along with him and was invited into
his house, when I heard the children running and screaming “Mother,
mother, there is a nigger in the house, there’s a nigger in the house”;
and it was with some difficulty that Mr. Norris succeeded in quieting
the tumult. I saw that Mrs. Norris, too, was much disturbed by my
presence, and I thought for a moment of beating a retreat, but the
kind assurances of Mr. Norris decided me to stay. When quiet was
restored, I ventured the experiment of asking Mrs. Norris to do me a
kindness. I said, “Mrs. Norris, I have taken cold, and am hoarse from
speaking, and I have found that nothing relieves me so readily as a
little loaf sugar and cold water.” The lady’s manner changed, and
with her own hands she brought me the water and sugar. I thanked
her with genuine earnestness, and from that moment I could see that
her prejudices were more than half gone, and that I was more than
half welcome at the fireside of this Democratic Senator. I spoke
again in the evening, and at the close of the meeting there was quite
a contest between Mrs. Norris and Mrs. Hilles, as to which I should
go home with. I considered Mrs. Hilles’ kindness to me, though her
manner had been formal; I knew the cause, and I thought, especially
as my carpet-bag was there, I would go with her. So giving Mr. and
Mrs. Norris many thanks, I bade them good-bye, and went home
with Mr. and Mrs. Hilles, where I found the atmosphere wondrously
and most agreeably changed. Next day, Mr. Hilles took me in the
same carriage in which I did not ride on Sunday, to my next
appointment, and on the way told me he felt more honored by having
me in it, than he would be if he had the President of the United
States. This compliment would have been a little more flattering to
my self-esteem, had not John Tyler then occupied the Presidential
chair.
In those unhappy days of the Republic, when all presumptions
were in favor of slavery, and a colored man as a slave met less
resistance in the use of public conveyances than a colored man as a
freeman, I happened to be in Philadelphia, and was afforded an
opportunity to witness this preference. I took a seat in a street car by
the side of my friend Mrs. Amy Post, of Rochester, New York, who,
like myself, had come to Philadelphia to attend an anti-slavery
meeting. I had no sooner seated myself when the conductor
hastened to remove me from the car. My friend remonstrated, and
the amazed conductor said, “Lady, does he belong to you?” “He
does,” said Mrs. Post, and there the matter ended. I was allowed to
ride in peace, not because I was a man, and had paid my fare, but
because I belonged to somebody? My color was no longer offensive
when it was supposed that I was not a person, but a piece of
property.
Another time, in the same city, I took a seat, unobserved, far up
in the street car, among the white passengers. All at once I heard the
conductor, in an angry tone, order another colored man, who was
modestly standing on the platform of the rear end of the car, to get
off, and actually stopped the car to push him off, when I, from within,
with all the emphasis I could throw into my voice, in imitation of my
chivalrous friend Marshall of Kentucky, sung out, “Go on! let the
gentleman alone; no one here objects to his riding!” Unhappily the
fellow saw where the voice came from, and turned his wrathful
attention to me, and said, “You shall get out also!” I told him I would
do no such thing, and if he attempted to remove me by force he
would do it at his peril. Whether the young man was afraid to tackle
me, or did not wish to disturb the passengers, I do not know. At any
rate he did not attempt to execute his threat, and I rode on in peace
till I reached Chestnut street, when I got off and went about my
business.
On my way down the Hudson river, from Albany to New York, at
one time, on the steamer Alida, in company with some English ladies
who had seen me in their own country, received and treated me as a
gentleman, I ventured, like any other passenger, to go, at the call of
the dinner bell, into the cabin and take a seat at the table; but I was
forcibly taken from it and compelled to leave the cabin. My friends,
who wished to enjoy a day’s trip on the beautiful Hudson, left the
table with me, and went to New York hungry and not a little indignant
and disgusted at such barbarism. There were influential persons on
board the Alida, on this occasion, a word from whom might have
spared me this indignity; but there was no Edward Marshall among
them to defend the weak and rebuke the strong.
When Miss Sarah Jane Clark, one of America’s brilliant literary
ladies, known to the world under the nom de plume of Grace
Greenwood, was young, and as brave as she was beautiful, I
encountered a similar experience to that on the Alida on one of the
Ohio river steamers; and that lady, being on board, arose from her
seat at the table, expressed her disapprobation, and moved
majestically away with her sister to the upper deck. Her conduct
seemed to amaze the lookers on, but it filled me with grateful
admiration.
When on my way to attend the great Free Soil Convention at
Pittsburg, in 1852, which nominated John P. Hale for President, and
George W. Julian for Vice-President, the train stopped for dinner at
Alliance, Ohio, and I attempted to enter the hotel with the other
delegates, but was rudely repulsed, when many of them, learning of
it, rose from the table, and denounced the outrage, and refused to
finish their dinners.
 In anticipation of our return, at the close of the Convention, Mr.
Sam. Beck, the proprietor of the hotel, prepared dinner for three
hundred guests, but when the train arrived, not one of the large
company went into his place, and his dinner was left to spoil.
A dozen years ago, or more, on one of the frostiest and coldest
nights I ever experienced, I delivered a lecture in the town of
Elmwood, Illinois, twenty miles distant from Peoria. It was one of
those bleak and flinty nights, when prairie winds pierce like needles,
and a step on the snow sounds like a file on the steel teeth of a saw.
My next appointment after Elmwood was on Monday night, and in
order to reach it in time, it was necessary to go to Peoria the night
previous, so as to take an early morning train, and I could only
accomplish this by leaving Elmwood after my lecture at midnight, for
there was no Sunday train. So a little before the hour at which my
train was expected at Elmwood, I started for the station with my
friend Mr. Brown, the gentleman who had kindly entertained me
during my stay. On the way I said to him, “I am going to Peoria with
something like a real dread of the place. I expect to be compelled to
walk the streets of that city all night to keep from freezing.” I told him
“that the last time I was there I could obtain no shelter at any hotel,
and that I feared I should meet a similar exclusion to-night.” Mr.
Brown was visibly affected by the statement, and for some time was
silent. At last, as if suddenly discovering a way out of a painful
situation, he said, “I know a man in Peoria, should the hotels be
closed against you there, who would gladly open his doors to you—a
man who will receive you at any hour of the night, and in any
weather, and that man is Robert J. Ingersoll.” “Why,” said I, “it would
not do to disturb a family at such a time as I shall arrive there, on a
night so cold as this.” “No matter about the hour,” he said; “neither he
nor his family would be happy if they thought you were shelterless on
such a night. I know Mr. Ingersoll, and that he will be glad to
welcome you at midnight or at cock-crow.” I became much interested
by this description of Mr. Ingersoll. Fortunately I had no occasion for
disturbing him or his family. I found quarters at the best hotel in the
city for the night. In the morning I resolved to know more of this now
famous and noted “infidel.” I gave him an early call, for I was not so
abundant in cash as to refuse hospitality in a strange city when on a
mission of “good will to men.” The experiment worked admirably. Mr.
Ingersoll was at home, and if I have ever met a man with real living
human sunshine in his face, and honest, manly kindness in his
voice, I met one who possessed these qualities that morning. I
received a welcome from Mr. Ingersoll and his family which would
have been a cordial to the bruised heart of any proscribed and
storm-beaten stranger, and one which I can never forget or fail to
appreciate. Perhaps there were Christian ministers and Christian
families in Peoria at that time by whom I might have been received in
the same gracious manner. In charity I am bound to say there
probably were such ministers and such families, but I am equally
bound to say that in my former visits to this place I had failed to find
them. Incidents of this character have greatly tended to liberalize my
views as to the value of creeds in estimating the character of men.
They have brought me to the conclusion that genuine goodness is
the same, whether found inside or outside the church, and that to be
an “infidel” no more proves a man to be selfish, mean, and wicked,
than to be evangelical proves him to be honest, just, and humane.
It may possibly be inferred from what I have said of the
prevalence of prejudice, and the practice of proscription, that I have
had a very miserable sort of life, or that I must be remarkably
insensible to public aversion. Neither inference is true. I have neither
been miserable because of the ill-feeling of those about me, nor
indifferent to popular approval; and I think, upon the whole, I have
passed a tolerably cheerful and even joyful life. I have never felt
myself isolated since I entered the field to plead the cause of the
slave, and demand equal rights for all. In every town and city where
it has been my lot to speak, there have been raised up for me friends
of both colors to cheer and strengthen me in my work. I have always
felt, too, that I had on my side all the invisible forces of the moral
government of the universe. Happily for me I have had the wit to
distinguish between what is merely artificial and transient and what is
fundamental and permanent; and resting on the latter, I could
cheerfully encounter the former. “How do you feel,” said a friend to
me, “when you are hooted and jeered on the street on account of
your color?” “I feel as if an ass had kicked but had hit nobody,” was
my answer.
 I have been greatly helped to bear up under unfriendly
conditions, too, by a constitutional tendency to see the funny sides of
things which has enabled me to laugh at follies that others would
soberly resent. Besides, there were compensations as well as
drawbacks in my relations to the white race. A passenger on the
deck of a Hudson River steamer, covered with a shawl, well-worn
and dingy, I was addressed by a remarkably-religiously-missionary-
looking man in black coat and white cravat, who took me for one of
the noble red men of the far West, with “From away back?” I was
silent, and he added, “Indian, Indian?” “No, no,” I said; “I am a
negro.” The dear man seemed to have no missionary work with me,
and retreated with evident marks of disgust.
On another occasion, traveling by a night train on the New York
Central railroad, when the cars were crowded and seats were
scarce, and I was occupying a whole seat, the only luxury my color
afforded me in traveling, I had laid down with my head partly
covered, thinking myself secure in my possession, when a well
dressed man approached and wished to share the seat with me.
Slightly rising, I said, “Don’t sit down here, my friend, I am a nigger.”
“I don’t care who the devil you are,” he said, “I mean to sit with you.”
“Well, if it must be so,” I said, “I can stand it if you can,” and we at
once fell into a very pleasant conversation, and passed the hours on
the road very happily together. These two incidents illustrate my
career in respect of popular prejudice. If I have had kicks, I have also
had kindness. If cast down, I have been exalted; and the latter
experience has, after all, far exceeded the former.
During a quarter of a century I resided in the city of Rochester,
N. Y. When I removed from there, my friends caused a marble bust
to be made from me, and have since honored it with a place in
Sibley Hall, of Rochester University. Less in a spirit of vanity than
that of gratitude, I copy here the remarks of the Rochester Democrat
and Chronicle on the occasion, and on my letter of thanks for the
honor done me by my friends and fellow-citizens of that beautiful
city:

Rochester, June 28, 1879.

 FREDERICK DOUGLASS.
“It will be remembered that a bust of Frederick Douglass was
recently placed in Sibley Hall of the University of Rochester. The
ceremonies were quite informal, too informal, we think, as
commemorating a deserved tribute from the people of Rochester
to one who will always rank as among her most distinguished
citizens. Mr. Douglass himself was not notified officially of the
event, and therefore could, in no public manner, take notice of it.
He was, however, informed privately of it by the gentleman
whose address is given below, and responded to it most happily,
as will be seen by the following letter which we are permitted to
publish.” Then follows the letter which I omit, and add the further
comments of the Chronicle. “It were alone worth all the efforts of
the gentlemen who united in the fitting recognition of the public
services and the private worth of Frederick Douglass, to have
inspired a letter thus tender in its sentiment, and so suggestive
of the various phases of a career than which the republic has
witnessed none more strange or more noble. Frederick
Douglass can hardly be said to have risen to greatness on
account of the opportunities which the republic offers to self-
made men, and concerning which we are apt to talk with an
abundance of self-gratulation. It sought to fetter his mind equally
with his body. For him it builded no school-house, and for him it
erected no church. So far as he was concerned freedom was a
mockery, and law was the instrument of tyranny. In spite of law
and gospel, despite of statutes which thralled him and
opportunities which jeered at him, he made himself by trampling
on the law and breaking through the thick darkness that
encompassed him. There is no sadder commentary upon
American slavery than the life of Frederick Douglass. He put it
under his feet and stood erect in the majesty of his intellect; but
how many intellects as brilliant and as powerful as his it stamped
upon and crushed, no mortal can tell until the secrets of its
terrible despotism are fully revealed. Thanks to the conquering
might of American freemen, such sad beginnings of such
illustrious lives as that of Frederick Douglass are no longer
possible; and that they are no longer possible, is largely due to
him who, when his lips were unlocked, became a deliverer of his
people. Not alone did his voice proclaim emancipation. Eloquent
as was that voice, his life in its pathos and in its grandeur, was
more eloquent still; and where shall be found, in the annals of
humanity, a sweeter rendering of poetic justice than that he, who
has passed through such vicissitudes of degradation and
exaltation, has been permitted to behold the redemption of his
race?
“Rochester is proud to remember that Frederick Douglass
was, for many years, one of her citizens. He who pointed out the
house where Douglass lived, hardly exaggerated when he called
it the residence of the greatest of our citizens; for Douglass must
rank as among the greatest men, not only of this city, but of the
nation as well—great in gifts, greater in utilizing them, great in
his inspiration, greater in his efforts for humanity, great in the
persuasion of his speech, greater in the purpose that informed it.
“Rochester could do nothing more graceful than to
perpetuate in marble the features of this citizen in her hall of
learning; and it is pleasant for her to know that he so well
appreciates the esteem in which he is held here. It was a
thoughtful thing for Rochester to do, and the response is as
heartfelt as the tribute is appropriate.”
 CHAPTER XVIII.
“HONOR TO WHOM HONOR.”

Grateful recognition—Friends in need—Lucretia Mott—Lydia Maria Child—

Sarah and Angelina Grimke—Abby Kelly—H. Beecher Stowe—Other
Friends—Woman Suffrage.

Gratitude to benefactors is a well recognized virtue, and to

express it in some form or other, however imperfectly, is a duty to
ourselves as well as to those who have helped us. Never reluctant or
tardy, I trust, in the discharge of this duty, I have seldom been
satisfied with the manner of its performance. When I have made my
best effort in this line, my words have done small justice to my
feelings. And now, in mentioning my obligations to my special
friends, and acknowledging the help I received from them in the days
of my need, I can hope to do no better than give a faint hint of my
sense of the value of their friendship and assistance. I have
sometimes been credited with having been the architect of my own
fortune, and have pretty generally received the title of a “self-made
man;” and while I cannot altogether disclaim this title, when I look
back over the facts of my life, and consider the helpful influences
exerted upon me, by friends more fortunately born and educated
than myself, I am compelled to give them at least an equal measure
of credit, with myself, for the success which has attended my labors
in life. The little energy, industry, and perseverance which have been
mine, would hardly have availed me, in the absence of thoughtful
friends, and highly favoring circumstances. Without these, the last
forty years of my life might have been spent on the wharves of New
Bedford, rolling oil casks, loading ships for whaling voyages, sawing
wood, putting in coal, picking up a job here and there, wherever I
could find one, holding my own with difficulty against gauntsided
poverty, in the race for life and bread. I never see one of my old
companions of the lower strata, begrimed by toil, hard handed, and
dust covered, receiving for wages scarcely enough to keep the “wolf”
at a respectful distance from his door and hearthstone, without a
fellow feeling and the thought that I have been separated from him
only by circumstances other than those of my own making. Much to
be thankful for, but little room for boasting here. It was mine to take
the “Tide at its flood.” It was my good fortune to get out of slavery at
the right time, and to be speedily brought into contact with that circle
of highly cultivated men and women, banded together for the
overthrow of slavery, of which Wm. Lloyd Garrison was the
acknowledged leader. To these friends, earnest, courageous,
inflexible, ready to own me as a man and brother, against all the
scorn, contempt, and derision of a slavery-polluted atmosphere, I
owe my success in life. The story is simple, and the truth plain. They
thought that I possessed qualities that might be made useful to my
race, and through them I was brought to the notice of the world, and
gained a hold upon the attention of the American people, which I
hope remains unbroken to this day. The list of these friends is too
long certainly to be inserted here, but I cannot forbear to recall in this
connection the names of Francis Jackson, Joseph Southwick,
Samuel E. Sewell, Samuel J. May, John Pierpont, Henry I. Bowditch,
Theodore Parker, Wendell Phillips, Edmund Quincy, Isaac T. Hopper,
James N. Buffum, Ellis Gray Loring, Andrew Robeson, Seth Hunt,
Arnold Buffum, Nathaniel B. Borden, Boone Spooner, William
Thomas, John Milton Earle, John Curtis, George Foster, Clother
Gifford, John Bailey, Nathaniel P. Rodgers, Stephen S. Foster,
Parker Pillsbury, the Hutchinson family, Dr. Peleg Clark, the Burleigh
brothers, William Chase, Samuel and Harvey Chase, John Brown,
C. C. Eldredge, Daniel Mitchell, William Adams, Isaac Kenyon,
Joseph Sisson, Daniel Goold, Kelton brothers, Geo. James Adams,
Martin Cheeney, Edward Harris, Robert Shove, Alpheus Jones, Asa
Fairbanks, Gen. Sam’l Fessenden, William Aplin, John Clark,
Thomas Davis, George L. Clark; these all took me to their hearts and
homes, and inspired me with an incentive which a confiding and
helpful friendship can alone impart.
 Nor were my influential friends all of the Caucasian race. While
many of my own people thought me unwise and somewhat fanatical
in announcing myself a fugitive slave, and in practically asserting the
rights of my people, on all occasions, in season and out of season,
there were brave and intelligent men of color all over the United
States who gave me their cordial sympathy and support. Among
these, and foremost, I place the name of Doctor James McCune
Smith; educated in Scotland, and breathing the free air of that
country, he came back to his native land with ideas of liberty which
placed him in advance of most of his fellow citizens of African
descent. He was not only a learned and skillful physician, but an
effective speaker, and a keen and polished writer. In my newspaper
enterprise, I found in him an earnest and effective helper. The cause
of his people lost an able advocate when he died. He was never
among the timid who thought me too aggressive and wished me to
tone down my testimony to suit the times. A brave man himself, he
knew how to esteem courage in others.
Of David Ruggles I have already spoken. He gave me my send
off from New York to New Bedford, and when I came into public life,
he was among the first with words of cheer. Jehial C. Beman too, a
noble man, kindly took me by the hand. Thomas Van Rauselear was
among my fast friends. No young man, starting in an untried field of
usefulness, and needing support, could find that support in larger
measure than I found it, in William Whipper, Robert Purvis, William P.
Powell, Nathan Johnson, Charles B. Ray, Thomas Downing,
Theodore S. Wright, Charles L. Reason. Notwithstanding what I
have said of my treatment, at times, by people of my own color,
when traveling, I am bound to say that there is another and brighter
side to that picture. Among the waiters and attendants on public
conveyances, I have often found real gentlemen; intelligent, aspiring,
and those who fully appreciated all my efforts in behalf of our
common cause. Especially have I found this to be the case in the
East. A more gentlemanly and self-respecting class of men it would
be difficult to find, than those to be met on the various lines between
New York and Boston. I have never wanted for kind attention, or any
effort they could make to render my journeying with them smooth
and pleasant. I owe this solely to my work in our common cause, and
to their intelligent estimate of the value of that work. Republics are
said to be ungrateful, but ingratitude is not among the weaknesses of
my people. No people ever had a more lively sense of the value of
faithful endeavor to serve their interests than they. But for this feeling
towards me on their part, I might have passed many nights hungry
and cold, and without any place to lay my head. I need not name my
colored friends to whom I am thus indebted. They do not desire such
mention, but I wish any who have shown me kindness, even so
much as to give me a cup of cold water, to feel themselves included
in my thanks.
It is also due to myself, to make some more emphatic mention
than I have yet done, of the honorable women, who have not only
assisted me, but who according to their opportunity and ability, have
generously contributed to the abolition of slavery and the recognition
of the equal manhood of the colored race. When the true history of
the anti-slavery cause shall be written, woman will occupy a large
space in its pages; for the cause of the slave has been peculiarly
woman’s cause. Her heart and her conscience have supplied in
large degree its motive and mainspring. Her skill, industry, patience,
and perseverance have been wonderfully manifest in every trial hour.
Not only did her feet run on “willing errands,” and her fingers do the
work which in large degree supplied the sinews of war, but her deep
moral convictions, and her tender human sensibilities, found
convincing and persuasive expression by her pen and her voice.
Foremost among these notable American women, who in point of
clearness of vision, breadth of understanding, fullness of knowledge,
catholicity of spirit, weight of character, and widespread influence,
was Lucretia Mott of Philadelphia. Great as this woman was in
speech, and persuasive as she was in her writings, she was
incomparably greater in her presence. She spoke to the world
through every line of her countenance. In her there was no lack of
symmetry—no contradiction between her thought and act. Seated in
an anti-slavery meeting, looking benignantly around upon the
assembly, her silent presence made others eloquent, and carried the
argument home to the heart of the audience.
 The known approval of such a woman of any cause, went far to
commend it.
I shall never forget the first time I ever saw and heard Lucretia
Mott. It was in the town of Lynn, Massachusetts. It was not in a
magnificent hall, where such as she seemed to belong, but in a little
hall over Jonathan Buffum’s store, the only place then open, even in
that so-called radical anti-slavery town, for an anti-slavery meeting
on Sunday. But in this day of small things, the smallness of the place
was no matter of complaint or murmuring. It was a cause of rejoicing
that any kind of place could be had for such a purpose. But Jonathan
Buffum’s courage was equal to this and more.
The speaker was attired in the usual Quaker dress, free from
startling colors, plain, rich, elegant, and without superfluity—the very
sight of her a sermon. In a few moments after she began to speak, I
saw before me no more a woman, but a glorified presence, bearing a
message of light and love from the Infinite to a benighted and
strangely wandering world, straying away from the paths of truth and
justice into the wilderness of pride and selfishness, where peace is
lost and true happiness is sought in vain. I heard Mrs. Mott thus,
when she was comparatively young. I have often heard her since,
sometimes in the solemn temple, and sometimes under the open
sky, but whenever and wherever I have listened to her, my heart was
always made better, and my spirit raised by her words; and in
speaking thus for myself I am sure I am expressing the experience of
thousands.
Kindred in spirit with Mrs. Mott was Lydia Maria Child. They both
exerted an influence with a class of the American people which
neither Garrison, Phillips, nor Gerrit Smith could reach. Sympathetic
in her nature, it was easy for her to “remember those in bonds as
bound with them;” and her “appeal for that class of Americans called
Africans,” issued, as it was, at an early stage in the anti-slavery
conflict, was one of the most effective agencies in arousing attention
to the cruelty and injustice of slavery. When with her husband, David
Lee Child, she edited the National Anti-Slavery Standard, that paper
was made attractive to a broad circle of readers, from the
circumstance that each issue contained a “Letter from New York,”
written by her on some passing subject of the day, in which she
always managed to infuse a spirit of brotherly love and good will,
with an abhorrence of all that was unjust, selfish, and mean, and in
this way won many hearts to anti-slavery who else would have
remained cold and indifferent.
Of Sarah and Angelina Grimke I knew but little personally. These
brave sisters from Charleston, South Carolina, had inherited slaves,
but in their conversion from Episcopacy to Quakerism, in 1828,
became convinced that they had no right to such inheritance. They
emancipated their slaves and came North and entered at once upon
the pioneer work in the advancing education of woman, though they
saw then in their course only their duty to the slave. They had
“fought the good fight” before I came into the ranks, but by their
unflinching testimony and unwavering courage, they had opened the
way and made it possible, if not easy, for other women to follow their
example.
It is memorable of them that their public advocacy of anti-slavery
was made the occasion of the issuing of a papal bull in the form of a
“Pastoral letter,” by the Evangelical clergy of Boston, in which the
churches and all God-fearing people were warned against their
influence.
For solid, persistent, indefatigable work for the slave, Abby
Kelley was without rival. In the “History of Woman Suffrage,” just
published by Mrs. Stanton, Miss Anthony, and Mrs. Goslin Gage,
there is this fitting tribute to her: “Abby Kelley was the most untiring
and most persecuted of all the women who labored throughout the
anti-slavery struggle. She traveled up and down, alike in winter’s
cold and summer’s heat, with scorn, ridicule, violence, and mobs
accompanying her, suffering all kinds of persecutions, still speaking
whenever and wherever she gained an audience,—in the open air, in
school-house, barn, depot, church, or public hall, on weekday or
Sunday, as she found opportunity.” And, incredible as it will soon
seem, if it does not appear so already, “for listening to her on Sunday
many men and women were expelled from their churches.”