8

I’m called away more often than usual during the next two weeks. Fortunately that means I have plenty of evildoers to feed my housemates, a fact I partly credit for Feather’s survival during the first fortnight.

The schedules we keep are so different I barely see her, and yet we develop a routine of our own. When I drag myself and my prey home, she somehow knows I’ve returned, and when I go to my room, there’s food and a hot bath waiting for me.

Now that my bathroom is clean, I’ve come to enjoy baths, and when I stop by the shops for our groceries, I often swing by the apothecary as well to purchase bath salts, all different colors and scents. She uses them too, when I’m gone. I know because I take note of what’s left in each glass bottle after my own bath, and when I return the next time, there’s always less. It makes me smile, though I’m not sure why.

She bathes and sleeps when I’m out avenging, carousing, or shopping, and when I’m sleeping, she cleans. We share the bed, but never at the same time. Her scent on the sheets is a delicious torment.

Feather’s cooking is simple, so at times I bring food back from my favorite taverns and pubs, and I always leave a generous portion for her on the kitchen table. When we do meet, she curtsies, wide-eyed, and says, “Master,” in the soft, thrilling voice I hate so much. After those encounters, I find a desolate corner of the house and stroke my cock frantically, coming to the memory of that quiet voice, those small breasts, and the long, graceful legs beneath the short maid’s skirt.

I haven’t gotten her any new clothes because she likes her maid outfits. And because I’m a wretched, vile soul and I like how fuckable she looks in those dresses and stockings.

I will never touch her. I’ve vowed it over and over in my mind, though I stopped short of vowing aloud before the god-stars.

Instead I visit the villages of the region, a different one each time, and I sate myself with lovely women. I try not to picture Feather when I’m fucking them.

I don’t always succeed.