The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Albany, New York

July, 1954

“THAT’S the uniform?” Adelle wailed, aghast.

Thérèse and the other two maids looked up in surprise. Perhaps they had been wearing the outfit for so long, they didn’t realize how little it covered?

“That’s the uniform,” Mrs. Clatchet, the housekeeper, said in annoyance. “That’s what all the maids wear here at Stockwood Manor. And you’ll be wearing it too, missy, or else find yourself on a boat back to France.”

Adelle couldn’t help but put a hand over her mouth in shock. She’d been warned that the Stockwood maids wore, ah, revealing uniforms. But the minidresses before her were positively obscene!

Thérèse, the beautiful head maid, straightened, inadvertently showing off the little outfit from head to toe. The maid’s uniform was a small, jet-black dress, awfully tight around the waist and torso. The front was cut low, very very VERY low, giving an observer an expansive view of the top of the maid’s breasts, collarbone, and bare shoulders. The sleeves were puffy and short, exposing much of the maid’s graceful arms. There was a skirt that couldn’t have been nine inches long, and which was propped up by several layers of white, frilly petticoats underneath. Poor Thérèse looked like a human feather duster from her head down to her hips. And because the skirt was so short, Adelle could see all of Thérèse’s long, shapely legs, clad in thin black pantyhose. On the maid’s feet were shiny, black pump shoes. A black choker of lace around Thérèse’s graceful throat completed the outfit.

“Sacre bleu!” Adelle exclaimed, horrified. “Madame, you didn’t say—“

“Oh, come now, girl,” Mrs. Clatchet bristled. “It’s the modern era! And don’t tell me maids in your native France wear more.” She waggled her finger. “I’ve been to Paris. I know better.”

The women were in the servants’ common room, deep within the first basement of Stockwood Manor. The little chamber was drab but cozy, with ancient hardwood floors, worn furniture (mostly couches and chairs set around a long table), and even a small bookshelf. There were no windows, so oil lamps had been hung from the ceiling.

As Mrs. Clatchet lectured, the other two maids, Vivienne and Léonette, discreetly excused themselves. Both women were, Adelle noted, beautiful in face and body.

“Perhaps I should get Miss Adelle situated, Mrs. Clatchet?” Thérèse offered, moving to the young woman’s side. “It can be hard being the new girl, you know.”

The housekeeper, an older, plump woman in her late forties and wearing the ugliest black dress Adelle had ever seen, vehemently shook her head. “Not before we review The Rules,” she declared. Glaring at Adelle, she began counting on her fingers. “Never look at Mr. Oakwater or any member of the Family. Never speak to Mr. Oakwater or any member of the Family, unless spoken to first. Never speak of Mr. Oakwater or the Family outside of this house. And finally…” The plump little woman drew herself up. “…never, ever, EVER enter the Master Bedroom Suite up the third floor. Those are Mr. Oakwater Senior’s private quarters, and he alone selects who may enter.”

Taken aback by Mrs. Clatchet’s gruff demeanor, Adelle merely nodded and replied, “Oui, Madame.”

“She’ll be fine,” assured Thérèse, taking Adelle by the arm. “I’ll take her on my rounds today.”

“Harrumph…!” replied Mrs. Clatchet.

Constructed in 1893, Stockwood Manor was a dominating mansion, designed in the mock Victorian Gothic style. The vast house had four floors, two subbasements, a stable, a twenty-car garage, Olympic pool, tennis courts, three greenhouses, and sprawling, carefully manicured gardens. Just three miles south of Albany city limits, the house was easily the most opulent building for miles around.

The ground floor alone was more majestic then most museums. As Adelle and Thérèse moved through the house, Adelle couldn’t stop craning her neck to gape at the statues, medieval tapestries, portraits, and painted landscapes that decorated every room. The Great Hall, with its high ceilings, iron chandeliers, Roman columns, and Renaissance tiled floors, was especially eye-popping.

“My God, I’m afraid to touch anything,” Adelle murmured to Thérèse, speaking in French.

“You’ll get used to it,” smiled the head maid. “Working here is not so bad, you’ll see. Mrs. Clatchet likes to try and scare you, but don’t mind her.” She paused. “You are… twenty years old?”

“Nineteen,” Adelle replied, somewhat defensively. “But I’ve been in service before.”

Thérèse nodded disarmingly. “We know. I’m just making conversation.”

Adelle frowned. “Are all the paintings here of young, naked women?”

“Most are,” Thérèse replied dryly. “As are the statues. Mr. Oakwater Senior, God bless him, he… ah, appreciates the feminine form.”

“Then that explains this outfit,” grumbled Adelle, adjusting her choker once again. The maid’s uniform was tight and itchy, and she could feel cool air on her legs, bare arms, and the underneath of her tush.

“You’ll get used to that too,” Thérèse said casually. She added, “You’re a very beautiful girl, with a wonderful figure. They’ll love you here.”

“Thanks,” Adelle replied. She was fairly certain that she’d just been complimented.

The far end of the Great Hall opened out into the Foyer, and then to the tall front doors of the mansion. As the two maids approached, workmen in white jumpsuits were carrying in tall vases of white orchids. The men set the vases off to the side, ogled the young women, then left.

“Ah, the wedding planners said these would be arriving today,” Thérèse remarked happily, admiring the very fragrant blooms. “But I don’t know if they’ve made final selections on what to use in the ceremony.”

“A wedding ceremony?” Adelle asked.

“Ah, yes,” replied Thérèse, delicately cupping one orchid with her hand. “Oh, aren’t these just lovely? Mr. Oakwater Senior is getting married again, in September. To his third wife.”

“Three wives?” said Adelle repeated. “Good God…!”

“Shh,” warned Thérèse glancing about quickly. There was no-one else in the Great Hall. “Yes, three wives. I don’t know the full family history, but Mr. Oakwater Senior—that’s Charles Wilson Oakwater II, officially—had three sons from the first marriage. You’ll have to learn everyone’s names and how they liked to be served.”

“Wow,” Adelle marveled.

“The three oldest sons are all adults now, and out on their own,” Thérèse commented, admiring another orchid. “Come, we should continue on to the kitchen. Mr. Oakwater will be expecting his afternoon tea.”

Moving briskly, Thérèse led Adelle through the Dining Room, which was quite wide and contained a massive table for twenty people. An elderly footman was carefully setting a tablecloth over the table; he took no notice of the young women.

“So only Mr. Oakwater lives in the house?” Adelle said, still processing what Thérèse had told her.

“Well, after the wedding, I’m sure the new Mrs. Oakwater will move in,” the head maid replied. “I think she also had some children from a previous marriage… but I’m not sure.”

“Ah,” said Adelle. “So, will I meet Mr. Oakwater later today?”

“Meet Mr. Oakwater?” Thérèse said sharply. “Oh, no. Only three servants are ever permitted to approach him: Mr. Woolsby, our butler, Mrs. Clatchet, and myself. It is likely you will never meet him.”

“Never?” Adelle echoed, certain she’d misheard. “How is that possible?”

The two women passed through a pair of doors into the Stockwood kitchen. This was a large, white-tiled room, very tidy, with neatly-organized pantries and brick ovens. Six identical refrigerators lined the far wall. A short, dumpy-looking woman in a white uniform and apron was kneading dough on one of the counters. She flicked a disinterested glance at the two maids.

“Hello, Mrs. Plumm,” Thérèse said cheerfully to the cook. Mrs. Plumm ignored the salutation.

As Thérèse and Adelle moved to the other end of the kitchen, Adelle found herself studying the cook closely. “That woman’s a mute!” she murmured to Thérèse, in French.

“Why… yes!” Thérèse confirmed, impressed. “How did you know?”

“She has a small scar on her throat,” said Adelle. “From when she had surgery long ago, I’d guess.”

Thérèse nodded in admiration. “You’re quite observant, my dear. Yes, the poor woman never speaks, bless her. But she’s an excellent chef.”

“Ah,” Adelle said with interest. “So… she must get on very well with Mr. Oakwater, right?”

Thérèse set a kettle on one of the stoves, then lit the burner. “One of the things you must understand,” she said delicately and in a low voice, “is that Mr. Oakwater Senior is… ah, let’s say he’s reclusive. In his youth, I believe he traveled quite a bit. But nearly died from malaria in Africa. The experience scarred him, and now he lives up on the third floor, in the Master Bedroom Suite. He never leaves.”

“No!” exclaimed Adelle before she could stop herself. “Never?”

“Never,” the head maid affirmed. She shrugged. “Its his way.”

Dumbfounded, Adelle could only respond, “…huh.”

Thérèse gave a knowing look. “I’d advise you to not think about all this too much. The Oakwaters are a very proud, very demanding family. They have many quirks. Serving them means learning to adjust accordingly.”

Adelle nodded quickly. A life in service meant dedicating oneself to someone else’s comfort… and keeping your opinions to yourself.

“I still remember when… Ooo!” Thérèse exclaimed.

Adelle followed the older maid’s gaze. On the far counter, an opened bottle of wine and a used crystal goblet rested on a serving tray.

Thérèse scurried over, seizing the bottle. She scanned the label, and her beautiful face lit up. “Ah, an amontillado sherry!” she exclaimed, excited. “Shall we?”

Adelle shot a nervous glance at Mrs. Plumm, who was still kneading that dough.

“Oh, its fine,” Thérèse said haughtily, plucking stemless crystal wine glasses from a nearby cabinet. “Mr. Oakwater enjoys his wine, but he never drinks more than a glass at mealtime. What he doesn’t want is supposed to be tossed out… but not if I can sample it first!”

With a conspiratorial giggle, Thérèse poured small amounts of the dark red spirit into each glass. She took one, and handed the other to Adelle.

“Cheers!” the head maid beamed. Adelle grinned back, unable to resist Thérèse’s infectious delight.

Both maids sipped.

“Hmm,” mused Thérèse. “What do you taste? I think… Hazelnut? A little apple? And maybe rum spice…” She licked her lips. “…and honey. Mmm…!”

“It’s a little dry,” Adelle observed, then quietly coughed.

“Well, of course its dry,” laughed Thérèse. “It’s a sherry, silly!” When Adelle stared at her, Thérèse shrugged in a sheepish way. “We’ve all become wine experts here, what can I tell you?”

Adelle grinned. She liked Thérèse. When she had begun a career in service, Adelle had been warned, “Watch out for the head maid! She’ll be a jealous, uptight bitch. She’ll bark orders at you, and scheme to make your life miserable.”

Watching Thérèse, it was impossible to apply those words now. Stockwood’s head maid had a kind smile and an unassuming manner that made Adelle feel quite comfortable. Thérèse was also quite beautiful, with large, brown eyes, sandy brown hair, high cheekbones, and despite her young age, a motherly disposition. It was impossible not to like her.

The tea kettle began to whistle. Thérèse set down her sherry glass, and quickly switched off the burner. “Ah, get me the milk and sugar from over there, will you?”

Thérèse’s expert hands were already transferring the hot water into a prepared teapot. “We’ll head up to the third floor, and you’ll wait outside the suite while I serve Mr. Oakwater.”

Adelle couldn’t suppress her curiosity. “…what’s he like?” she asked slyly.

Thérèse smiled tightly. “Mr. Oakwater? Well, he’s…” She paused, thinking. “He’s genuinely the most interesting man I’ve ever met.”

The tray was arranged neatly. “There,” Thérèse said with satisfaction. “So after, you and I should tour the rest of the house. I still need to show you the parlor, library, smoking-room, map room, study, ballroom, upstairs salon, conservatory, breakfast nook, lounge, guest suite, business offices, and all twenty-one bedrooms. And perhaps the stables.”

Worried, the head maid glanced at Adelle’s legs. “You are in shape, no? We have a lot of walking ahead of us.”

Adelle spent most of her first month at Stockwood Manor getting lost. Oh, the ground floor was simple enough to navigate, assuming you could find your way back to the Great Hall. But once you wandered down the side corridors or ascended the Grand Staircase, it was easy to lose your bearings.

“I keep telling you,” Thérèse said to Adelle with a patient smile, “the house has north, west, and east wings. If you’re ever lost, simply follow the trimmings in the carpet back to the Main Atrium. And then from there, you’ll realize where you are.”

Easy for her to say. Adelle thought all the trimmings in the paneled corridors looked identical.

But gradually, she learned to navigate by using Mr. Oakwater’s gaudy artwork as landmarks. Heading to the map room? Up the stairs, left at the “Italian Nude Reclining on Couch” portrait, past the statue of naked Aphrodite, then a right by the painting of the young woman bathing. Going to the study? Down the Great Hall, right at “Young Ladies Dancing Without Clothes,” another right at “Study of Nude Female Model,” then left, then a second right at the other “Study of Nude Female Model,” the one with the short, cropped hair. Or perhaps you seek the drawing room? One more naked lady painting past the study.

There were other distinctive pictures. Mr. Oakwater Senior took much pride in his family’s history, and there were framed photographs depicting events in his father’s life. One, just outside the library, actually had a little plaque in brass: “Charles Wilson Oakwater I opens his first coal mine. August 19, 1874.”

Adelle memorized the art, determined to master Stockwood’s corridors no matter what. And she was a quick study.

“See?” Thérèse said proudly when Adelle fetched an encyclopedia from the library in under five minutes. “You’re getting the hang of this place.”

On most days, Stockwood Manor was silent. Adelle observed Mrs. Clatchet, the other three maids, Woolsby, the ancient butler, four elderly footmen, and the ever-silent Mrs. Plumm. The maids were all imported from France; Woolsby and the footmen were from England. Mrs. Plumm never spoke, so no-one had any idea what land she called home.

Occasionally, men in business suits would arrive at the house to visit Mr. Oakwater. Business executives from the Oakwater companies, accountants, bankers, lawyers, or politicians would ring the front bell, and be warmly greeted by Woolsby. Typically, Adelle would be asked to take the gentlemen’s coats and escort them to either the business offices or even to the doors of Mr. Oakwater’s suite. The men always stared at Adelle’s body, but she quickly became indifferent to their leering.

“Why do all these men come?” she finally asked Thérèse. The two young women were folding freshly-washed sheets in the expansive Laundry Room.

“Oh, Mr. Oakwater conducts most of his business by telegraph and telephone,” the head maid explained. “But I think he likes to summon his underlings here every now and then, just to look them in the eye. Remind them who holds the leash.”

“Underlings?” Adelle said, floored. “We hosted Senator Hawkins last week!”

“Who do you think buys the Senator’s votes?” replied Thérèse, a knowing glint in her eye.

Adelle folded up another topsheet and shook her head in wonder. The universe of Charles Wilson Oakwater II was strange, indeed. One question still nagged at her, though.

“What about the wedding?” she asked.

Thérèse fluffed out a pillowcase. “What about it?”

“Mr. Oakwater is getting married next month,” Adelle pointed out. “But I’ve never seen his fiancée. Does she live in the Master Suite, too?”

“Oh,” smiled Thérèse. “No. Mr. Oakwater’s beloved is in Europe, selling off her family properties before she moves into Stockwood Manor permanently. She comes from some money, I’ve heard.”

“And she’s a very accomplished woman,” Thérèse added. “Due back any day now, I believe. When she arrives, then the wedding plans will accelerate. God bless.”

The front doorbell chimed, announcing someone was on the front terrace. Adelle happened to be in the Great Hall, alone.

Protocol dictated that Woolsby the butler was supposed to answer the door and receive all guests. However, the stoic old fellow was no-where to be seen. Adelle bit her lip, wondering what to do.

The bell rang again, insistently.

Well, that tears it, the young maid thought. She set down her feather duster, then hurried to the grand double doors.

Standing on the front step was a tall, prim woman of perhaps thirty-five. Elegant and refined, the woman wore a sleek, red overcoat over a conservative business dress. Her shoes matched the dress. The woman’s black hair was short, but carefully arranged. And her eyes were a piercing dark green, which scanned Adelle in less than a second. She held a small, slender purse.

Behind the woman, out on the driveway, Adelle could see a glossy black towncar idling. The driver was watching both women intently.

But the lady strode right into the house, her head held high. With graceful movement, she slipped out of her coat and handed it to Adelle.

“You’re the new girl, I take it?” she asked coolly. The lady spoke in a thick, upper-crust Boston accent. “Pray tell, what is your name, darling?”

“Adelle, Madame,” the maid answered.

“Adelle,” the woman replied, opening her purse. “Well, welcome to Stockwood Manor. I’m sure Thérèse has taken you under her wing?”

“Why yes, thank you, Madame,” the teenage servant replied. She shut the front door then tucked the coat into the hall closet. As she did this, the woman produced a cigarette and cigarette holder. She looked at Adelle expectantly.

“Well?” the woman asked plainly. “Don’t you have a light?”

Unfortunately, Adelle did not. “Oh, er, sorry, Madame,” she apologized.

The ends of the woman’s mouth turned down, but she did not complain. Instead, her intent gaze flicked over the Great Hall. She did not gape in wonder at the art or the interior design, having obviously been inside Stockwood Manor many times before.

So this is the future Mrs. Oakwater, Adelle thought. It was the only explanation as to why the woman felt so at home.

Meanwhile, a side door opened, and Woolsby appeared, looking red-faced and stricken. Moving as quickly as he could, the old butler shuffled toward to the foyer.

The black-haired woman nodded at the latest batch of floral arrangements, arranged not far away. “Plans for the wedding are proceeding, I see,” she remarked casually to Adelle.

“Oui, Madame,” the maid nodded. She offered a small smile. “And may I congratulate you? I am sure your wedding will be a joyous one.”

The woman’s face turned cold.

“Ms. Vesper, Ms. Vesper… how lovely to… see you again,” Woolsby gasped, drawing up. “I do apologize… I was detained.” He huffed for breath, looking quickly between the two women. “I trust… Miss Adelle has… seen to your needs?”

“Miss Adelle needs to spend more time learning from Thérèse,” the woman replied, anger in her voice.

Woolsby’s expression went slack. “Oh…” he quailed, “I, er—“

“Never mind,” snapped Ms. Vesper, waving a dismissive hand. “I’ll see my own way to the Master Suite. Charles is expecting me, of course.”

“Of course, ma’am…” the butler wheezed. But the icy Ms. Vesper was already striding to the Grand Staircase.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Woolsby shot a dark glance at Adelle. “Do not answer the door ever again,” he admonished.

“What did I do wrong?” poor Adelle asked Thérèse.

It was the end of the day, and most of the manor were asleep in their beds. The two maids were in the servant’s common room, extinguishing the oil lamps. Whenever they were alone, the two ladies conversed in French.

“So… tell me again what happened?” Thérèse prodded.

Adelle related the entire story. At the mention of Ms. Vesper’s name, Thérèse sucked in a breath of alarm.

“Oh dear,” she lamented. “Ms. Vesper isn’t Mr. Oakwater Senior’s fiancée; she’s his mistress.”

Right away, Adelle felt a cannonball drop into her stomach.

“Mistress?” the young maid wailed. “But… Are you sure?”

“Quite sure,” Thérèse said grimly. She looked thoughtful. “Ms. Vesper is a very intelligent lady. She’s a doctor of some kind, working with New York state government, I think? I’m not sure what she does, but she somehow met Mr. Oakwater when he was lobbying the governor for something. She’s been a regular visitor to his suite for over a year now.”

“His mistress…!” Adelle repeated, aghast. “But, with the wedding…?”

“I don’t think Mr. Oakwater wants to separate from her,” said Thérèse sadly, shaking her head. “Lord knows how that will work out, after next month.”

Her head spinning, Adelle wondered if she would ever understand the strange world of Stockwood Manor.