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The Valet is the tale of a dedicated butler doing his best to attend to the needs of his employer's female guest. From The Valet: She looked over the uneaten fruit and pastries and sighed. "A man like that certainly does leave a lot of leftovers," she said, a little sadly, pouring herself some more champagne and considered her place. "No need to worry, miss, nothing will go to waste," I said pouring the orange juice into a plastic jug for later. She laughed at this, her charm was visceral. "He doesn't mind you taking the leftovers?" she asked, the question lingering in the air whether she meant the food or other things. "I assure you, he often insists, miss" I said, gathering her glass and her coffee cup, not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the heat of her body. "Does he ever let you finish what he's started?" she said, her voice lower. I straightened. "You'll have to ask Mr Leinhardt about that, miss, I'm not really at liberty to talk about the goings on of the house," and there was nothing in my voice. I squashed all feeling and simply busied myself with the cleaning up of breakfast and memorizing every blushing inch of her body. "What if he told you to-" she reached down and grabbed my crotch. I coughed a bit, mostly for her benefit. It's unfair to have such a ravishing woman think she has no effect on a man. Even a man who is adept at swallowing his own desires. "I'm afraid, as I said, you'll have to take that up with Mr Leinhardt, miss. The particulars of my responsibilities are indeed up to him. And if I might, miss, my name is Howards."
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About the Author
Copyright © 2010 by Jack Stratton
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
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The dry cleaner (a lovely woman from Belarus, I believe) had my order hanging near the cash register, waiting for me. She tried to brush away my tip, but as always she eventually conceded with a smile and daintily shoved the few extra dollars (as daintily as someone can shove something) into her vast brassiere.
Usually by 8:30, which my pocket watch told me it had just struck, I’d be making coffee, but since my employer was “with guest” and the various grinding of beans and screaming of espresso making apparati would, I’m sure, be a less than ideal wake up call, I was out running the errands which I usually saved for later in the day.
The mornings when my employer had an overnight guest (or guests, as sometimes happens) were some of the most challenging in my professional life, I assure you. Still, in their own way, they were some of the most rewarding.
Most mornings my employer, Mr Leinhardt, and I would share some light banter on topics both political and scandalous while I gave him a shave, dressed him and attend to his breakfast. On mornings where Mr Leinhardt was entertaining I instead had to focus on the detailed movements and well thought out strategies of readying food, newspapers, clothing, and other essentials whilst not disturbing he nor his scantily clad (if that) visitor. I assure you this is no small feat and it takes all of my not inconsiderable skills.
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