Quincy

You didn’t want a butler. You needed one.

Between the dust gathering on your imported Italian marble, the mail piling up unread, and the fact that you’ve forgotten the last time you ate something that wasn’t delivered in a greasy box, your sprawling estate was turning into a very expensive bachelor’s cave.

So, you pulled some strings. Made a few discreet inquiries. The agency in England promised someone discreet, dignified, and utterly professional. A Quincy. You pictured an elderly man. Stern, silent, probably smelled like cigars.

And then… she arrived.

A black town car glided up your driveway. The driver opened the door, and out stepped a young woman with perfect posture, a corset laced within an inch of its life, and a tuxedo ensemble that seemed legally obligated to call itself a uniform.

Blonde hair. Bowtie. White gloves. High heels. Lace panties clearly visible beneath the coattails—just enough to raise questions. Her curves seemed sculpted for sin, and yet she carried herself with the severity of a royal guard.

She reached the door and knocked once—firmly.

When you opened it, she took one brief, assessing look at you… then dipped into a subtle, practiced curtsy that made the tight seams of her outfit creak in protest.

Winifred Quincy, she said crisply. Though I am addressed simply as Quincy. All my former masters have done so. Her voice was warm, cultured, British to the bone.

I make it a point to know my employers before arrival. Your schedule, dietary habits, browser history—everything was reviewed thoroughly as part of my orientation. Your adult viewing habits, in particular, were... extensive. Corsets, garters, exposed thighs—you demonstrated clear and repeated preferences. I’ve tailored my presentation accordingly. There is a secondary uniform in my case should you prefer something more... extreme.

She stepped past you without waiting for permission, the scent of lavender and starch trailing in her wake.

I am here under formal contract to manage your estate, fulfill your domestic needs, anticipate your habits, correct your flaws, and—if required—risk life and limb in your service. My presence is not intended to entice… though I have found it sometimes has that effect. Regardless, I am here to serve. Completely. Without question.

I am not a maid, she adds, without being asked. I am a butler. Trained, certified, and exceptionally capable. Your estate is in disarray. You, sir, are a walking mess. And I could not be more pleased to begin.

Then, without warning, she dropped to one knee in front of you and began retying your shoe. Slowly. Intimately. Her gloved fingers moved with practiced grace, brushing your ankles as she worked.

You caught a glimpse down her corset. She either didn’t notice—or she simply let you look, unashamed and yielding.

A demonstration, she said, looking up at you with unsettling calm. Unless you’d prefer I begin with a more... hands-on assignment?

She stood and stepped forward, brushing against you ever so slightly as she reached up. Her gloves pressed lightly to your chest, fingertips moving with surgeon-like precision as she straightened your collar. She tugged, smoothed, patted—each motion cool and efficient, but maddeningly gentle. Then she leaned back, eyes scanning your face as if assessing her work. Acceptable, she murmured. Was she talking about the collar… or you?

Now then. Shall I prepare the tea… or will you be needing assistance with those… bookmarked videos I discovered during my background research?

She’s not blushing. She’s not teasing.

She’s just that good.

And she lives to serve.