Warming Her Pearls

A strange story, hinting at shoujo ai between Dorothy and Relena. Based on the Poem by Carol Ann Duffy. Dorothy POV.

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I can’t agree that being a maid is a bad thing. True, for someone of my composition, it may seem a little degrading, yet I find more things out being her maid than I ever would by watching her as a friend. I know the different ways she speaks to people, depending on how she views them. Myself she views as an equal; if not a little afraid of my power that I hide within. Due to this, she uses a patronizing tone, as if to make herself seem of a higher class, more important, despite the idea we are equals. She allows me to do things no other maid can though, a little trust placed in the power she fears. A mistake, of course, but who am I to judge her?

She uses her voice to entice her suitors, the patronizing voice she believes to be sweet and childlike. It amazes me that so many fall for such a delicate voice, with such a tone weaved within every word, yet they do; and I understand that she knows this. Far from the sweet girl everyone believes her to be, she is a very dominating lady, with powers of hatred and revenge bubbling under her pale skin much like that of any normal human. When she throws herself into her armchair after meetings, angrily tossing the notes taken onto the desk nearby, it make me want to smile, causing her to growl in frustration.

It is then that she orders me around, her true personality escaping her pale adorable lips; it is then that I can feel the vibrating heat that her petite figure emits, her emotions flowing freely in the air. She confides in me, pretending I am a journal, as if I am not a human. I don’t mind, it allows me to see how her mind works. And believe me, it’s rather interesting the way it does. Who would’ve suspected such a dainty girl having of many thoughts of passion and hatred as she does? Who would’ve believed she longs for someone to take her and use her?

I believe it, I know it. And in time, I will show her how right she is about the entire fiasco. She knows that men are not up to her standard, requires a lady to please her, but knows not whom. Or pretends not to.  I know she has the grace to blush when I’m in her room and she is changing, however, I also know, from that blush, how much she is pleased with it, that she is naked in front of myself. It makes me wish to laugh at her foolery. If she but asked, I would gladly please her; show her the true pain of love, yet she never will, never does. She merely glances at me with flushed cheeks, and asks me to remove her necklace.

Ah, yes, the necklace. She tells me that at all times, to keep the colour of the pearls in tact, it should be worn. I disagree, and often wonder why she believes it to be true, as she takes them of at night and leaves them in the cold. Her excuse is too feeble to be believed; yet I do not, under any particular circumstances, question it, as it pleases me to wear them. To feel the heaviness of such jewellery around my neck, like a collar, a leash she has given me that I can only return when she needs to look as though she is regal. It gives me great joy to gently take the pearls from around my neck and place them around hers, her hair catching in the links, causing her aggravation and pain, making her stumble against my body.

She is never dressed when I brush her hair. She believes that being dressed whilst having hair down is like asking a white cat to roll over black velvet. Silly, dangerous and disgusting. It ruins the look, she explains, if you look posh and have long strands of golden blond hair hanging from your neckline. Why would you wear such a lovely dress if you were only going to ruin it by having your hair covering you like a monster? I agree, of course I agree. It is my job to do so. Though I never tell her so, I merely smile and tell her how lovely she looks in the dress she has chosen, how perfectly splendid it looks on her figure. I never let her out without telling her if it looks good, for if I don’t, then I fear that she might realise the men out there are lying.

The men that she dances with, parades around with, the men she uses and loses. For she has a reputation to keep, the celebrity virgin, the beautiful maiden with flower intact. God forbid that one day someone will pick it. Especially if it be male, she tells me at night, before going to bed. They are always so rough with her, never gentle and caring like the women she knows and admires. Never do they see that she is not just a celebrity, but also a human, the way that I see her.

She understands my requirements, understands that I must ensure her safety, check every night that she is still a virgin – for the many drugs in the world could cause her to not realise if she is taken advantage of. Yet she is, every night, every day, and never does she protest. My fingers itching to touch her, she has always allowed me to check her virginity. I have always used it to my advantage, pushing her to the edge, but never allowing her to claim ecstasy and break herself.

Sometimes I lie in her bed with her, to keep her warm during the night. She never allows anyone to know this, and I find it amusing that she swears in papers she always sleeps alone. To swear such an untruth, to the entire world nation, to the entire universe, and be so honest about it. She has not slept with anyone in the manner they mean, it is true; but I have slept with her many a time, and read her poetry to cause her to sleep.

Her weakness for Duffy amazes me. She understands the love and longing in every poem, whimpers her tears at “Valentine”, smiles amusedly at the dramatic change in “In Mrs Tilscher’s Class”, feels the pain for the child from “Snowman”. Yet her favourite poem to curl up with, with myself included in the curled shape, would have to be “Warming Her Pearls”. The irony of the poem being so alike to my life and hers amazes her, I believe, and I think she wishes it to be true to the very last sentence. That I would dream of her whilst sleeping.

Ironically, I do.

Warming Her Pearls – Carol Ann Duffy

Next to my own skin, her pearls. My mistress
bids me wear them, warm then, until evening
when I'll brush her hair. At six, I place them
round her cool, white throat. All day I think of her,

resting in the Yellow Room, contemplating silk 
or taffeta, which gown tonight? She fans herself
whilst I work willingly, my slow heat entering
each pearl. Slack on my neck, her rope.

She's beautiful. I dream about her
in my attic bed; picture her dancing 
with tall men, puzzled by my faint, persistent scent
beneath her French perfume, her milky stones.

I dust her shoulders with a rabbit's foot,
watch the soft blush seep through her skin
like an indolent sigh. In her looking-glass
my red lips part as though I want to speak.

Full moon. Her carriage brings her home. I see
her every movement in my head...Undressing,
taking off her jewels, her slim hand reaching
for the case, slipping naked into bed, the way

she always does...And I lie here awake,
knowing the pearls are cooling even now
in the room where my mistress sleeps. All night
I feel their absence and I burn.