His office

As it turned out Smithers was taking Veronica to his office, a place she hadn't been to in years. That had not always been the case. When she was six years old she had spent so much time in his office that he had kept a box of toys in the corner to distract her while he did his paperwork. Needless to say it was very different from her childhood memories.

Oh, the old second-hand desk was the same. The shelves full of log books where Smithers recorded the details of all the functions he oversaw. The old style wood paneling, the scuffed, but clean wooden floor. It was all as she remembered. What was different was there was no box of children's toys shoved to the side, and that Fifi the french maid, recognizable due to her fluffy blond curls, was standing spread legged facing a corner, leaning forward at a good angle so her forehead pressed against the walls with her hands cupped behind her head. No, that wasn't quite right Veronica realized as she looked closer. There was a gold ribbon woven into Fifi's hair and around her fingers, making it impossible for her to move her hands. Veronica knew from her yoga that it would be nearly impossible for Fifi to stand up straight without the use of her hands. The most glaring thing about the tableau was that Fifi was nude, and abused. From her heels to the back of her neck her body bore the mottled bruising that came from a good hard flogging. Veronica knew the damage had been caused by a flogger because the handle of that tool was currently jammed up Fifi's ass leaving the soft leather straps dangling between her legs. To go by the large amount of semen, and other juices, running down her inner thighs it seemed likely her nether passage had been well used and distended before the flogger was inserted.

Veronica was dumbfounded. As a French Maid Fifi's position had more in common with the sculptures in the main entrance way of the house than anything practical. She had only one real duty, which required very little of her time, as well, of course, as the duty all the females in the house were expected to perform. Her real job was simply to be what she was, a French Maid.

When you were rich as sin and had a huge estate a french maid was one of the things you had to have, along with a bunch of pretentious pieces of art and statuary. To flog Fifi till her perfect milk-white skin was in this condition could be compared to taking a sharpie marker to the marble sculptures scattered here and there throughout the house. Mind you, a pint or so of Bum Balm @tm would see her skin restored to its normal pristine condition in a day or so. Unlike the statuary which would likely require the work of a professional restoration service. But still. What the hell.

Smithers noticed Veronica staring at Fifi, or more likely he had known what her reaction would be as soon as he pulled her into the room, he explained in his usual placid matter of fact tone of voice. "I sent Fifi to see Chef Pierre this morning. She was to collect his proposed menu for the dinner party your father is giving tonight and bring it back for me to look at and sign off on. She was instructed to not waste her time getting back on penalty of a good thrashing. She has a bad habit of chatting and distracting the rest of the staff from their duties."

"You did that to her because she was late!" Veronica asked in shock. Veronica was not a fan of Fifi, and normally she'd have been delighted to see the snotty commoner, who had an exaggerated sense of her own worth, taken down a notch, but she was starting to realize that she was no longer immune to such chastisement. At least until her daddy discovered how far out of bounds Smithers had stepped. She was dreadfully afraid that Smithers intended to turn her into a bookend to match Fifi.

Smithers shook his head in answer to Veronica's words. "No! In fact she returned in good order and I was very pleased. Until I learned that on her walk back she encountered John, the estate's man-of-all-trades. He requested she take a minute and relieve the pressure in his manhood. She refused and hurried back here." Smithers scowled. "She put avoiding a minor thrashing of no more than ten strokes of the cane across her well padded bottom over relieving John's discomfort. Thus," he gestured toward Fifi to indicate her condition was now fully explained.

Veronica swallowed, remembering how she'd fought to keep from servicing Smithers. She'd gotten off lightly. If she had gotten off, she suddenly thought as her ass clenched in terror.

Smithers walked over to Fifi and undid the ribbon that tangled her own fingers into her hair. "You may leave, Fifi. You will search out John and apologize to him. When he has finished receiving your apology, return to the kitchen to be milked. Chef Pierre will be wanting to create a fresh batch of his special cream for Mr. Cottages dinner this evening.

Fifi used her hands to push herself upright. She turned, revealing her tear stained face, and running nose. She also revealed the two reasons Veronica despised the girl. Her massive milk filled mammaries, Grossly out of proportion for her body size, in Veronica's opinion. The milk leaking out of her nipples revealed it was well past time for her to be milked. Her father, Chef Pierre, refused to use any other source of milk for his pastries or special dessert cream.

The milk the staff drank came from the local hucow ranch. It was of superior quality to cow milk, but no match at all for what Fifi expressed, according to her father anyway.

Fifi reached behind herself to remove the flogger from her ass, but Smithers slapped her hands away. "Leave it!" he told her sternly as he cleaned her snot smeared face with his handkerchief. You may ask John to remove it. It is at his discretion if he wished to use it himself if he finds your apology insufficient.

Fifi paled, but nodded acceptance. "We, matriser," she said in a raspy voice, a result no doubt from all the sobbing she must have done during her flogging.

Veronica wondered which distressed Fifi the most. Handing herself over to the man she'd refused to service, or the idea of walking through the hallways of the mansion with the floger jutting out of her ass. Veronica would bet on the flogger. Servicing men was an everyday occurrence for the cow-slut, but getting flogged showed she'd been negligent in her duties, in a place where only excellence in service was accepted. If it were not for her relationship with Chef Pierre she likely would have dismissed from service and then shoved out the front gate of the house, hands cuffed behind her back, and the flogger still jammed up her ass. The commoners who lived outside the estate would no doubt have given her a warm welcome. The image made Veronica feel all warm and fuzzy, until she caught Smithers giving her a considering look. then it was her turn to pale.