I nodded, relieved. Of course, a huge estate took an army of people to run, one person can’t do it alone.
“Anyone else other than the cooking and cleaning folks?” I asked carefully. “I don’t want to call the police on the gardener or anything.”
Angela thought for a moment.
“Yes, there are some landscapers, and also regular security, although they can’t always be seen,” she added. “But other than that it’ll be just you … unless of course, Mr. Lancaster is home.”
“Of course, of course,” I murmured, nodding. “This is his home, he can show up whenever he likes.”
Angela shot me a quick look again, but it disappeared just as fast, her face neutral once more.
“Let me show you to your room,” she said. “Or suite, more accurately.”
And we went up a staircase to a circular landing, before walking down another hall to a closed door. With a slow turn of the knob, Marie opened it.
“Here you are,” she said, voice betraying nothing. “Here’s the room set aside for guests.”
I stood stock still, unable to move, taking in the surroundings. But it wasn’t because the room was lavish, decorated to the nines. It was because the room was a little girl’s space, the walls painted a delicate pink, a mural of a rainbow with dancing fairies on the left wall, and an old-fashioned white four-poster bed in the corner.
“I’m sorry,” I stuttered. “But maybe we’re in the wrong place?”
Angela shook her head thoughtfully.
“No, this is the room that Mr. Lancaster sets aside for housesitters,” she said neutrally. “This is it.”
I looked around again, trying not to show my surprise. The four-poster was big enough for an adult, yes, but everything else about the room was more appropriate for a five year-old girl. There was a rocking horse in one corner, ludicrously small, plus a toy chest filled to the brim with dolls, and a large white dresser. This was weird. This was really fucking weird.
But I wasn’t in a position to negotiate, I was getting paid five thousand a month to basically do nothing, so if this was the room I was getting, then I was going to go along with it, no questions asked.
“Thank you,” I said in as steady of a voice I could manage. “Thanks Angela, it’s lovely.”
She nodded, expression smooth, ignoring the obvious, which was that I was about twenty years too old for this place.
“The en suite’s right over there,” she said, pointing to a closed door with a golden handle, “and of course, if you have any questions, you can always reach me at the phone number I gave you.”
I nodded, still trying to hide my surprise. There had to be at least ten bedrooms in this house. Why was I in someone’s girlhood bedroom? Why the fuck did Mr. Lancaster have a girl’s room, anyways? And I swung suspicious eyes to the middle-aged woman then, I had to ask.
“Does Mr. Lancaster have a daughter?” I said slowly. “Is this his daughter’s room?”
Angela laughed.
“God no, Mr. Lancaster has no children, he’s much too busy working,” she said lightly. But there had to be a reason for this room, and dread suddenly filled my soul, a deep, dark weight.
“Does he have a dead daughter then?” I asked, my voice almost a whisper. “Am I staying in his dead daughter’s room?” Oh my god, oh my god. If that was true, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. Even though I didn’t want to throw in the towel on my first day, didn’t want to be labeled a quitter, still, I just might have to if this room belonged to a ghost.
But Angela merely threw her head back and laughed then, a real, belly-deep chortle.
“No, Mr. Lancaster has never had any children,” she assured me, eyes twinkling. And I let out a huge gasp of relief, head swimming, I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath. Thank god. Thank the Lord Almighty. But before I could ask more questions, Angela was out the door, striding down the hall with long steps.
“I’m so sorry to leave you like this,” she called, voice echoing with her departing figure. “But I’ve got a three o’clock and I’m going to be late. Just call if you have any questions, okay Melissa?” she asked again. “Just call,” her voice sang, and I nodded numbly, turning back to the room, and going slowly back inside. God, this was weird. I could swear one of the fairies on the wall was looking at me, pointing her pink glittery wand my way. But hey, beggars can’t be choosers, and I was definitely in the begging camp.
So woodenly, I put my bag on the bed and tested it slightly, jouncing the mattress up and down. Seemed fine. Still wary, I pulled up the mattress to look underneath, but there were no peas, there was no princess, this was no fairy tale, and it was just a bed. A plain old bed. So shaking my head once more, I walked with more confident strides to the en suite, although I still held my breath. God, what awaited me, was there going to be potty-training unit in the corner, a pink toilet maybe?
But once I opened the door, I breathed again with relief because it was normal. There was a bathtub, a shower, a toilet, and a vanity, all full-sized, made for adults, with nothing indicating that a five year-old girl lived here. There were no child-size soaps or bath toys, just regular white towels embroidered with pink flowers. I could live with that. So slowly stripping off my clothes, I squeezed into a swimsuit. Might as well enjoy the pool on the first day, it was warm and balmy, and heck, the last couple days had been stressful, topped off by Catherine’s fit this morning. Besides, I didn’t have to hang out in this room except to sleep. As terrible as it was, it was just a small detail, I could use the bed at night and enjoy the rest of the estate during my waking hours.
So with a renewed bounce to my step, I padded downstairs in my suit and stretched out by the pool, letting the sun bathe me in warm rays. It felt good, really relaxing. I know there are all these warnings from dermatologists about UVA and UVB, SPF this and SPF that, but I was gonna get a tan, dammit, and feel amazing doing it. So my eyes drifted shut lazily as my mind floated off in sleep.
But a male voice woke me, intruding on my hazy daydreams.
“You’re gonna look like a lobster if you lay out here any longer,” it rumbled. “Better cover up, girlie.”
Go away, go away, my mind chanted silently, eyes still closed behind my sunglasses. I’m having a dream, this is nothing but a dream.
But then big hands began to stroke my shoulders, even touching the skin of my décolletage and I jolted upright, gasping, curves bouncing this way and that, letting out a small shriek.
“What the hell? Who the fuck are you?”
My voice, despite starting in an accusatory yelp, died out in a whisper. Because the man before me was gorgeous. Huge, tall and broad, he had the bluest eyes and blackest hair, almost like someone had put a filter on him, the colors so vibrant as to almost be unbelievable.
And hearing my stutter, the big man chuckled.
“What am I doing here? This is my place,” he rumbled easily, gesturing to the grounds. “I’m Robert Lancaster, I own this spread.”
That made me gulp and grab for my towel. But shit, I’d forgotten it, so there was nothing to cover me but this swimsuit and it wasn’t doing much. Because in the last couple years, I’ve developed a lot, without the funds to buy myself a new suit. So I was literally wearing something two sizes too small, breasts bulging out from the top and the sides, the string ties clinging for dear life around my neck. But the worst part was the bottoms. They were so small that it was like a postage stamp of cloth on my pussy, the outline of my lips visible, and oh my god, looking closely you could even see the hard nub of my clit.
Because it was stiff and horny, that’s what this man did to me. Mr. Lancaster was so unbelievably gorgeous, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit, blue eyes amused. And shit, but my body was saying hello, nips poking out like rocks, the throbbing of my pussy visible beneath the thin material. Oh shit, oh shit, and this was my new employer! Oh shit, talk about a embarrassing start.
But instead of being offended or surprised, the big
“I knew Angela had found a housesitter, but I never expected her to look like you,” he rumbled more to himself than anything. “What did you say your name was?”
“Melissa Carlson,” I blurted out quickly, growing red. “You can call me Mel.”
“Melissa,” he said thoughtfully, rolling my name on his tongue, “Melissa, Melissa, Mel.”
God, I almost dissolved into a puddle hearing it. I’d never heard my name pronounced in such a deep rumble, his voice caressing the syllables, each vowel sounding like a prayer, my insides heating up to about a million degrees.
But Mr. Lancaster looked at me thoughtfully then.
“I don’t like Melisa,” he said offhandedly. “Doesn’t suit you, doesn’t sound like a girl who looks like you. I’m gonna call you Melly instead,” he said with total authority.
I jerked back, astonished. What the hell? Who says that to a total stranger, someone you don’t know? People have called me Melissa or Mel my whole life, and it worked just fine, I was Mel at the café and Melissa at school. Besides Melly was a silly name, singsongy and frivolous. Wasn’t the shy pansy in Gone with the Wind named Melly? That woman had been spineless, I didn’t want to be associated with her.
So I was just about to open my mouth to protest when suddenly a small voice rang out in my head. This man pays your salary, warned the voice. Mr. Lancaster puts a roof over your head and gives you money. If he wants to call you Funky the Monkey or Riddles the Clown, just let him, you’re better off.
So I pasted a smile on my face.
“Sure, Melly works,” I said lightly. “No worries.”
And the big man eyed me closely, a grin playing around his lips.
“I see you’re very trainable,” he rumbled. “That’s going to work in your favor, Angela chose very well.”
“Trainable”? What did that mean? I was hardly a dancing bear learning to ride a bicycle, but the warning voice in my head rang out again. Because I actually was a dancing bear for the next three months, Funky the Monkey or Riddles the Clown. Right.
So I forced another smile.
“At your service, Mr. Lancaster,” I tittered lightly. “Melly Carlson at your service.”
“That’s what I like,” he rumbled approvingly. “Now before we talk about the details of your job, what kind of swimsuit is this?” he frowned. “Who bought you this bikini?”
I blushed then, a full-body pink staining me from hairline to toes.
“I’m so sorry, I know it’s small,” I stuttered. “I haven’t had a chance to go to the mall yet and I um, kind of outgrew this one, I’ll get another one as soon as possible,” I promised, hands flying to my breasts and then my cunt, futilely trying to shield them. But it only made things worse because the fluttery movements attracted attention to my privates, like butterflies dancing.
“Naw, it’s not that,” Mr. Lancaster rumbled again, blue eyes magnetic on my curves, making me go hot as sparks pulsed in my secret spot. “It’s just that little girls don’t need to wear their tops to the pool. Little girls are undeveloped still so they can go swimming in just their bottoms,” he admonished me.
If I was pink before, now I was a full-blown red. What the hell was he talking about? I was no little girl, I was twenty years old, into the double digits by a decade. And even if the term “little girl” was a figure of speech, I wasn’t “little” by a long shot. Couldn’t he see my huge Double Ds? Couldn’t he see how they leaked from the bottoms, tops and sides of my bikini, how the thin fabric was just barely holding in the lush curves, covering my areola and not much else? Was he blind?
But Mr. Lancaster continued like nothing was wrong.
“Little girls don’t need their tops,” he admonished again. “Let Daddy help you take it off.”
And I was perfectly still, barely breathing as he leaned forwards, those huge, sensual hands slowly pulling on the string tie of my bikini top. Oh my god, oh my god, was this really happening? Was my employer literally undressing me on my first day of work, forcing me to go topless as I lounged by his pool? Oh my god, he about to get a full view of my tits, the pendulous swells of cream, the pink areola that begged to be kissed.
And yes, it happened. I could hardly breathe, still as a trembling doe as the alpha male unveiled me, the tiny swaths of fabric falling to my lap as his agile fingers undid the strings. And oh shit, but my breasts were in fine form. Mountainous, rising and falling softly with each breath, they were huge sacks of cream with deep pink nipples that jutted like rocks, pointing straight at alpha male.
“What a beautiful little girl,” he rumbled appreciatively, that blue gaze glued to my curves. “You’re certainly a pretty baby.”
And oh shit, but a warm, sensuous fluid gushed between my thighs then. Because I couldn’t help it, this man gave new meaning to the word “naughty.” Even though it was so wrong, so taboo, I felt alive under his gaze, I wanted this man’s eyes on me, I wanted him to stroke my skin, fondle my tits, to kiss my nipples and lick my cunt.
My face flamed then, tingles shooting out to my fingers and toes like all my nerves had gone haywire at the same time. Because how could I even be having these feelings? I didn’t know this guy for one, we’d literally met five minutes ago. For another, Mr. Lancaster was my employer, and there was no better way to get myself fired than illicit nookie with the boss. And third, what the hell, what the hell? I’m a virgin, I’ve never been touched before and all of a sudden dirty scenarios were running through my head like a porn reel on repeat.
But the visuals were so insanely vivid and titillating that I gave in, moaning slightly, my eyes glued to his, unconsciously pushing my chest forwards, offering my tits to the big man. Yes, I wanted Mr. Lancaster’s face buried there, I wanted him to lick my nipples, to pinch the hard nubs of pink as his dick nudged my slick cunt down below. I wanted him to push into me, to make my pussy convulse, transforming me into a woman as I moaned lustily, thrashing and spasming, my body belonging only to him.
And I moaned involuntarily then, lips parted slightly, eyes pleading with an unspoken message. What had happened to the old Melissa? Instead of the shy, inexperienced girl I actually was, the one with zero experience, instead I was acting the naughty Lolita, letting him undress me, unconsciously begging him to fuck my nubile body. And like in a dream, my hand crept between my thighs and did the unthinkable. One finger hooked into the crotch of the bikini bottoms and swept the fabric to the side, baring my pink pussy, the folds glistening and engorged.
“Daddy have a taste?” I mewled, squirming a bit so he could get a full view of my cunt, already ready to play. “Daddy want to lick?”
Mr. Lancaster merely chuckled then, although his crotch jerked, followed by a wet spot forming on the dark fabric. Holy shit, was that cum? Had the alpha male just spurted slightly, and sperm was now staining those trousers, darkening the material? Holy shit, had innocent Melly done that to the alpha male?
But evidently, the big man wanted more before getting down. Instead of burying his face in my pussy, treating himself to a long lick of female juice, his voice rang out.
“Tilt your hips up, baby girl. Tilt your hips up even more so that I can see everything.”
See everything? What in the world did he mean? But I did as ordered. I leaned back onto the lounger and slowly brought my knees up to my chest, rolling my hips so that my entire ass practically lifted off the cushions, floating like a giant orb of white.
“Like this Daddy?” I whispered, eyes glued to his. “You mean like this?”
And Robert’s gaze was all over my exposed flesh, the huge, chunky thighs, the giant white ass, and the pulsing pink slit that begged for his mouth.
“That’s it,” he said smoothly, like it was no big deal, although dark streaks stained his cheekbones. “Daddy’s gonna look at everything you have.”
And with that, one big hand reached forward and pulled my bikini bottoms all the way to the side so that they bisected a butt cheek, baring my slit from top to bottom plus the brown pucker of my asshole.
“Oh god!” I squealed, still balled up tightly. “Oh god, Daddy you’re looking at everything!” I know what anal is, I know guys even kiss you down there sometimes, but still, it was so dirty and naughty. It was embarrassing to be caught like this, my ankles almost hooked over my ears as I showed him not just my pussy, but my brown asshole. And I had nowhere to hide, there was nowhere to go. I couldn’t bury my face in pillows or avert my gaze from the show. I was open to the big man, spread out like a feast, and oh fuck, but both my pussy hole and asshole winked at him then, begging to be touched.
But Mr. Lancaster merely growled and admonished me once more.
“Every part of you is beautiful,” he ground out. “Especially here,” he said, resting one big finger against my pussy hole, “and here,” he continued, another big finger lightly pressing my asshole. “All of this is beautiful, there isn’t any part of you that isn’t.”
And I almost moaned with delirium then. No man has ever touched my pussy, much less my ass. Even I’ve never touched my bottom, it always seemed so dirty, so off-limits, so to suddenly have a gorgeous man see everything, feel everything, drove me over the edge.
“Unnnnh!” I moaned, my head falling back, mouth open, eyes closed. “Unnnnh, Mr. Lancaster!”
Because that’s all it took. Again, this was all completely new. Sure in the past, a few boys have begged me for a look, but that’s where the line was drawn. I couldn’t let those disgusting, pimple-faced teens actually feel my body, even the thought had made me cold and clammy, so I was a virgin in the truest sense, never penetrated, never touched.
But now, just the sensation of the big man’s fingers lightly resting against my most private places was my undoing. My head jerked back, body convulsing as I came hard, pussy gushing wetly, my anus clenching tightly as spasms overcame it.
“Unnnh!” I moaned again. “Oh!”
Because that’s what this man did to me. Mr. Lancaster was so dark, dominating, and gorgeous, those blue eyes eating me up as my lush assets trembled beneath him, spasming again and again, drenching his hand in my personal nectar.
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