by Kyoko Church
Sweet. Sweeter.
Story 1 of Made for Hire
♦♦♦♦
By Kyoko Church
For immoderate masters and lascivious servants
♦♦♦♦
Sweetmeats
Domestic service can yield the most intimate and serendipitous sexual possibilities.
The whole business of servitude, by its very design, is ripe with latent indiscretion. Dominant bosses and beguiling domestics, each with their own agenda, each with their own needs, each with their own code of decorum. But one person’s decorum is another’s impropriety. And in this swirling cauldron of power, payment, need and ambition, it takes but one slip for the whole cauldron to bubble over and drench everyone in its obscene, indecent fluid – to leave them rutting and writhing in ways that are most deliciously inappropriate for the workplace!
Slip into the pages of the story Sweet. Sweeter. from Made for Hire and find your own domestic bliss. It’s a pleasure to be at your service!
-Kojo Black
Also from Sweetmeats Press
Paperbacks & eBooks
The Candy Box by Kojo Black
Sun Strokes by Kojo Black
Immoral Views by Various Authors
Named and Shamed by Janine Ashbless
Naked Delirium by Various Authors
Making Him Wait by Kay Jaybee
Seven Deadly Sins by Various Authors
Strummed by Various Authors
Made for Hire by Various Authors
In the Forests of the Night by Vanessa de Sade
♦♦♦♦
A Sweetmeats Book
First published by Sweetmeats Press 2013
Copyright © Sweetmeats Press 2013
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing from Sweetmeats Press. Nor may it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
978-1-909181-31-1
Typeset by Sweetmeats Press
Sweetmeats Press, 27 Old Gloucester Street, London, WC1N 3XX, England, U. K.
www.sweetmeatspress.com
Sweet. Sweeter.
♦♦♦♦
by Kyoko Church
“Get on the chaise,” I remember him saying with calm authority. “On your knees.”
Mmm, yes. I float in the delicious memory as the sun beats down on my bikini-clad body, warming my outsides while my thoughts warm me from within.
When he uses that tone, it accesses some primal part of my brain. I eagerly clambered on all fours onto the dark leather chaise in his room — the chaise which, now that I think about it, seems to be there for this purpose alone. It puts me at just the right height.
I looked back at him as he positioned himself behind me and I was struck again by just how hot he is, all chiseled and sculpted and masculine. As he put the head of his tool against my opening I moaned and swayed my hips, enticing him further. He thrust inside me then and…oh god, did it feel good to be taken that way, from behind, so wanton and animalistic.
In the seclusion of the beautiful retreat he’s had built in his backyard, I snake my hand down and cup myself between my legs, squeezing and enjoying the squirmy feeling provoked by my hand and amplified by the thoughts of last night, as I stretch my body out on the padded deck lounger. I shiver in delight and think perhaps he’s in the mood for round two again today, maybe a lazy Sunday romp after Saturday night’s hardcore fucking.
Inside I find him in his home office. He’s intent on the computer screen but I’m hopeful the sight of my scantily clad body could distract him. When he doesn’t turn around right away I push my body in between him and his desk.
“What’re you doing?”
“Distracting you,” I say, hands behind my back, tits pushed out, trying for coy flirting.
“Babe, I gotta work on this. I was right in the middle of my brief.”
“But it’s Sunday,” I complain. I sit in his lap, not quite deterred. I wrap my arms around his neck. “I was just thinking about last night,” I whisper into his ear. “And I’m all worked up again.”
Although his arms encircle me his body doesn’t soften to my embrace. “Again? Babe,” he sighs. “I’m just not there. I’m smack in the middle of this case.” When I pout he adds, “God, sometimes you’re so … insatiable.” And the way he says it it’s obviously not a good thing.
I pry myself away from him as his words sink through me, making a hot sting burn behind my eyes and bringing a queasy feeling to my stomach. “Sorry,” I mutter as I bow out of the room, half hoping he’ll see how his words hurt and come after me. But when I glance back he’s once again embroiled in the text on the screen.
I can’t be upset, I tell myself. He did say this morning he had work to do, was under the gun to get his case ready for Monday. I should have just gone home. But his suggestion that I relax by the beautiful new pool, the prospect of a sunny Sunday lazing by the water seemed enticing. Now I slump back down in the deck lounger in a sulk. I stretch out, still horny, and try to think other thoughts.
A clatter at the gate makes me jump and sit up. A boy laden with pool equipment — poles and brushes and hoses and a pail of what looks like bottles of chemicals — is standing there looking awkward, like he was not expecting to see anyone.
“Uh, sorry,” he says. “I’m here to look after the pool for Jack? He gave me a key for the gate.”
Aside from his array of equipment, he’s all legs and arms. His dirty blond hair flops down into his eyes, though thankfully not in that horrid coiffed way that’s so popular now. Just in an errant, messy way. He’s anything but coiffed. His eyes look too big in his face. He has a snub nose and full red lips. His posture is slightly stooped, as though he’s not quite sure yet what to do with some recently acquired height. His eyes blink from behind a pair of glasses, glancing at me and then away, then back again, waiting for my response.
He looks nervous but not in a shifty way, just an innocent way that makes me want to comfort him somehow. I smile at him and he appears to relax a fraction.
“Oh, sure,” I say. “Come on in.”
I shift in my chair as he clambers by. I must admit to being just a little uncomfortable, suddenly self-conscious about my lack of clothing. Plus the unexpected appearance of a teenage boy. Teenagers in general and boys in particular always make me nervous, they’ve always done so, right back to when I was a teenager myself. That seems a lifetime ago now. God, I’m old, I lament inside. Old and rebuffed and past my prime, nothing to do about it now. Those same heated prickles of rejection threaten inside me and I shoo the thoughts away.
I look over and see the kid struggling by the filter with the hoses and poles and I don’t know what to do with myself. Do I offer to help? Do I offer him a drink? I feel like I don’t even know how to talk to him. Kids today don’t even speak in full sentences, do they? I inwardly cringe that I’m using the term “kids today.” I feel like Grandma shaking my cane and screeching, Back in my day!...
I go over and say, “You okay? Can I get you a drink or anything?”
He looks up at me and something about his stare hits me straight in the gut. Whoa, what the fuck was that? What are you a cougar now? So desperate that jail-bate is starting to look good? Since when do you have any emotion about
teenage boys other than vague terror?
He stands and says, “Yeh, I’d love a beer.”
The way he says it instantly puts a smile on my face. Like he’s trying to be all casual and cool, like he orders up beers all the time. Except that the way he shifts his weight and doesn’t know where to land his gaze screams otherwise.
I trace my toe along the stone patio decking and narrow my gaze at him. “How old are you?” I ask, but I’m smiling as I ask it, teasing.
“Eighteen.” He shrugs, and the insecurity is gone, leaving just a trace of cool defensiveness.
Is he eighteen? I guess he could be. To me he just looks young. Way too young for whatever feelings are insidiously creeping through me. “So I shouldn’t really be giving you alcohol then, should I?” I say and dammit if I cannot get that teasing tone out of my voice.
“Well, I guess we wouldn’t want you to get arrested,” he says, suddenly bold. “Up to you,” he shrugs again, going back to his poles and hoses.
Oh ho, the kid’s got some balls too. Interesting.
I walk back into the house, more because I don’t know what else to do than because I really intend to get him that beer. But something about the situation makes me feel like it would be seriously uncool for me not to just give it to him. Seriously uncool? Apparently a two second conversation has put me back in high school too.
I stride into the kitchen, open the fridge, grab two beers, turn around and run smack into Jack.
“What the hell are you doing?” he says.
“I’m…I’m getting beers?” I say, weakly.
“For you and Mason?” he says, gesturing out the kitchen window to the pool area where the kid has the skimmer out and is skimming the surface of the water. Jack sounds incredulous.
“Uh, is that his name? I just, I offered him a drink and he asked for a beer. Why, is he not old enough?” I say and I sound pathetic, even to me.
“He’s eighteen, Laura. And what the fuck was that out there just now? It looked like you were flirting with him.”
“What?” I say, but my cheeks flush red. “What do you mean? I just asked him if he wanted a drink.” Defensive, defensive, oh why so defensive, Laura?
Jack eyes me suspiciously, as though he’s seeing some weirdo for the first time instead of his girlfriend of three years. “I don’t know,” he finally says, and he rubs his temples like I’m really trying his patience. Not for the first time I feel our own age difference. Only twelve years, but still. Do I have daddy issues? Because I absolutely hate it when he goes all paternal on my ass.
“I told Frank I’d pay his kid to clean the pool for me this summer,” he says. “I’ve known him since he was in kindergarten. I guess it’s just weird to think of him drinking a beer. With my girlfriend.” He adds that last part with the same suspicious glare, and I shove those crazy feelings I was having way back into the dusty corners of my brain before I feel even ickier than I already do.
“But I guess he is an adult,” he says. “I’ll take them out.” He grabs them from me and leaves me staring out of the kitchen window as he walks to the pool, twisting off the top of a beer and handing it to Mason before twisting the top off the other bottle and clinking it with the kid. Then he takes a long swig.
I should go home, I think. And then I do.
♦♦♦♦
I stare at the numbers on my screen after lunch on Monday, but they start to blur and swim before my eyes. I wipe the sheen of sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand and note the temperature in my apartment has risen to thirty one. The ceiling fan does nothing but push the hot air around. The window unit sputters ineffectively.
I eye my phone for the millionth time. I should just call him. He’ll say I can work at his place, of course. It’s not that. It’s just that I don’t want the ensuing conversation about why I keep my own crappy apartment with its shitty air conditioning unit, and why don’t I just move in with him. I don’t know why, really, so I can never do anything but make vague maybe noises and try to put him off. But the repetition is trying, and I don’t really want to go through it again right now.
I could just go and not call. But that doesn’t feel right either.
In the end I settle for a text and that effectively skirts the living arrangements conversation.
♦♦♦♦
In the comfort of Jack’s temperature controlled home, by 4:30 I’ve finished the bookkeeping work I’d scheduled for the day. I give myself a mental pat on the back. I feel like a swim.
I do keep a couple of drawers of my own things at Jack’s place, so I slip on one of my bikinis and head out to the pool. The air outside is hot and thick. I dive straight in off the diving board. The cool water sluices by me and I’m at once invigorated and refreshed. I get out, spread a towel out on the lounger and flop down on it, now grateful for the warm sun that beats down and caresses my cooled body.
My thoughts meander back to Saturday night, before the chaise lounge.
I was expecting what had become our usual Saturday routine: dinner, some wine and then when things moved to Jack’s bedroom, some touching, caressing and some (probably) missionary position sex.
So when Jack began kissing down my torso and didn’t stop as he headed south of the border I giggled. “Mmm, whatcha doing?”
“What do you think,” he said, looking up at me.
“Ooh, to what do I owe this lovely surprise?”
“Well I just don’t know,” he said, smirking.
Ah.
At a dinner party at Lacy and Josh’s the week before, after a considerable amount of Cab Sav, Lacy heard Josh make a snide comment to Jack about not getting enough head. Lacy, glass of wine swaying in hand, interrupted them. “You know,” she said. “I’m so tired of hearing men complain about not getting blowjobs. What about us? It’s not like you’re always looking to eat at the Y.”
I giggled helplessly. My inhibitions had fled with that third glass. “Oh my god, totally! Never happens anymore,” I contributed. I looked over at Jack and could immediately see he really did not approve of this revelation in front of our friends. Oh well, buddy, I’d thought. Then do something about it.
So that night, I guess he’d decided to.
I shift in the lounger. I’ve brought a book out with me but it’s not holding my attention. I close my eyes and the memory of Jack’s lips trailing down my body replays in my head.
Settling down between my thighs he spread my labia, exposing my sensitive little clit. He gave me another look. “Is this what you wanted,” he asked, and then stuck his tongue out and licked it delicately.
“Oooh, yes,” I moaned and pushed my hips up for more.
He went to work on me, licking and sucking. I hadn’t had a warm, wet tongue caressing me down there in, well, what to me was far too long, and it felt heavenly. He pushed two fingers inside me and I groaned and arched my back, spreading my legs wider. Jack knows just how to get me there and he licked harder and faster, wiggling his fingers against my g-spot while sucking the little nub into his mouth and flicking it rapidly.
A hazy thought flitted through my mind then, and does again more clearly now: part of me wishes he would take his time.
But that’s silly and selfish and I got head and it was amazing. I came hard as his tongue pushed me powerfully over the edge…and thinking of it has me all wet again now. Mmmm, yes…so horny now. Very horny.
I glance at the time. It’s nearly five.
Jack will be home very soon. When I texted him to tell him I would be here, he said he’d come home early so we could go over some client files before his weekly racket ball game — files I hadn’t billed yet, since I was waiting for more details from him on some expenses.
When I first began working for Jack, how I’d look forward to these meetings, fraught as they were with sexual tension. Me, seated at a desk going over his billing hour
s and he, standing behind me, occasionally leaning over to point to some line or other on the paper. Our hands, our fingers would briefly touch, momentarily meet on the page and then one or the other of us would shy away. Or his chest would brush up against my back, raising all the hairs on the nape of my neck. I was conscious of every subtle move of his tall, muscular frame and every one of those moves seemed to connect with my groin.
Finally, after our third meeting or so, I’d turned to face him and found myself staring at his crotch. A bulge. I looked up at him in surprise and his only response was to reach down, grasp my hand and place it over the soft material of his trousers as the fabric strained to conceal his stiffening cock.
I smile as I remember the heat and passion of that first clothes-ripping, limbs-flailing, body-slamming union — which of course only contributes further to my current state of arousal.
But now is not then.
Now Jack will expect me to concentrate and get his accounts sorted and his clients billed with as little input from him as possible. I will need to be sharp, ask the right questions. And judging by his response to me yesterday, he will not be in the mood for diversionary tactics.
But now my libido has kicked into overdrive, as if it knows I am seeking to tame it and it redoubles its efforts, refusing to be quelled. My mind is clouded with images of tongues and body parts and humping. I feel myself moist and hot between my legs and it’s so distracting.
I need to do it. With my little thing. Do I have it with me? Of course I do. I always do. For just such an occasion.
I go back into the house, grab my purse and freeze. Where do I go? I can’t go up to the bedroom. If Jack comes home while I’m still there he’ll wonder why I’m up there by myself in the middle of the day. I could go into the powder room. I glance at the clock. Five o’clock exactly now. No, I don’t have time. He’ll be home any minute and it will take me longer standing up in there. If I can just lie down with my thing I’ll be done in a minute, the way I’m feeling, my body now even more eager, anticipating the vibrations. Oh god, yes…those vibrations. I’m desperate for it.
