Maid Service

by Peter Birch

  “Good girl,” Peter said as he began to stroke her hair. “That’s right, nice and slow. There’s no rush, and you know where my cock’s going once you’ve got me nice and hard, don’t you? Yes, sweetie, it’s going right up your fat little bottom, with your panties still in your cunt, perhaps even with an audience. How would that be, darling? How would you like to be sodomized in front of an audience?”

  Michelle was looking up, wide blue eyes full of devotion and strangely innocent, considering that she had a mouthful of penis and was sucking with all the skill of a practiced whore. She nodded and Peter grinned, hoping that one or two of the men would have come back upstairs in time to watch him butt fuck Michelle. He always enjoyed showing off, especially to an audience who were wishing they were in his place, and while Michelle gave hand jobs and sucked the occasional cock willingly enough, she never gave herself to the guests for full sex. The only difficulty was holding off long enough for Violet to finish with Sophie, a performance they’d agreed would end with a queening.

  He did his best, but Michelle was too good a cock sucker and her body too alluring, especially in her disheveled schoolgirl outfit. Far sooner than he’d have liked, he was pulsing with pre-orgasmic augury, at which point she began to masturbate him as she licked his balls, a sensation so strong it had him clutching the coverlets and fighting back the urge to simply unload in her face and all over her pretty blonde hair. Finally he gave in.

  “Stop it, you little slut!” he gasped, begging as much as ordering. “Right, get on the bed, ass up, now!”

  Michelle was giggling as she obeyed, crawling quickly up onto the bed, reaching eagerly for the tub of soothing cream, one of which stood in every room. She got onto all fours with her knees spread wide as she reached back to lubricate herself. Peter got onto the bed behind her, nursing his erection as he watched her ease one creamy finger into her asshole, and then a second. The meaty slaps and pained cries from downstairs suggested that Sophie was still getting her bottom smacked, and with something quite hard, but he no longer cared. As Michelle withdrew her fingers from the chute of her ass she was left gaping and slippery, a warm and welcoming embrace for his cock. He lost no time, mounting her and easing the full length of his erection into her bottom until his balls touched the flimsy material protruding from her cunt.

  “That’s good,” he praised, as he began to sodomize her. “I can feel your panties, Michelle, tickling my balls. Yes, that’s okay, you have my permission to masturbate while I ass-fuck you.”

  She was doing it anyway, clearly even closer to orgasm than he was, rubbing urgently at her cunt as he moved inside her.

  “That’s my girl,” he sighed. “That’s my dirty little bitch, rubbing your sweet pussy with my cock deep inside your ass. How filthy can you get? How filthy, Michelle, with your panties stuffed into your cunt and my cock in your ass, and after so many spankings. What was it? Four men, five men? They spanked you, Michelle, with your knickers pulled down, in front of other people, and now you’ve got your panties in your pussy and my cock …”

  She screamed, her entire body jerking with violent contractions as she came, her anus squeezing tight on his cock. He was already on the brink and he began to drive himself in and out of her as hard and fast as he could, making her scream out over and over again. He drove into her harder still, even after she’d slumped down onto the bed, her orgasm complete, as his own orgasm welled up inside him and spilled out, filling her rectum with hot cum before he pulled free to finish himself off over the bulge of white cotton peeping from her pulsing cunt.

  Chapter Three

  Lorrimer’s Club in St. James’ was exactly the sort of environment in which Peter had expected to spend much of his life, until his disgrace and imprisonment had set him on a different course. It resembled his father’s old college at Oxford, and to a lesser extent the original parts of Broadfields’ College, built of buff colored stone and dark wood, marble and brass, furnished in dark velvet and leather, heavy with antiquity and careless privilege. Old paintings decorated the walls, showing scenes of imperial grandeur and triumph, while the beadles moved with a stately deliberation and wore uniforms cut in a style well over a hundred years out of date. He had even been there before, treated to lunch by his Uncle Charles on a trip up to London as a child, and very little had changed. Standing in the lobby he felt not so much out of place as resentful.

  Ben Thompson clearly felt himself very much at home, acknowledging the beadle who had announced Peter’s arrival with a casual nod and extending a hand in greeting as he spoke.

  “Ah, there you are, Peter. Good to see you again. We’ve taken a private room, more discreet. Come upstairs. Oh, and I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention the other night, not in too much detail anyway.”

  “What did you tell them?” Peter asked, amused.

  “That you invited me to a spanking party,” Ben told him, “and that I came to take a look around.”

  A broad marble staircase led up from the lobby to a balcony from which corridors led away to either side. Peter walked slowly, looking at the paintings and illustrations that cluttered the high walls while Ben kept up a stream of inconsequential conversation until they reached the end, where a tall window looked out over Waterloo Gardens. A door stood open to one side and Peter caught the sound of voices, taking him back across the years and bringing a sudden, unexpected stab of near painful nostalgia, but he was grinning broadly as he entered.

  A table had been laid for dinner, with an array of china, silver and glass centered on an arrangement of lilies. To either side sat his old friends, Daniel Stewart, Gabriel Howard and Clive Sumner, while two seats remained vacant. All were dressed in conventional black tie of considerably finer cut than Peter’s own efforts, although the instant touch of chagrin he felt for his relative poverty declined as he noticed that Clive was wearing a pre-tied bow tie, while Gabriel’s shirt showed the hint of a stain on one cuff.

  He hadn’t been at all sure how he’d be received by the others and he found himself grinning nervously as he took his seat, but the initial exchanges of conversation quickly allowed him to relax and even regain a little of the cool confidence he’d enjoyed when they were together at Broadfields. Gabriel and Clive even seemed a little in awe of him, as did Ben, while even Daniel made every effort to put him at his ease. A mild sensation of not really belonging remained, even once they had finished off a round of oysters washed down with Chablis, but it was exclusion not of an outsider or inferior, but of somebody who has set themselves apart by deeds beyond the reach of others. They were also somewhat reticent when it came to discussing his lifestyle. Eventually, after the waiters had served out cuts of rare beef and placed a magnum of claret on the table, Gabriel spoke up.

  “Ben tells me you invited him to some scandalous party?”

  “Yes, it was my monthly spanking party,” Peter admitted with mingled pride and embarrassment. “They’re great fun. You should all come.”

  “Not I,” Daniel laughed. “Can you imagine the scandal! But that’s not your regular thing, is it? You’re a club promoter,” Ben said, “and you got raided a while back?”

  “Yes,” Peter admitted, glancing towards Clive, who nodded and spoke up.

  “I managed to look into that, informally of course. The raid was organized by an Inspector Lennox. He’s eager for promotion and has a bee in his bonnet about vice, particularly closing down anywhere that’s prepared to host sex clubs of any kind. He’s also keen to identify those he considers the key players and, as he puts it, get them off the streets and into jail where they belong.”

  “Something tells me you might just prove to be one of those key players, Peter,” Ben put in.

  “I fear so,” Peter admitted. “Although I can’t understand why. What harm was I doing to anybody?”

  “None,” Clive responded. “But vice is an easy target, popular with the tabloids, full of prurient interest and r
elatively safe. Also, Lennox isn’t just doing his job. He’s a committed Christian and genuinely believes that he has a moral duty …”

  “… to stop people having fun,” Gabriel broke in. “The world seems to be full of people like him, blast them.”

  “Thank you,” Peter told Clive. “That’s very valuable information.”

  “There’s more,” Clive went on. “I’ve done the best I can, at least without arousing suspicion. I have no direct influence on policy, but I am in a position to influence the allocation of resources, who gets to sit on senior disciplinary committees, that sort of thing. Your raid cost close on half-a-million pounds to carry out, or will do once the matter is complete. The chances of a successful prosecution are not that high, and certainly don’t justify the resources, so I’ve been able to make sure no further action can be taken along those lines without approval at a much higher level. That’s a black mark against Lennox’s promotion prospects, so I think you can reasonably assume that he won’t be putting a great deal of effort into finding out who you are. Nevertheless, I’d advise you to lie low for a while, or more sensibly, give up the idea completely. Surely you can make a living as a club promoter without going outside the law?”

  “Possibly,” Peter admitted. “But I hate to back down. How about if I promise to keep a low profile as long as I’m left alone, would that work?”

  “In the ’seventies, perhaps,” Clive told him. “Not nowadays, and certainly not with Lennox.”

  “Stand up to the grubby little bastard,” Gabriel advised. “What have you got to lose?”

  “I could do without another spell in jail, thank you,” Peter replied. “Glorious defiance is all very well, but I prefer life with money in my pocket and a woman in my bed. Oh well, at least it looks as if the spanking parties are safe. Thank you, Clive.”

  “I have to say, I envy you your lifestyle,” Gabriel admitted. “I can’t sneeze without getting my story in the papers.”

  “You do project rather a flamboyant image,” Daniel answered him. “But I don’t suppose even you could get away with being caught at a spanking party.”

  “So how do they work, these parties of yours?” Clive asked, clearly intrigued.

  “It’s simple,” Peter explained. “Men pay to attend, a couple of hundred pounds usually, with the guarantee of getting to spank at least three or four pretty girls.”

  “That’s all, just spanking?” Gabriel queried.

  “That’s all I guarantee,” Peter told him. “But if the mood’s right, who knows?”

  “I’d love to come to one,” Gabriel sighed. “But I simply couldn’t afford to take the risk. You’re safely anonymous, Ben, and will be no matter how high you rise, because you’re effectively faceless, at least as far as the great unwashed are concerned. You too, Clive. Who cares if a Whitehall mandarin gets caught with his pants down? Not the public, and therefore not the papers.”

  “The head of his department,” Ben pointed out. “The public may not care, but he’ll still be dismissed.”

  “But why should he get caught?” Gabriel went on, “unless he does something spectacularly stupid. Nobody’s going to recognize him, and that’s where the problem lies. Even as a junior MPvii, or somebody just starting to climb the greasy pole of politics, you can’t afford to take risks. Oh, it’s fine at the time, when you’re only really known within your own constituency and the girls are young and pretty and getting plenty of work. But what happens twenty years down the line? You’re in the cabinet and on TV every now and again, while she’s lost her looks and has nothing to lose by scooping in a few grand from some godforsaken scandal rag.”

  He was answered with nods and murmurs of agreement as they got on with their meal. The beef was excellent, some of the best Peter had ever tasted, while the wine was of a quality and age he’d last sampled after a daring midnight raid on the cellar of the Masters’ Common Room at Broadfields. There was plenty to go around as well, putting him in a mellow mood despite the situation with the club, and making him more inclined to be creative than to wallow in self-pity. Gabriel’s comments in particular intrigued him, making him wonder if it might not be possible to organize a superior and more lucrative version of the spanking club, where guests could be sure of their safety from public exposure.

  “What you say is true, Gabriel,” he admitted after a while, “at least with ordinary girls. But how about girls who’ve got something to lose themselves, university students with no money but good career prospects, for example? They’re no more prim and proper than the rest, when it comes right down to it. They just can’t afford to show their true feelings, any more than the men who’d like to be with them can show theirs.”

  “Perhaps, yes,” Gabriel answered him. “But how would you get in touch with a girl like that? You can’t just stroll into King’s or Magdalen and start asking pretty female students if they’d like to take a spanking.”

  “No. They have to come to you, or to me, rather. How do you think I recruit the girls for my spanking parties?”

  “I have no idea. Presumably you just ask around among the local floozies?”

  “Not at all. I only take on girls who are genuinely into spanking, and I test them first.”

  “I bet you do!”

  “I’m being serious,” Peter insisted. “The last thing I want is a girl who doesn’t like it. Then there’s going to be all sorts of trouble. That’s where my club comes in, or did, but there are other clubs too. I keep my eyes open, wait until I find a suitable candidate and ask if she’d like to earn some money for what she enjoys anyway. Most refuse, but some accept, and I put them through their paces before they come to a party. It would be harder, but not impossible, to find the sort of girl who’d guarantee discretion. In fact, I think I can honestly say that I already have one, and where there’s one, more will follow.”

  Daniel hadn’t spoken for a while, sipping thoughtfully at his wine as he listened to the others, but when he did it was with a clear, decisive voice that drew immediate attention.

  “This is how to do it, purely as a theoretical exercise you understand. You, Peter, set up a small cleaning company, let’s call it Grove House Maids. The company employs safe girls—and only safe girls. You charge sufficiently high fees to put off casual inquiries, but not so high as to cause suspicion. You then have a club, equally exclusively and equally discreet, members of which can hire girls as necessary. Grove House Maids then bills the club’s members at the cleaning rate, which represents Peter’s commission, and the girls are paid directly, in cash.”

  “You’re right,” Gabriel agreed. “If some obvious hooker turns up at your place, you’re going to get spotted in no time. But send a maid around, and who’s to know what she gets up to?”

  “Nobody takes any notice of the hired help,” Ben agreed.

  “That might actually work,” Peter admitted. “As long as everybody involved has more to lose by breaking their silence than by keeping it. Although the club would have to be a fair size for the operation to be financially viable, and we’d have to vet new members and new girls very carefully.”

  “Other old Grove House members would be acceptable,” Clive put in. “Stephen Richards, when he’s in the country, Hunter Rackman.”

  “Other Broadfields old boys for that matter,” Daniel added. “James Dolamore-Brown, for instance. He’s a barrister nowadays, Peter, and very high powered, a man you might want to know.”

  “It would be beautiful,” Gabriel went on. “A poem of delectable depravity, right under the noses of all the prudes and nosey-parkers. Who knows, I might even marry one of the poppets.”

  “You already have a wife,” Ben pointed out, “and so do the rest of us, Clive excepted, and Peter, of course.”

  “Marrying Marcia was a matter of political expediency,” Gabriel went on. “Her father is the chairman of my local constituency party. She’s as cold as a
n Eskimo’s ass. So yes, I’d be up for the occasional visit from a Grove House girl, at the London flat, naturally, but it would have to be for more than a little spanking.”

  “What you buy is her time,” Peter explained. “What happens between you is entirely the private decision of two consenting adults, and if you happen to give her a generous tip, that’s your business.”

  “That argument would never stand up in court,” Clive stated.

  “It would never get to court, that’s the whole idea,” Gabriel replied, “and there is also the matter of keeping it civilized, as long as a good time is guaranteed.”

  “To precisely the same extent as the money is,” Peter told him. “Otherwise you just get your flat cleaned. And whatever you tell your wives, that’s up to you.”

  “I was faithful to Laura for sixteen years,” Ben stated. “Until I discovered that she’d been having regular sex with our jobbing gardener, and I always thought he was just a lazy bastard! I got my revenge by going to bed with her sister. Since then, we’ve tended to ignore each other’s peccadilloes and just get on with life. We even have sex occasionally.”

  “Celia keeps me happy,” Daniel put in, “and until she fails in her duties I intend to keep up with mine. Besides, I have an image to cultivate.”

  “I’ve never seen the point of monogamy,” Peter went on. “It was all very well for our ancestors, I dare say, without any contraception or social security to speak of. The family unit was what allowed society to function, but nowadays? It’s no more than a petty and ridiculous anachronism, like marriage, and religion, and God, all ideas that should have been consigned to the dustbin of history years ago. But we cling to such incongruities out of insecurity, because we can’t face the universe as it really is.”

  “You’re an atheist then?” Clive asked.

  “An atheist and a nihilist,” Peter said. “I believe that the only really valid thing in life is happiness, preferably expressed as sexual pleasure.”