Maid Service

by Peter Birch

  Dolamore-Brown took particular pleasure in booking Clementine, which had always struck Peter as somewhat bad taste, given that she was the daughter of his closest and oldest friend, Daniel Stewart. Not that she seemed to care, happily indulging his favorite kink: watching her have lesbian sex on the bearskin rug in front of his fire, usually with Rhiannon, until he was ready to fuck her while she licked her friend. Dinner would follow, always of the highest standard and served with enviably fine wines, with both girls naked until it was time to leave.

  The journey went uneventfully. Although Peter couldn’t help reflecting that, as he’d made his way down the road in Waddlesdon, he’d noticed a car parked on the usually quiet street, possibly of the same make and color as the one he’d had to avoid at the end of the lane. As he picked up speed on the A41 he was telling himself not to be paranoid, but he found himself glancing in his rear view mirror more often than was necessary as he continued towards Oxford. The car didn’t follow, or didn’t seem to, and he’d quickly put it from his mind as he talked with Chloe, swapping stories of illicit and humorous incidents at Broadfields.

  She agreed to be dropped off in St. Giles, which allowed him to find a parking meter and wait for Michelle, who’d spent the day shopping. He couldn’t help but smile as he watched her approach, no longer the impudent, rebellious scamp he’d first put over his knee at the old Club S, but a mature, refined woman, whose smart and elegant clothes and regimen of running on the Downs made her perfectly trim and stylish—an effect in no way reduced by the swell of her pregnant belly. He kissed her as she got into the car and put his hand to her bulging tummy as he spoke.

  “Did you have a good day? How are you?”

  “Tired,” she answered. “But okay, except that I’m starting to leak.”

  “Leak?” Peter asked, puzzled and concerned.

  “From my boobs,” she explained. “But don’t worry, I’ve bought some pads and a blouse in case I have to change, a bra too. What time are we supposed to be at the Howards?”

  “Any time after five,” he told her. “But dinner will be at seven, so there’s plenty of time.”

  The late afternoon traffic was already beginning to pick up, and Peter concentrated on his driving until he was able to pull off the city ring road and turn south towards where Gabriel and Marcia Howard lived by the river in Wallingford. Peter and Michelle were frequent guests, both to dinner and to the garden parties and political functions Gabriel held as the local MP, at which Peter found himself constantly amused by the contrast between his friend’s public and private life. Gabriel had done well, now a junior minister in the cabinet and a keen supporter of the government’s drive to encourage old fashioned family values, while secretly having kinky sex with as many young women as he could get his hands on, along with a monthly visit to Karen and Violet for what he referred to as personal discipline. Peter chuckled at the thought, but Michelle didn’t respond, her face now set in a frown as she examined the front of her blouse, on which two small, wet patches were clearly visible.

  “Could you pull over somewhere?” she asked. “I need to change my blouse.”

  “Couldn’t you do it at their house?”

  “No! Look at the state I’m in, and you know what Marcia’s like. There are going to be other guests too.”

  Peter shrugged and took what looked like a convenient turning off the main road, which proved to lead to a transport depot, now closed for the day.

  “Here?” he asked, pulling to a stop in the shade of a clump of trees.

  “It will have to do,” Michelle answered, already fumbling with the buttons of her blouse.

  Peter watched, intrigued, as she undressed. Her breasts had grown considerably larger over the course of her pregnancy, and changed shape, becoming fuller and somehow more womanly. Despite being a devoted ass enthusiast, he’d always taken a distinct pleasure in girls with large breasts, especially if they got embarrassed about being so well endowed. Michelle could now be included in their number. The faint flush of pink that tinged her face as she hurriedly shrugged off her bra was as arousing as the sight of the smooth, pink curves she revealed. Better still, her nipples were swollen, with white drops beading on the dark skin.

  “May I help?” he offered.

  “I don’t see how you can,” Michelle answered, plainly flustered and embarrassed. “Look, it’s soaked right through my bra!”

  Peter didn’t bother to reply, but leant forward to take one swollen teat into his mouth and suck, instantly changing Michelle’s shocked gasp to a moan, quickly followed by a giggling rebuke.

  “Peter! What are you doing!?”

  “Helping you with your milk,” he replied, briefly pulling away before taking hold of her other breast and extending his tongue to lap up the tiny white droplets.

  “It’s not actually milk, it’s …” she began, but trailed off with a sigh. “You’re getting off on this, aren’t you? You’re the biggest pervert I’ve ever met, Peter Finch!”

  “I should hope so too,” Peter answered, now with one heavy, milk-swollen breast in each hand as he continued to attend to her. “But it’s nice, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Michelle admitted, closing her eyes. “But do hurry up. Anybody who came past would see.”

  “They’re not very likely too,” Peter answered, nuzzling and squeezing at her breasts in the hope of producing more milk, “and besides, why shouldn’t a man relieve his wife’s boobs?”

  “For the same reason a woman shouldn’t relieve her boyfriend’s cock,” Michelle sighed. “Not in public, anyway.”

  She didn’t seem to want to stop him, and Peter ignored her comments, continuing to feed on her breasts as his cock grew rapidly stiffer all the while. The temptation to bring himself off while he suckled from her was considerable, or even to fuck her milky cleavage, but as he began to draw his zip down the clang of the depot gates brought their play to an abrupt end. A man had emerged, looking curiously at the car, then grinning as Michelle frantically tried to cover herself up while calling Peter a variety of names, most of them coupled with “pervert”.

  He merely laughed and drove off, earning himself a yet more detailed description of his personal faults as Michelle, still topless as they drove through Shillingford, patted her nipple pads into place and struggled into her new bra and blouse as they drove south. Another few miles and they’d reached the Howard’s turning, with Michelle still pink faced with embarrassment as they greeted their hosts, although Peter was amused to see how quickly she switched to what he thought of as her respectable mode, chatting happily to Marcia Howard about her plans for the baby.

  Gabriel took him through to the conservatory, where he’d been mixing Champagne cocktails for Daniel Stewart and his wife, Celia, along with another, older couple Peter recognized as party stalwarts and supporters of Daniel in particular. Greetings made, Celia continued her conversation, explaining proudly how Clementine had turned down a job offer from a major pharmaceutical company in order to continue her research.

  “… but then money was never all that important to her,” she was saying. “She didn’t ask for an allowance, even in her gap year, although naturally we provide for her.”

  Peter thought of Clementine, who, if everything had gone to schedule, would probably be sitting naked at James Dolamore-Brown’s dining table after being soundly taken from behind as she licked at Rhiannon’s cunt. In return, she would receive as much as most women of her age could expect to earn in a week, while she had another four bookings over the next few days.

  The crunch of tyres on gravel drew his attention to the window and he saw that another couple had arrived, presumably completing the party. A man got out first, tall, lean with graying hair and an air of natural authority, followed by a woman who seemed as frail and delicate as crystal, while her dress and the collar of diamonds at her neck suggested a level of wealth far beyond that of Peter’s co
nnections.

  “Is that Stephen Richards?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Gabriel replied. “Now CEO of the company, and incidentally one of our best donors, gentlemen. His wife’s called Vivienne, American, heiress.”

  “I didn’t even know he was in the country,” Peter said, remembering how he’d last seen his old friend, balls deep in Michelle’s pussy as they shared her over the back of a sofa. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  Stephen came inside, grinning happily as Gabriel made the introductions and quickly launched into the topic of the election.

  “Are we going to win?”

  “No,” Gabriel answered. “Frankly, we haven’t a snowball’s chance in hell. In fact, we’d have been a lot better off if we’d lost last time around.”

  “As it stands,” Daniel agreed, “we’re likely to be out of power for two, even three terms.”

  “By which time you’ll be party leader,” Stephen went on.

  “Hopefully,” Gabriel told him. “But that’s the difficult part, when to make our move. Daniel’s the natural choice and has a lot of support, but he needs to stay in the shadows for now, maybe for quite a while. The thing is …”

  Peter had switched off, indifferent to the minutiae of politics, while he and Michelle never bothered to go to the polls on the grounds that their votes canceled each other out. Vivienne also seemed disinterested, and after a moment admiring her slender figure through her dress, Peter rose to speak to her. The sun had made its way out from behind the clouds, and when Marcia returned she chivvied Peter and Vivienne into the garden, where Stephen quickly managed to draw Peter aside on the pretext of walking down to the riverbank.

  “Vivienne is lovely,” Peter remarked as they strolled out of hearing range.

  “Very lovely,” Stephen agreed, “and a lot of fun too, as you may find out if you’re very, very lucky. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. I need a favor.”

  “Anything within my power. What’s up?”

  “You know I’m head of the company now, don’t you? Well, I’m on the verge of closing a deal, a deal that’s going to leave me in clover and the company the dominant force in our field. To clinch the deal I need to impress certain very important people from a Balkan country we’re not particularly friendly with at present, so it’s all a bit delicate. They expect to be entertained, and well. It’s a prestige thing. That means the best brandies, the best Champagnes, all of which is damned expensive but worth every penny as an investment. Now, they’ve been hinting that they want girls, and obviously it has to be done discreetly and well. So I need some Grove House maids, at least three.”

  “Easily done,” Peter assured him.

  “English maids,” Stephen went on. “Tall, blonde, well built, and most importantly, with good accents.”

  “I think I can guarantee that,” Peter replied.

  “I’d really like to choose myself. Do you have a book or something?”

  “No, that would be far too indiscreet. You know Felicity, that’s one, and …”

  “Clementine?” Stephen suggested.

  Peter winced and cast a guilty glance to where Daniel and Celia had come out to admire the rose beds. But he nodded.

  “Why not? She’s perfect. Rhiannon?”

  “Too Irish, and she’s not blonde.”

  “Are they that fussy? How about Henrietta Clark?”

  “Too short.”

  “Michelle?”

  “Too pregnant.”

  “That’s all the blonds I’ve got on my books at present, I’m afraid.”

  “Couldn’t you persuade somebody to dye her hair?”

  “I suppose so, if that counts. I signed up a new girl today, as it goes, a girl you know, Chloe Thompson.”

  “Ben’s daughter!? You really are beyond the limit, Peter,” Stephen chuckled. “Okay, she’ll do nicely.”

  Some of the other guests were approaching and Peter quickly changed the topic of conversation. They continued to talk until the light had begun to fade, then went indoors for dinner. Conscious of the drive home, Peter limited himself to a small glass of each of the wines, while despite his best efforts the conversation kept drifting back to politics and the forthcoming election. The food at least was good, while he was seated diagonally from Vivienne Richards in such a way that the light cast interesting outlines through her flimsy dress, sometimes the curve of one small breast, sometimes a pert nipple, adding to the arousal he’d felt since suckling on Michelle in the car. Stephen’s hint that Vivienne might be available only made matters worse as, whatever might happen, it clearly wasn’t going to be that night. By the time the dinner party broke up he was feeling more frustrated than he had in a long time, while Michelle was smiling, tipsy and unabashedly playful. He’d already begun to plan what he was going to do with her in the car on the way back when Gabriel came over to ask if he’d mind giving an older couple a lift as far as Tring.

  By the time they’d dropped off their passengers, Peter had heard enough political conversation to last him a lifetime. While Michelle had been a constant tease as they drove, with her blouse half undone as she chatted with the couple in the back. The temptation to take her somewhere quiet and deal with her in the car was considerable, but it was only a few miles back to the Grove and he decided to make for the comfort of home, ignoring the torment of her teasing.

  She’d shrugged her top off as they turned into the lane and her bra quickly followed, leaving her heavy breasts naked in the faint light from the dashboard, the soft curves glossy with milk as she began to rub it over her skin. Peter swore in awe, putting his foot down to send the Jaguar bumping over the rough ground until he could bring it to a halt in front of the house. Michelle was giggling as she climbed out, topless and bright-eyed with drink and arousal, her carefully contrived air of refinement completely lost.

  Peter wasted no time, pushing her down across the front of the car and flipping her skirt up. She was in maid service panties—full, white and frilly—which he’d quickly pulled down to bare her bottom to the night air for a vigorous spanking, the smacks blending with her laughter and the slap of her big, milky breasts on the front of the car. His cock had been half stiff for most of the evening, and he’d quickly liberated it, intending to get himself rock hard in her mouth before fucking her over the car—the lure of their soft bed forgotten in his urgency.

  “I have to fuck you,” he growled as he twisted her around to push his cock toward her face. “I have to fuck you, just as soon as you’ve sucked me hard.”

  Michelle took him in her mouth, sucking eagerly as she massaged her breasts to squeeze out the milk from her nipples, before using it to wet his balls. He began to fuck her mouth, his cock growing with every thrust, until he was hard. She moved closer, holding her breasts up to make a warm, milky slide for his cock, allowing him to fuck in her cleavage, a sensation so sweet he’d quickly abandoned all thoughts of entering her, content to come between her breasts and in her face.

  “I’ve got to come,” he sighed. “Right now …”

  “Do it,” she gasped. “Do it all over me, cover me in cum while I get off … right here. Go on, Peter, fuck my boobies … come on me … cover my face …”

  He was there, manhandling his cock to empty the contents of his balls all over her milk-slick breasts and in her face before jamming himself deep in her mouth for his final euphoric spurts. She sucked and swallowed, swallowed once more and slumped down against the side of the car, her thighs spread to present her pussy and the great, straining bulge of her pregnant belly, with her boobs sitting fat and round and wet above, streaked with cum, her face too. Her eyes had closed as she began to masturbate, one hand busy between her legs as the other wiped the sticky mixture of jism and milk over her breasts.

  Peter waited, grinning, his cock in his hand, watching as her arousal heightened, until the final, perfect moment.
As she started to come he let go too, sending an arc of sparkling water all over her belly and breasts, into her open mouth and between her thighs, soaking her skirt and panties, her hair and face, soiling every square inch of her skin with his effluent as her body shook and shivered in a climax that left her lying limp and exhausted in a rapidly spreading puddle on the concrete of the drive. Only then did Peter realize that the front door was open, with Rhiannon standing in the light of the porch in nothing but a tiny, see-through nightie and a pair of fluffy slippers as she struggled to hold back her giggles.

  Chapter Two

  Peter accepted a glass of champagne from the tray offered to him. The waitress was a pretty blonde with a snub nose that gave her a look of permanent impudence: Felicity Chamberlain, ex-pupil at Broadfields College, ex-toasty girl to Clementine Stewart, and currently with Grove House Maids while she worked as an intern in the City. She was one of six employed to serve at an embassy reception and potentially for more intimate services later in the evening.

  “Thank you,” he said as she bobbed a curtsey so impudent it bordered on sarcastic. “How are we doing?”

  “Very well,” she answered. “Looks like it’s going to be a late night.”

  “Excellent. I’m sure I can find a way to amuse myself while you ladies do what you do best,” he answered and took a sip of champagne as she turned to another guest.

  Ignoring the temptation to pinch or pat her sweetly rotating rump as she moved away, he went back to contemplating the other people in the room. Chaperone was not a job he particularly enjoyed, but there were worse things in life than sipping Champagne, eating canapés and making small talk, especially when being at a foreign embassy allowed him to avoid conversation about the election defeat a few days before. Such evenings also tended to end well, at the very least with a quick hand job from one of the girls in his car, and often a great deal more. On one particularly memorable night, a corporate function had proved so heavily overrun with wives that he’d ended up sharing a hotel suite with four of the girls. But this embassy reception seemed unlikely to come up to the same standard. Both Rhiannon and Elspeth Fraser had been booked in advance, for one thing, and it now looked as if Felicity’s services were also going to be required. That left Chloe Thompson, now with her newly blonde hair and currently the focus of attention of three swarthy, bearded men at the far side of the room; the tiny, elfin Henrietta Clark; and Clementine Stewart. No less than eight of his clients were also present but unattended, so it seemed likely that the options for his own gratification would be limited. But the money, at least, would be good.