by Candy Quinn
Alastair
The Delaney Brothers
Candy Quinn
Contents
Preamble
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Afterword
About the Author
Also by Candy Quinn
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© 2016 Pathforgers Publishing.
All Rights Reserved. If you downloaded an illegal copy of this book and enjoyed it, please buy a legal copy. Either way you get to keep the eBook forever, but you’ll be encouraging me to continue writing and producing high quality fiction for you. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imaginations. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by Wicked Good Covers. All cover art makes use of stock photography and all persons depicted are models.
This book is intended for sale to Adult Audiences only. All sexually active characters in this work are over 18. All sexual activity is between non-blood related, consenting adults. This is a work of fiction, and as such, does not encourage illegal or immoral activities that happen within.
More information is available at Pathforgers Publishing.
Preamble
Book Themes:
Billionaire, Dominance, maid/Boss, First Time, Pregnancy
Word Count:
16,705
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1
“Don’t take too long in there or you’ll be late! The agency won’t appreciate that, Maisie!” shouts my mum through the bathroom door. I’ve just lowered myself down into a hot, delicious bath filled with floral-scented bubbles, piling my chocolate-brown hair back into a messy knot on top of my head. I roll my eyes and heave an exasperated sigh. My mum means well, but she has a tendency to hover a bit, always worrying over me.
“I know, Mum,” I groan, staring over at the door, praying she’ll leave soon. I was hoping for a little more privacy, but living with my mother in such tight quarters does not allow for a lot of time for myself. We share a tiny two bedroom terrace house in Conwy, North Wales, and we’re constantly bumping into each other, driving one another up the wall. We love each other, of course, but there comes a point when you’re eighteen years old and you’re just ready to be on your own.
“And don’t use up all my nice bubble bath!” she adds pointedly. I grimace, glancing over at the now-empty pink bottle perched on the edge of the bathtub.
“I’ll, um, get you some more,” I say sheepishly. I can nearly see her crossing her arms over her chest and shaking her head in that oh-too-familiar way. “Anyway, you don’t want to be late for work, either! I’ll be fine. Have a good day!” I continue quickly.
I hear her gasp a little and say, “Blimey, the time! Okay, I’m off.”
I listen to her heels clacking across the linoleum floor, fading away as she finally leaves. With a sigh, I close my eyes and sink down further into the aromatic water, enjoying the rare silence and solitude. Today is an important day, and I need to be in tip-top condition to handle it. I want a chance to zen out a little bit before I walk into the housekeeping agency office for that interview. I have to be perfect in every way if I’m going to land a good job.
Reaching over blindly, my fingers close around the item I’m looking for: a squishy sponge. Opening my eyes for just a moment, I squirt some lemony-scented soap onto it and begin massaging my naked shoulders, then down my arms and back up to my neck. The hot water is utterly heavenly on my skin, especially since it’s getting rather chilly outside. I dip the sponge into the water and lift it up, wringing it out over my perky breasts, my soft pink nipples just barely peeking out of the water. They stiffen slightly at the sensation of hot water sprinkling tantalizingly over my chest and I lean back, biting my lip.
I never, ever get alone time… and it shows.
From the moment I wake up in the morning until the second I fall back into bed at night, I am awash in sexual frustration — and just frustration, in general, actually. Living out here in such a small town is idyllic when you’re a child. The sea is mysterious and the forests enchanting. The streets are friendly and safe, and everyone knows your name. But now that I’m a young adult, I’ve grown tired of looking at the same sights and faces every single day. I want more than this.
I’m eighteen now, and I should be at the prime of my dating life, but every guy my age in town has known me since I was ten, when I moved here to live with my mum full-time after a decade of shuttling back and forth between Ohio with my father and Wales with my mother. We all went to primary school together. We all went to secondary school together. It’s a small world, and I know everybody in it. Besides, none of them are particularly attractive to me. They’re all set on just living here forever, becoming the fishermen, butchers, and farmers their parents were, too. Hell, even my own mother just assumes I am going to continue working as a domestic servant for the rest of my sorry days.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s just a little pedestrian for my tastes. And I’ve gotten tired of seeing my mother mistreated and overlooked by the wealthy, snobbish people she works for. That’s the main reason I have decided I want to go to university in London next year: I’ve got to get the hell out of Conwy and do something more with my life.
Of course, I’ve got to somehow find the money for an apartment in the most expensive city in the world. And that means falling back on the very job I desperately want to escape.
I’m going to be a domestic servant. I’m going to clean some rich prick’s house and save up every pound until I’ve got enough to pay rent on my own out there in the big city. That’s why today’s interview is so important. If I can’t get a good enough job, then I might just be stuck here for even longer, and that is an outcome I am not prepared to face.
I reach down between my legs to wash my milky white thighs, feeling the corner of the sponge brush up along my pussy. I shiver involuntarily, my body tensing up instantly at this slight touch. It’s been a long, long time since I last touched myself, and as I’m still a virgin, that’s the only action I ever get. It’s a little embarrassing to be a virgin at the age of eighteen, I suppose, since all my school mates have been doing the horizontal tango for years by now. I know it’s like that I’m not cute or whatever, it’s just that I’m rather, well, picky.
None of the boring guys around here interest me even in the slightest, and if I’m going to give up my virginity to someone, it better be someone I actually feel attracted to. Plus, I’ve always been too busy to take the time to find a suitable partner. I’ve worked my ass off to make good marks in school, and every free moment has been spent studying or joining my mother on housekeeping gigs for extra cash. It’s difficult to make ends meet out here, and there are few opportunities.
With all of that hanging over my head, it’s no surprise that I haven’t made time to lose my virginity to anybody yet. But that doesn’t mean the desire isn’t there.
I close my eyes and let my fingers slide down between my legs, tentatively stroking along my pussy under the hot water. I shiver and let my lips fall open as I hook one finger and push it slowly inside of me.
Warmth runs up my body, adding to the warmth of the bath as I feel my pussy welcome the touch of my finger. I swirl it around, leaning back and letting the tendrils of my hair float in the water as I excite myself, feeling my cheeks burn a little.
It isn’t long before my lower abdomen starts to tense. I feel like
I’m always pent-up these days, everything as stagnant as the bath water I’m steeping in. I fill my head with the thoughts of some man towering over me, his hands roaming over my body, invading places I’ve never allowed anyone to touch, his fingers reaching down to where mine are now.
There’s no gentleness in this mystery man, not like I’m giving myself. My jaw hangs open as I picture him holding me down, his shaft a thick outlined in whatever pants tightly hug his thighs, and he unzips them to show me the virile, masculine treasure between his legs, pressing his lips to me as the crown pushes in while I push my own finger in, digging deep into my pussy as I feel the warmth of my honey around me…
I gasp softly as an orgasm ripples through me, my legs twisting and toes clenching as I close my eyes and feel my cheeks redden.
Okay, so I’m horny. The mystery man of my fantasy doesn’t even have a defined face. The thought of a strong, massive cock between my legs alone, comforting me on this rainy island gives me what I need to get by.
But I have an interview tomorrow that might just get me out of here and somewhere that matters in this bloody country, so I need my head clear. I massage myself as I come down from my orgasm, breathing heavily.
I need to be on my A-game for this interview, because if I stay here, I’m going to lose my mind.
2
Barely a week later, my train is coming to a halt in Surrey County, and I can’t believe any of this is really happening.
The interview went swimmingly. The interviewer, a young woman named Janet, couldn’t stop talking about how perfect I’d be for this position — still working as a domestic, or a maid, as she put it bluntly, but the position is under some high-profile, wealthy landowner. To me, that means old money, something I’m not used to.
Not everything about that is exciting. I picture in my mind some old codger in a stuffy manor, requesting his tea at such-and-such time, sharp. Probably a white-haired pianist with nothing better to do with his time than tell the staff what to do.
Still, it’s a paycheck, and the best part is that I got the job.
Mother had been leery. I was informed to pack lightly, as my new employer would provide everything, including my uniform. Mum thought that was all a bit odd, and I should have vetted the man with her first, but honestly, I don’t care who he is, as long as he can get me the hell out of my hometown.
And Surrey is beautiful, I realize as my train passes through the last bit of countryside before reaching the train station. It’s an idyllic scene of English countryside, something I’ve been taught to shun my whole life. But seeing it now, the wintery cold casting a chilly pallor over the otherwise rustic beauty, I feel a shiver of excitement run up my back at the idea of watching the English winter pass from the warmth of some old rich guy’s manor.
Alastair Delaney. That’s a name from old blood if I ever heard one. The name rings a faint bell, but the English have so many lords and bloodlines that not even historians can keep track of them all, more often than not.
As I pull my light luggage up to the street, I see a gentleman standing by a rather nice sedan holding a card up with my name on it. I brighten up, hurrying towards him. “Hello there, I’m Maisie! I do hope I’m the Maisie Kent you’re waiting on?”
“Only if I’m the ride to the Delaney estate you’re looking for,” the man says with a gruff smile. He’s a bit of a stiff, I can tell, but he’s trying. He’s a paunchy man in his fifties, easily, and he has the look of someone who’s been in service his whole life. I know the type. “Right this way.”
I clamber into the car with him, looking about nervously as he gives an assuring smile, and we pull off. His name is Calvin, I learn after brief introductions, but he goes by Cal, and he’s worked for the Delaneys all his life.
“How are they to work for?” I venture, desperate for a little information about my new boss. “Alastair especially, I mean — I assume he’s the only one I’m going to be serving?”
“Oh, it’s not a job for just anyone,” Cal says as we drive, his voice a vague tone that makes me suspect this is going to be more trouble than I bargained for. “But Lord Alastair is the only one who tends to the estates, for the most part. His brothers are off at all corners of the earth.”
“Right,” I say, a little uncertain.
“A few things you should know, though,” he says, glancing at me with meaningful eyes. “Ground rules. Lord Alastair is quite strict about following commands.” Commands? This really must be an old-fashioned gig. “Wear precisely what he instructs you to wear, leave nothing off and add nothing to the uniform unless he tells you to, and he may.” I scrunch my nose. This is giving me a weird feeling. “You must be punctual — the staff assemble to be inspected every day at noon, so we’ll be arriving just in time for you to get changed in your quarters. You’re free to leave the grounds, but Lord Alastair has your number, and that leads to the most important rule of all.” He gives me a deadly serious look.
“If Lord Alastair tells you to come, you come.”
My face goes a little red in the cheeks, and Cal chuckles, backpedaling a little. “Don’t worry, though, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“Mmhmm,” I say, my voice a little quieted. “Thanks.”
3
My jaw drops at the sight of the manor. Cal chuckles at my shock. “Careful there, don’t get too swept up at the sight of it.” But I can’t help it.
It looks like something out of a Jane Austen novel. The Victorian manor looms over wide, rolling hills of the estates, lines of hedges accentuating the dark colors of the stonework as it stands out on the horizon, outlined by the gray English skies that always threaten to rain.
It’s breathtaking, yet I feel a chill of nervousness run through me. It’s almost like a vampire’s castle, so big and ominous. I can almost imagine bats flying out at night. Still, there’s a certain charm to it that makes me excited.
We pull up, and Cal helps me unload my luggage. “Don’t forget,” he says, checking his watch, “Down in the main hall at noon sharp. Someone will meet you inside to take you to your quarters to change.
“Um, thank you, I-” I start, but Cal is already getting into his car and tipping his driver’s hat.
“Take care, Maisie. And remember what I told you,” he says, leaving me alone at the doorstep, bewildered.
As if on cue, the doors creak open, and I’m greeted by a face that looks refreshingly cheerful for the dour estate.
“Oh, hello there, dearie!” chimes an older woman. She’s dressed in traditional maid’s attire, complete with the black-and-white color scheme, though her uniform is somewhat faded from use. She has blonde hair that’s going white, a plump figure, and a warm smile. “I’m Beth—welcome to Rookswood! You must be Maisie, the new maid.”
“Why yes,” I say, a little taken aback by her warmness. “Pleasure!”
“Yes yes,” Beth says, ushering me inside and gesturing for me to follow. “You too, but we’ll have to catch up later, I’m afraid. Oh, I wish Cal hadn’t brought you so punctually, but Lord Alastair insisted you be here before noon. He’s a bit possessive of his staff, you see.”
I’m a little put off by that. I’m getting a more sinister mental image of a bitter old man who has nothing to do but torment his serving staff. “Right,” I say, a little dazed.
“Don’t worry,” she assures me as she reaches a door up the stairs of the entryway and off to the east. The interior is as lavish and haunting as the outside—old, dark wood, polished marble floors, high chandeliers, and the scent of food baking are the only things bringing life to this gothic manor. “I’m sure this all seems a bit, well, intimidating, and I’ll admit, it’s no cakewalk! But dearie,” she says in a thick Yorkshire accent, “if you come from good domestic stock, I’m sure you’ll do well!”
Stock?
I bite my lip as she pushes me into my quarters, and before I can answer, she chirps, “Your outfit’s on the bed. Noon sharp, meet down at the bottom of the stairs! I’ve got to
tend to the scones.”
And just like that, I’m left alone.
I step forward to the four-poster bed, admiring the furnishings of the place. I have to admit, they really didn’t cut costs on the servants’ quarters. This place looks like a luxury hotel room! Then I turn my eyes to the bed, and my heart nearly stops.
The outfit on the bed is hardly a uniform. It has the general colors and cut of a French maid’s uniform, but it’s much...frillier than what Beth was wearing. There are a pair of black stiletto heels on the floor, and thigh-high white socks trail up from them, ending in lace hems with a pink bow at the front of each. The skirt hardly covers...well, anything, and I know there’s no way it’ll cover the white panties I’m wearing today if I ever have to bend over. As I fit the top on, I notice the push it gives my breasts, and the collar plunges down to show off more than a little cleavage. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whisper to myself as I pick up the little cloth tiara-hat that goes with the ensemble.
I squeeze my narrow frame into the outfit, and I instantly feel myself questioning my life choices as I look myself over in the tall mirror in the room. This isn’t a uniform; it’s lingerie with a maid motif. There are black bows down the front of my corset, which has my breasts nearly spilling out the front, and the stockings do wonders for my legs, but I can imagine my mother having a heart attack at the sight of me.
There must be some mistake, I decide. I cannot strut out in front of all the other domestics in this. Maybe it’s a joke? Of course. Some other domestic is probably seething over the thought of some nobody Welsh girl getting a cushy, well-paying job at this place, and this is how I’m going to get fired. I tear the room apart looking for another outfit, but before I can get anywhere, I hear the bell starting to chime, and my heart sinks. It’s noon.
