No Ordinary Maid

Alicia Grey

I threw back my head in a lustful cry, my orgasm an avalanche that drove all the air out of my lungs. The motion threatened to knock off my headband, which slipped down the raven-black mane of my disheveled hair, and the whole of my body quivered. My long legs in their sheer black stockings; my bouncing breasts, bared from beneath my frilly French maid outfit, and above all else my sopping wet core. My pussy spasmed ecstatically with orgasm, and I could feel every inch of Mr Stanton’s glorious cock as it filled me, fulfilled me, dominated and ruled me. I heard him chuckle over my shoulder, felt his strong hands steady my shaking body, and righted myself as I slowly regained control from the earthquake of pleasure inside. I looked ahead once more, and locked eyes with his beautiful wife. She smiled and kissed me with lips like sugar, and as she took my left hand in hers, she slid her right hand down to where her husband and I became one. Then she touched my clitoris with one wedding-banded finger, manipulating it with the deft familiarity of a fellow woman, and oh my god, I began to cum again.I lost control of myself and squirted all over the stud I rode atop of, cried out into the mouth of his sexy wife and accepted her invading tongue as happily as I had the powerful cock that was thrusting away beneath me. And the only thought that registered as I desperately kissed that embodiment of sapphic lust was that her impossibly manly husband was about to cum inside me.But wait!What on earth is the context here? Who are these people? Who am I? And why in the name of all that’s holy am I getting my brains railed out whilst wearing a maid outfit? Do any of you care?Well, a bit of context might make you more invested in what’s going down and give an idea as to where it might go next. So let’s backtrack a bit. My name is Jessica Dornier, I am twenty years old, and I am a maid. Or ‘maid’, rather. Let’s be clear here, I’m not the sort of person who gets called out for heavy cleaning. I’m more like the actress who dresses as one in saucy movies. I dust and clean and even cook a little bit as part and parcel of my service, but it’s not my primary function; I am eye candy, a status symbol. I’m there to serve whilst looking nice; to get me to unclog toilets or scrub a house from top to bottom defeats the point. I’m there to make lunch for rich, young professionals who want a show at the same time, to answer the door at a certain type of party and flirt just enough to get the mood going. I’m sure you can picture what I mean.It’s not a job for life, let’s make no bones about that. A job to give me some financial stability whilst studying my tight little ass off and funding a few crazed student outings, though? It manages that well enough.I’ll tell you what would happen if you hired me. There’d be a knock at the door, and when you opened it you’d have 5’10” of raven-haired beauty standing there ready to serve you. My outfit isn’t totally impractical; I do sometimes have to actually work in it, after all. But it resembles a practical house cleaners outfit in the same way a ‘sexy nurse’ costume resembles what you’d actually see in a hospital. And so it’s very easy to see what I have to offer:High C-tits, firm and bouncy, that would catch your eyes pretty quickly, dragging them away from the baby blues set in my rather pretty face. Speaking of firm and bouncy, when I smile demurely and walk through the door you’ll get a chance to check out my ass. Arguments rage as to which is better; I’ve overheard them. I know I’m beautiful, in fact, because our office actually tracks these things; it’s part of the service, after all. You have to be sexy to get in the door, and even by internal standards I’m pretty highly placed.So believe me when I say you’d love to see my legs. Long and slender, sheathed in silken stockings that stop a few inches below where my short skirt begins, leaving a belt of smooth and creamy skin on display. Believe me when I say I can put a number to the sultriness of my smile. Believe me when I tell you that my very walk is calculated to get male blood pumping to male organs, that the way I balance modesty and sensuality is effective enough to make me money. I am good at being sexy.I’m told that even my feet are sexy, though I’ve never quite understood the appeal. Still, whatever makes people happy.We’re not prostitutes, of course. You can look, but you can’t touch. Of course that’s just the official rule, whereas some of us are okay with a bit of hands-on if the pay’s good enough. And what a girl decides to do after the clock stops is her own business, so if the customer decides to tip an unusually large amount, well…I don’t actually do that sort of thing myself. But some of us do. Interested?Anyway. I’m actually rather more than just a maid, or ‘maid’ if you’d prefer. I have dual French citizenship, meaning this frilly outfit is actually the real deal on me (I speak at a ‘can sort of hold a conversation’ level). I’ve done enough martial arts that I’m capable of snapping a person’s wrist, and once in a crowded nightclub, I did just that (bastard didn’t even offer me money). The process is quite straightforward, actually; sort of like forcing a door against the hinge.I also read Ancient History in a university you’ve probably never heard of and have an essay on the fall of the Neo-Assyrian Empire due on Monday. Yeah, not the most employable degree, but if all else fails I guess I can become a teacher. Besides, most stockbrokers can’t beat stocks chosen at random and they earn money hand over fist, so if you want to be elitist you can suck my clit. Or my toes, if that’s more your speed.But you don’t really care about any of that.You care about me looking hot enough to burn in a naughty outfit, and you want to read about me getting ravished until I can’t even stand, right? Then consider that I might not accept money for such things, but in my time working for the Stantons and their guests I’ve been confronted by their sexual nature often enough to want it on its own merits. I suppose I am getting paid, if you look at it the right way. Just in pleasure, not in money. And since my main reason for wanting money is to pursue pleasure, perhaps I’m just a dirty little whore after all.Back to the action, then, back to the first time they fucked me. Not the first time I’d fucked either of them, but the first time she joined him and they did me both at once. The first time they called me just for the sex instead of the sex being a happy extra, the first time he creamed me, the first time they broke me.

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