No Ordinary Maid

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.

Looking ahead once more, I 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.

Which neatly explains why I promptly 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, those 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.

"My husband is about to cum inside you, Jessica," Mrs Stanton told me after she broke the kiss, as I took great sucking gasps of air in a futile effort to control my lightheadedness. She gazed into my eyes as her hands roved from jiggling breast to bouncing ass to tingling clitoris. "Are you ready for that?"

"Y-yeah," I managed, somehow. My head was spinning, and I could still feel myself squirting intermittently all over the man in question. Mrs Stanton was holding me steady as her husband gripped my hips, putting all his strength into his thrusts. By the way, I want it on the record that that was a lot of strength to be going on with.

"Did you hear that, honey? She's ready for you." She kissed me again, tenderly. As for me, I was still game-- my hips were still rocking desperately in time with Mr Stanton's incredibly powerful thrusts, and I kissed his wife with all the passion I could muster. Let it never be said I didn't put my all into it.

"I heard it." Mr Stanton's voice was still calm and commanding, but had lost some of its usual easy languor. He was obviously strained, tense with the effort it was taking him not to cum. I couldn't fault him at all; he had more vigour, more stamina than just about any other man I'd ever had. Right now he was holding back his orgasm through sheer willpower and learned technique, saving it for the perfect moment, and if anything I was proud that I was making him work so hard.

At the same time, my crush for him deepened. So many guys just can't hold it; even some who seem to last forever can't hold back even for a moment when the moment of truth finally comes. But Jack...Mr Stanton...Master...

His wife, beautiful freckled and ginger Emily, smiled at the pair of us and drew back. I whimpered softly, my gyrating hips somehow keeping up with the intense rhythm of my master's thrusts.

I have had many employers, but oh, these are my only master and mistress. They are the only ones who make me feel this way. The polite, demure, and respectful demeanour I wear at my jobs is a mask, as well you can tell from this breathless monologue.

Not to say I don't enjoy my job, but sometimes I have to paint the smile on as surely as any run-ragged retail worker or overworked barmaid or any other workplace Stepford Wife you care to name. And often I have to act regretful as I turn down the advances of boorish idiots or dodge the hands of losers who think that money makes them attractive.

Once or twice I've thought perhaps the whole male sex is a little bit stupid, to pay me hand over fist to simper and do little tasks in a sexy outfit. Just fools, hypnotised by a pretty smile.

But my master and my mistress make me wonder if that self-superiority is an act as well. I'd thought at first they were just more cocky rich idiots or weirdo swingers, but when they played with me like this, when they really went for it hard, they reduced me to putty in their hands. They took the smug and self-assured sexy girl I tell the world I am and reduced her to a moaning ruin, revealed the cocky smirk beneath the mask to be as false as the fawning servant's smile. Their combined affections punched down, broke through, touched a primal part of me that just wanted dominated, to be overwhelmed and blown away.

In a sense I'd come full circle; my screams and cries and desperate efforts to keep up showed a respect, a submission that no smile or curtsey or honeyed 'yes, sir' could ever convey.

My head was spinning, my vision filled with sparkling dots, and I felt like my limbs were about to go limp like some cut-down puppet. I didn't know how I was hanging on, how I found the breath to kiss Mrs. Stanton, how I found the strength to ride Mr. Stanton without getting thrown off by the thrusts of his magnificent penis. My boobs jiggled crazily, pulled roughly from the cleavage-baring dress I'd been wearing, and as my headband slid ever further down my back, my hair was coming loose. One sleeve was undone, one stocking was torn, and I was so worn out and sweaty from passionate exertion that I felt like I'd just stepped out of the shower I was totally going to need once they were done fucking the absolute living daylights out of me.

Somehow I managed to catch Emily's eye, to actually focus for a second instead of putting all my mental strength into not falling apart, and I saw an amused twinkle in her eyes. Like they'd beaten me, not in a cruel way, but in the way of a team who've bested an interesting opponent in an entertaining game. My servant persona was in tatters with my wrecked outfit; my sassy and self-assured inner self was being shaken apart by the cock in my cunt and the hand on my clit, and I was theirs.

It struck me then that this whole evening was more about them than me; conquering a girl together, sharing a tasty little snack. I might be the one getting fucked, but they were making love.

Emily Stanton leaned down and kissed me on the stomach, where only inches away through my flesh her husband's cockhead was striving.

Jack Stanton let out a deep masculine growl and came.

He unleashed himself into me. I'd felt his loads before, in my mouth and on my tits, but nothing had prepared me for how it felt to have his cum surge and blast inside me, filling up my pussy until I thought I'd overflow. I swear the aftershocks of my orgasms grew into an extra little cum of their own as the floodgates opened and his seed blew through me like a torrential flood.

His wife kept kissing as he did it. On one side her cherry-red lips were clamped against my skin, whilst on the other, her man painted my insides white. It seemed to go on forever before I felt the high-pressure fountain of his ejaculation subside, and then Emily kissed my tingling clitoris and I almost blacked out with a last shockwave of ecstasy, aided by a few more thrusts as Jack proved able to keep going in the face of everything I could offer. Then, as the sparkles blotted out, my vision and my head began to swim, Mrs. Stanton slid away to suck her husband's balls as he remained, still hard, inside my quivering pussy.

Then two pairs of hands lifted me off his triumphant, still-solid penis and lowered me to the bed. I passed out the second I touched the sheets, but that was alright. They were decent enough to let me sleep, to retreat to the spare room for their own coupling and let me stay the night. But they took pictures first, for their own happy memories and for mine. I have copies; my flushed red face, my disheveled outfit, my sweaty, sticky body.

And the mother of all creampies that oozed like melting ice cream from my utterly satisfied slit.