Maid for You (Regular Sex Issue 5) (2 page)

'Go for it.' He
plays along, easing himself back into the chair, his long legs crossed and propped
up on the stool in front of him.

I make a hesitant
start; who uses feather dusters these days? I flick it over the chest of
drawers, around the bits and bobs on top of it. A vase of flowers, some loose
change, and a jarred candle I've never gotten around to lighting. I turn back
and find him watching me.

'Don't let me
distract you,' I say, walking slowly towards the TV. I bend a little from the
waist to dust the screen, giving Don a clear view down my dress because he's
always liked my boobs. 'These things really gather the dust,' I say, almost to
myself.

'I think you've
missed a bit,' he offers.

'I lift my head
to look at him. 'You do?'

He nods. 'Right
at the bottom of the screen.'

I pretend to look
for the non-existent dust, leaning right over in the process. 'Is that better?'
I ask.

'Lots,' he
breathes, and when I look up at him through my lashes he's watching me, not the
football, even though it sounds as though someone just scored a goal and the
crowd are going crazy.

'Is it too warm
in here, sir?’ I wrinkle my brow in concern as I straighten up. 'Only your
cheeks look flushed.'

Don laughs
softly. 'You know, I think I am pretty warm.' He reaches for the bottom of his
T-shirt and tugs it up and over his head then settles back in with his arms
across his now bare chest. He's always looked after himself, making use of the
hospital gym and playing five-a-side on Sunday mornings. No one likes an out of
shape doctor, and right now I can only admire the results of his hard work. He
might be forty, but he seems to just get better with age.

'You know, I
think dust gathers on the picture rail,' he says, glancing up. 'Do you think
you can reach up there?'

Oh, he's fully on
board with this game now. I look up at the rail that runs all around the room a
foot or so below ceiling level, and say, 'I might be able to, if I stretch.'

Don smiles in a
'get to it then,' way that makes my stomach flip. His smile always does that to
me.

I plant my feet
against the wall, slightly apart, the painted toes of my shoes skimming the
skirting board, and reach up until the feathers touch the slender rail.

'You're almost
there,' he whispers, encouraging me. 'Stretch, Cheryl.'

I'm aware that
the more I stretch the higher my dress gets on my ass. I'm on tip-toes now,
flat against the wall, my head tipped back so I can look up at the rail.

'I think I've got
it,' I say, then I jump slightly when his hands appear flat on the wall either
side of my shoulders. I gasp when his jean-covered crotch makes contact with my
backside and one of hands move to cover my satin clad breast.

'You're the
sexiest maid I've ever seen,' he growls against my ear, sliding his hand up my
throat to hold my jaw and twist my face towards his. Christ! My knees almost
give, not that it would matter because he's holding me up against the wall with
the hardness of his body anyway. I don't think he's ever been this masterful,
and I totally get off on it. He's kissing me hard, his tongue in my mouth, his
other hand still braced on the wall.

When he lets go
of my jaw I feel his hand move to unbuckle his belt and then he shoves his
jeans down his hips.

'I'm going to
fuck you hard against this wall,' he says, his mouth lava hot and urgent on my
ear, and even as he's speaking his fingers are between my legs dragging the
silk aside.

He isn't his
usual gentle self and I love it, pushing myself into his hand, desperate to
feel his fingers where I need them. When he touches me I gasp out loud, and he
holds me still for a moment as his fingers move inside my folds, over my clit.

He's readying his
cock in place even as he touches me, his breath harsh against my ear. He
doesn't wait, he fucks himself into me deep and hard, so swollen and sudden
that I cry out and he grasps my jaw again, his fingers spanned on my neck.

'Christ,' I hear
him say, guttural, and he's moving hard behind me, kissing me roughly as he
screws me more violently than he ever has before, and I match his depravity
stroke for stroke. I'm mad for him, for this raw, pure sex, and then suddenly I
can't take it anymore and I start to come, shaking. He does too, yelling out,
shocked and slamming himself into me over and over again. It's filthy and fast
and delicious, and as he slows down his fingers loosen on my jaw, stroking down
my neck. His head is bent over my shoulder, and we're both gasping to get air
into our lungs. His arms move around me and crush me against his chest, and for
a while we can only stand there braced against the wall. I'm surprised the
house is still standing.

I turn around as
he pulls his jeans up, and he puts his hand back on the wall beside my head and
leans in to kiss me. The violent lust has been replaced now with a slow,
searching tenderness, open mouthed, his tongue languid over mine. It's movie
worthy, and I pull him against me by the waist of his jeans and stroke my hands
up the muscles of his back. His other hand is in my hair, cupping the back of
my neck, and when he lifts his head his dark eyes are full of questions, and of
wonder, and of love.

'Happy Birthday
to me,' he whispers, and I kiss the smile that tips the corners of his lips.

'There's more,' I
say, and his eyes widen a little. 'I have other gifts for you.'

'But the outfit
stays,' he says, running his hands over the silky black material.

'It stays.' I
kiss him one last, lingering time. 'I'm going to go and run you a bath.'

'Get in with me?'
He thumbs my erect nipples through the satin.

I shake my head
regretfully. 'I'm going to be a good maid and make dinner.'

He doesn't ask
about the Italian meal we had planned. I don't think he even remembers.

I've kept dinner
simple, chicken in prosciutto ham with asparagus spears followed by a rich
chocolate mousse because it's Don's favourite. We eat by candlelight and share
a bottle of crisp Sauvignon, relaxing into each other's company after an
afternoon that turned out to be far more unexpected than either of us bargained
for.

He's bare chested
and barefoot in just his jeans and I've been wearing the French maid outfit for
long enough now to not feel so self conscious. I know Don is enjoying seeing me
in it because he's watching me, stroking my thigh as we sit close to eat, his
eyes lingering every now and then on the way my boobs are being held up and
offered to him by the corseted constraints of the bodice.

When I gather the
dishes and swing the dishwasher door down, he crosses the kitchen to help me.
Or maybe he comes because I'm bending over to load the plates into the machine,
and as he passes me each plate or bowl his other hand is on my ass, massaging
me, stroking the silk between my legs. We're chatting idly as we work, as if
his fingers haven't just moved under the silk to touch me slowly. It's not like
earlier. He finds my clitoris and strokes my back with his other hand; it feels
somehow territorial. I curl my fingers around the wire rack in the bottom of
the machine, my hair now loose and swinging around my hot cheeks. This outfit
has changed my mindset; I absolutely feel like Don's dirty French maid, as if
he's the man of the house taking liberties, silently fingering me in the kitchen
while everyone else is upstairs oblivious.

I swallow hard as
he pushes a finger inside me, and then two; his other hand still gentle on my
spine, almost soothing me. I squirm because the pleasure is so intense, as the
taut, silken edge of my knickers presses back and forth over my clit as he
fingers me with a deliberate, deep rhythm. He's speaking, low sexy words I
can't quite catch, but they work for me, heightening my fantasy. I'm close to
coming and he senses it because he knows my body so well. The plates in the
wire rack I'm gripping rattle as I jolt, gasping Don's name. He doesn't stop,
lets me ride his hand hard, his other hand now curled over my shoulder almost
pulling me back onto his fingers.

After a few
seconds he eases his fingers from me and snaps my suspender strap playfully.

'Get up, wench,'
he growls, slapping my ass as I stand. This whole thing is so very out of
character for us; I spin around on my stiletto heels and face him and he kisses
me hard on the mouth. We could very easily have sex again right now. I could
slide up on the kitchen counter and open my legs, or maybe he could bend me
over the table. That would be perfectly in keeping with the maid fantasy. We
could do either of those things, but if we do, I don't think we'll make it to
the presents waiting for him in the living room.

Because of this I
put my palms flat on his chest and push him away just far enough to be able to
look in his eyes and speak.

'Want your
presents?'

'Not as much as I
want to take you to bed,' he says. 'I love this outfit, but I think it's time
we got you out of it.' His hand skims down over my ass to my thigh. ''Except
for these. Keep the stockings on.'

God, I'm tempted,
but I know that his presents will only make what's to come more exciting, so I
smile and push him back, giving me enough room to slide out from against the
work surface. I grab a bottle of champagne from the fridge and look at him over
my shoulder.

'Get a couple of
glasses?'

He sighs
regretfully and reaches for the cupboard.

'Good things come
to those who wait, sir,' I say, then throw him a wink as I lead the way into
the living room.

We've both had a
glass of champagne before I hand him the first of the small collection of
gifts. He shakes it, as he always does with presents.

'It's not
chocolates,' he says, 'or a CD.' I wait silently as he opens it.

He looks at me
quizzically. 'Playing cards?'

I nod. 'Not
normal ones though. It's a game. We take it in turns to ask each other the
questions.'

He looks at the
sensuous images on the front of the pack. 'Like a dirty Trivial Pursuit?'

I laugh. I'd been
in two minds about buying the game because some of the questions are a bit
close to the bone, but I'm glad I have done now that we're here and relaxed
like this.

Don rips the
cellophane wrapper and shakes the cards out into his hand. He takes a second to
glance at the first one and then whistles under his breath.

'I think we
better have another drink if we're gonna play this game,' he says, topping up
our glasses with fizz.

He settles back
into the corner of the sofa, his arms spread out across the back. His shoulders
bunch and my fingers itch to touch him. He's not my husband tonight; or at
least he's not the same man who slept beside me last night. We'd been sliding scarily
towards a platonic friendship, but somehow that makes what's happening between
us now feel almost as if we're strangers who've hooked up and it's blisteringly
sexy.

I stand up and
reach underneath my skirt then slide my knickers down and off.

'Getting
comfortable,' I murmur, picking up my glass and sitting into the other end of
the sofa. We're facing each other, almost but not quite touching.

Don makes a point
of shuffling the cards and then fans them out towards me.

'Ladies first,'
he says, raising his eyebrows.

I take a mouthful
of champagne because I'm suddenly nervous, then place my glass down and slowly
choose a card from the pack.

'You have to read
it out to me.'

I know that, but
as my eyes scan the question I suddenly wonder if this game was such a good
idea after all. Ah, screw it. I said I was an in for a penny, in for a pound
kind of girl, didn't I? It's time to put my money where my mouth is.

'How often do you
masturbate?'

Don's eyes are
suddenly harder to read, a slight frown on his brow.

'You don't have
to answer if you don't want to. Let's make that a rule.' I rush in, trying to
give him a get-out clause because I don't want anything to kill the mood.

Slowly, he shakes
his head. 'No hiding tonight, Cheryl.' He picks up his drink. 'Most days?'

I'm shocked, but
I try not to show it. It's not that it's excessive; it's more that I thought
he'd gone off the boil because we have sex so infrequently.  

'Where?' I squeak,
because I can't think when he does it every day.

He shrugs. 'In
the shower. In bed sometimes at the weekend.'

'What do you think
about when you do it?' The question falls from my lips before I can think about
the implications of the answer.

'Cheryl...' he
says, quietly.

'Don't say,' I
jump in again. 'You don't have to say you think of me.'

'Does it make me
less manly if I say it
is
mostly you I think of?' he says, his lovely
eyes serious. 'More so since we don't have sex so much. I miss you. I think
about you naked. I remember all those years ago on that nudist beach, remember?
Or those late summer nights in the back garden before we had the kids?' He
sighs, and I move forwards until I can lean in and kiss him.

'I think about
you too when I touch myself,' I say.

He looks me in
the eyes, playing with a strand of my hair.

'You masturbate?'

I'm glad I've had
a few drinks. 'Sometimes.'

'And you think
about me when you do it?'

His hand moves
down and opens the laces holding the bodice together.

'When?' he asks.
'When do you masturbate, Cheryl? Tell me, I want to picture you.'

'This was your
question,' I murmur, but he just looks at me, waiting for my answer.

'Sometimes when
I'm here on my own in the afternoon, I get to thinking about you, or if I'm
reading one of my books and it gets me in the mood...'