The Maid For Pleasure Bundle 2 (15 page)

“Yes, Ma’am. Very much so!”

Tiffany loathed to call her Candy—it was such a silly, demeaning name. In fact, she loathed to call her a woman at all. Obviously, the girl was a proper adult by age, and was
thoroughly
mature in certain areas—her breasts and musculature and hair and so on—but
women
as Tiffany knew them did not carry such vapid, permanent grins on their faces simply by existing. Women did not check their reflection on every surface every few seconds and admire how pretty they looked for men. Women did not giggle so often that it might as well have been breathing; women did not have such enormously titanic tits that their tiny cheerleading outfits struggled to keep the massive amounts of titflesh inside; women did not have long, long gorgeously soft hair that stretched all the way down to their asses; and women did
not
have such aggressively bronzed skin, toned to absolute perfection, as if their entire lives had been nothing more than an excuse to perfect the way they looked.

No, no, not at all—women did not do that!

So, therefore, it was hard for Tiffany to qualify Candy as a woman, despite her obvious feminine qualities, and her clear abilities for becoming a matron at some point, what with her fertile child-rearing hips and obviously milk-ready tits.

Tiffany had told Castle she didn’t want Candy to be one of those “Milk Maids” she had heard about; clearly, if he had listened to her, he had summarily ignored her. Her top already looked like it was getting soaked in Candy’s anticipation. The heavy scent of the milk began to fill the office. Tiffany was glad she had, again, taken something to clog up her senses.

Tiffany wished she could have objected to Castle about the milk, but she needed what the Maid could do too badly to raise much of a fuss. Maybe she'd bring it up when she talked to him next. She had agreed to a few phone calls a week with him to discuss how the plan was going.

Tate entered the office.

He was a quarterback all over. Tall, handsome, with curly brown hair kept cut short and a strong jaw. Fresh from a pad-less practice, he wore a tight white shirt and a pair of red athletic shorts. His arms were as thick as his brain, or perhaps it was the other way around. Either way, Tiffany felt he was stronger than he was smart, and she had been given very little evidence to the contrary. When asked who his dependents were, he asked in return if that was that new team from Oregon.

Tate smiled as he entered. “Hey, Miss Belmont. You wanted to see...whoa.”

Immediately, Tate’s eyes were fixated on Candy. She was been posted right across from the door.

“Tate, this is our newest cheerleader, Candy. Say hello, Candy.”

The smiling blonde obediently stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Tate’s neck. As he sputtered and protested, she drew him in for a long, sizzling kiss.

“I’ve always wanted to meet a real live quarterback before,” she breathed, her lips clinging to his still.

Her voice had gained in octaves, becoming even more high-pitched and girlish, but lowered in volume. No doubt, thought Tiffany, she thought it was
against regulation
or something similarly silly to have a raised voice in front of a man.

The maid’s huge breasts were crushed against Tate’s well-developed pectorals. She dotted soft kisses against his ruggedly handsome chin.

“You’re really...um...forward,” he said.

Candy nodded. “I find it’s best to just, like, you know...” she slipped her hand through the elastic band of Tate's shorts and around his cock. “Just
grab hold
of the things that I like. You know?”

Tate gulped and nodded slowly.

“I’ve been a fan of yours for so long,” said Candy, stroking intently. “Won’t you please, please show me how you treat your
best
fans?”

“I’ve...uh, you know. I’ve got a girl...frieeeend...”

His voice trailed off as Candy pulled at a strap and her top slid down to the floor. Tate let out a low whistle, eyes wide and shining.

“Oh, really?” Candy demurred. “I guess she wouldn’t like it if you saw me like this, huh?”

But Tate wasn’t talking anymore. Suddenly, he was sliding his face down into Candy's milk-producing tits, taking a long lick of the lusciously thick cream she produced. Candy moaned with encouragement.

“Yes!” she cried. “Oh, Master!”

If the term bothered or puzzled Tate, he didn't show it. Quickly they were on the carpeted floor, Tate shoving his shorts down around his ankles and then kicking them to the wall.

“Oh, get a room,” Tiffany said.

They didn’t seem to notice her. As a matter of fact, it appeared that they
had
gotten a room—her office. The smell of lust was becoming unbearable—and quickly, Tate had slid his thick cock inside of Candy's waiting cunt, eager to test drive what was apparently his new possession.

Normally, someone might have thought twice about fucking a girl they just met in front of their boss. But Castle's maids had a way of making men forget all about what they would normally do.

Frustrated, Tiffany stepped out into the hallway, expecting at any moment that someone would swing by and demand an explanation for all the noise the two were making as they shouted out loving phrases at one another. But there was no one. Even Rebecca was gone, no doubt off on some errand, being the dutiful little lass she was.

Tiffany reproached herself for feeling surprised at the lack of attention. After all, she had planned it this way, hadn’t she? That’s why it was all taking place so late in the evening, because that way no one would be there to watch.

The sounds inside the office increased in frequency and tenor. Candy was clearly cumming over and over again as Tate drove his cock inside her tight, needy pussy.

No one...no one would watch.

Tiffany gulped, unbuttoning her top button. God, but it was hot in this stupid hallway. She’d have to talk with maintenance about that. So very hot and...and...lusty...and...god, Tate had a big cock, didn't he? That was so interesting.

Another cry signaled another orgasm from Candy.

Tiffany let her hands slide around her breasts for a moment. Maybe if she took a peak, she could tell them to keep it down. Or...or anticipate, like, scream if Candy was going to cry out, and mask the sound.

Sure. Scream over the cries of passion. That would be much less suspicious.

Guided by this suspect reasoning, Tiffany cracked open the door to her office. Inside, she saw Candy’s thick, heavy tits on top of the desk.
Tiffany’s
desk. Tate drove into Candy from behind, his incredibly developed back muscles rippling with the effort of the furious fucking.

Tiffany's fingers slipped down to her pants. Quickly, they were unbuttoned, and she was sliding her fingers against her moist cunt.

What was wrong with her?

Tate fucked Candy even harder, his thrusts spreading the blonde’s legs out wide, the bimbo's milk spurting all over the desk, and Tiffany realized she didn’t care what was wrong with her. Her fingers plunged deeper and deeper into her cunt as she re-learned how to masturbate. The motions came back quickly, and her fingers pressed down on her sensitive clit. She didn't care that the stupid bimbo was wrecking her desk, and she didn't care that Tate was a musclebound idiot who clearly only cared about his cock, and she didn't care that she was getting so incredibly turned on  by watching the two try to start a fire with the friction of their private parts.

“Oh Tate!” Candy moaned. “Oh, Master! Baby! Oh please! Cum in me! Oh god, do it! Yeah, baby, do it!”

With a crashing grunt, Tate visibly emptied himself into Candy's cunt. Tiffany came with him, and her, watching with bliss as the quarterback and maid contorted with ecstasy.

It was Tiffany's first orgasm in ten years.

She closed her eyes, biting her lip and trying to suppress the long moans she wanted to fill the hallway with. She had forgotten how fucking
good
it felt to play with herself. How
right
it felt to enjoy the act of fucking—even if it was just to watch it from a distance like she was now.

Just as she opened her eyes from the sweet little cum, she saw Candy’s face. The bimbo winked at Tiffany. Like they were sharing a secret.

Maybe they were. Tiffany ran away down the hall, horrified at herself and what she'd done.

* * * * *

T
he day after Candy’s arrival, after a long evening at home with a bottle of wine, Tiffany felt leagues better. No more shame, no more embarrassment, no more thoughts that she should turn in her resignation as an independent, successful woman to the League of Independent, Successful Women and bow her head in disgrace as they all—rightfully—called her a shameful slut.

Yes, all that self-pity was gone away completely, now. The incident the day before had been an anomaly. That was all there was to it.

She stepped out of the cold shower she had just given herself, drying herself off bit by bit. She reflected for probably the thousandth time how she enjoyed having short hair. It required so much less maintenance, particularly in the mornings.

Her condo was spacious, located in the upper west side of the city. It had tall windows and two stories; an appropriate amount of space for her to sometimes entertain guests. Mostly, though, it was just for her. She took pride in the Spartan nature of its decoration—almost nothing was there that did not need to be. Most of the walls were blank save for the deep red paint that covered them, and there was only one plant, deep in the corner next to the windows of the kitchen.

It was cold in her home, and colder still after the cold shower she had just prescribed herself, but that was all right. She wanted it that way. Only moments before her shower, her fingers had been firmly inside her pussy, coaxing her to her
second
orgasm in ten years—and all that was gone now.

Yes, leagues better. That’s how she felt.

There was absolutely nothing wrong with Tiffany. There was nothing affecting her, and nothing assailing her emotions. She was in complete control, now and always, and she had nothing at all to worry about in that regard, some stupid contract with Castle or no.

Last night, drinking her wine, she had checked and re-checked and
re-
checked the contract she had with Castle. It absolutely forbade him to do anything at all to modify Tiffany. So, that little hint of lipstick that been applied to her lips from Candy—that just must have been what Candy
did
to others when she kissed him. Now that Tiffany had laid out how inappropriate it was for the bimbo to touch her again, she had nothing else to worry about.

That little incident right outside Candy’s offi—
her
office, Tiffany’s own office that she had earned with years and years of thankless work and a cut-throat attitude—that incident, well. It had happened. There was no denying that.

But, Tiffany merely got caught up in the moment. The way someone might tear up during a sad scene in a movie, she had simply become very, very turned on by what she had been watching. The trick, from now on, was simply to ensure she didn’t watch anything like that, and especially not right after kissing Candy’s deeply plush, hot lips (not that she wanted to do that in the first place! No, sliding her tongue into Candy’s perfect mouth and tasting that little pink dart, sucking on it needfully while stuffing fingers into her own hot cunt—no way! Tiffany did not want that at all). Clearly, seeing that public display of romance between Candy and Tate affected her deeply, and disallowed her to keep control of her normal thinking processes.

More than anything, Tiffany knew that the beginning of the arousal-soaked dream she had suffered from this morning was just a misfiring in her brain. She wasn’t even sure she remembered such the dream at all, really. In fact, who was to say that she hadn’t gotten straight up out of bed and jumped into the shower so quickly that she simply mistook her foggy, early morning recollection of the dream as something else that reminded her of the day before?

Yes. That would explain the way she
thought
she remembered her fingers buried deep in her cunt when she woke up, and the burning hot need for release she felt. It was just...how quickly she went to the shower. That was all.

It was silly to think it was anything else. And if Tiffany was anything, it was definitely not silly.

The cold shower had probably been entirely unnecessary. An early assault on a threat that didn’t even exist. That was just her personality, though. That was how she had stayed on top for so many years—striking at others before they even knew they should strike at her. That old fool James Conroy, for example; the head of the Regulations Department. She had pushed him there two years ago to get him out of the running for ownership of The Tornados, and because she had caught him by surprise, he actually thought she was helping him.

No longer, of course. He sent her a hate-filled email every month or so, disparaging her performance as an owner.

As she pondered this, she stepped in front of the mirror and abruptly dropped her towel. Her full reflection was shown there—long legs, slender body, and average bust. Not to worry, she thought idly. I don't have to worry about anything. I’m very pretty, after all, and pretty girls get what they want.

Pretty
women
, she corrected, barely noticing how she called herself pretty. She couldn’t help it if her face looked a little more striking and youthful than usual, after all.

Empowered by this train of thought, she slipped into her closet and put on the tallest pair of heels she owned—a modest black pair of 2-inch pumps. That would show them. She could wear whatever she liked. It didn’t make her sex crazy just because she knew she had a rather nice set of legs.

* * * * *

T
he Tornados' W-L Record: 2-4

––––––––

F
eeling rather clandestine, Tiffany arrived at the stadium early on Monday morning, as she always did.

There was no one around. No one to say hi to, and no one to admire the way Tiffany had clearly been losing a little weight around her waist over the past couple weeks. Her steady diet of salads and nuts was paying off, particularly now that she suddenly no longer had any desires to binge. As a result, she was looking and feeling fine.