Mil Maid

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Author's Note: All Characters Depicted Herein Are 18 Years Of Age Or Older.

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Maid Bare - Milk Maid

It amuses me from time to time to examine the personal diaries of the servants I keep. Abbey's, in particular, is one that has provided me much joy and erotic inspiration over the course of her term in my employ. A mutual friend informed me that you take great pleasure in such writings—here it is now, arranged in the manner I have found most pleasing.

- M. Castle

NOW:

Mister Castle has ordered me to write down my routine in my diary. I happily obey his instructions.

Every morning, I wake up and slip into my very best outfit. Mister Castle says he likes me best when I wear sexy high heels and tight, tiny lingerie, so that's what I wear.

Sometimes my outfit consists of tight corsets with frilly garter belts and tight stockings. Sometimes it's a sexy nightie, hanging down loose and held up purely by my big, buoyant titties. Sometimes it's a hot little sheer lace slip that doesn't hide in the slightest how erect and huge my nipples are

all

the time. No matter what, it's always something that makes it easy to dispense the hot, delicious milk I make every day from my big, lactating breasts.

Basically, I'm only allowed to wear lingerie because I'm just a silly, sexy maid, and I have to act that way. My job depends on it. So does cumming. I'm not allowed to cum for Mister Castle at the end of the day unless I've been a

very

good maid. Sometimes Claudia or Terrance or even Lilah will come and play with me, and I'm allowed to cum then, but those are special occasions, and those cums aren't ever as good as the ones Mister Castle gives me.

I'm not pregnant yet, but when I am, he says he'll order me some new lingerie—or better yet, he'll let me wear the stuff that belongs to Lilah and Claudia. They're so sweet. I love them all so much.

When I wear tall, hot heels I can walk as sexy as any woman. My hips sway from side to side. I am confident, hot, and sexy, all the time when I wear heels. There's nothing better, says Mister Castle, than a gorgeous woman wearing gorgeous heels to constrain the way she walks and moves—they show off what an ornament she really is.

I love being an ornament for Mister Castle.

My tight, heart-shaped ass looks so firm and sculpted when I wear heels—my legs acting as a perfect line up to the entrances of either hole between my cheeks—though with how much I want to get pregnant, I bet you can guess which entrance I want Mister Castle thinking about.

After getting dressed, I go downstairs and suck off whoever's eating breakfast. Usually it's Terrence. If Claudia or Lilah manage to make breakfast (often they don't, poor dears. They sleep in quite a lot with their delivery dates so soon), then as they eat, I will lick their pussies or finger them if my mouth is otherwise occupied.

After breakfast, I step outside the kitchen and bend over at the table in the middle of the entryway. This is where Terrance or Elliot or Spoons can have their way with me—or where Claudia and Lilah can spank me silly.

I am a maid. I belong to the house. Everyone here is more important than me.

THEN:

Let's get one thing straight right off the bat, here. Nobody on this planet is more important than me, all right?

I mean, look. I get it. There are people starving, and there are big bills being passed in Washington, and like, everything is going crazy in the Middle East—I get it.

I get it

. I don't need a lecture from you. When I'm telling you nobody's more important than me, I don't mean like, you know, existentially, all right? I don't mean that somehow the cosmos is in motion purely because I'm around to make it happen. That's too much pressure. I don't want that.

What I mean when I say I'm the most important person around is a declaration of practicality, okay?

Because practically speaking, I'm the most important person I know. Just like you're the most important person

you

know. That's just how it works. You've gotta look after yourself first. Anything good that happens has to come after that, right?

So anyway, being a maid doesn't come natural to me. Looking after other people's stuff and all. But whatever, it's good money. And this latest job? Hoo boy. It's

damn

good money. It's

great

money. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars for a year of work? Are you kidding? Who do I have to blow to get that kind of deal all the time?

Well, nobody, apparently. They said the position was open continuously, just so long as I could stand the work.

Uh, yeah, a hundred fifty-thousand dollars? I can stand it. Trust me.

Not that this place—Mister Castle's Estate, as it is

constantly

referred to—doesn't have its weirdness.

Anyway, earlier today I arrived here. Mister Castle's Estate, like I said. It's a big, old place. You've seen the type—imagine any sort of rich person's house from any movie ever—that's this place now. It's an amalgam of everything rich. Beautiful ceilings, beautiful floors, art everywhere and all of it very masculine and sexist. I'm sure Castle, if he were around, would say he's "celebrating the female form" with all his portraits of big-titted women, but in all reality he's just perpetuating the myth that women are property to be traded around, so long as they are gorgeous first.

Oh, side note: I got a ride to Mister Castle's place with an old man. His name was Eduardo. He looked like an Eduardo—a scraggly beard that only really seemed to occupy one side of his face, and a scar sliding from his ear to his shoulder. The whole time, he was trying to warn me away from the Castle place. He kept saying how he would never let his daughters work there, not ever. I smiled and nodded, but still, I couldn't wait to get out of the car.

Nobody tells me where I can and can't work. I had enough of that from my parents, thank you.

I found this job through a random encounter on the street, believe it or not. I had been idling through a bulletin board at the laundry mat, looking for easy graphic design work. I'm no expert at graphic design, mind you, but I can handle photoshop and the like better than most of the population. I had put together a few jobs for doctor's offices, stuff like that. The problem is that nobody really wants to hire you—or not for very long—if you don't have a degree or any formal training. Just plopping together gif files on tumblr doesn't really cut it as a resume, most of the time.

(Also, side note: I just found out there's no internet here. What the hell, Castle?)

Anyway, this

gorgeous

Asian girl in a tight, tiny business suit asks to take me to coffee. I'm excited, right? I think she's hitting on me—and I'm all for that because I haven't eaten a quality pussy since Diana broke up with me like six months ago or however long it was.

Bummer news, she wasn't hitting on me.

Awesome news—she thought I was perfect for a job her boss was putting together.

Anyway, so a week later after some interviews and blood tests, there I was, standing with my lone suitcase in front of this enormous manse.

(Mansion? Manse? Are those the same thing? Nobody ever told me and, like I said, there's no internet here. Which is just SUPER, by the way.)

I knocked on the door, and out came the most enormous set of tits I've ever seen.

I normally dislike using the word "tits." It's sort of automatically degrading. But—you know this, I'm sure—for some pairs, there's really nothing else that works as a descriptor. The mammaries on this beautiful, blond creature were not "breasts" or even "boobs." They were crowd-pleasing, man-melting titties, and there was really no way around saying that. They were enormous, round, shiny, bouncy, sporting the sort of hot tanned skin that contrasts so brilliantly with perfectly arranged blond hair—which she also had.

This...was Claudette.

"Hi! I'm Claudette!" she bubbled. Everything she said could be alternately described as "bubbled" or "gushed" or "giggled" or "purred." She was like sex incarnate.

Honest to god, I'm getting sort of turned on just remembering seeing her for the first time. I thought I had stepped on the set of a porno. She had on a tight red dress that did nothing to hide the fact that she was positively exploding with fertility—the big baby bump on her body was like an extra set of curves for men to admire outside of her already generous hips and tits. Her face was completely beautiful—your poster-girl for any given bikini-blond-babe calendar.

"I'm Abbey. I'm the new—"

"—the new maid! I know! We're

so

thrilled you're here. Won't you please come in?"

I followed her in, of course. Cue the images from earlier—huge, beautiful stuff and tall spaces. Lots of me making hopefully-subtle glances-of-disgust at the artwork.

"I'm the former maid," said Claudette. "I would love to still be doing the work, but, well..."

She pointed to her fabulously pregnant belly.

"Mister Castle says it's not proper for me to be doing Maid's work while I'm as pregnant as I am."

"That's very...considerate." I was trying to be diplomatic. "So, you've got maternal leave in your contract?"

"There's no contract, per se. He just likes taking care of me, since I take such care of him, and his estate. That's why I still have a room here."

"You can leave, but...you're staying?"

"Of course. I owe it to Mister Castle's Estate to stay here. He deserves it. He's just been too good to me for me to just up and leave!"

She laughed and grabbed my hand. My heart skipped a beat. Her touch was so soft, so inviting and friendly...like all of her. You got the feeling from looking at her that she

wanted

you to look...that she

wanted

you to touch her in all sorts of ways.

It's terrible to write such things, I know. I'm sure plenty of sexist pigs over the years have thought the same things about her. She's such a whore for putting those thoughts in my head.

She showed me around the house—a cursory examination of what it held. There were four different wings, each replete with enormous sitting rooms, game rooms, bed rooms, and more. If I didn't know better, it seemed like Castle wanted enough room to host an entire army in his estate.

I was introduced to the rest of the staff: Spoons, the ornery old cook. Elliot, the ornery old groundskeeper. And then Terrence, who was something like Mister Castle's steward. Claudette wouldn't really describe his role, other than to say that he was "absolutely super duper and I'm so super duper in love with him, gosh. He's so good at

everything

."

So, coming from a bimbo like Claudette, I'm sure you can intuit what I think Terrence is actually good at.

Thing is, he sort of

looks

like the kind of guy who's good at fucking. He's got these sexy tattoos running up his arms and neck, and he's lean and muscular, like a swimmer. Anyway, he didn't have much to say to me. He and Claudette made out in the garage for a few minutes while I pretended to be interested in one of Mister Castle's many cars.

Over the course of the tour, Claudette let me know that Mister Castle was away for the next couple of months. He owned—either in part or in whole—several businesses. These all had needs that needed his regular presence to ensure that they continued to operate in the fashion he desired. Every few years, apparently, because of the way his normal visits were spaced apart, these businesses would all need his attention all one right after another.

Still, even though he was not there, I could feel his presence in every action of every other person living there; I could feel his shadow dominating every room.

"Now," said Claudette, after we had made the circuit. "Do you have any questions?"

I didn't know how she was still standing. My feet were getting a little sore in my tennis shoes from all the walking. She was wearing high heels—and was thoroughly pregnant, besides! Aren't sore feet something that happened to pregnant women? Maybe she just practices healthy living? Her skin and hair are

so

shiny and vibrant and glowing, I mean. It's not out of the question that she's just some super-vegan or something.

"Nope," I shook my head. "Looks pretty straightforward to me."

"Now, just from one maid to another, there are some things you'll come across here that are...a little hard to accept."

"What do you mean?"

She shrugged. "You'll know them when you see them. Just know that none of that is out of the ordinary for this place. Rich people, you know...they have their tastes. They like things their way. Just go with the flow, and you should be fine."

"...all right."

That's creepy as hell, right? How was I not freaking out? I have no idea.

No, I know why. It's because she was pressing her tits up against my shoulder when she said it, and I was having trouble doing anything outside of feeling my pussy get progressively wetter.

Fuck, she turned me on

so

much, and it wouldn't be so bad except for the way that she

clearly

seemed to know and

enjoy

that she was doing it...

God. I really need to masturbate. I'll do it after I'm done with this. I'm wet as a hurricane just remembering her—and Claudette made a point of saying how she wasn't

nearly

as friendly as Lilah, Mister Castle's wife. Good lord, what's Lilah going to do—suck my toes the second she sees me?

"Anyway," said Claudette. "I do hope we'll get along."

"Sure," I said, barely hiding my sarcasm. "We'll be the best of friends."

Me and this girl, we had about as much in common as a tuba and a bag of rice. But, whatever—she seemed sincere enough. I made a mental note to tone down my hostility just a little bit. And goddamn, she was

so

hot.

"I just loving making new friends," she gushed. "I was never much good at it in school, you see, and, well, living out here in Mister Castle's Estate is delightful, but the choice of friends can be...limited."

Oh yeah, I thought. I'm sure you had

sooooo

much trouble getting friends in high school.

Sure, I'm a little bitter. I'm no looker myself. I seem to be, in fact, everything that Castle doesn't want in a woman—if I can judge by Claudette and the pictures of his wife everywhere (not to mention all that artwork). His wife and his maid—who he is almost certainly fucking—are both incredibly busty, with long gorgeous shiny hair and beautiful faces. I'm skinny as a rail, myself. I can hardly pack on the pounds if I try—which I do. I know there are girls out there who would apparently kill to have that problem, but let me just say that it's no picnic having the frame of a twelve year-old boy, all right?

Practically no guys have ever hit on me,

ever

, not even at a bar. The one guy who

did

hit on me? He was gay. He thought I was a guy. Thanks, bro! My self-esteem needed that.

So, switching to ladies was almost a no-brainer...it's just too bad I'm a bitch all the time. I'm literally

never

happy. I hate that about myself.

I hate lots of things about myself, actually.

This is getting depressing. I'm going to go masturbate to the thought of Claudette's tits and dream about what I can do with a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

NOW:

After my hour of bending—in which I am almost certainly fucked silly by

someone

in the Estate—I begin my circuit for cleaning. I wear my heels, still. You can hear them click-click-clicking in the spacious halls as I work.

If there is dust on the floor, I get down on my hands and knees and rub it out with a pair of panties. Any male who walks by know it is their privilege—even their duty—to fuck me as I work. Often, however, this doesn't happen. They all have jobs to do, after all. The only people without active jobs are Lilah and Claudette, and of course, their whole existence is a sort of job, now that they are so very pregnant.

To my understanding, Claudette has triplets on the way, and Lilah has twins. Both of them have still, remarkably, kept most of their pre-pregnancy figures, just adding enormous baby bumps out in front. If anything, the pregnancy has just made them sexier—their hips are so wide now, their tits so incredibly ample and full of heavy, delicious cream.

Oh, yes, sometimes I taste the cream. They taste my own, as well. Mister Castle enjoys watching us do that. But that is later in the day! I must report my schedule.

I make my rounds through the wings. Typically, there is enough of my effort for one wing a day. I step up tiny ladders in my precarious heels, letting any passers-by look right up my incredibly short skirts and have a nice vision of my sexy panties.

It is so very good to clean for Mister Castle.

THEN:

Cleaning this place on the regular is going to suck. I work all day, and hardly anything seems to get done.

Also:

Ick. Ick.

Ick, ick, ick!

You won't believe what just happened. You really won't.

I was hungry, okay? I get hungry. I don't care how skinny you think I am. Sometimes a girl has to eat something in the middle of the night. I'd just finished my first day of real work, and I'd worked up an appetite, all right? Dusting and wiping and sweeping and vacuuming and dusting again—it's tiring work. Anyone would get tired from it.

So, I went downstairs to the kitchen. Claudette was there too—on her way out. She wasn't wearing anything but a completely hot set of violet lingerie—stockings, garters, corset—the works. She had a glazed, misty-eyed look on her face. There was some sort of gel or cream on her lips—she wiped it off and licked it up eagerly as she passed me, barely noticing I was there.

"'Scuse," she said, wobbling along.

I was still rather impressed that she was able to maintain such a sexy, flirty gait in her preposterous heels so late at night. They sparkled as she slipped off into the darkness.

So—that was hot. And weird. Right? Her just walking around in sexy, violet lingerie. Apparently, it's something I should get used to, as well, because she didn't treat it like it was any big deal at all. Earlier today, she was walking around with Lilah—who I only have seen at a distance—in a neon pink minidress that was practically an apron.

Anyway. In the kitchen, also, was Terrence. His back was turned, and he was fixing something on his pants.

No

, I still hadn't figured it out by then what they were doing, okay? It took me a while. Besides, two hot people just engaging in nearly-public intercourse wasn't something I was used to, okay? I was hungry and I was tired, all right?

All right.

So, I didn't really have anything to say to him. I opened the fridge and pulled out a few slices of meat, eating them plain.

"You know, Spoons will make you something if you're hungry in the middle of the night," said Terrence.

"That's all right. This is good."

He smiled, eyeing me. I have to admit, he's a very handsome man. He's almost as handsome as Mister Castle (his picture is all over this place)—but Mister Castle looks like some sexified combination of the type of stud on the covers of both bodybuilding and fashion magazines. Ripped, huge, and well-dressed.

Terrence was more of the type you might see on the cover of some auto shop magazine, or something advertising motorcycles. Those long barbed tattoos, sliding down his arms and up to his neck...

They were definitely cool. The ink meshed well with the dark stubble-beard on his chin and neck.

"Well...if you're interested, I've got something that'll fill up your stomach if you're hungry in the middle of the night, too."