Maid Bare Ch 03 Maid To Obey

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

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Maid Bare - Maid To Obey

I woke in the morning with the maid, Mariana, on her knees at the side of my bed. She had already brought in breakfast—a fruit salad arranged on her incredibly buoyant tits. Grapes, orange slices, kiwi. She was feeling mischievous, then.

Most days, she arrived with breakfast on a tray. But when she was especially horny—horniness for Mariana existed on a spectrum with the high-end being "already orgasming" and the low-end being "needing cock terribly"—she would arrive in this manner, presenting herself.

I took some time as I sat up, yawning elaborately. Drawing it out for her. I could see the lust building on her gorgeous young face. She was just past twenty years old, and had never been with another man besides me in her entire life. Her hands tugged at the tiny hem of her maid's outfit, wanting to slide into her soft, wet pussy at the sight of me. Her anticipation was palpable.

On the bed, I stretched from one side and then the other, smiling at her growing arousal. Her breathing turned in a series of mews.

"Oh, do stop teasing the poor girl," said Jacqueline, my wife. Her lovely, brunette form turned over slowly, slipping up on one white-gloved elbow. She still wore the same lingerie I fucked her in the night before. My cum stains could be seen around the edges of her corset where I had sprayed all over her delectable breasts.

"She works so hard for you, and you're just

dangling

it there in front of her..."

Jacqueline was trying to make sense, but her voice had started to slur. The combination of the early morning hour and the instant arousal from seeing our maid on her knees, needing my cock, had her feeling a bit lust-drunk. I could see the glazed, happy look in her eyes that came from imagining Mariana sucking me off. A bit of drool had formed at the edge of her plush, sexy lips. The same little trail of drool was much more evolved on Mariana's face, sliding down her chin and elegantly trailing down her perfect chin and neck and into her expansive cleavage, underneath the arrangement of fruit.

"Come then," I said, calling our maid forward. "Start the day like a good girl."

Moaning with need, Mariana slipped forward, sliding her wet, red lips over my massively thick shaft. My wife slipped up around my broad, muscular shoulders, cooing in my ear.

"When she's done, might I get a turn?" she asked. "You've left me so very

hungry

, Husband...you didn't even

bother

to fuck my mouth after filling me up last night..."

Jacqueline's baby bump pressed hard into my back. As Mariana bobbed her head obediently up and down my shaft, I could feel her own baby bump—at the same stage of development as Jacqueline's—sliding over my shins. Mariana's mouth was wet and perfectly warm around the thick rod of my cock. I rolled my head back, wondering how long I'd go before erupting in my maid's mouth for the thousandth time.

This was paradise.

But it wasn't always this way. No. Once, it was very dark indeed.

* * * * *

This all began some months ago, when I sat down for a quick lunch with Stanford Castle at a steak restaurant he owned one Friday afternoon. Castle owned a great many things, places, and people; it seemed to be a hobby of his. If it was, it was a hobby that had started well after I had met him.

He and I were old school buddies. He was a billionaire, as far as I knew, though the exact extent of his fortune wasn't known to me. The last time I had seen him before this was seven or eight years before, when he was still penniless and trying to strike it rich. I had offered to let him come and work for me on several occasions, but he insisted that he would be in charge of his own destiny. There was no reasoning with such fervor, as I am sure you well know.

Straight out of the blue, he invited me to lunch at his steakhouse one afternoon. I, of course, agreed, desperate for any excuse whatsoever to get away from the pile of ever-accumulating dread that my house had become.

The restaurant was small and exclusive. It apparently had a focus on catering to high-profile businessmen who enjoyed being in the company of beautiful young women as they ate: everyone from the hostess to the waitress to the bussers I saw hopping around were delectably gorgeous beauties of all shapes, sizes, and colors. The only men were either the customers or the bouncers posted at all the entrances and exits.

Stanford himself had changed quite a bit. When I last saw him, he alternated in large ways between being overweight and far too skinny, perpetuating his existence on mood swings that could last for weeks or even months. He would binge on manic ideas that he was convinced would be his fortune, and in these binges, he would either purge his body of all food and sustenance or eat everything he could. When the ideas failed to materialize, he would again purge or binge.

Now, he was calm, collected, and handsome. And large. He had apparently joined some kind of bodybuilding club, as the expensive suit he wore tugged tightly to his impressive, muscular frame. I myself was a smaller man at the time, no more than six foot tall. I had short brown hair, and I considered myself reasonably handsome—I had, after all, married a woman with the sort of beauty of my wife, Jacqueline.

Stanford and I exchanged a brief number of pleasantries—some few minutes of "oh, it's been so long." A few laugh-inducing sections of, "Say, don't you remember the time." All of that. We caught up with one another, and I learned what had been happening in his life.

Since the time I had seen him, he had gained a fortune, married a drop-dead gorgeous woman, and acquired more property and companies than I think I could have ever imagined. What's more, he had a couple of kids on the way—several, to hear him tell it. Five beautiful daughters, he bragged, from two women, and another few babies that he hadn't learned the sex of yet from a third girl.

His wife, he intimated with a smile, did not mind in the least that he spread his seed around.

Probably, it is also rather telling of Stanford's personality and new-found confidence that he did not mind in the least telling me all of this information with an easy, contented smile on his face—and in the presence of our buxom redheaded waitress, besides! She seemed rather excited by the revelation that his wife didn't mind if he slept around.

I didn't hold him in judgment for all of this, however. Perhaps once upon a time, I would have, but as of late, I didn't have the energy for something as taxing as condemnation. All I could muster was a vague sense of surprise that so many women would be willing to get pregnant for Stanford. It was a lot of responsibility for him and for them, after all.

My wife certainly never agreed to children. I tried not to hold it against her, most of the time, and failed.

Finally, though, after finishing our thoroughly delicious steaks and having a few drinks, the conversation swung back around to me.

"How's your wife?" he asked. "I was given to understand that she was sick."

That was, I had assumed already, the reason he had asked to see me. He was, despite his peculiarities, a good friend and a caring man.

"Oh, god." I put my head in my hands for a moment. "Ask another question, won't you?"

"I'm sorry. It's that bad?"

"Terrible. She gets worse every day. I can't tell, day by day, you know. That would be really bad. But week by week? Oh yes. So I know that it is every day."

"Yes." His concern was genuine.

"It's just...she's positively decaying. It's hard to stay positive."

"Can I help at all?"

"No, no. It's fine."

"Do you have enough money for medication? For all the medical bills? Doctor's visits, all of it?"

"Oh yes. That's taken care of. I made sure of that. The business is doing well enough, and my insurance is the very best."

"I would be happy to help. I have plenty to give."

"I know, Stanford. But really, it's all well-in-hand."

"A good wife is one of the sublime pleasures of the world." Stanford shook his head. "I hate to see you robbed of one like this. And so slowly."

It struck me a bit how he referred to the nature of having a wife—as a possession. Something to be owned and, alternatively, robbed of. But I knew he was trying his best to be sympathetic.

"It's all right. This new medication the doctors have her on, they say it will take time. That it will weaken her at first, but over time..."

"How long has she been on it?"

"Sixty-seven days."

I knew the number exactly, of course. I knew the number of days of the medication before that as well, and the one before that, and the one before that...

So much of any sort of medicine was a waiting game. "Try this, and see if it works," the doctors would say. They all say it. It was an awful game, yes, but it was the only one in town.

"And no improvement yet?" Castle raised an eyebrow. "I'm shocked."

"Yes."

My own ability to be shocked had slipped away long ago. There was too much to keep up with to be shocked.

He considered something for a moment, grasping his thick jaw with one large hand. I was quite certain that he could have split the table in two if he wanted; not that I was afraid he would do it, of course, but it was just that the size of him brought to mind only continual thoughts of violent action.

"Recently, I've invested in a facility that trains housekeepers. Maids. They're all quite top of the line, I assure you."

"Maids?" Slowly, it dawned at me. "Oh, look, Stanford, that's very nice, but I'm not interested in buying, I mean...hiring a maid. Most of my expenses go toward medical bills already."

"I'll take care of all of that. The medical bills, too, as a matter of fact."

"No, Stanford, really. Please, that's generous, but..."

"Hear me out."

He leaned forward put a hand on my shoulder. For me to take the same action, I would have had to bend halfway over the table. For him, it was like grabbing something on a kitchen shelf. My word, but he had gained

quite

a bit of muscle, and he had always cut an imposing figure.

"It's a pilot program right now. You would be helping me out, actually. I need someone I know, someone I can trust, to judge it for me. I need someone I know will tell me the truth. If you want another, after the first one, well..." he smiled. "Then I'll start to make you pay our fee. But this first one? Again, you'd be helping me out by saying yes."

The waitress came by and took up our plates. She lingered over Stanford, clearly ogling him. I watched her lick her lips as she examined his straining biceps.

"Is there...anything else I can do, Sir?" she asked. "Anything at all? Please?"

He hardly seemed to notice her. Not up to his standard. I had seen his gorgeous wife. This poor dear was only fairly cute. But, to my surprise, after a moment he pulled out a card and pushed it down the front of her dress, taking some time to feel her up. His hand mashed against her tits. The girl didn't seem to mind in the least. With as much testosterone as Stanford oozed, it was a bit of a wonder that he hadn't brought one of his girls to suck him off during the meal.

Once again, I didn't have the presence of mind or the energy to protest this behavior. When you live all your time with a sick spouse, you tend to let a lot slide.

"Call this number if you're interested in more...hands-on work with men like me."

She practically squealed with excitement, drifting away happily.

Stanford shrugged, casting an admiring eye on her wiggling behind. "As I said, new facility. We're always looking for new recruits. I want to give you the top of the class; the best we have. This girl we've got, she hasn't been used anywhere. What do you say?"

"Again, it's so generous, but I..."

He leaned forward even more intently. Not to belabor a point, but once again, with his frame, this was an imposing gesture indeed. "My friend, sometimes, when we are in our very worst ruts, we refuse to allow improvement because it is not what we know. We stop listening to our friends because what they say is not the cycle of despair that we have installed in our heads. I am asking that you let me help you. Oblige me."

I could not turn him down and still remain close to him, and I valued his friendship too much to hurt him, even with as odd and ornery as he could be. I

missed

talking with Stanford, and I was loathe to give that up just because I was turning down a favor he offered.

"All right," I said. "All right. Let's get me a maid, I guess."

"Wonderful." His smile was broad and strong, just like all of him. "I'll have her shipped over immediately."

Again, there was that usage of language that should have tipped me off. Saying, "shipped," instead of "arrange her travel" or "tell her where to go."

Even though I was agreeing with Stanford, I honestly expected to let this maid go within a couple of days. I knew, without a doubt, that a new maid wasn't what I needed.

* * * * *

Monday morning, I woke up to the front doorbell ringing. It surprised me, and I rushed to the entry to see what it could be. I had to stop that ringing before Jacqueline woke. Usually, she was asleep until well past noon. The medicine hit her hard in the mornings. If she woke now, she'd be coughing all day until the evening, and she'd be even worse tomorrow.

Over the weekend, I had practically forgotten about Stanford's offer. His statement about my thoughts getting caught in a rut were true; apparently even your memory starts remembering just the same things from the day before when your routine for every day is the same.

Here is my schedule:

I wake up and then I make breakfast for myself and the day's meal for my wife. She can't take in much. After that, I look after her and do whatever she needs. I bathe her, I clothe her, I administer her medicine, I change her bedding, and I oversee her evacuations. It's like looking after a newborn. I wasn't lying when I told Stanford that it was about as bad as it could get. There is no hope when I look at her, day after day, just the routine.

In between all of those duties, I do my best to ignore her constant hacking and coughing, and the fevered mess her brain has become, full of guilt and paranoia and accusations and insults. She is unpleasant to be around.

My wife, once upon a time, was a sweet, lovely woman. Intelligent and gentile. She could make an entire room light up with her presence. You'd feel honored just to be in front of her. No longer was that the case.

Luckily, I had enough money coming in to take care of her as well as anybody could. Many people were not so lucky. I tried to remind myself of that.

I own a chain of hardware stores in the greater metropolitan area, but as the owner, I can leave most of the decisions up to my hand-picked store managers, three of whom were cousins of mine. I trusted them explicitly, and they trusted their staff. I paid my workers good wages and offered the opportunity for bonuses at the end of the year; they were covered with health care and other benefits. As such, theft was almost unheard of and loyalty was solid.

Sometimes, I had dreams of giving away the hardware stores to my sons. But I had no sons. Jacqueline and I had big plans of being parents, but she would always put me off. Always telling me next year, next year.

It was because of my years of good treatment of my staff, and their subsequent good attitudes, that I felt comfortable taking care of my sick wife for as long as I did. Some days, I would still go out to the store nearest to me and look around or help out. I could tell that, as I hadn't announced my visit and didn't have any real purpose in being present, that my employees were forced to tolerate my presence a little more than they would have if there was some manner of agenda to my being there.

Sometimes, when Jacqueline was quite bad but also resting quite thoroughly, I would drive out to the store farthest away from our house. I wouldn't even go inside. I would just sit in the parking lot, hoping for anything at all to change. I just wanted to get away from it all for a time.

Little did I know, that "getting away from it all" could have an entirely new meaning—one that was embodied in the person waiting at the front door of my house that Monday morning.

My house was modest. My wife and I did not need much. It had two stories and a brief backyard. Downstairs was the kitchen, dining room, guest bedroom and my study. Upstairs was the Master bedroom and a game room, as well as another bedroom that had been made into a library of sorts. My wife and I both enjoyed reading.

I answered the door in my robe and bare feet. My chest hair peeked out meekly.

"Yes?"

On the porch, waiting with a small suitcase in her hands, was the most stunning woman I had ever seen. She was like a pin-up girl picture. She wore high heels that were tall and black, melding effortlessly into the long nylon-clad features of her irresistibly beautiful legs. A brief black dress covered her sensational curves (such a tiny waist! I could fit my hands around it and touch my thumbs and pinkies together) and pushed her outstanding rack up and out, on display. Her breasts clearly had no bra, but were positively jiggling and bouncing with their own lack of gravity, and were easily beyond a 36D cup. The tops of her breasts looked polished and shiny. She held her suitcase with both hands, pushing her tits in together with her arms. Long locks of shiny dark hair fell on her cleavage, clearly softer than any other surface on the earth.

And her face! She almost gave me a heart attack just from looking into her deep, dazzling green eyes. There was so much beauty in those that I could hardly take in the lovely curvature of her plump, full lips, or the sexy angle of her cheekbones and chin.

There had never been so beautiful a creature before me in all my life. A breeze drifted by and some hot, amazing scent wafted into my nose, filling my head with any number of impure thoughts. I felt my cock in my robe instantly begin to harden.

There was something about her—even beyond the healthy shine of her skin and hair, and the overflowing nature of her bust, and the wide expanse of her hips contrasted with the tininess of her waist—that was decidedly fertile. I saw her, and I knew that I was looking at a woman who was everything a female could aspire to be.

"Mr. Oakland?" she asked. "Is this the correct house for Mr. Oakland?"

Her voice was accented. Of course it was. I couldn't trace it, though it seemed like some manner of Spanish, or maybe Portuguese. The expression on her face was somewhat blank, awaiting an answer.

"Y-yes," I stumbled. "This is he. I am he. I mean, that's me. Jonathan Oakland. Yes."

The blank expression on her face cycled quickly through a number of expressions, like perhaps some manner of program—first registering understanding, then smiling faintly, then eyeing me up and down with a rapturously predatory gaze, biting one plump lip, and then tilting her head to one side girlishly, smiling more brightly now.

"I am Mariana," she said softly. Her voice had gotten even sexier. I didn't think that was possible. "Your new maid? May I please come in?"

"Oh..." It took me several moments to register just what exactly she was saying. Watching her speak was like witnessing the Sistine Chapel come to life. "Oh god yes, please. Please, do come in. Do you have any more bags?"

"There," she pointed behind her, to a rather massive trunk with thick gold trim.