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, Clau
dette 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.”
“Oh yeah?” I asked, totally naive. “What—”
I finally looked at him—and the look on his face. It was predatory. It was hungry.
I wasn’t dressed in anything sexy. Certainly not like how Claudette dresses. Just sweat pants and an over-sized shirt. And I know, that in that particular outfit, I don’t look anything like a sex object. My dirty blonde hair is chopped short—I cut it myself, most of the time, because I just don’t care how it ends up looking. I know my face isn’t up to snuff when it comes to like, magazine models or TV personalities. I’m just plain. My nose is sort of bent, and my teeth are too, and I've got freckles everywhere.
I am, like I said, “gifted” with the form of some sexless adolescent, even though I’m a nineteen year old woman.
I mean like, sure. Make-up is no mystery to me. Dressing up isn’t either. I know how to make myself look good, or at least, as good as I’m going to look. But I’m not a looker, is what I’m saying.
And yet, Terrence was looking at me.
Yes, like that.
“How about it?” he asked. “You still hungry...or is that all the meat you were looking for?”
He pointed at the deli slices in my hands. I cleared my throat.
“Fuck off.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I don’t want anything from you.”
“Hey,” he laughed. “You don’t gotta be so hostile. I’m just laying out a friendly offer.”
“There’s nothing friendly about it. Go screw yourself, you’re so horny.”
“Fine.” He turned and then walked to the door. Then he stopped. “You know—there’s not a lot of people here. There’s ways to be polite about this sort of thing, you know?”
I wanted to scream at him—how polite was it to tell someone they could suck your dick? What a pig.
But he was gone.
I finished my meat and then I came back up here.
And now I’m horny as hell. I can’t even believe it. I was horny the whole time. I was horny from the second I saw Claudette walking out of the kitchen. I wanted to fall into her big, bouncing tits and lick her neck up and down...
Then, when Terrence hit on me? Oh, my god. He’s a stud, all right? Pure and simple. Of course I’d love to suck his cock. I’m completely bisexual. Men, women, I don’t really care. Everybody turns me on.
But I don’t let them know that. Then they would have power over me. If I’m turned on by someone and they’re not turned on by me, then I’m their slave—and I can’t live like that.
My pussy is still just blazing hot. I’m going to have to take care of it after writing this.
I’ll be imagining dropping to my knees the second that he propositioned me...demanding that he stuff my mouth full of his cock just immediately. I would love to be that kind of girl. To have that sort of easy, breezy confidence, knowing that no matter what, I would still be intact as a person. Knowing that the entirety of my self-worth wasn’t dependent on whether he still wanted me after the act.
So, of course I turned him down. I know he was just messing with me.
That’s what men do. That’s what everyone does. It’s no mystery to me. There are people who are allowed to be part of the pack of society, and people who aren’t. I definitely am not allowed. I never have been—not my whole life. I've never had a circle of friends wider than three or maybe sometimes four. But I can't hold on to them. Everyone lets me down.
I thought Diane understood. I thought we were both outcasts, together. And then I found her in bed with that fucking man...
I still think about everything she said to me afterward, did you know that? I found her, in our bed, fucking some guy, and she twisted it around somehow and ended up blaming me. How screwed is that?
It’s ringing through my ears, now. Maybe it’ll be good for me to write it down.
Okay, okay. Here we go:
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just...I don’t find you attractive anymore. I really think it’s always been boys for me. I’m going to try being...try normal for a while, you know?”
Surely you can imagine my response. Anxiety. Depression. Gallons of ice cream every day, loaded on top of pizza sandwiches stuffed with extra cheese. Booze, too. Any old aide you could think of.
She hadn’t just replaced me, you understand? She surpassed me. She trade
d out her horse-and-buggy for a fucking spaceship. I hated her. I hate her.
I miss her.
She was like those girls who wouldn’t let me join the art club in school. The art club! The place in my high school explicitly for all the people who didn’t fit in everywhere else! And of course, when I walked out, my head hanging down in shame, I heard their prissy laughter bouncing off the walls.
So, oh yeah, I know what you’re thinking. This poor girl is so convinced no one will like her that she won’t let anyone in.
Well...prove me wrong!
And trust me, it’s going to take more than some musclebound stud with sexy tattoos to make me think that somehow my entire worldview is mistaken. I just know that the second I gave in, the second I let him touch me or kiss me or even have me, eventually it would all backfire. It would all come crumbling down. I’d walk into the study one day and see him and Claudette laughing. Laughing so hard they were crying, in fact. And then as soon as they’d see me, they’d clam up, straighten up, and smile bright fake little smiles.
And what would they be talking about?
“Oh, nothing!”
Of course that’s what they’d say.
I just know it.
So they can keep their false-friendliness, their weird little games, and whatever else. I don’t want any part of it.
I’m here to work, and work for a lot of money. That’s it.
NOW:
In the middle of the afternoon, the other ladies and I make time for exercise. It’s very important to exercise. A maid like me wouldn’t be any good to the estate without being in tip-top shape.
The preferred form of exercise is yoga. It’s gentle, and that’s very important on delicate forms like Claudette and Lilah both have. Of course, if they weren’t pregnant, they could probably do whatever pilates body-weight cross-training super workout there was. But they had to take great caution for their passengers. I’m sure you understand.
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