Sweet Life 2

by Violet Blue

  I smiled.

  “Yes,” I said. “Quite a problem for you. Luckily, the weather’s still warm. I’m willing to let you forego the uniform.”

  Her eyes wide, Heather shifted nervously.

  “In fact,” I said, “the kitchen floor needs scrubbing, and I believe we’re out of rags. Since your uniform is clearly of no use any longer, perhaps you could use it to accomplish that task.”

  “Sir,” she said nervously. “I…I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “Why?” I asked her.

  “Because…then I’ll have nothing to wear,” she said.

  “You’ll have much to wear,” I said haughtily. “I recall buying you a large selection of undergarments just a few days ago. Now get to it—that kitchen floor is filthy.”

  “Y…yes, Sir.”

  When I checked in on her later, she was bent over on all fours, scrubbing the kitchen floor with the tattered shreds that remained of her black uniform dress. She had taken off her high-heeled shoes and they sat discarded in a corner of the kitchen floor. She looked quite fetching in the skimpy G-string and push-up bra, but when she lifted one leg slightly to get under the stove, I saw that her knees were red and raw.

  I made a quick trip to the garage and returned with a new addition to Heather’s uniform. I dropped them next to her.

  She looked at the knee pads, her eyes wide, her face confused. Her dark hair was sweaty and mussed, tangled about her pretty face.

  “Sir?” she asked.

  “Knee pads,” I told her. “This task will be more comfortable if you wear them. In fact,” I added, “many of your tasks will be more comfortable if you wear them. Let’s make them a regular part of your uniform.”

  “Th…thank you, Sir,” she said. “But I don’t think…I don’t think it’s necessary. I don’t have to kneel all that much.”

  “Yes,” I said. “A recurrent problem in your perception of your job. It probably explains why the floor is so filthy. That, and the fact that the vacuum is on the blink. The repairman comes a week from Thursday, and in the meantime I think the knee pads should help you keep the carpet clean. Oh, and incidentally, the mop’s vanished as well. I can’t imagine where it’s gone, but the laundry room needs scrubbing as well.”

  Heather’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Yes, Sir,” she said.

  “More importantly, I don’t know if you think this is a hippie commune, Heather, but I don’t expect my servants to go about barefoot, whatever task they’re accomplishing. Those shoes are a part of your uniform. I expect you to wear them, and the knee pads, from now on.”

  “Yes, Sir,” she said.

  “Here,” I told her. “Let me help you get them on.”

  With my guidance, Heather lifted first one leg, like a dog, then the other as I slipped the knee pads up her calves and tucked them into place. Then I assisted her in getting the high-heeled shoes on, and she bent over again, scrubbing the floor, now fully uniformed. I had to say, I found her even prettier with the knee pads on.

  It took me three more days to fuck her. By then, she was begging for it. All the kneeling and scrubbing, her pretty ass high in the air, seemed to be having the desired effect. Her behind looked more delicious every day, and I found myself anticipating each morning to see what color of G-string I would see on that smooth crotch of hers, what hue of push-up bra would mold her pretty tits as she cleaned the house. That was my entertainment each day, and I’ll admit I gave up TV entirely.

  I watched her most of the time, sitting casually and sipping a cool drink while Heather scrubbed or picked at the living room carpet, sheened with sweat, moist with anticipation.

  I know she was moist—more than moist, in fact—because I insisted on checking each load of her laundry to ensure she didn’t sneak in nonuniform underthings.

  Those tiny G-strings I bought her had some variety in color, but none at all in construction. Their unifying theme was that there was no cotton to protect her crotch. And the thin mesh didn’t prove to stand up so well to repeated day-long soakings.

  Within the week, she was begging for it.

  The floors were immaculate, but she continued to scrub. She would turn her butt toward me as she did, wriggling it fetchingly and spreading her legs as if in invitation. The G-strings she wore were so skimpy that I could see the shaved, swollen lips of her sex curving around them, inviting me to tug the string out of the way and fuck her. Still, I made her wait.

  Her trips into my bedroom to bring me my nightcap grew more pregnant with anticipation, especially since I had instructed her that she was not allowed to sleep in her “uniform.” No other garments remained in her wardrobe, so this meant she now slept nude. Since, when I summoned her from her bedroom to bring me a nightcap, I expected it quickly, she would arrive naked and flushed with exertion from the long trip up the stairs from the kitchen.

  I began to make her wait while I tasted the nightcap, to ensure that it had been properly mixed. She would stand, naked, beside my bed, waiting for my decree. Often I decided she had done an insufficient job of mixology, and I sent her back to the kitchen after a long couple of minutes while I sipped and decided. Then, and other times, I also felt unsure as to whether I wanted another drink. While she waited through my leisurely enjoyment of my first nightcap, to see if I wanted another, I started asking her to make that time productive by cleaning the bedroom floor.

  While it certainly was necessary—it’s amazing how many stray flecks of effluvia could show up on a bedroom floor in just the few hours since Heather performed her evening cleaning—it also had the added benefit of having the very naked Heather wear her knee pads to bed. As she cleaned and I sipped, I watched the nude girl crawling around my floor and addressed, in my mind, the question of when the proper moment was to fuck her.

  You think me a boor. You consider me the world’s greatest cad, to abuse my employee so. You would be right, but not for the reason you think. I’m a cad because a week was much, much too long. By the time I fucked her, the girl was ready to start humping the furniture.

  In fact, there were a number of challenging events in that last week before I took Heather. When, once, I awoke in the middle of the night and entered her bedroom to ensure both that she was following my orders by not sleeping in her uniform and that she was wearing her knee pads (in case I should need to call on her in the night), I heard a familiar rhythmic whimpering noise as I approached her room.

  When I opened the door, I discovered Heather performing a shocking act. Stark naked except for her knee pads, she had her knees a great distance apart, and as she firmly pinched one nipple of one perfect teacup breast, she fucked herself violently with the four-inch heel of her uniform shoe.

  Doubtless it was the only oblong item the poor girl could find for relief: I had scoured her room to ensure that no candles, perfume bottles, or toothpaste tubes could satisfy what I suspected was a quickly mounting need. Clearly, I had overlooked this one critical item.

  I could see every detail, as Heather had left the light on. I saw why she had left the light on—one of the magazines I’d provided for her was opened beside her on the bed, turned to a page of a girl dressed as a French maid kneeling and giving head to a rather improbably endowed man in a tuxedo.

  Her eyes, however, were shut tightly, as the photograph had surely served its purpose and been forgotten as her own physical pleasure took precedence. Her mouth, unlike her eyes, was open, and her lips moved softly as her soft moans of pleasure were punctuated with deafening Yeah, Daddys and Fuck me, Daddys and Make me scrub the floor, Daddys. Heather was so engrossed in her self-abuse that perhaps three long minutes passed before she noticed I was there—and by that time, I could tell by the rising timbre of her moans that she was very close to reaching completion.

  By that time, also, I was bent over her, my face quite close to hers as I snapped my fingers. It was perhaps the twelfth snap—and the loudest one—before she heard me over her moans, and I had thoughtf
ully saved the loudest snap for what I suspected was the very instant before Heather’s orgasm.

  “Shameful,” I said. “I won’t have it in my house.”

  She gasped and looked up at me, her eyes wide. In an instant her face went from lustful pink to humiliated crimson. Her mouth, already opened wide to accommodate her rhythmic panting, worked helplessly as she struggled to find appropriate words to explain her behavior.

  I reached down and unbelted my black silk robe, letting it fall open to reveal the length of my hard-on.

  “See what you’ve done?” I asked. “And you call yourself an employee!”

  “I’m…I’m sorry, Sir!” she exclaimed.

  I plucked the high-heeled shoe from her hand and tossed it unceremoniously into the wastebasket by her bed.

  “Clearly you can’t be trusted with shoes,” I said. “You give me no alternative.”

  “Sir?”

  “We can’t have you walking around barefoot,” I said. “So there will be no more walking, in the house or out of it. Luckily, you’ve got knee pads. I suggest you put them to use from now on.”

  “Sir?”

  “Starting now,” I said, gesturing toward my hard-on and glancing toward the magazine she’d left open.

  Heather’s face, already red with exertion and arousal, went deeper crimson in a moment as her eyes ran with obvious fright up and down the length of my turgid organ. I stepped back from the bed and sat in the room’s single chair, a simple wooden one near the bed.

  “Well?” I asked.

  Trembling, Heather crawled off the bed. Clearly the girl could take orders; rather than getting to her feet and then kneeling, she presented herself first on her knees, descending from the bed and putting her knee pads for the first time to the use for which they were intended. Her face found my crotch with expert familiarity.

  No sooner was her mouth on my cock than I heard her moan in long-squelched hunger. Her obvious need to suck cock bubbled over and displayed itself in the fervent way she gulped my entire length down her hungry throat. The girl, for all her coquettish charm, had clearly done this before. Whether she’d ever done it with knee pads on was another question, but one I didn’t care to address.

  I sighed in satisfaction, watching Heather’s pretty face as her eyes turned up to meet mine, her lips curved tightly around the base of my cock. She began to bob up and down desperately, her eyes wide and hungry for my come. I had merely planned to take her mouth, but Heather was so lovely I simply couldn’t resist. I snapped my fingers.

  “Admirable, but not good enough,” I said. “If a spike-heeled shoe is good enough for you, surely a hard cock would be more appropriate.”

  Just the barest hint of the girlish coquette returned for an instant, and then the hungry domestic whirled round, putting her ass high in the air and spreading her legs. When I snapped my fingers, she looked over my shoulders, realizing only after a second displeased gesture that I meant to inform her I had no intention of doing any of the work. She hunkered down on her elbows and lifted her ass higher, scooting back and wriggling her dripping cunt onto the head of my prick. So swollen were her sex lips that she had to reach back to spread them with her fingers before she could wrestle the prodigious knob of my organ into her tight channel. Pushing down onto it, Heather let out a great moan of exertion, then a long, low whimper of pleasure as her wet snatch slid with great difficulty down my shaft. When she’d pressed her pussy lips around the base of my cock, she began to moan the phrases that had been so compelling to her while she’d fucked herself with the shoe. Yeah, Daddy! Fuck me, Daddy! Make me scrub the fucking floor, Daddy! I’m your whore, Daddy!

  With that, she began pounding her ass back onto me, violently ramming my cock into her. While I certainly enjoyed watching her do all the work, I knew that requiring her to fuck herself onto my cock would ensure that her rhythm would bring the little slut off, proving to her once and for all that the place she was born to live was not in my servant’s quarters, but impaled on the long shaft of my cock.

  And it did, within moments, the desperate pumping of her hips driving her suddenly and, clearly, almost painfully into orgasm so that her whole body shuddered and the muscles of her sex gripped me rhythmically with a fervor no cunt I’ve had has ever offered. Her orgasm continued while I lifted my ass off the chair, hoisting myself on my haunches so that my powerful thrusts lifted Heather fully off the floor, rendering her knee pads unnecessary. I grabbed her hips and put one foot down, providing the necessary leverage to elicit a long, inhuman wail from the girl’s lips as I fucked her. Then, with a great moan, I pulled my cock out of her and spun her around, tumbling Heather onto her back as I stroked my cock over those lush, firm-nippled tits I’d spent two weeks admiring. Streams of come shot out onto her bosom, and Heather, moaning, rubbed the liquid into her orbs, cooing and sighing as she slicked up her tits with the glistening thickness of my sperm.

  With a shudder of my own, I collapsed onto her, locking my lips to hers and thrusting my tongue into her as we both panted, exhaustion seizing us.

  When our lips parted, Heather looked into my eyes and said in staccato syllables between great trembling gasps:

  “What…the…fuck took you so goddamn long, Honey?”

  “You loved it,” I said with a sneer.

  “Fuck you,” she said. “I’m going to make you pay for every goddamn minute of the last two weeks.”

  “Promises, promises.”

  “Yeah, you wish they were just promises,” she said.

  You think me a cad, perhaps, a boorish low-mannered simpleton who abuses his subordinates and ravishes younger women. You’d be right, but not because I fucked Heather silly, nor because I stripped her of her dignity, humiliated her ritually, and exploited her desperate need for approval.

  Rather, I’m a cad because it pleased me so much to make my horny little slut of a wife wait. She did love it, I swear, but she’ll still make good on her promise.

  You see, Heather’s decided she needs a butler.

  And with her wide hips, she happens to be just my size.

  Mile High

  SIMON TORRIO

  For as long as she could remember, Vanessa had wanted to do it. Ever since the first time she’d heard about it, when she was young, when someone had made some funny comment about the “Mile High Club” and that someone else was a member, implying that anyone who was—a girl, at least—was a terrible slut. Maybe that’s what she liked about it—the idea of being a real slut, having sex in the most cramped, risky, dangerous place possible, risking arrest, public humiliation…just thinking about it caused a shiver to start between her legs and go all the way up her spine to the back of her head. She’d wanted to do it ever since.

  But just going on a trip with a lover and fucking him in the restroom wouldn’t be as naughty as fucking a stranger you met on the plane, would it? That was Vanessa’s fantasy, and Daniel was more than willing to indulge her.

  Which is why, when she saw Daniel clamber out of his seat and head back toward the restroom, Vanessa casually got up herself. Making a show of stretching, Vanessa glanced around to make sure no one was watching—at least, no one who would realize that someone else had just gone back toward the restroom. Then she hurried back there.

  She reached the restroom just as Daniel went to close the door. She put her hand on the door and glanced over her shoulder as if to indicate that no one was watching. Daniel stood there for a minute, the restroom door open, staring at Vanessa in mock disbelief. He looked at her pretty face, noting the few strands of long hair that fell in disarray from the neat bun at the back of her head. Then his eyes roved down over her full cleavage, the low-cut blouse, the neat, businesslike, straight skirt just a little shorter than it should have been. He had seen her a million times nude, had fucked her in every position possible. But now, she was a stranger to him—a mystery, her body fresh and new as if he’d never seen it, never touched it, never been offered it shamelessly.

  Today,
Vanessa and Daniel were strangers. Clearly she was traveling on business, like he was—who else travels in a suit and tie, especially on a late-evening flight? And clearly, she liked to show a little leg when she was otherwise conservatively dressed. Daniel smiled his approval and stepped back to allow Vanessa to slip in; she glanced over her shoulder one last time to make sure no one was watching, and then she entered, latching the door behind her.

  The restroom was exactly as cramped as it always was in her fantasies; their bodies were pressed together much closer than they would have been if they’d been hooking up in other circumstances. This sudden rush of forced intimacy excited Vanessa, and she pressed her lips to Daniel’s, forcing his mouth open with her tongue as he reached down and began to pull up her skirt. God, was she actually going to fuck him in here? Vanessa was a small woman, but she could hardly imagine making room for intercourse here in these cramped environs. Then again, the mere thought send a shiver through her body. Daniel gathered her skirt over her ass, discovering that she wasn’t wearing anything but a garter belt and stockings underneath.

  “I never travel with panties,” she whispered warmly into his ear. “I have to wear stockings to business meetings, but nobody says I have to wear underwear.”

  His finger tucked its way between the cheeks of her ass, reaching for her pussy; he discovered how wet she was and seemed to finally accept that she wanted to fuck him—here, now, in the airplane’s restroom. Vanessa pulled off his red-and-blue striped silk tie and began to unbutton his shirt as he lifted his fingers to her mouth; eagerly, she licked herself from his fingertips and put her hands in his open shirt to feel his bare chest, reveling in the soft, dark fur there. He unbuttoned her low-cut blouse and found an even lower-cut bra, front clasp. He made short work of it and Vanessa felt his thumbs against her nipples, gently rubbing them into full erection as she gasped.