A Fine Profession (The Chambermaid's Tales Part One)

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  The first time was, okay. In a drunken haze, we both just needed to get some. Alex was on top, me on the kitchen lino, and it just didn't seem to really have any rhythm. It was very mechanical. We didn't really know whether to enjoy it or not, but it was not as horrific as I may have sometimes imagined. We had a cup of tea afterwards and sobered up.

  Alex was a good kisser and looked after his body very well. I was so lucky to have him as my first. On our second attempt, he took me to bed. He sat me on the edge of the mattress, naked, and held his arms around me, finding solace against my womanly figure.

  “Women would kill for these boobs.”

  I giggled, so shy of his admiration, and tried to hide them with my arms. He prised my limbs away and held their silken majesty in his hands, rubbing his thumbs over the nipples gently. With each stroke, I became more aroused. No man had ever touched them before. His mouth met the bright-pink, velvety flesh and he moaned, I cried out, and threw my head back. So gently, he tugged and pulled on my nipples, with such worshipfulness. It was so erotic having a man enjoy what was daily hidden and unused.

  “Lay back,” he told me, huskily.

  I felt the cool cotton of Alex's duvet beneath me and pushed my head into the mattress. I stretched my arms out above myself, closing my eyes. The burn between my legs ached.

  “Relax, let yourself be taken.”

  I was reluctant but he broke open my thighs, placed my feet on the edge of the bed, and stared at what stayed hidden between my legs daily too. His hands reached up, stroked my breasts, and he told me, “You're magnificent.”

  I lay back, eyes closed. I didn't know how to react. The tip of his tongue trailed up and down my vulva, teasing out what was hidden. I moaned and no longer felt naked. I was, connected. It was the most erotic moment of my life. Patches of my body tingled with heat and I let go of any anxieties I'd previously had.

  “Oh yes,” I whined. He broke off and threw my legs over his immaculate shoulders, surely my most favourite part of him. He kissed the satiny flesh on the insides of my thighs, enjoying that which had never been touched. I begged, “Please kiss me down there again, Alex.”

  “I will, in a minute. I'm enjoying these rare fillets at the moment,” he goaded, biting my inner thighs centimetre by centimetre. The sight of his arm muscles made me turn to jelly.

  “No, please, I need you to…”

  He moved up the bed, his cock engorged again, and I yelped. I thought he was going to penetrate me. I was so disappointed when he didn't. Instead, he ministered to my breasts, licking and chewing, sucking and teasing. I shouted and screamed, calling him all the names under the sun. He loved it. He kissed my mouth with violence, pressing his avaricious tongue inside. He moved back down the bed. His arms around my thighs again, he yanked me toward him, so that my bottom almost hung off the end of the bed. He held me there, suspended, bringing my groin right up toward his mouth.

  The tip of his tongue, again, trailed around my outer folds. My pelvic area was hot and something that felt like a pulse was already driving me wild. He was drawing what fluids had already been secreting into his mouth and tasting them, enjoying them.

  “Charlotte, you're sexy as hell.”

  “Stop teasing me!”

  “Stop ruining it, you'll see…”

  His tongue dove a little deeper, tickling my rouge nub, for what might have only been a matter of seconds. I threw my head back, furious, desperate, declaring, “I need your tongue in my pussy, Alex!”

  With that command, he groaned and shouted, “She's arrived! My little vixen.”

  He buried his tongue between my slit with force and started fucking me with his greedy, devouring mouth, pulling my lips open with his fingers. The act of it was miraculous. I gripped the bed, feeling as though I might float upwards otherwise.

  “Yes, Alex, oh, that's amazing, oh, yes, please, don't stop, oh god…”

  I reached down and pressed his head into my wet pussy. His eyes looked up from his employment, gazing into mine. His head jostled to and fro with his frantic tonguing. I fucked him back, raising my hips to increase the friction. For some minutes, I was constantly on the edge of something. I was desperate to throw myself away from him and end it all. I just did not know if this was pleasure. All the time, I felt conflicted, hampered, stunted. He raised my flesh into his mouth, sucked, and I shouted so loudly, “Fuck me!”

  He willingly agreed. He put two fingers inside me and pressed my upper wall with strong strokes and caresses. It was miraculous. He licked my clitoris hard and fast, with precise rhythm. I bucked my hips toward him.

  “Don't stop!”

  He kept on with the routine and I experienced waves of red-hot heat rushing through my groin, rendering me senseless. I wanted to piss and whimpered with the strength it took to restrain myself. Somewhere in the distance I heard, “Do it Charlotte!”

  I let myself push and my squirt splashed all over his neck. I cried with joy. I was worn out afterward, and he told me, “Am I right in thinking that means I can stop?”

  “Yes,” I giggled. In my elation, I pulled him up so I could wrap my arms around him. He rested on my chest. I dragged my body further up the bed, and he went with me. He was covered in me.

  “Now we are bonded,” I joked, laughing.

  “Do women normally hold out that long?” he asked, drying himself on his pillow.

  “Give me a minute,” I gasped, trying to catch my breath. I sniggered, embarrassed, while he sucked my earlobe. I shook with aftershocks and shivered.

  “Little sexpot, Charley,” he said, tucking hair behind my ear.

  His hands wandered over my body and his touch thrilled me. In the transient aftermath of my first real orgasm, he kept the delight alive. His mouth fondled a nipple a little and I squirmed, murmuring my delight.

  “Just a second, I'm still getting over the last,” I pleaded, and threw my arm over my eyes, gasping with disbelief. He prised my arm away and lay on top of me, kissing me again. I wrapped my arms around his neck and held him close, while he parted my lips with his and teased his tongue inside. The taste of myself was not unpleasant when mixed with his own delicious saliva.

  “Alex,” I murmured.

  “Yes,” he breathed, kissing my throat.

  “You can't be gay.”

  “I am. Sorry. But, I do love you.”

  “Umm, you were really good. I've never been able to work myself up like that before. I gave up trying ages ago.”

  “My aunt had chemo,” he whispered, “I overheard her telling my mum how her libido never returned until she invested in some… technology. Nerve damage, you see. But, I found those few endings of yours that are still working.”

  I shot him a disgusted look but he was unfazed. He kissed my stomach, revelling in me, explaining, “This may be my one chance with a woman. May as well enjoy it.”

  “Okay,” I said, and he used his strength to toss my legs apart. He pressed his hand between them and I was taken again, heat welling through my belly, but not quite as strongly as before.

  He broke a moment of calm by throwing me over unexpectedly, dragging me on my knees. He pulled himself up close behind me, and lifted my torso, so that we were facing the mirror with his body just behind mine. He slipped on another condom and pushed inside me. I breathed deeply, for he was large and I was sensitive. He rocked against me slowly and pulled on my hips to bring me toward him, wrapping his muscular arms around me. His body was perfectly sculpted from lengthy gym sessions and I felt fleshy in comparison.

  “Look in the mirror Charlotte, you're beautiful. Your breasts are a thing of majesty. Of artistry and wonder. Look at them.”

  I watched in the mirror, hazily, as he moved inside me. His hands wandered over my breasts, bouncing and holding them, telling me I gave new meaning to the term Rubenesque.

  “Put your arms up, behind yourself, behind my neck.”

  I did and when I had, I saw what he was getting at. My arms raised, my breasts moved too, and the
tips lifted so that I appeared smaller of shape and size, but still quite big. Those large, uncomfortable things that had sprouted and encouraged mental agony in my late teens now looked very different. He tweaked my nipples so I could see in the mirror, and my armpits looked feminine and dainty against the hefty glands. I turned my head and he kissed me deeply, longingly. He pulled my neck so I rested back against his shoulder and he trapped me there so I couldn't observe anymore.

  “I'm watching myself fucking you Charlotte. You're the most beautiful woman I know. I love you. I'm watching myself fill your little pussy with my rampant cock and balls. I love you. I love your body. I want to fill you…”

  “Alex, fuck me.”

  He was playing his part so well. He made me go down in the doggy position, so that we were sideways on with the mirror and we could both watch. His large penis entered and filled me, extracted and bulged, each time both of us groaning and sighing for its return. I did not know where I was. I screamed and begged, shouted for him to fuck me harder, faster, sharper, longer, deeper. I wasn't sure if I came. The sensations were too many to distinguish between. We fell down, sweaty and subdued, spent and energy-less. I was satisfied nonetheless.

  “I love you, Alex.”

  “Baby doll,” he murmured, cradling me. We fell asleep, naked and entangled.

  We woke in the night and his fingertips scaled my body in the moonlit room. I didn't open my eyes. All I felt was a mouth at my throat and then the touch of his fingers inside my still sodden womanhood. He encouraged me to ride him hard and fast while he pummelled my clitoris. I realised I had muscles down there I never knew could do what they did that night. I had an epiphany. I realised sex could be really good without romantic notions, without even an agenda, and I understood the pleasures of the flesh finally. I wanted more of it, too. Alex told me he could maybe turn for a woman like me, but we enjoyed that one night and left it there. He was a gentleman, really, he was, insisting on holding me all night, cooking me breakfast in the morning. It really wasn't awkward. We had both given each other the confirmation we really needed. Our friendship could survive anything, our problems could be solved; I could overcome my insecurities and he might finally tell his family he was gay.

  Chapter V

  A Harsh Truth

  Alex's spare room was where I stayed after that, whenever it was my night off. We even spent a lot more time together, despite the mind-blowing sex we had shared that was unquestionably consigned to the archives. I had a couple of dalliances in some pub toilets (not the same pub and not the same night). I was not quite brave enough to get to know anyone. The liaisons were quite unsatisfactory but not pointless. I don't know… I guess I was trying to re-enact something I'd shared with my best friend. Something that felt at once so natural and yet so erotic was never going to happen again that easily, though.

  There were several very drunken nights when Alex and I both found ourselves partner-less and I would try to initiate something. Well, he really was gorgeous, well-endowed and someone I trusted totally and utterly. He was so gentlemanly and always tried to let me down gently. Things soon got heated, however, so I got a flat of my own. It was above a chip shop in a bad area of the city centre but I made it my own and it was my own space. I could have stayed in the hotel full-time but it was becoming difficult to put up with the raucous party nights. I also sometimes felt as though I might be being watched at any one time. Have you ever felt like that? Like there might be cameras behind the mirrors?

  So, Alex and I remained the best of friends, with him always baiting me about why I didn't just find some young buck to marry and produce sprogs with. I think we both knew the answers but neither of us pushed the subject. He used to question me about all kinds of things and I would never listen, never take him seriously or consider that I had a problem somewhere along the line. He would ask why I loathed to visit the doctor or the dentist, why I didn't try to find a regular hair salon to go to, why I preferred to make online purchases rather than go to the shops in person. He asked why I chose outfits that mostly covered me up, why I never splurged on payday like everyone else, or why I could never take a compliment from a customer or anyone else for that matter.

  Instead of finding my own way in Nottingham, I latched onto Alex's life. He was a bit of a loner, like me, but he was at one with it. I joined him for Sunday strolls around Holme Pierrepont, eating pretzels from a stand situated halfway around the circuit before doing a full turn to purchase another. We egged each other on to wear the most horrific tracksuits and cagoules. Sometimes we even swapped so that he was wearing my pink one and I his zebra-print version. Come rain or shine, it became one of our things. It was beautiful in spring or summer, with the rowing lake looking blue and inviting. It was a calm place where people just sat or rowed, caught a bit of peace and quiet or exercised their dogs. We just used to talk nonsense on the way round, telling each other anything and everything that might come into our minds.

  Whenever he booked tickets for a show, he'd say, “By the way, you're coming,” and I would attend, naturally, though I'd have worked my way through at least a dozen possible outfits prior to the event. It was never easy attending civilised affairs. The thought of strangers asking me, “So, what did you think of the opening sequence?” scared me half to death. There were comedy gigs, stadium concerts, cricket at Trent Bridge or football at The City Ground (Alex's connections always got us free tickets to sporting events) and all manner of shows I was forced to sit alongside him at.

  I always said, “Well, I'll give it a bash,” but more often than not I was forced to concede my enjoyment.

  We had a favourite pizza place on the rougher side of West Bridgford, where we used to travel to on bad days, if one of us was feeling down in the dumps. Huge chunks of greasy cheese, coupled with chips and cola would do the trick, though I'd probably end up laid in bed the rest of the night. I wasn't built for mass consumption. There were curries in front of the fire, or horror marathons in front of the TV. Sometimes we didn't even need to talk.

  I quite vividly remember us going to see the Russian State Opera's production of Eugene Onegin. I had decided most adamantly that I would hate it. I really had. But as ever, he'd got the tickets and I was bound by his generosity to go. He said it was black tie and gowns so I'd been forced to drag some black velvet relic out of my wardrobe. He looked outstanding in a tux and I was fit to burst with desire. I was a little bit in love with him. Actually, since our night of passion I had very nearly touched myself over him on several occasions. Hiding my desire for his mouth against mine was almost impossible. My eyes always veered toward his abnormally plump pink lips. I loved him and the not having him drove me insane. In the Nottingham Theatre Royal, behind the Corinthian columns that had welcomed us in, we sat up on a balcony and I watched with awe from a viewpoint that allowed me full vision of the stage, the audience and the extravagance of such a place. The theatre's carvings were exquisite. When the curtain closed, I sat with tears streaming from my eyes, quite certain nothing as miraculous had ever occurred before. Unrequited love. Could anything else be so painful or more entrancing as a plot device?

  I remember looking at Alex that night, as he walked me home, feeling that he was the love of my life. We got to my door and he revealed, “Thanks for making my birthday perfect.”

  He had not even told me it was! I was flummoxed and he said, “I didn't want any fuss. Just you in a dress with that smile on your face.”

  We hugged it out, but really, I felt the only way of expressing our emotion was to head for the bedroom. As ever, I padded on up to my one-bedroom flat and he made his way to his more luxurious pad on Canal Street.

  For my 26th birthday, Alex insisted on taking me shopping. I had known him for nine months by then and for sure, he seemed to know me better than anyone. He wanted to buy me something nice to wear for our night out celebrating the annual event. He did not give me much notice, telling me the morning of said outing. I thought about feigning illness, or something
, but it was a busy day and I didn't have time to think about it all really.

  It was 3pm. We were meeting at the end of our respective shifts. That gave us around two hours to find something suitable. A short window but one I had decided I could perhaps cope with.

  Alex, oh, my dear lovely Alex thought he was doing me a great service, really, he did. However, he was not to know the depth of my paralysing self-consciousness. He did not realise how painfully and thick it ran.

  We had visited several stores, nothing seeming to appeal to me. Everything was either too patterned, too short, too revealing, too tight, too lacy, too eye-catching, too sparkly. Nothing offered me all I wanted. I needed demure, sophisticated, stylish, but at a price that suited me. And certainly nothing that appeared to be a fashion statement. I would not allow him to spend over £50. He tried to push so many things on me, declaring I would look great in any of them, but nothing would do. He just did not quite comprehend the damage he was doing.

  We were in John Lewis, panicking because our time to find something was almost up. Alex spotted a friend and left me for a few moments, dashing off to catch them before they exited in a lift. In the designer section, I wandered alone. Everything I saw was unsuitable. If something was low-cut, I would imagine strangers staring at my breasts, thinking how vulgar I was to be displaying them so brazenly. If something was tight, I imagined people assessing my behind and groaning at its disproportionate size. I saw the sales assistants, impatient and weary from a full day's work, staring at me. I wore my work uniform beneath a fleece jacket that could not be any plainer, and reached the conclusion that they probably thought me poor or destitute, browsing what I could never afford. If I chose something revealing, I would be deemed a slut. If I selected a garishly fashionable item, I might be seen to be trying too hard. Anything Victorian and modest would label me a prude or trying to hide some deformity only a mother could love. The stress that crept up on me was intense. I felt unattractive, unsuited to anything we had seen that day, and totally ill at ease within my own skin. The inability to choose a single item meant I was a failure. The shop girls possibly thought I had just been released from prison, with no make-up, my work clothes and not a clue what to buy. I wanted to leave and run, but I was not so lucky.