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

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  “I hope you've got a big tub. You know how I like my swims,” he muttered, with hardly any breath to speak.

  We laughed and I told him, hoarsely, “I wouldn't live somewhere that's less luxurious than where I work.”

  He turned my head to kiss me deeply and we embraced in a loving fashion. I wrapped my leg over his waist, slotting around him perfectly.

  “I love you,” I said, right into his mouth. I meant it. I was desperately in love with him already. My heart burned like a fireball with him in my bed. Every humming atom of my being confirmed it. “I do. I love you. Like nothing else.”

  “Charley,” he whispered comically, “what do you want with an old cock like me?”

  I threw myself on top of him and watched his dancing eyes. I kissed his bottom lip. “Don't question this, just go with it,” I whispered.

  “Good advice,” he murmured, “the gentleman in me felt it necessary to make reservations, but…”

  “Cancel them. Wait until you see my fridge.”

  He smiled out of one corner of his mouth and I grinned back, kissing that corner.

  “I was only trying to get you to fall in love with me, but now there's no need…” he confidently revealed, “now I can just use you and abuse you.”

  “Pig,” I said, and rubbed my pussy against his cock, giggling.

  “What else was I meant to do with you? You meant to drive me mad with that ensemble, didn't you?” he asked, referring to the strewn underwear.

  “Maybe,” I said, and rubbed my foot against his shaft.

  “Fuck, woman.” He groaned, with his member hardening under my command.

  “The drawer to your left,” I advised, “get what you want.”

  He growled into my throat and got up off the bed, almost fully erect again. My big-bollocked brute looked stunning with his phallus almost fully engorged. I loved it that he was thick-set and wide around the torso. His cock pointed to the side while half-mast but I could see it beginning to strain north.

  He pulled the chest open and considered the entire contents for some time, taking them all in, failing in his bid to hide his amusement. His sideways glance and my wicked grin made him dizzy. He was lost for words but he also seemed to have decided what it was I wanted from him. On top of all the gadgets, lubricants and G-string panties was a well-thumbed copy of Story of O.

  “I want to bed you in slowly,” he said.

  My eyebrows raised, my chest heaving as I lay there seductively.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I want a mistress, a madam, for my use only. For whatever I deem necessary. I like kinky tricks, I think you know that. I like to dominate. Eventually I might like to cause you pain and use all your holes. I might also like to share your body parts with others too. I hope you understand this is about my ownership of you and your compliance. It's about your total willingness to give yourself up to me. This is what I want. I'd like this, if you'll allow it.”

  I nodded, pliant, and asked of him, “Will there be whipping?”

  “Yes, perhaps.”

  I sensed he was humouring me and appeasing my desires, playing the Master I wanted him to be. The thought of pain and a man strong enough to dominate me both physically and emotionally aroused me unbearably. My fantasies were all somehow coming true. I threw my hips in the air and pulled my pussy lips aside.

  “It's yours, I love you.”

  My pussy ached for his touch once more. His cum was already seeping; my clenching pussy walls were pushing it out with the thought of our impending ecstasy. My large, untameable breasts willed him to ravish them. I had waited a long time for a man worthy enough; one who knew my secret desire to be dominated and whom offered ceaseless pleasure. He wasn't frightened of defying me. He was my fantasy man.

  He showed me what he had taken from the drawer: the crop. He reached out, tracing it across my mouth and cleavage. He aimed it at my clit and massaged, running rings around my pussy-head until I squirted with delirious joy. Leather was my own fetish. I loved it. I would have to painstakingly cleanse that tool of mine at some point to renew its freshness. Oh yes.

  He felt the urge to return to the drawer. He took out the aphrodisiac gel and rubbed it all around his cock, also lubricating his balls. I'd used it on myself before and it always made me tingle, so on his testicles too, he'd be afire. I got on all fours, pulling my arse cheeks open for him.

  “I don't want to hurt you Charley,” he said.

  “You won't. I sleep with the plugs in.” A lie. I wanted pain. He wanted it too, I hoped. He pulled me down the end of the bed and brought my buttocks right up against his hips. “I really want you to penetrate my anus.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked again, and I reassured him I was.

  His grunt was fierce and predatory and I groaned in anticipation. I ached for his possession of me. He slapped his hand around my bottom before whacking his cock against me too. Without warning, he pushed inside my ass and I cried out in agony, trying to breathe away the suction. He was rather large. I'd struggle to manage a spit-roast with him involved, because he took up all the space my pelvis gave and more. He stopped a moment, allowing me to grow accustomed. He had to push really hard to get even a little further, and continued doing so, until I relaxed and gave myself up to the feeling of being consumed more than I ever had been before. He reached under and filled my pussy with fingers, and I was past the point of no return right there.

  “Noah,” I said.

  “Yes?” he asked breathlessly.

  “Do you love me?” I asked.

  “Oh yes,” he said, but couldn't prevent his girth tearing me a little. I welcomed the intrusion and the pain. It was life-affirming.

  Whether it was an orgasm or a rebellion of my body, I didn't know, but I welled with a torture unlike any other and screamed for him to end my torment. When it was over, all I knew was that Noah had laid down beside me. He pulled me toward him lovingly, covering us both with the sheets and blankets. He kissed my closed eyelids and cuddled me closely.

  “That was wonderful,” he said, in his mellifluous tone, and I sighed, curling against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart. He ran his fingers through my hair and kissed my face inch by inch. I had never felt so serene before.

  My legs and arms entwined with his, I told him, “Let's sleep a little.”

  The thing about pain is that it seems so awful at the time. Everything in your veins tells you that it is wrong. It goes against the survival instinct and encourages thousands of years of evolution to rear its weary head and disobey. The human body's first thought is to suppress and distil what it should not be forced to endure. What I had come to realise was that after that came peacefulness. The mental anguish and trauma abated and my mind would resolve to accept the fact that all recovery required was time. The strength of my self would prevail and after an hour or more, I would feel thankful and calm. My body could cope with quite a lot and it was nice to be reminded as such. It would heal quickly and in the aftermath, the dull ache of the lash or the ravishing of a cock would leave me quiescent. In a rather morbid sense, it made me feel singular and unique, special even, and liberated, even just for those few minutes or hours.

  It was dark when we woke and I seemed to have something already between my legs again. The legacy of my sleep dragged on a little and I remained with my eyes closed, my mind dulled and my dreams still comforting me with their warmth. I came to recognise that a finger was pressing its way into my belly and a mouth was kissing my throat. He may have thought I was still asleep but when I moaned, he nibbled my mouth instead.

  “I love you,” I heard his husky voice say, and my heart was pricked. There was truth in his tone. Every hair on my body stood on end and it was as though someone had walked over my grave, but in a good way. It was because his voice said it. To me. His. I loved him too. It was a miracle.

  “You do?” I asked, double checking.

  “Yes, like nothing else,” he told me. “I ache for yo
u.”

  My eyes flickered open and I saw the truth of it there in his eyes, staring right into mine. I wanted to do a cartwheel. I wanted to sing a song or roll down a hill. The back of my hand covered my smiles and my stomach remained at the top of that hill. He took that hand and kissed it and I kissed him back, telling him weakly, “I'm in love with you.”

  He groaned with fierce, throaty ardour and started battling his tongue against mine. We both knew I was still too sensitive for a fucking. I threw my head against the metal bars of the bed and cried for mercy, for him to make me cum. He toyed with me, sliding two fingers in and out of my pussy while rubbing his thumb across my clit. He watched as I fell into the anguish of subconscious pleasure, my dreams still mingling with reality. I murmured his name and panted; he assessed my facial expressions while partially laid on top of me. I saw out between the slits of my half-open eyes that his gaze was filled with wonder and longing. I could not bear that he was not seeking pleasure simultaneously, but he had me pinned down and unable to move. I tried to thrust my hips into the air half a dozen times, as though I was fucking, and he grunted at the scene. I felt the hot pulses and held off until my body could not brace itself any longer. When I was spent, he feasted on my nipples, glorying in his triumph. He moved up and lay directly on top of my body, staring into my eyes. I was totally satiated.

  “Have you ever felt like this before?” I asked him.

  “No,” he said.

  He kissed me manically and started tearing his mouth all over my body. I had no say in the matter. He went to press his cock into my belly but I begged him not to. Though he had finally admitted he loved me, which was a revelation that aroused me more than anything else, my perineum was suffering from the arse-fucking he had given me a little while earlier. He looked displeased but I knew a better way. Grabbing the gel from earlier, I smothered my breasts and he shifted into position, and while I held them together, he slid his cock between my mounds.

  “Charley, how many men have you had?” he asked, watching as his veined organ repeatedly buried itself between my soft, rosy flesh.

  “I don't know,” I replied.

  “Many then?”

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  “I hate that,” he said.

  “Why?” I asked, biting my lip as I watched his form rock above me. I got to see him in all his glory.

  “Because I love you and none of them did.”

  “One did…” I began. Alex.

  “No, no. I don't believe so,” he insisted.

  “How would you know?” I said.

  “Because I am the first you felt deserved to be blown by your fucking exquisite mouth.”

  I gazed fixedly at his amorous countenance. “Yes. True. And am I the first to let you in the back passage?”

  “Yes,” he said, and he reached down to rub my clit.

  I trembled with sensitive delight but I wished to have this man take me again and again. I wanted us to peel back each other's skins and wear them inside out to revoke our former individualities.

  “I have done a lot of adventurous things Noah, but, there is still more…”

  “I hope so.”

  His consequent volcanic eruption was miraculous and the pearl necklace he gave me even more so.

  We lay in the bath sometime later that evening, with a picnic arranged across the bath bridge and flutes of champagne in our hands.

  “I'm coming to this hotel more often,” he chuckled, and rubbed his toes against my bum cheeks at the other end. We sat facing one another, taking up almost every inch of the tub. “Although I did expect a Jacuzzi, I have to say.”

  “You are rather needy, aren't you?” I asked, with a grin on my face.

  “Umm.”

  I couldn't hide my happiness, biting my lip instead. I popped a salmon parcel in my mouth and showed him the full thing on my tongue. His eyes widened and his toes went crazy, dancing into a frenzy at my behind.

  “Just because you've put this spread between us doesn't mean I can't still get you if I want to,” he said.

  “I know. But never let it be said I don't feed us well.”

  “You know just how to shut a man up, in more ways than one,” he admitted.

  I threw back the champagne and he poured more.

  “How does a housekeeper afford to live like this?” he asked, cautiously, “if you don't mind me asking?”

  “I thought we weren't going to do the whole Q&A session. I thought we were above that?”

  I already sensed he was gearing up to press me for more information about my life. I had tried to bat off his queries many times already. The thing with men is that they are a lot nosier than women. In reality, they're just more conniving with it.

  “I think your defensiveness is what makes me want to know more,” he explained. “I just feel that there's a lot bubbling underneath that surface. Perhaps that's why I love you.”

  I brushed him off. “Love, love, what is love?” I asked, throwing my arms about.

  “This,” he said.

  “We've known each other five minutes…”

  His glare reassured me that he felt as I did ‒ that we just both seemed to know, without question, that what we felt was true. I stared at him and cogitated. I rubbed my feet up and down his hard stomach.

  “What about the tracks all over your body?”

  “They're not what you think,” I told him.

  This was unbearable. I didn't want him to be one of those in the “Charlotte Is Different Club”.

  “Tell me,” he said gently, adding, “I want to be more than just your lover.”

  The hanging silence. That was worse than my hanging confession. And so, I began to tell him my tale: the illnesses, the hibernation and the tragedy of losing Alex. Everything except Her. Everything except the crippling low self-esteem. He watched me intently and I could see him drawing back his reaction deep into the pits of his guts. He did not want to betray his sadness.

  “But you're okay now?” he asked, tremor between his teeth.

  “Are any of us ever really okay, Noah? When you think about it?”

  “When you put it like that, well, but you have checkups, do you?”

  “I get checked every year. I still get the odd bout of something. Pneumonia. Glandular fever. Stuff that's nasty and knocks me for a little while.”

  He looked horrified and I covered my face with my hands.

  “This is why I didn't want to tell you. I knew you'd be just like all the others then! Treating me differently. Making me feel like this plague carrier or a vessel of disease and virus. I don't need that, Noah. I don't need pity or any of that!”

  He threw the bath bridge over aggressively and knocked it over the side of the bath. Food and packaging and an almost empty bottle of champagne went flying, smashing into pieces. He threw himself toward me and pinned his body on top of mine. He kissed me wildly and made my mouth bleed, licking it all into his own mouth. I was breathless with shock and delight. I could have cried but he was too frantic. He was quickly within me and I was sorely taken by his desire. I clung on to him as if out of my own mind, screaming with delight at his raging cock befouling me. I scratched at his body in response and he was rough and rigorous.

  “Fat… fucking… cock…” I screamed, and he was encouraged.

  There was a hardly an inch of water left afterward but he French kissed me gently, and whispered in my ear, “I know about the Chambermaid and I don't care. I understand. I really do.”

  We kissed and cuddled in the waters for a long time, communicating our devotion and longing. I never wanted to be parted from him.

  I revealed, “I stopped when I met you.”

  “I would never have forced you to. I only want you to do what makes you happy. It doesn't matter to me.”

  “Okay,” I said, confused. I was falling deeper in love with Noah, so much so that I honestly didn't know what I might do if he said he never wanted to see me again. A section of my being, which was now cornered o
ff for him, secretly wanted him to ask me to stop and never carry out any of the Chambermaid's duties again. I wanted him to pick me up, sweep me to bed, and promise he would never let me go; that he could not bear to share me. That he would die if another man ever touched me again. And then another part of me realised he was doing what any true lover would: he was saying I could continue to be myself and he would still love me. However, the battle within would rage and I did not know which side would win. The truth was, the delight of being able to act under the Chambermaid's guise was waning. It had been for some time. I was now venturing out into the unknown: of knowing how I felt about this one man but not knowing how this precious, life-changing relationship might evolve as we continued to do so too.

  “I want to draw up some rules, however… to keep you in check. An agreement that will make this arrangement amicable and beneficial for the both of us.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said, and we got out of the bath, drying each other off.

  We took ourselves to the living room and lay on a quilt by the log fire, naked beneath a fur throw I took from the Japanese ottoman. I told him stories of hospitals and healing, of loneliness and despair. He held me and listened. I described how Florence and Mark had given me a taster of something fantastical but it had turned resentful. I told him that for me, the recovery process would never be over. It was ongoing and some days were better than others.

  “I'm here now,” he said, and zoned in on my eyes to reassure me he would never leave me. He held me so protectively.

  Buried in his arms, I admitted, “You make me remember what life was like before all that.”

  We took out some oils and massaged one another sensually, unable to help ourselves rubbing and pulling each other into oblivion. I did not know where he began and I ended. Words were dispensed with.