Maid Service

by Peter Birch

  The moment she was done she collapsed, lying limp over Vicky’s knee in a flood of tears, her body now shaking with sobs, although she made no effort to cover herself up, with her bottom still spread and her lowered pajamas taut between her open thighs. Vicky reached down, to lift Ayanna into her arms, cuddling her close as she slipped one heavy breast from her nightie, offering the engorged nipple to the Indian girl’s mouth. Ayanna began to suckle immediately, the tears still streaming down her face but her eyes closed in transcending bliss.

  Soundlessly, Vicky made an urgent gesture toward the door, signaling that Tiffany and Peter should leave. He hesitated, sure Ayanna would notice, but her eyes remained closed and she had begun to nuzzle at Vicky’s breast as if she was feeding from her mother, an act so intimate he felt too guilty to watch. A few quick steps and he was through the door and on the landing beside Tiffany. She closed the door and took him in her arms, kissing with open passion as her hands fumbled for his cock.

  Peter responded, unable to hold back. His cock had been achingly erect since he’d first laid eyes on Alice and Charlotte, and he’d grown harder still as he’d watched Ayanna’s spanking, so much so that he was sure he would cum the moment Tiffany touched him. She was no better, fumbling his habit up and wrenching his zip down as she sank to her knees, freeing his cock straight into her mouth. He gasped, his teeth gritted against the ecstasy as she sucked and licked at his erection and at his balls, right on the edge of orgasm and happy to give Tiffany a mouthful of spunk when she suddenly pulled back, babbling at him as she jerked her nightie up over her breasts.

  “Do it now, Peter. Take me, fuck me, use me like the little whore you’ve made me. Take my virginity, Peter, take it now.”

  He didn’t need telling twice, neither willing nor able to hold himself back as he tore her nightie off over her head and jammed her entire body against the wall. She gasped as her thighs came up and open, her arms went around his neck and she was clinging onto him with desperate need as his cock probed for her cunt. He felt her wetness, pushed, felt the tight constriction of her hymen and pushed again, hard.

  Tiffany screamed as her hymen breached, a sound of mingled pain and pleasure, despair and delight, emotions far too strong for her to think of their surroundings or the need for silence. Peter didn’t care either, already coming as he thrust into her, slamming her body against the wall over and over again as his cock sank deep into her cunt with her fluids running down over his balls, then spunk too as he emptied himself into her. She screamed a second time, in animal reaction to what he’d done inside her, pushed to orgasm by the sheer power of her fucking before their mouths crushed together in a long, fierce kiss that broke only when his cock finally slipped from her freshly deflowered cunt.

  They still held onto each other, lost in emotion for what they’d done but slowly coming down. The moonlight shining in at the landing window fell full on Tiffany’s face, which was flushed with pleasure and a devotion he’d never seen before. He kissed her again and whispered three soft words, and as she replied in kind she’d begun to cry. Peter tried to find words, wondering if she was pregnant as his mind began to clear and wanting to tell her everything would be alright. But before he could decide what to say a voice called out from somewhere downstairs, female, harsh and pre-emptory, demanding to know what was going on.

  “You have to get back!” he hissed, but the nun’s heavy tread was already on the stairs. “The roof, use the roof!”

  Tiffany was already scrabbling at the window catch, but even as it slid wide the light came on, illuminating a bulky figure at the top of the stairs.

  “Sister?” the nun asked as she caught sight of Peter’s habit, from behind as he bundled Tiffany out of the window. “What’s going on? What’s …”

  She’d put a hand on Peter’s shoulder, spinning him around to reveal his face and also his erection, still sticking up from the folds of his habit. Her mouth widened, forming a scream even as Peter lashed out blindly, his hands flailing, shoving, sending her staggering back against Vicky’s door, which burst open, revealing Vicky, stark naked, helping an equally naked Ayanna out of her own window.

  Peter didn’t wait to admire the view, leaping over the legs of the prostrate nun and hurling himself down the stairs. Two more nuns were coming down the corridor, but he burst past them and down the next flight of stairs, and another, heedless of the shouts and screams behind him. The basement corridor was empty, the laundry also, and he barely broke stride as he crashed through the laundry room door to find himself faced with three nuns in nothing but their underwear.

  Yet the window was open and he was through it in an instant, running across the playing fields as fast as he could go with screams and yells of fury and accusation ringing in his ears. Yet he knew he was clear and probably free, too fast to catch and too sure of the way back through the woods for anybody to follow. It seemed likely that Tiffany had escaped too. He knew she would never betray him, and Vicky had nothing to gain by doing so.

  There would be trouble though, inquiries at the school, followed by the inevitable accusations. But that was pure routine, something he’d been through half a dozen times in his school career. Porter would call an emergency assembly, at which he would state that they already knew who had perpetrated the outrage at St. Monica’s but would give the culprit a chance to come forward and confess his guilt of his own accord. Peter laughed at the simple ruse, which had first been tried on him at the tender age of eight. When suddenly he was brought up sharp, his heart seeming to jump into his mouth at the sound of a voice from the trees directly in front of him.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Jesus, Gardiner, don’t do that!” Peter exclaimed. “What are you doing here anyway?”

  “Waiting for you,” Gardiner answered, stepping out onto the moonlight. “You’re going to get me my girl, Katie Vale.”

  “Now is really not the time,” Peter answered, gesturing back to the convent, which was a blaze of light, while advancing figures were visible on the playing fields. “In fact we need to go, fast.”

  “What’s happening?” Gardiner demanded.

  “I got caught, nearly,” Peter answered, off guard and with his adrenalin running high. “They couldn’t have seen me, not properly. But I had to push a nun over to stop my girlfriend getting caught, and …”

  “Oh yeah?” Gardiner interrupted in his nastiest voice. “So what’s going to happen if I tell them it was you?”

  “You wouldn’t do that, not even you?” Peter demanded, stunned.

  “Oh yeah?” Gardiner went on. “Maybe I wouldn’t, not if I had thirty quid in my pocket and Katie Vale’s juicy little titties in my hands.”

  “I haven’t got thirty quid!” Peter answered. “Not anymore, and I keep telling you, I can’t make any of the girls do anything they don’t want to. Katie’s hardly going to want her tits groped by an ugly troll like you, is she? Now …”

  “That’ll cost you another fiver,” Gardiner sneered. “And if Katie won’t go for it, you’ll just have to hold her down for me while I get those little titties out, and lift up that dirty little skirt she wears, and pull down her panties …”

  His voice broke off as Peter’s fist connected with his nose.

  ♦♦♦♦

  “Finch?” Daniel Stewart said as he poked his head around the bedsit door. “I’m afraid I have to take to you to the Reverend Porter.”

  “I’ve been expecting it,” Peter sighed, rising to his feet. “Lead on Mcduff.”

  “Sorry,” Daniel told him.

  “Don’t be,” Peter answered. “Gardiner would have snitched on me anyway, in the end.”

  “I’ll get even for you, Finch,” Hunter Rackman promised as Peter started down the corridor between twin lines of his friends. “He’s dead meat.”

  “I broke his nose,” Peter answered. “Let it be, and if he tries to drop the rest of you in
it, just deny everything. You can count on the girls.”

  “How about you, Finch?” Clive Sumner asked, his face a mask of worry. “You won’t tell, will you, not even if they cane you? Promise me! I’ll lose my place at Oxford!”

  “Please,” Peter interrupted, holding up a hand. “I know what’s about to happen, but I am still a gentleman.”

  Clive extended a hand, which Peter shook, then others, until at last he had reached the top of the stairs. His friends were left behind, save for Daniel, who kept pace as they left Grove House and crossed to the Rectory. With one last wry smile from Daniel, Peter was ushered inside, to where the Reverend Porter sat behind the great mahogany desk set against one wall of his study. On the desk lay a scattering of papers; a fine, large fountain pen; a small statue of Michelangelo’s David designed as a paperweight; and a thin, brown cane.

  “Here I am,” Peter stated. “Shall we dispense with the preliminaries? I take it I’m expelled?”

  “No,” the Reverend Porter. “We will not dispense with the preliminaries. Peter Finch, you are an intelligent boy, and yet in my thirty-eight years in the teaching profession I have never, never come across anybody with such utter disregard for … for everything that matters in life. You care nothing for man, nor even for God, you lack even the most basic respect or morality, you …”

  “Broke Gardiner’s nose for threatening to touch up a girl,” Peter interrupted. “I’d say that showed fairly good moral judgment.”

  “A somewhat ironic piece of gallantry, considering your own behavior, don’t you think?” Porter demanded.

  “Not at all,” Peter insisted. “What I did was with the full consent of my girlfriend, while his intentions were pretty unspeakable.”

  “Algernon Gardiner tells a rather different story,” the Headmaster replied. “A story which the evidence tends to support. You were caught fighting with him on the St. Monica’s playing fields. He says he followed you in order to be sure you were visiting a girl there, which is a very serious breach of school rules, and which he intended to lay before the proper authorities in the morning. This says nothing of what happened in St. Monica’s itself, which I understand is a matter for the police.”

  Peter merely shrugged.

  “Moreover,” the Headmaster went on, “as if further proof were needed of your delinquency, you arranged for six girls from St. Monica’s convent to be spanked! Not only spanked, but spanked for the enjoyment of you and your perverted friends.”

  “Ah, but did I?” Peter queried, ready for the sally.

  “You did,” Porter went on. “I know you did and you know you did. I have all the evidence I need, but I am going to give you a chance to confess first.”

  Peter merely grinned and after a moment the Reverend Porter drew a heavy sigh.

  “The truth will come out,” he went on, placing a thoughtful finger on the shaft of the cane. “It always does, with a little persuasion.”

  “I believe a member of the Gestapo once made a similar observation to my Uncle Charles,” Peter remarked. “That didn’t work either.”

  “There is a difference …,” Porter began, only to be cut off by Peter.

  “Well, yes. The Gestapo officer in question was probably one of those tall, lean Aryan types, rather than are a flatulent old toad who’s likely to have a heart attack during the caning if he gets at all worked up.”

  “Are you threatening me?” the Headmaster demanded, his face starting to color. “No, I will not be distracted by your nonsense. So, without further ado, I want the names of everybody who was with you the night of the spanking incident, also the name of the girls involved, and the name of the girl you were with when you broke into St. Monica’s last night.”

  “Never,” Peter replied.

  “Don’t play games with me, Finch. Your broke into St. Monica’s convent, where you engaged in lewd acts with a girl …”

  “Who’s of legal age,” Peter pointed out.

  “How are we to know?” Porter asked with a sudden smile. “How are we to know when you won’t tell us who she is?”

  “Good question,” Peter admitted. “But I still won’t tell you.”

  “Very well, leaving that aside for the time being, do you deny that you assaulted a nun?”

  Peter reflected for a moment, then decided that it was pointless to deny the incident.

  “She was quite a big nun.”

  Porter’s face began to color again and his hand closed on the shaft of the cane but Peter raised a finger.

  “One moment, if you please. Am I right in thinking that you intend to cane me until I give away my friends, then to expel me formally before handing me over to the police? If so, there’s a fault in your logic. Why should I let you cane me if I’m to be expelled and arrested in any case? Really, I would have expected better of a scholar of your standing.”

  The headmaster had risen to his feet, his face now dark with risen blood, his fingers clenching and unclenching on the handle of the cane. Outside, a police car was drawing up by the curb.

  “Cheerio then,” Peter remarked as he sauntered from the room.

  PART TWO

  ♦♦♦♦

  London, 1989

  Chapter One

  Peter propped himself up against the bar and took a sip from his glass of brandy as he cast a critical and approving eye over the club. The take at the door had been good, so good that he could seriously consider giving up his job as a cab driver to concentrate on the club and party scene. Now that he was getting more people through the door he could also consider bigger premises, better equipment, hopefully building the reputation of Club S as the number one party night for fetishists in London. With that, and the regular spanking parties, he might eventually be able to give up renting and put a deposit down on a house. Meanwhile, it was a lot of fun.

  Directly opposite him, fixed to one of the pillars supporting the premises’ basement ceiling, was a tall St. Andrew’s cross. On the cross was one of his regular girls, Michelle to her friends, Candy Doll to the rest. Her long, naturally blonde hair, petite frame and fleshy little bottom always made her a firm favorite. She was stark naked, which was fairly normal for her, her wrists secured to the arms of the cross with leather straps, and her legs kept apart by a spreader. Her luscious backside was pushed out to a flogger wielded by his House Domina, Miss Lash, otherwise known as Karen. Fairly slight in build but heightened by six inch heels, Karen was in a PVC catsuit that showed off every contour of her slender body, including a nicely rounded bottom that not even Peter was permitted to touch, let alone spank.

  A crowd had collected around the two girls, mainly men but with a fair sprinkling of women, watching in amusement and arousal as Michelle’s sweetly outthrust butt cheeks were slowly whipped up to a glowing red. Karen was good, using the heavy, suede-tailed flogger with skill and precision across Michelle’s bottom and up between her thighs. The technique made for an excellent show, with Michelle ensuring that each push of her rump gave a teasing glimpse of her pretty shaved pussy and the pink pucker of her ass.

  Certainly the audience were fascinated, with one man’s cock already in his girlfriend’s hand and another couple kissing as they watched sidelong. There was more going on elsewhere: one sweetly plump girl draped over her boyfriend’s knee, her rubber skirt turned up as she was spanked; several men knelt before more dominant women, either licking and kissing at high-heeled shoes and boots or simply groveling for the sake of it; while in the shadows of one corner an enormously fat man who appeared to be dressed as Friar Tuck was having his cock sucked by a girl who looked for all the world to be less than half the friar’s age.

  Peter allowed himself a happy but complacent nod, pleased to see his guests enjoying themselves. His tastes had stayed the same since his days at Broadfields, first and foremost for pretty girls with well-turned bottoms, preferably spanked into endorphin-fueled ecsta
sy before receiving his cock wherever it would provide them with the most pleasure. Yet with one club and two spanking parties every month, mere voyeurism did little more than whet his appetite, allowing his arousal to build slowly until he could take his satisfaction at leisure toward the end of the evening. He was now ready, and keen to improve his acquaintance with the delectable Michelle.

  He glanced at his watch. It was just past 2am, the time at which the bar license expired. But with a hundred people still having fun in the club it seemed foolish to close down. Outside, the streets of Putney would be quiet, with just a few late revelers heading home, while the music was only faintly audible from the door at the top of the stairs that led down to the basement. The bar manager didn’t seem to care in any case, still serving drinks while simultaneously trying to admire Michelle’s flayed and splayed rear. Michelle was truly in her element, her peeping pussy wet with excitement, and so very close to orgasm. She gasped and shuddered as the heavy suede thongs smacked up between her thighs to an even, purposeful rhythm.

  Again Peter nodded, this time in admiration for Karen’s skill with the whip, and as Michelle at last cried out in ecstasy he joined in the applause before stepping forward to give her bottom a couple of firm smacks. She was in the dreamy, satisfied state she always reached after a good whipping, especially if she’d been brought to orgasm, and correspondingly vulnerable. Peter lost no time in taking advantage. Supporting her half limp body as he and Karen unfastened the straps of the St. Andrew’s Cross, he let his hands wander freely over her body. She merely purred in response, nestling against his chest and kissing at his neck, even when his finger slipped between her cheeks to tease at the mouth of her anus.