Maid Service

by Peter Birch

  “Are we going to be painted like that?” Laurel asked hopefully.

  “No,” John answered her. “You two are the hounds. Come in here and I’ll show you. The car please, Mr Finch.”

  Peter went to retrieve the Jag, returning to find John and the girls in a big, open building that looked as if it might once have been a forge, only it was now being used for very different purposes. A table ran the full length of one wall, loaded with tools, leather straps, body paint and more, while the wall above was hung with coils of rope, handcuffs and whips. Opehlia had been put in a collar and was fixed to an iron ring at the far end of the room, while Laurel and Gemma were in mutual ecstasy as they examined the gear, comparing articles to things they owned or they’d used. But Peter’s attention was drawn to a set of brushes laid out on a newspaper beside pots of black and white body paint.

  “Are they going to be collie dogs?” he asked. “I thought they were used for rounding up sheep?”

  “Dalmatians,” a deep voice spoke from behind him. “Not strictly authentic, perhaps, but then, I make my own choices.”

  “Absolutely,” Peter agreed, turning.

  He’d known Lord Bearslake was a big man from pictures in newspapers and the occasional television appearance, but he’d never realized how big. Not only was the newspaper magnate immensely fat, but he was well over six feet tall, giving an impression of daunting bulk even without his commanding manner and deep, masculine voice. Both Gemma and Laurel had backed away a little at his appearance, and John’s voice was positively servile as he spoke.

  “We’re almost ready, your Lordship. I just need to get the girls painted up.”

  Lord Bearslake merely grunted in response, then lowered his bulk onto a chair, watching as John began to fuss around the girls. Peter had expected to be offered drinks, or at least some form of hospitality, but Lord Bearslake appeared indifferent to his existence, small, piggy eyes feasting on Laurel and Gemma as they stripped to John’s command. Both looked impressive nude, Gemma a little taller, Laurel slimmer, both gloriously feminine. Master Jacobaeus had trained them exquisitely in the art of erotic display so that now it was instinct. They were also full of enthusiasm, perfectly happy to be nude and giggling at John’s attentions when he allowed his hands to stray to their breasts and bottoms.

  Being painted made them giggle still more, and gasp at the sudden cold as the body paint dried on their skins. Each was painted white first, then given a moment to dry before large black spots were added in an irregular pattern that nevertheless drew the eye to their figures. Unlike Ophelia, they were not given masks, just black running shoes, but by the time John had finished there was no doubt at all that they were intended to resemble Dalmatians. Already they’d begun to get into character, barking and sniffing at each other as Lord Bearslake rose to extract two curious objects from a long box.

  “Perfect,” he announced. “Very pretty indeed, both of you, now pop these up inside yourselves, my dears; not your front, your back, if you please.”

  He was holding out what appeared to be Dalmatians’ tails, but at least twice the normal length, while the base of each was equipped with a shaft that ended in a thick rubber plug. The girls took them, sharing nervous smiles as they realized how thick the plugs were, but Master Jacobaeus had trained them well. Gemma had quickly found a tub of anal lubricant among the items on the table, and the girls took turns to prepare each other’s backsides, making a deliberate show for Lord Bearslake, who became ever more excited.

  The tail was designed so that the base ran up between the wearer’s bottom cheeks in such a way that it appeared to be growing from the base of her spine, and Peter found himself nodding his approval as Laurel turned to show off how she looked with the tail in place. Gemma took a little longer, her mouth widening slowly as her bottom hole stretched to take the plug. She was waddling a little once she’d got it in, but Lord Bearslake didn’t seem to mind, clapping his podgy hands in delight as the two girls presented themselves for his inspection, bottoms pushed out and tails wagging over their bouncy butt cheeks as they gave him a teasing wiggle.

  “Very nice, my dears,” he drawled. “But I won’t touch you yet, as it would be a shame to spoil your paintwork. So, I expect you know the rules? The fox gets five minutes start, then you chase her, run her down and tie her up nice and tight, then leave her to us for fucking.”

  Both girls nodded and Lord Bearslake finally turned to Peter.

  “Well, Finch, I suppose you want your jollies too, as well as the money? Yes, I thought as much. Very well, you can run with the dogs and you should carry the rope. You can fuck the fox too, I suppose, but take her up her backside. I’m not having some pimp’s sloppy seconds.”

  Peter hadn’t had a chance to reply, but found himself nodding dumbly, unable to find the right words to cope with Lord Bearslake’s arrogance. Given the man’s personal tastes, Peter had been expecting to be treated as a fellow enthusiast for kinky sex, or at least with the warily conspiratorial attitude he’d become accustomed to from those of his clients who weren’t personal friends. Lord Bearslake evidently didn’t care, nodding to John and then glancing at his watch as Ophelia was released from her collar.

  She immediately sped away, leaving what would have been an awkward silence but for the happy giggling of the girls as they admired each other’s Dalmatian painted bodies. The five minutes seemed to take forever to pass, but Lord Bearslake finally declared that time was up. Both girls dashed out across the stable yard and onto the lawns beyond, Peter following at a slow lope, with John beside him, while Lord Bearslake seemed in no hurry at all, ambling slowly after them. The girls had quickly disappeared into a pine wood on the far side of the lawns, at which John signaled to Peter that they should take different paths.

  Peter knew that the entire estate was surrounded by a high brick wall, making it impossible to stray beyond the boundaries, so he was glad to set off alone. Behind him, Lord Bearslake was only just starting across the lawns. While the path that led into the wood among the big pine trees curved sharply, so that the house was quickly lost from view. He could hear the girls calling to each other, with the occasional flash of black and white visible as they ran through the trees. There was no sign at all of Ophelia, but there didn’t seem to be a great deal of cover for her to hide in—though surely most of the fun was in being caught …

  Sure enough, as he emerged from the pines onto an area of heath he caught sight of her, hiding among a coppice of scrubby birch trees. He called out, yelling to the others that he had a view, and then that the fox had broken cover as Ophelia dashed out from the trees, her tail bobbing behind her as she ran. Gemma appeared, far to his left, then Laurel, the three of them closing in on Ophelia as Peter sped up to turn her away from a patch of dense woodland to his right. His tactic worked, forcing her to double back along the boundary wall in a desperate attempt to evade Gemma. She was too slow, slipping between Gemma and the wall with just yards to spare but not fast enough to get away. Peter watched as the gap narrowed, grinning with the thrill of the chase and imagining Ophelia’s adrenaline rush as Gemma drew closer. But it was Laurel who finished the chase, bringing Ophelia down in the rough grass. Laurel had caught up in seconds, pouncing on Ophelia and pretending to bite her neck before helping Gemma to spread her out on the ground, face down, her tail waving with the squirming motions of her bare brown bottom as she fought to get away.

  “Well done,” Peter panted as he reached the others. “Okay, Gemma, get her hands behind her back. I’m going to tie her up.”

  Ophelia’s arms were quickly forced into the small of her back, allowing Peter to tie her wrists with a tight cinch. Her ankles followed and she was helpless, her squirming now only serving to make her more tempting. There was no sign of either John or Lord Bearslake, to Peter’s relief as he freed his cock into his hand. Both Gemma and Laurel were very adept at giving pleasure and immediately moved closer, guiding his h
ands to their breasts and bottoms as they took hold of his cock and balls. Ophelia twisted around, looking back to watch as the girls brought him to erection, her eyes wide and questioning, her bottom pushed up to show off her tawny brown fox’s cunt, painted to enhance the swell of her lips and the pink crease at the center.

  “It’s a shame I’m not supposed to fuck you,” Peter sighed. She just looked so utterly ravishable. “Maybe I will anyway. Do you mind if I have you before that great tub of lard Bearslake?”

  Ophelia shook her head, her eyes never leaving Peter’s rapidly growing erection, now in Gemma’s hand as Laurel licked his balls. He was already filthy with paint, but didn’t care, eager only to enjoy his prize before the other men caught up. Wasting no time, he moved closer to Ophelia as soon as the other girls had him good and hard. Gemma and Laurel moved aside, to help lift Ophelia’s hips and to cradle her head as Peter straddled the helpless girl’s legs. She gave a little whimper as his cock touched her flesh, and did her best to keep her bottom up as he pulled the fox tail free. The plug came out reluctantly, leaving a slick and gaping black hole. He watched the ring of her ass squeeze slowly shut before he mounted her, his cock pressing to the entrance of her cunt and then deeply up inside her.

  She’d begun to pant as they fucked, encouraging Peter to push harder and faster, while the temptation to come inside her and deliberately leave her soiled for Lord Bearslake grew with every thrust. Only the thought of missing out on the sweet peach of her ass made him hold back, and he had withdrawn an instant before it was too late, with his erection rearing up over her paint smeared cheeks as he took a moment to get his breath back.

  “Ok,” he told her, “now it goes up your backside, Ophelia, and I’m going to come inside you.”

  He’d deliberately given her a chance to refuse, but the other girls had pulled her face between Gemma’s thighs where she’d been made to lick. Ophelia managed little more than a sob, her face wedged into Gemma’s sex, her bottom still pushed up and waving high. Peter chuckled as he guided his cock down once more, this time pressed to her ass. She was still relaxed from the plug on the end of her fox’s tail, and Peter’s cock slid in most accommodatingly, pushed deep into the hot, wet cavity of her rectum with just two firm thrusts, as his balls squashed up to her empty cunt.

  Her cheeks had puffed out and her eyes had begun to water as his cock slid in and out, but she’d soon returned to licking Gemma’s cunt, encouraging Peter to make the most of her compliance. He took her by the hips, pumping his way towards orgasm as she gasped and shuddered beneath him, her fingers clutching at the rope binding her arms. Gemma came, crying out in ecstasy under Ophelia’s tongue; then Peter, his cock jammed in deep, erupting so copiously that the cum squashed out around his shaft to coat Ophelia’s stretched anus.

  “Maybe that’ll teach old Bearslake some manners?” he chuckled when he’d finally withdrawn and the slick concoction from Ophelia’s valiant bottom had begun to run down onto her cunt. “If the old bastard ever turns up, that is.”

  He stood up, watching as Laurel took her turn with Ophelia, pulling the bound girl’s head between her thighs and forcing her to lick. Ophelia hardly needed telling, her tongue emerging eagerly and instantly, despite her bonds and her recent exhaustive exploits. Gemma took pity on their compliant captive, cupping her cunt in one hand, dipping a thumb into the open, slippery hole and busying her fingers over the wet, sensitive flesh between her sex lips.

  “Dirty bitches,” Peter chided as he turned to scan the area.

  The heath was empty, but as he looked towards the long, red brick line of the boundary wall he caught a movement. A figure rose up, small, female and holding a camera with an impressively long telephoto lens—Christine Arlington.

  Chapter Four

  Lord Bearslake sat with his fingers laced together over the more than ample bulge of his waistcoat. His face was serene, betraying no more than a hint of malign amusement, the grayish-pink polyp of his mouth pursed as if in thought. Peter sat opposite him, waiting for the other to speak. On the table between them lay Peter’s camera, the film pulled out. Christine stood to one side, her own camera still around her neck, the huge lens cradled in one arm. By the door was John, his brawny arms folded across his chest, his eyes fixed on Peter. The girls had been allowed to clean up, using a pump in the stable yard to wash each other down. Finally Lord Bearslake spoke up.

  “You’re not a particularly intelligent man, Peter Finch, or you wouldn’t have fallen for our little trap so easily, but I trust that you do at least have the wit to realize that you have no choice but to co-operate?”

  Peter merely shrugged.

  “What we want from you,” Lord Bearslake went on, “and for which you will be paid a substantial sum, is a complete list of all those involved in your dirty little money making scheme, along with plenty of detail so that we can give the readers something to get their teeth into.”

  “No,” Peter answered.

  “Clearly you are duller than I thought,” Lord Bearslake continued. “Christine, the photographs, please.”

  Christine picked up a blue folder from the table at her side, to extract a large print and throw it down in front of Peter as she spoke.

  “Your old school friend Hunter Rackman, now a senior diplomat at the US embassy, pictured taking Clementine Stewart up to his apartment at two a.m. on the morning of May the third, this year.”

  “He was merely looking after the daughter of an old friend while she was in town,” Peter told her, “as any gentleman would. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Not usually, no,” Christine went on as she tossed a second photograph down on the tables. “But here she is again, leaving the building shortly before noon the following day.”

  “So, she stayed the night,” Peter answered. “What are you trying to imply?”

  Christine raised one delicate eyebrow and threw another photograph onto the growing heap. It was very different to the others, clearly taken from a long way away and with an exceptionally powerful lens. It showed the front of the Grove, with Peter and others climbing from the Jaguar. Chloe stood by the door in her Union Flag dress, her bare breasts clearly visible with the chains running from her nipples to the tray.

  “You mix with some very peculiar company,” Lord Bearslake stated.

  “It was a fancy dress party,” Peter said casually.

  “Involving topless girls with their nipples clamped and some extremely shady Serbian businessmen?” Bearslake chuckled. “Come, come, Finch, you can do better than that. Unless I’m greatly mistaken, and I never am, the girl is Chloe Thompson, daughter of your old friend Ben Thomson, civil servant and also a recipient of your largess, although presumably not with her. In fact, I don’t suppose that he’s even aware that you’re hiring his daughter out as a prostitute, is he? Any more than Daniel Stewart is aware that you’re doing the same with Clementine?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’ve never …,” Peter began, then stopped as Christine added another picture to the pile.

  It was far from clear, and seemed to have been taken from the very summit of Ivinghoe Beacon, looking down through the trees into his garden. None of the figures could easily have been identified without detailed knowledge of who’d been there, but it was clearly no ordinary party. Rhiannon’s distinctive red hair stuck out as she knelt to suck on Mr. Drach’s cock, and while the girls in the clay pit were so filthy and indistinct as to be completely unrecognizable, there was no doubt about what they were doing.

  “The lens I was using has a focal length of seven hundred and fifty millimeters,” Christine told him as she added another picture to the heap.

  “You should have bought a bigger one,” Peter said. “You can’t see a thing!”

  “We can see enough to know what was going on,” Lord Bearslake told him, “as I’m sure you realize, but not as much as we’d like, otherwise
the whole sordid little escapade would already have come out in my papers. I could publish, but I prefer to get the big scoop, and that’s why you are going to help us.”

  “I think not,” Peter replied, not bothering to look up as he scrutinized the added photos, none of which showed anything more than the first. “That’s the thing about stick and carrot, Bearslake. You need a donkey, and when it comes to persuading me to do things I don’t want to, you’ll find I bear a far greater similarity to a mule.”

  “Aren’t they brave before they get the full picture?” Lord Bearslake remarked to Christine, before turning back to Peter. “So, what do we know? We have the daughter of a prospective leader of the opposition sleeping with a U.S. diplomat and … well, behaving in a thoroughly bizarre fashion with some Serbian businessmen, including the notorious Budimir Kralj? You do know who Budimir Kralj is, don’t you?”

  “A Serbian businessman?” Peter suggested.

  “A Serbian businessman, yes,” Lord Bearslake agreed. “Also an ex-army officer with a specialty in shall we say ‘intelligence’, and shortly to be among the most wanted men in Europe. It will be the biggest scandal since the Profumo Affair, maybe bigger. You, Peter Finch, will be right in the middle of it, and can no doubt be charged with a broad range of offenses, certainly enough to ensure that you don’t see the outside world again until well into the coming century. Or, you can play ball, give us the information we want and walk away with a cool twenty thousand pounds.”

  “That’s an insultingly low bribe,” Peter answered.

  “I suspect it will seem quite generous when you’re sewing mailbags in Wormwood Scrubs, or wherever they decide to put you.” Lord Bearslake went on, “But I’m forgetting, not only are you a hardened jailbird, but you’re a man of honor. The story we want is Stewart, along with Gabriel Howard, and I’m afraid poor little Clementine can’t really avoid getting caught up in it all. But I imagine you’d like to spare the blushes of your other girls; Chloe Thompson, for instance, and the pair of little tarts you brought along this afternoon? I say two, of course, because as you must have realized by now, the girl you know as Ophelia …”