maid
The kitchen smelled of lemon polish and something warmer underneath. Marcus stood in the doorway, a glass of water half-forgotten in his hand, watching her work.
Elara had only been with him three weeks. A temporary hire while his mother recovered from surgery. She wore the same uniform every day—short black dress, white apron, thick-soled shoes that squeaked on the tile. Professional. Efficient. Invisible.
Until today.
She was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the baseboards behind the breakfast bar. The position hiked the dress up over her hips. No panties. Just the smooth curve of her ass, the shadowed cleft, and below it—when she shifted her weight—the wet, pink shine of her cunt. It caught the overhead light like something precious.
Marcus stopped breathing.
His cock twitched. Actually twitched. A sensation he hadn’t felt in eighteen months. Not since the diagnosis. Not since the pills, the injections, the awkward appointments with specialists who used words like “vascular insufficiency” and “psychogenic factors” and “we’ll keep monitoring.”
He’d accepted it. Limp dick. Dead nerves. A body that had given up on wanting.
Now his balls ached. Full and heavy and suddenly, urgently alive.
Elara glanced back over her shoulder. Not startled. Not embarrassed. Her lips curved.
“You’re dripping on the floor,” she said.
He looked down. The glass. Water running over his fingers. He set it on the counter with a clatter.
“You knew,” he said. His voice came out rough.
She turned, still on her knees, facing him. The apron strap had slipped off one shoulder. Her nipples pressed against the thin cotton of the uniform. And between her thighs, that glint of metal—a small silver ring through her clit, catching the light as she shifted.
“Knew what?”
“That I’d see.”
Elara reached up and unclipped the apron. Let it fall. “I hoped.”
Three steps. He crossed the kitchen in three steps and grabbed her by the upper arms, hauling her up just enough to shove her back against the lower cabinets. The wood rattled. A hinge squeaked.
His mouth found hers. Not gentle. Teeth and tongue and the taste of coffee and something minty. She made a sound—low, surprised, then not surprised at all. Her hands went to his belt.
“No,” he said, breaking the kiss. “Hands on the floor.”
Her eyes widened. Then narrowed. Then she smiled.
She went back to her hands and knees. But this time she arched her spine, pushed her hips back toward him, and let her knees slide wide across the tile. The dress bunched around her waist. Her cunt opened like a flower, wet and pink and framed by the silver ring.
Marcus dropped to his knees behind her.
His hands found her hips. His thumbs pressed into the soft dip above her ass. She was warm. So warm. And when he leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted over her skin, she shivered.
“I’m going to put my face in this,” he said. Not a question.
“Please.”
He didn’t need more than that.
His tongue found her clit first. That little ring was cool against the heat of her, and he flicked it, gently, just to hear her gasp. She did. A sharp inhale. Her fingers curled against the tile.
Then he went lower. Broad strokes through her folds. She tasted like salt and something sweet, like she’d been waiting all day for exactly this. Her thighs trembled against his ears.
“Fuck,” she whispered. “Fuck, your tongue—”
He pushed inside her with it. Past the ring, past the tight ring of muscle, into the slick heat of her cunt. Her gummy walls gripped him. He groaned against her, and the vibration made her buck back against his face.
He stayed there. Minutes or hours—he couldn’t tell. His jaw ached. His nose was buried in her ass. He didn’t care. He licked and sucked and drank her down until his chin was soaked and his cock was so hard it hurt.
Elara came once. A sudden clench, a flood of wetness, a high thin cry that echoed off the cabinets. He didn’t stop. He licked her through it, then kept going.
“Wait,” she gasped. “Wait, I want—”
She pulled away. Turned. Her face was flushed, her hair a mess of dark curls sticking to her forehead. She looked at the tent in his pants and laughed.
“You’re hard.”
“I know.”
“You’re really hard.”
“I know.”
She reached for his zipper. He caught her wrist.
“Turn around,” he said.
“Marcus—”
“Turn. Around.”
She did. Hands on the floor again. Ass up. Cunt glistening. And this time, when he knelt behind her, he didn’t use his tongue.
He used his cock.
The first push was slow. Just the head. She was so wet that he slid in easy, but tight—God, so tight. Her walls rippled around him, pulling him deeper, and he had to stop halfway just to breathe.
“More,” she said.
He gave her more. One long stroke until his hips met her ass. Until he was buried to the root. Until he could feel her pulse around him, fluttering and hot.
Then he started to move.
The kitchen filled with sound. The slap of skin. The wet suck of her cunt. Her moans, low and rhythmic, punctuated by the creak of the cabinet door swinging open with every thrust. A bottle of olive oil rolled across the counter and crashed to the floor.
Neither of them noticed.
Marcus grabbed her hips and pulled her back to meet him. Harder. Faster. His balls drew up, tight and full, and he knew he wasn’t going to last. Eighteen months of nothing, and now this—this wet, perfect, clinging heat—he was going to come so hard he’d see stars.
“Inside,” Elara said. “Inside, inside, inside—”
He didn’t ask if she was sure. He couldn’t. His brain had stopped working. All he could do was fuck her, deeper and deeper, until his vision went white and his cock jerked and he poured everything he had into her.
Rope after rope. Hot and thick, flooding her cervix, filling her up until it spilled out around his shaft and dripped down her thighs. She came with him—a second time—her cunt milking him dry with rhythmic, greedy pulses.
He collapsed over her back. Both of them breathing hard. The tile was cold against his knees. The lemon polish smelled like nothing at all now.
Elara turned her head. Her cheek pressed to the floor. She smiled.
“Your mother’s surgery,” she said. “She’ll be home in three days.”
Marcus blinked. “What?”
“The temp agency. She didn’t hire me.”
His cock was still inside her. Still twitching. Still hard.
“She sent me,” Elara said. “She said you needed a reason to get up in the morning.”
He pulled out slowly. Cum followed—a thick, white trail down her inner thigh. She reached back and caught it with her fingers, then brought them to her mouth and sucked them clean.
“Same time tomorrow?” she asked.
Marcus stared at the puddle on the floor. At the olive oil. At the cabinet door still hanging open. At the woman on her hands and knees in his kitchen, her cunt still pink and open and shining.
His cock hadn’t softened at all.
“I’ll cancel the agency,” he said.
Elara laughed. “Smart man.”
She stood, straightened her dress, and walked to the sink. Her bare feet left wet prints on the tile. She turned on the tap and began washing her hands, humming something soft.
Marcus stayed on his knees. Hard. Aching. Ready.
And when she glanced back at him over her shoulder—that same small smile, that same glint of silver between her legs—he knew exactly what he was going to do next.
