Maid Service (31 page)

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 hands 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.

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 …”

“… was a honey trap, I know,” Peter finished for him. “Chloe Thompson has nothing to do with this. But as for Gemma and Laurel, please feel free to publish, although I suspect the pictures Christine took will prove to be a little strong for a family newspaper.”

“What a very feeble bluff,” Lord Bearslake went on. “We know how you operate, Finch, courtesy of the fair Ophelia. All your girls have as much to lose as the men they serve, which is why they're safe. I don't know who the two you brought today are, but I'm very sure they wouldn't want their pictures in the paper.”

“To the contrary,” Peter told him. “They'd be delighted. In fact, if you spent an afternoon going around the phone boxes in the less reputable parts of central London, you'd recognize them. You see, they are a ‘pair of little tarts', but they're not from Grove House Maids, which is a perfectly respectable company set up to help students through university. Expose Gemma and Laurel, please do. It would be excellent publicity for them.”

Christine's face showed irritation, but only for a moment.

“You're in those photographs too, Finch,” she pointed out.

“I am,” Peter admitted. “But I don't suppose there'll be much public interest in little old me, surely not? Aside from that, I believe that anal sex has been legal since around nineteen-ninety-four, and light bondage is okay, and group sex, I think, especially as I was on private land, your land, in fact, Lord Bearslake.”

“What do you mean by that?” Lord Bearslake demanded.

“Precisely what I say,” Peter went on. “You have photographs, no doubt of excellent quality, that show me and three girls having sex—quite imaginative sex I'd like to think—and the animal get-ups were a wonderful touch, by the way. We're at Bearslake Hall, and you watched as the two girls were done up to look like Dalmatians, and encouraged me to sodomize Ophelia, to say nothing of your attempts at blackmail. Yes, if I had brought Grove House girls, as you expected, you'd be safe. I couldn't ask them to testify and they'd refuse in any case. But I didn't bring Grove House girls, did I? I brought Gemma and Laurel, who'll be only too pleased to testify.”

“Nobody would believe them, or you!” Lord Bearslake blustered, although he sounded worried. “A pair of whores and their pimp against a man of my reputation?”

“A pair of whores who can describe your stable yard and grounds in some detail,” Peter went on. “You do realize that I knew it was a trap all along, don't you? It was far too great a co-incidence, Ophelia meeting Gabriel in Oxford like that, immediately after the Caring Planet party. You know he's one of my oldest friends, so it can hardly have been difficult to figure out that I was providing girls for him.”

“Why did you come to Bearslake then?” Christine demanded.

“To trap you, of course,” Peter told her. “You and your appalling boss. It didn't work quite as well as it might have, admittedly, as I didn't think he'd be able to resist the girls. But then, I imagine he's expecting to get his jollies later, with you, isn't he?”

Her face had turned scarlet and Peter quickly pressed his advantage.

“Look, you impudent little pimp!” Lord Bearslake roared. “Try anything and I'll sue you for every penny you have, and believe me, I'll win.”

“Very possibly,” Peter admitted. “Which is why I took a few extra precautions. You see, Lord Bearslake, a girl who can be bribed once can be bribed again, which is why I'd have the additional support of Ophelia's testimony, including a recording of you setting up today's little outing. We also know which stores you bought the body paint from and so forth, in cash of course, but I venture to suggest that John here is quite easily recognized. Then there's the fact that while you managed to confiscate my camera, you failed to realize that I am wired for sound, so to speak. So that if things get really unpleasant I have this entire conversation on record, you blackmailing old heap of blubber. Don't worry though, I won't use it, just so long as nothing appears in that grotty little rag you call a paper. Oh, and just in case, perhaps I should also mention the three Serbian gentlemen currently waiting in a car outside your house, with the girls. They are not nice people, as you doubtless know, but then one can't always help the company one keeps. Good day to you, Lord Bearslake, Christine.”

He nodded to each and left the room.

“Do you think we're safe?” Michelle asked.

“Yes,” Peter told her. “At least from Bearslake. He's notoriously cautious with his own skin and he has far too much to lose. Remember, it's only a story to him anyway. It's Christine I'm worried about. With her it's personal. Hopefully she values her job more than getting here revenge on me.”

“I'm sure she does,” Michelle said.

“I still wish we'd got something on her,” Peter said, flopping down in his favorite armchair. “But we've yet to turn anything up, aside from letting old Bearslake hump her, which may be a trifle grotesque but it's hardly a crime. Now pour me a drink and then get your mouth around my cock. I'm still shaking.”

“You poor thing,” Michelle answered, making for the kitchen. “I'd have been terrified.”

“I was,” Peter admitted. “He had his gamekeeper with him, not at all the sort I'd care to try and tackle. He was going to go for me as I left, but Bearslake called him off. Now come on, the Serbians got their bjs and I imagine Christine was over Bearslake's knee before we'd reached the end of the drive, but …”

“Patience,” Michelle chided gently. “Do you want my dress on, or off?”

“Off,” Peter answered, easing down his fly, “and your bra.”

“I'll leak!”

“That's half the fun.”

“Pervert!”

“You married me.”

Michelle came out from the kitchen as Peter pushed his trousers down to expose his cock. She was holding a large brandy balloon, half full, which she handed to him before peeling off her dress and unfastening her bra. As the cups came lose he gave a happy sigh, marveling at the size and weight of her breasts, while little spots of milk had begun to form on her nipples before she'd even managed to get to her knees.

“Bliss!” he sighed as she wrapped both heavy breasts around his cock, smearing her milk over his shaft and the skin of his balls. “Christ they're big!”

“I'm glad you appreciate them,” Michelle answered. “A lot of men don't find pregnant women attractive.”

“Idiots,” Peter replied and sighed again as she began to lick her breast milk up from his genitals.

He'd closed his eyes, sipping at his brandy, with his tension slowly draining away under Michelle's skilled and completely uninhibited ministrations. Her heavy bosom wobbled as she moved, to press against his legs, which she'd soon eased wide apart so that she could lick his asshole while she stroked his now erect cock shaft.

“I've known a lot of very, very bad girls,” he said softly as he reached his free hand out to stroke her hair. “But you take the prize.”

Michelle responded by wriggling the tip of her tongue deeper in, and Peter tightened his grip in her hair, wondering if he should simply let her take him to orgasm with her mouth, or if it would be safe to slip into her ass with only a few days left until she was expected to give birth. On the whole it seemed better to let her continue. But even as she moved in closer to take his cock in her mouth once more, he heard the sound of car from outside.