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Free Use Maid Ch. 04

Steam rolled off the spring in waves. Warm, humid, brushing against my ankles and making them feel clean. I was still savoring the sting on my butt, refusing to let it leave me.

That green-skinned little boss, who was somehow still noble, had no qualms about putting his hands on me. It wasn't forceful, it was wanted. He could tell I was in rut.

"You get to cleaning that pot," he said, trudging off to do something. Something I'd look like an idiot asking about, best to keep my little mouth shut.

I nodded, bending over to slip off my heels. His knife lay on a flat rock where I'd carefully placed it.

My hands drifted to my blouse-buttons. Should I? Too forward? What would my Masters think if they caught me getting split by some underling?

My uniform could use a good rinse anyway. I tiptoed stocking clad feet into the piping hot water.

It smelled of the salt that was caked on the edges of surrounding stones.

It rolled my eyes. I liked getting rough and tumble, but this, this was the aftercare I needed and couldn't ask for.Free Use Maid Ch. 04 фото

Upstream was a cleft, a gurgling waterfall pouring through it. Childhood trips to the springs around Salt Lake had taught me that's where it'd be hottest. If I had a chance of using Xar's rag to remove some grime from this disgusting pot, that'd be it. I began my trek.

Smooth round stones shifted beneath me. I was treading carefully, in about half-calf.

I closed my eyes for a moment, taking in the lethargic babble. It was the first peaceful moment I'd had all day.

"Oh!" Something snaked around my ankles.

I yanked up a foot.

The shift in weight dislodged a stone, and I went crashing down, crotch-first, into screaming hot water, "Guahhh!"

I couldn't decide what to fear more.

Whatever just touched me, or looking like an idiot in front of GD. I stole a glance over at him, tipping a stump onto its side, muttering something under his breath.

Then there was my attention to the matter at hand. My ass, my mound, dimpled by river rocks, my sides, screaming hot, and something lurking underneath.

Okay, calm down, this is just the scene where you get "molested" my a kelpie or mer-goblin?

**This is all you girl.**

**Relax.**

**Try to enjoy it.**

**But Jesus so hooooottt...**

It didn't mash into my pussy.

**Come on.**

I tilted my head back, hole forward.

Nothing.

**Okay...**

**What is with consent here? Is everyone just nice, or am I too willing? **

Given previous role play sessions with Van I was expecting to be chased around by maiden-hungry perv-monsters. But that was not happening.

**Why isekai my ass if you weren't planning to take advantage?**

A whirl of steam peeled around me, and when it passed, a watery proboscis hung in front of my face, thick as my fist.

It didn't have a mushroom tip.

**Am I supposed to...**

It was going to be hot, scald the roof of your mouth hot.

"A kiss," GD called, "It wants a kiss."

**A kiss?**

Small bubbles ebbed through its shape.

"Mouth affinity, water, how do you not-"

**Just a kiss?**

It dipped, presenting its top to me.

**No!**

I slapped it. The thing recoiled, shivered, and shattered into a rain of pattering droplets.

**Don't get me all worked up for a kiss.**

Up near the tavern, GD wheezed, "You don't just... You could have had a spring spirit diligently lapping at your heels," he was doubled over, "It liked ya!"

**Hmmph.**

I was so fucking wet, and hot. This was supposed to be a relaxing dip. I'd ridden some sort of blue-skinned giant, come clean to a goblin, and now some watery try-hard wanted to be my pet.

**I'll make a simp out of that roiling briny bastard.**

Pulling myself to my feet, I grabbed the cauldron's handle and splashed my way to the waterfall. The temperature rose, my skirt dragging at my legs. I would feel this later, a day's worth of sun-burn in 30 seconds.

I forced the cauldron down into the stream.

"Here fucker! You like this!? Wanna lick my dirty dishes?"

I scrubbed and I scrubbed, Xar's rag knocking off clumps of crusted gruel. My knuckles screaming in near-boiling water. It was there, I saw it peeking just above the waves, a tiny crest.

**Come on you little shit, get in here. Taste it.**

GD was at the water's edge, looking at me like I'd gone mad.

It pooled at the lip, rose, and then tumbled inside. Circling the basin, it boiled.

**Yeah, I know you like that.**

Bubbles, years of misuse and caked grime bubbling and releasing, I tilted it down, letting it fill the cauldron completely.

**It's official. I'm a god-damn deviant.**

That was enough. I tipped the pot over, spilling the spring-spirit back into its brink, and sloshed myself back to the pool's edge.

"If it would please you, Sir Goblin, I could quickly wash my hair,"

A quick dip later I was wringing out my freshly washed pig-tails. I sloshed back to shore, my skirt clinging tight to my thighs. He'd been watching.

GD had rolled a stump over and the knife was standing straight up, plunked into it, "If I can't teach you how to julienne an onion, you're a lost cause, just frolic back off to where you came from."

"Sorry Sir Goblin, but, julienne?" I asked in the politest tone I could muster, kneeling next to the stump and dirtying my wet stockings.

Those slitted eyes bulged, "Here, give me your hand."

**Shouldn't he be kneeling for this.**

I held it out, palm open, and he slid in the knife's weathered handle, positioning my fingers with his other calloused, clawed paw, "Don't let me catch you holding it any other way."

**Mmhmm.**

Grabbing an onion by its stalk, he slung into onto the stump, then clutched my wrist tight, and brought it hammering down twice. There was surprising strength in that frame. The onion's sweaty top and bottom had been revealed.

"Grab it." His other arm came around my side, pointing at the onion, "Hold it vertical."

"Right, thank you Sir." my chest was tight, still sopping blouse cinched to it. I did as I was told, then he guided my wrist down like it was an extension of his own, with finesse, scoring a thin line across the onion's length. My wrist's pulse was pounding against his thumb.

He released me. "Now peel it, then chop it in half, length-wise, you should know that much." He was lasered on the onion, ready to punish me for any small mistake. How could something so simple feel so monumental? Freaking Goblin Ramsey here was itching to tear me a new one. My dungeon-master, Van, had watched way too much Hell's Kitchen and this is how she chose to express it?

I tried to cement how my fingers were wrapped around the knife before I set it down, but my head was such a mess.

The onion filled both of my palms and more, I hooked my thumbnails into its slit and began to work back its skin. He was right there, beside my shoulder, pointed tongue picking at something caught in his maw of piranha-daggers. Another wave of cool spring-mist rolled over us and my skin prickled.

"Get on with it." He said, glib. It wasn't scolding, but it was the push I needed to get out of my head.

"Yes sir." I hurriedly yanked off the skin, ripping a couple extra layers in places. Snatching up the knife, I think it was in the right place, if it wasn't he was being merciful, and chopped it down and through the onion's core.

Lightning quick, he discarded the onion skin, flipped the two sides on their flat ends, and had my wrist back in his hand.

**He could make a killing at Three Card Monte.**

Yanking me closer to the stump, he topped an onion half with two claws and began rapid jerking my wrist, and the knife, into the onion's side, cutting it into small slivers. We were rotating around it, his other hand dancing above the blade to hold things in place. One down, the slices were pushed forward, replaced with the other half, and the process repeated, "Got that?"

"I-"

I didn't.

"No sir."

Panic brewed in my gut, what kind of humiliation would he put me through next?

Another onion slapped onto the stump. He wielded me like a precision instrument.

Trimmed.

Scored.

He peeled it one handed.

Positioned.

Split.

Julienned.

Set aside.

Again.

"Now?" He commanded.

Again.

I thought I had it, wanted to feign ignorance, let him keep handling me like this, "I don't know."

He didn't slow down, he sped up. He was showing off, and it was working.

Trim. Score. Peel. Position. Split. Julienne. Aside. Repeat.

A sharp smack to the back of my knife hand, and he said, "Last onion, you do it."

I was a knife being told to wield itself. Sure I'd been shoved through the motions, but there was no muscle memory. My elbow shook.

I slapped the onion down, and it rolled, into my lap. He didn't say a word.

"Sorry." I placed it this time, held it by its stalk. His knife was beautifully sharp, I was going to lose a digit.

Slap. Slap.

Trimmed.

I grabbed it from the top, preventing a second escape, and inched closer. This required finesse, he'd rolled me, the knife, over other onions' curved lengths.

It took no force, the onion simply came undone, cutting too deep at first. I steadied myself, letting my wrist bend to it.

A half-shrug from Gob-Daddy, a resigned admission of approval.

I felt emboldened, but wasn't about to peel this thing one-handed. After thumbing the top to separate the layers where I'd pushed too hard, it came free without a tear.

Slap. The onion split. Then came the hard part, the impossible part.

How in the world does he cut like that?

"Don't think about it. Just do it."

Those words held reverence for him. I could feel their weight, they were personal. He'd just shared a hard-earned truth.

"Yes Sir."

**But how do I-**

"It's not Sir, it's Chef."

My work was clumsy, unpracticed, some slices as thick as a finger, others paper thin. I made a mess of it, and it was the last onion.

"It's done, Chef. Sorry, Chef." I kept my eyes distant, trained on a red-bird in a fir. I trusted he wouldn't out me to my employers, but I still didn't want to disappoint him.

"It's onion soup, the guests won't be able to tell."

The onion-slices piled, we were back in the kitchen and ready to cook!

There was, thankfully, some chopped wood around the tavern's back. I made several trips, loading the oven, dreading the follow-up question I wasn't allowing myself to ask. How to start a fire?

GD was probably capable of it, but I didn't want to ask him. The implication here was that I'd whip up some maid-magic. It was an entry level ability anyone above with a D- rank in Hands could manage. Hands, associated with fire.

I stood there like an idiot, eyeing the stove, as he whittled a stick. **Fucking shoot me.**

"They weren't lying about the appraisal, huh?"

**He knows. Not just that I can't garden, or prep veggies. He knows that I'm trash, in every affinity.**

"That's right." my still-damp dress was going frigid, the sun was setting and wind was our only other guest.

"I've got my work cut out for me then," setting his shiv aside he pushed to the edge of the counter, legs, and loin-cloth, dangling, "Boss said you'd need training, someone to milk for experience."

**Is he? The fast-track.**

One of the other girls had suggested it, "Just go slut-crazy, that'll get you on track."

I wasn't opposed, I'd just not had the time.

Especially with him, the way he handled me. I thought this was going to be a slog of monotonous labor. I'd have jumped his bone way earlier, but didn't know how the Masters might react.

But this was sanctioned. My own filthy goblin rod, an XP spigot, an ever-lasting gob-stopper.

"Use me."

**Yes please. Put me to work Gob-Daddy.**

"Heh, not going to make me beg for it?", he strummed clawed fingers across his hairy nude thigh.

"No-no. You want it in my mouth? My pussy?" I opened my mouth wide, presenting my tongue and throat, and peeled up the damp cloth of my skirt.

**Please say pussy.**

"You forget you need to light a fire?" His loin-cloth was moving to a beat of its own, rising, "You're using your hands."

**My... Damn-it.**

I lowered my skirt, tucked my tongue, "Yes Chef."

There was a grin trying to tug itself into existence on those cracked lips. I lowered my gaze.

**Let him smile.**

And approached him, draping his loin-cloth to the side.

It was rigid, a cock that should have belonged to someone three times his size. Easily eight inches. Green, with a pink frill and tip. I ran my fingers through the thick black mane at its source.

I needed something to fight friction, my hole was so wet, wanting to serve that purpose. The jar of lard stood at his side.

"Would Chef prefer I use the lard... or spit on it?" I kept my gaze low, removing myself from the space, from his decision.

"Oh you can spit, you can lick, but those hands are doing the work." His pink pointer was bouncing.

**Thank you.**

I wrapped my fingers through his fur, forming a circle around his base, and lowered to my knees, planting a wet kiss on his tip. Sweat, funk, musk, I inhaled sharp through my nose.

**Haaaaaa...**

Tuh.

Tuh.

Tuh.

Globs of spittle clung to his dusk-lit shaft, dripping lazily.

I worked my hand over the left side of him, and flicked my tongue up and down the right. His taste was filthy, raw, that cloth hanging to the side as a banner for poor hygiene. My eyes rolled as I drew closer and closer to his musk-brush.

"Haah... There you go bitch, I'm slick, both hands now."

He wasn't the only one, I felt a drip. Pulling my tongue away, I praised him, "Yes chef," and clasped my other palm to his burning length.

I jerked him slow, veins ruffling under my fingers. He groaned.

**He's enjoying himself, good.**

My only wish was for a free hand to work my clit. Thighs squeezing, I rocked them, my drenched folds rubbing together, yearning for touch.

"C-chef... if it would please..." I didn't want to break composure, but the need, "Could I straddle you on the floor?"

His chest puffed, "Making requests... and you still haven't served dinner."

**God I would let him feast, drench him in onion-soup...**

I picked up pace, squeezing him tight, "Fine-hah-fine," he said, "let me get down."

I released it, trailing a finger along his length, eyes still low, "Thank you Chef."

His chest heaved as he slung himself off the counter and lay on the floor, eyes up my skirt. He could see the need rolling down my thigh.

I lowered myself, aiming to rock my clit against his shaft until we both came, but he grabbed my hips, pulling them back toward his maw.

**He's going to let me ride face, what a-**

"Oh!"

That long, hooked nose. It was there, its tip teasing the knot of my service-hole, "S-sorry Chef!"

He didn't let go, he pulled my thighs down. that down-turned hook piercing and nuzzling at G-spot, "Nnngh-huh-huh."

I gripped his cock two-handed for stability, and began to jerk him again.

Tuh.

**He was getting too dry.**

Tuh.

Tuh.

The size difference between us made 69 an impossibility, but I wanted to suck him. There was a wet lapping at my folds, that pointed tongue, searching, darting, and it found it, my call-button.

"Uaaagghh!" I screamed, I rode, I jerked, huffing, riding my spots against his points.

Hot air steamed into me from his nostrils. He was getting close, his hips bucking into my palms, his cock trobbing.

"Ah-haah-Do it for me Chef, cum-all-over-me!"

That tongue, began thrumming side to side over my clit, teetering at the edge, my hips gave out. I fell back, impaling myself on his nasal-length, shaking shuddering, still jerking. Heat blooming in my palms, hot enough to press a shirt, fire!

"Fuuuu-haa-haaa-Aaaagh!"

I slumped forward off of his face, felt it shluck out of me, and kept jerking, draped across him. There it was, that tale-tell thrum, his pole turned to spigot, showering my back, "Someone- someone set off the smoke detector."

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