Mirage Vol. 1 : The Housekeeper

Mirage, book one. Nicole is 32. All other characters are above 18.

DISCLAIMER: There's depiction of free use, breeding, a gangbang, anal, lesbian sex, and humiliation in this story. Please be warned.

Mirage is an organization that grants wishes. A woman provides what she desires most and Mirage builds it for her: the place, the cast, the script, sometimes on a night she chooses and sometimes as a surprise. Everything looks real. It's a mirage.

The Intake

Black. A breath, close to a microphone.

A screen turns on.

MIRAGE

INTAKE · FILE 0417

A gray chair. A blinding window. Against it, a shape in a gray suit, two long, still hands. A microphone with a red light.

Nobody in the library has ever seen her face. Everybody in the library knows her voice.

A woman sits down in the gray chair and looks into the camera.

She's thirty-two. Copper-red hair in a plain clip, ivory skin, freckles across her nose, green eyes. A cream cardigan buttoned all the way up, and losing: it pulls across her heavy breasts and gapes between the buttons. Her purse is on her knees and a Kindle is in her lap. She sits very straight.

The red light comes on.

"State your name."

"Nicole Delaney."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a nurse. And a housekeeper. I looked after an elderly couple for eight years, the Whitcombs: their pills, their meals, their silver. They died this spring, six weeks apart." She swallows. "Now I look after their house until the will goes through. The lawyer says any month now. He's been saying it since April." She stops. "That's not what you asked."

"What do you want?"

She turns on the Kindle. She has highlighted the passages in yellow, and she reads the first one to the red light, word for word. The family came home on a Monday. By Tuesday nobody bothered taking her panties off anymore. They just pushed them aside.

Her voice shakes at the start and steadies by the end. She looks up into the camera.

"That," she says. Then she laughs, embarrassed. "Sorry. I practiced this in the car.

"I want a family to buy the house. A husband and a wife, and their son. He's grown. And I come with the house." Her face is burning. "They own me, all of me, the entire week. They just take me. They don't ask. And I keep cleaning while they do it.

"I want the uniform from the books. Black dress, white apron. Not my polo." She glances down at herself. "Black lace panties. And they hardly ever take them off. They just push them to the side.

"I call them whatever they tell me to call them." A small, helpless smile. "And I never get to finish a single chore."

"The men."

"Big." She doesn't hesitate. She holds her hands up in front of her, a little apart. "My toys are this big." She looks at the space between her hands, and moves them further apart. "Bigger than that."

One long hand makes a note. "Bigger," says the voice.

"Your limits."

"Nothing that marks my face. No hitting with anything but a hand. No one in my ass unless he earns it." She goes pink. "That's not really a limit. Put it under the other one."

"Where do you want to be pushed?"

"Toys. Being watched. Being told I missed a spot. His friends, if he has any." She looks down at her hands. "And breeding talk. I'm on the pill, my bloodwork's in the envelope, and I want it raw. But I want to hear it."

"Your word."

"Lemon Pledge."

A short pause from the window. It might be a laugh.

"And if your mouth is full?"

"Two taps. On anything."

"Where?"

"Their house. It's a big stone house above a lake in northern Michigan, two hours from the nearest bar worth the name, and there's nobody in it but me and the silver." She lifts her chin. "Nobody will ever know."

"How much of you do we keep?"

"Mosaic. My face blurred. The rest of me can stay."

The hand makes one last note. "Mind the silver," says the voice.

Then the hands fold on the desk, and the voice says what it says at the end of every file.

"Last question. Nothing that happens will be real. Do you understand?"

Nicole looks into the camera for a long moment.

"Yes," she says. "That's why I came."

"Then it's granted."

The red light goes off.

The screen goes dark.

APPROVED

Nine O'Clock

For eight years, the Whitcombs went to bed at nine.

Nicole started working for them straight out of nursing school, at twenty-four. They needed a live-in nurse who would also cook and keep the house, and they paid far more than any hospital would. She had student loans to pay off, so she took it, meaning to stay a year. She stayed for eight.

She was very good at her job. Walter was seventy-nine and June was seventy-six. They tipped her at Christmas and signed the card with love, and in turn they got the best care anyone in that county had ever had. It meant she was always there, she never took more than a long weekend in eight years.

So she lived in the big gray house on the hill above the long cold lake, two hours from anywhere a woman could get a drink and be looked at. She did the pills at eight, twelve and six, and dinner at five-thirty. She wore a navy polo that pulled across her chest and khakis that lost a daily war with her ass, and nobody under that roof had really looked at her in years.

In the early years they still hosted parties. Thanksgiving and Christmas, the long table full of friends and family, the house loud for a night. Some of the guests were younger: their godson, a neighbor's son home from law school, a golfing friend's new husband. They looked at her, and they didn't hide it. They looked at her like a servant, and if they'd had the chance they would have done unspeakable things to her. She liked the way they looked at her. She could see in each face exactly what they wanted: to bend her over the sideboard, to bury their faces in her tits, to drag her into the pantry and fuck her raw. She served the soup and said nothing.

June's nephew Trent came up from Arizona for one of the last of those Thanksgivings. After dinner, pretending to be drunker than he was, he pressed her against the pantry door and got both hands on her, and she let him maul her massive tits for a good thirty seconds before she got free. In the morning he pretended not to remember, and she let him. She never told anyone.

Then the Whitcombs slowed down. Walter's heart, June's hip. The parties got smaller, and then they stopped, and the long table stayed set for two. Nicole had never been so lonely in her life.

In nursing school she'd been one of the most popular girls in her class, and she had enjoyed every minute of it: two residents, a paramedic, a bartender in Ann Arbor for most of a year. Now nobody had touched her in years.

At nine every night, when the house went quiet, she went up to her rooms over the garage, got naked, and read.

She had four hundred books on the Kindle. She'd started with the tasteful ones and kept going: billionaires, cowboys, Highland lairds, then the ones with no covers at all. By the third year she knew what she liked best. The maid stories. The big house, the master, the lady, the son home from college, and a woman in a black dress being used with the duster still in her hand. She read them in bed with her knees up and the toy humming against her, and came quietly, and lay in the dark listening to the lake.

In March, Walter died in his sleep. In April, June died too.

The will left the house to Trent, and Trent wanted it sold. The lawyer in Traverse City, Mr. Pruitt, wanted everything kept exactly as it was until probate was done, and he kept Nicole on at full salary to keep it. "Any month now," he said, in April.

So she kept Trent's house for him. For nobody.

No pills. No dinner at five-thirty. She dusted rooms nobody sat in and polished silver nobody would ever eat off. She waxed the front hall, and nobody walked on it. By August she was talking to the teapot. By September she was reading until three in the morning, coming twice, and getting up at six anyway, out of habit, to a house with nothing left to look after but her.

That was when she found the card.

Mr. Pruitt had asked her to go through June's dressing room for the inventory. In June's jewelry box, under the velvet tray where the pearls sat, there was a cream card with no name on it, just a web address and a code. Under the card was a gray envelope with one word across it in red: APPROVED.

The envelope was empty. Nicole sat on the floor of June's dressing room for a long time, holding it.

The Library

She put the code in that night, sitting up in bed.

The page that opened was plain: cream, with one word across the top in gray. MIRAGE. Under it, a short list of questions.

What is Mirage?

A private service for women. We stage a client's fantasy exactly as she describes it, with a professional cast. Every detail is designed to feel real. Nothing about it is.

How does it begin?

There will be a recorded onsite intake. You describe your wish in your own words, with your limits and your safeword. Not every application is approved.

Who are the cast?

Professionals, all of them adults, fully screened, regularly tested and extremely discreet. Cast members are never assigned. They choose each engagement.

What will Mirage not provide?

Anything involving a minor, in any form. Anyone known to the client. Anything not in her approved intake.

Who is in control?

The client, at all times. Her safeword stops everything, immediately.

What is the library?

A members-only archive of each client's intake, her wish and a closing interview, at the visibility she chooses: audio only, faces obscured, or in full. She alone holds the original. She may also contribute nothing at all.

Nicole read it twice. Then she said "Oh, please," out loud to the empty room. It was a scam, or a joke, or somebody's very expensive hobby. She nearly closed it.

Instead she clicked LIBRARY, and then, to prove it was nonsense, the first file on the list.

A woman's voice came out of the little speaker, close to a microphone, and said her name.

By two in the morning she had stopped reading and was listening instead: woman after woman, in their own voices, telling a red light what they wanted. A professor. A bride. A surgeon who wanted to be ambushed in a parking garage. Some of them had video, the faces blurred to soft squares and the rest of them very much not.

Near three, she found the maid.

It was a woman with a smoky Southern voice, reading her wish out loud. A house. A family. A uniform. Then the hour of what happened, audio only: a woman coming over and over in somebody's kitchen while a man with a deep, rough voice said you missed a spot.

Nicole came twice before it ended. Then she lay in the gray light with the Kindle on her chest and did the math. Eight years of a good salary, and nothing to spend it on.

At six she got up and polished the silver for nobody. It had never looked better.

Three weeks later a car came for her and drove her ninety minutes south, to a building she never saw the name of. Nine days after that, a gray envelope came to the stone house with one word across it in red: APPROVED.

Any Month Now

On the first Monday in October, Mr. Pruitt called from Traverse City to say that probate would take another two months at least, and was she all right out there on her own?

"I'm fine," said Nicole.

"Don't work too hard," said Mr. Pruitt kindly. "Have some fun for once."

"I'll try," said Nicole.

She hung up, went up to her rooms, and took the box out of the closet.

The dress was black, with short sleeves and a white collar, and it stopped well above the knee. The apron was white and starched, with a bow at the back. There was a little white cap she felt ridiculous in and wore anyway, black stockings, black heels, and a dozen pairs of black lace panties, cut high on the hip.

She had bought everything a size too small, on purpose, and she put it on in front of the long mirror on the back of her closet door.

The woman in the mirror was thirty-two. Copper-red hair, pinned up under the silly cap. Ivory skin, freckled across her nose and her shoulders. Green eyes and a wide, soft mouth. The dress strained across her chest, every button pulling at its hole over the soft weight of her breasts, and it nipped in at a waist that was soft but still small against the swell of her hips. Below that it gave up. It clung over the curve of her ass and rode up the backs of her thighs, and when she bent to fix a stocking the hem rose far enough to show where the stocking stopped and the black lace began.

She turned sideways and looked for a long time. She had always known what she looked like. It had just been a very long time since anybody had looked.

She went downstairs and stood in the empty front hall, under the chandelier she had dusted every Thursday for eight years, with her heart going so hard she could hear it.

At four o'clock, the doorbell rang.

Monday

They walked in as if they owned the place.

Edward came first, in a camel coat, with a newspaper under his arm. He was tall and lean, in his fifties, silver at the temples, with a long, handsome face. Diana followed him in cream silk and dark glasses, pulling off her gloves one finger at a time: dark-haired, olive-skinned and elegant, with a wide red mouth. Jack came last, carrying all three suitcases at once, grinning at the chandelier. He was twenty-five, an ex-linebacker, blond and broad and sunburned, in a polo shirt that didn't fit him across the shoulders.

Nobody said hello. Edward handed Nicole his coat without looking at her. Jack set the suitcases down on the floor she had waxed that morning and looked her slowly up and down, from the little white cap to the black heels and back up to the front of the dress, where he stayed.

"Well," he said. "Hello."

Edward finally looked at her, slowly, from the cap to the heels. "We're the new owners of the estate," he said. "I think that includes you too."

Diana pulled off the last glove and held them out to her. "Tea. In the drawing room. Now, please."

Nicole made it with her hands shaking and carried it in on the Whitcombs' good silver tray. Diana had taken June's sofa, with her legs crossed, and Edward had taken Walter's chair and the paper. Nicole poured.

"So," said Diana, stirring her cup. "The rules. You'll keep this house the way it's always been kept: meals on time, floors, silver, beds, laundry. If we want you, we'll have you, whenever, wherever, and you will submit. You'll keep working as best you can." She sipped. "And you'll address us properly. Not sir, and not ma'am. That is Master Edward." She tipped her head at her husband, who didn't look up from the paper. "That is Master Jack. And I am Mistress Diana. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Mistress Diana," said Nicole. It came out as a whisper.

"Good." Diana set her cup down. "This tea is stewed."

---

At six she was at the stove in the big kitchen, stirring a pot of soup with her back to the door.

She heard him come in, and didn't turn around. She heard the paper go down on the island and his shoes cross the tile, and then he was behind her, close enough that she could smell starch and cedar and coffee. He hadn't touched her yet.

"Keep stirring," said Edward.

She kept stirring.

His hands came to her hips first, flat and warm through the black cotton, and stayed there long enough for her to stop breathing. Then they slid up her sides to her ribs and around to the front, and took hold of her through the dress.

Nicole's whole body jolted. The wooden spoon clattered against the pot.

He weighed her. That was what it felt like: his long fingers spread wide over the starched apron bib and still not closing around her, her tits spilling past his palms, the dress straining at every seam. He lifted them and let them settle, and she heard him let out one slow breath against the back of her neck.

"Christ," he said, very quietly.

He undid the buttons down the front of the dress without hurry, five of them, while she stirred the soup with her eyes closed. Then he pulled the black cotton open and the apron bib aside, and they fell out into the warm kitchen air.

She had never in her life stood in a kitchen with her breasts bare. They were big and heavy and soft, pale and warm, with a faint blue vein tracing down the inner swell of each, pressed into a deep cleft that went down further than his hand. Wide pink nipples, already drawn up tight. The marks of eight years of good, sensible bras worn faint and pale under the curves. They swayed with every turn of the spoon.

Edward looked at them over her shoulder for a long moment. Then he took a nipple between his finger and thumb and rolled it, slowly, and pinched.

"Ohhh," Nicole moaned. "Oh, yesss." He did it to the other. He cupped them both from underneath and lifted, and let them drop, and watched them sway, and did it again.

"Let's see what else came with the house," he said. "Bend over. Hands on the counter. Keep an eye on the soup."

She turned the burner down. She stepped to the side of the stove, put her hands flat on the cold granite beside it, close enough that the pot was still in reach of her right hand, and bent, and felt her tits swing down heavy beneath her and her ass push up against the back of the dress.

He lifted the hem.

He did it slowly, the black cotton dragging up over the backs of her thighs, past the stocking tops, past the soft bare skin above them, and then over the whole of her. She heard him stop.

Her ass had been turning heads her whole adult life, and she knew it. It was large, heavy, and round, wide at the hips and full all the way down to thick, soft thighs, so much of it that no uniform she'd ever owned had hung right, and the black lace panties hid almost none of it. They were cut high on her hips and stretched tight, sheer enough to show her ivory skin through the pattern, riding up into the crease and biting into the soft flesh where her cheeks met her thighs, and at the crotch they were wet through. She could feel him looking at all of it.

He put both hands on it and squeezed, and his fingers sank in.

"All of this," Edward said, kneading slowly, spreading her, "under a pair of khakis. For eight years." He gave her one hard slap, not unkind, and she felt it ripple all the way up to her waist and the heat bloom after it. "What a waste."

Then she heard his zip.

She looked back over her shoulder.

He had his trousers open and his cock in his hand, and he let her look. Thick, much thicker than she'd expected from that lean, dry body, and long and dark, with a vein running up the underside and a broad, flushed head already slick at the tip. His balls hung full and low in a nest of silver hair. He gave himself one slow stroke while she watched, and she felt her pussy clench on nothing.

"Eyes on the soup," said Edward.

She turned back to the pot.

He didn't take the panties off. He hooked one finger in the soaked gusset and dragged it aside, so the wet black lace cut into one pale cheek and left her pussy bare to him, plump and flushed, the lips parted and shining, wet to the tops of her thighs, and that one careless movement nearly made her come on its own. Then he took hold of her hip and fit himself against her from behind: the thick, hot head of his cock sliding up through the slick between her lips, once, twice, nudging her clit until her knees nearly went.

"You're wet," he said, as if it were a mild surprise. "Good. It's all ours now. You, your holes, even your womb."

"Yes, Master Edward," said Nicole.

He pushed into her.

Slowly, and all the way. The broad head opened her in a hot, stinging stretch, and then the rest of him came in after it, dragging along every inch of her, bigger than the biggest toy in her nightstand, deeper than anybody in a very long time, until his hips settled flush against her ass and he was pressed right up against the end of her, and she was so full she couldn't breathe.

He held there. The soup ticked in the pot.

Then he began to fuck her, without any hurry at all.

All the way out, so she felt the head catch at her entrance, and all the way back in, so his hips smacked against her ass and set it shaking. Her tits swung beneath her with every stroke and slapped together. Her hands slid on the granite. The wet sounds were obscene in the quiet kitchen, and she could hear them over the soup.

"Don't let it catch," said Edward.

She reached for the spoon and stirred. He fucked her harder for it, and she lost her place, and found it, and lost it again. He reached around and took one of her swinging breasts in his hand and squeezed it in time with his strokes, his thumb dragging across her nipple, and her knees began to buckle. She bit down on the back of her wrist to keep quiet.

She came with her forehead on the cool granite and the spoon still in her hand, a long, helpless, shuddering clench around his cock that went on so long she heard herself say oh God, oh God, Master Edward into the counter.

He didn't stop. He took a fistful of the apron bow at the small of her back and hauled her back onto him by it, harder now, until she felt him swell inside her. Then he drove in one last time, all the way to the root, and held her there while he emptied into her, pulse after hot pulse, and she kept stirring through every one of them.

He stayed in her for a moment. Then he pulled out, and she felt his cum begin to run, warm, down the inside of one thigh to the top of her stocking.

Edward tucked himself away, picked up his paper, and looked at the pot.

"Dinner at seven," he said, and went.

Nicole stood bent over the counter for a long time with her tits out and her dress up and his cum soaking into her stocking top, and laughed, and couldn't stop. The soup didn't burn.

---

That night she went up to her rooms at nine, out of habit, and lay in bed in the dark in her stockings and panties, too wound up to sleep.

At eleven the door opened.

Jack didn't knock, and he didn't say a word. He came in barefoot, in a T-shirt and sweatpants, stood at the foot of her narrow bed looking at her, and pulled the shirt over his head.

He was enormous. Broad through the chest and shoulders, a linebacker's body gone a little soft at the waist, blond hair on his chest and a trail of it down his belly. He pushed the sweatpants down and his cock swung free, already half hard and rising as she watched: long, pale and heavy, with a blunt, flushed head and full balls hanging low beneath.

Nicole stared.

He didn't bother with the lamp, or with her stockings. He pulled the covers off her, rolled her onto her front, dragged her hips up off the mattress by both hands, yanked her panties aside, and pushed into her in one hard stroke, all the way. She cried out into the pillow.

Edward had been thick; Jack was long, and he kept going in after she thought he'd stopped, until the blunt head nudged somewhere deep inside her that nothing had ever touched, and she clutched the sheet in both fists.

He fucked her hard from the start, greedy and silent, both hands sunk in the soft flesh of her hips, hauling her back onto every stroke, letting go only to spank her, hard, one cheek and then the other, until her ass was raw and covered in the red prints of his palm. The cheap little bed knocked against the wall. Her ass slapped against his belly and rippled, the black lace he'd dragged aside bit into her cheek with every thrust, and she could hear how wet she was: loud and filthy, Edward's cum and her own slick churned up together. Her tits were crushed into the mattress, her nipples dragging on the sheets until they burned. The only sounds he made were his breathing, the slap of his hips and the crack of his hand.

"Fuck," he said finally, through his teeth. "You're a good fuck."

That was all it took. She came.

One moment she was rocking under him; the next her whole body clenched and bucked around his cock, her face buried in the pillow. "Mmmffff," she wailed into it, "mmmfff--oh God--oh God--" and she couldn't stop. He didn't slow down. He fucked her through it and through the aftershocks, until she was sobbing.

Then he pulled out, flipped her onto her back with one hand, and shoved her knees up toward her shoulders.

He stopped there for a second and looked at her: her full breasts spilled to either side, flushed and heaving, her thick thighs spread wide, her pussy red and dripping between them. She could see in his face exactly what he wanted.

He sank back in, all the way, his big hands pinning her thighs open, and fucked her deep and steady until she came again, a long, rolling clench that lifted her hips off the bed into him.

Then he pulled out of her, climbed up the bed, and knelt astride her ribs.

His cock lay heavy between her tits, shining wet from her pussy. He took them in both hands and pressed them together around him, and began to fuck them. The soft, slick flesh closed around him, and every stroke pushed the blunt head up out of her cleavage toward her chin, then dragged it back down. Her tits rolled and bounced in his grip. He squeezed them harder and went faster, and she lifted her head and opened her mouth, and the next time the head came up she licked it.

He came on her face.

The first rope hit her cheek and her open mouth, hot and salty, and the next went across her nose and into her hair, and the rest spilled down onto her chin and her throat and pooled in the deep cleft between her tits. He held them together around his cock until he was finished.

Then he looked down at her, and at the mess, and tapped her chin once with his finger.

She wiped it off her face with her fingers and sucked them clean, one at a time, while he watched. She scooped it out of her cleavage and licked her palm. Then she lifted her head and took his softening cock in her mouth and cleaned him too, until there was nothing left.

"Best fuck in the house," said Jack.

He rolled off onto the narrow bed beside her, sweating, and fell asleep almost at once with one big hand still spread on her ass.

Nicole lay awake in the dark, sore and sticky and grinning at the ceiling.

Tuesday

At seven-thirty she served breakfast in the dining room: eggs, toast, and the paper folded beside Edward's plate.

He came down in a dark silk dressing gown, and nothing else. When she leaned over to pour his coffee, she saw that the gown had fallen open below the belt, and that he was already hard, standing up out of the dark silk against his stomach.

He shook the paper open. He didn't look at her.

"Under the table," he said.

She went down on her knees on the Whitcombs' old Persian rug and crawled under the long mahogany table, into the dim, until she was between his knees.

His cock was right in front of her face. In the half light under the tablecloth she could see everything she'd only felt the day before: the vein that had dragged inside her, the weight of his balls, the slick bead at the tip. He smelled of soap and warm skin. She ran her tongue up the underside, from his balls to the tip, and felt him jump.

Then she took him in her mouth.

Above her, the paper rustled. A cup went down on a saucer. "Diana," said Edward, "the Pemberton house sold."

"For how much?"

Nicole sucked him slowly, the way she had imagined in her narrow bed a thousand times. Her lips stretched wide around the thick shaft, and she took him deeper, inch by inch, until the head pressed at the back of her throat and her eyes watered. She held him there, breathing through her nose, her tits pressed against his knees through the dress. His hand came down under the tablecloth and rested on the back of her head, and stayed there. He didn't push. He turned a page.

"Too much," said Edward.

She worked him while he finished his eggs, wet and slow and then faster, spit running down her chin onto the starched bib, her own breath loud in the dark. She used her hand on what she couldn't fit in her mouth. Twice she felt him get close and slowed down, and the second time his fingers tightened in her hair in warning, and her pussy clenched.

When he came he didn't make a sound, and he didn't lower the paper. His hand pressed her head down, once, and he spilled across her tongue and against the back of her throat in thick bursts, more than she could keep up with. She swallowed, and swallowed again, and some of it ran out of the corner of her mouth anyway.

He let go of her hair and patted her head twice.

"More coffee," said Edward, and she crawled out with her cap crooked and her lips swollen and her chin wet, and poured it.

---

Jack never let her finish a chore.

She started the laundry at nine. At five past he walked into the laundry room without a word, pushed her back against the dryer and kissed her, deep and slow, his tongue in her mouth and both hands inside the front of her dress, mauling her tits. He squeezed her ass hard enough to lift her onto her toes. Then he pushed her down onto her knees on the tile, opened his shorts, and fed her his cock.

He fucked her face with one hand in her hair, not gently, until her eyes streamed and her cap fell off into the laundry basket.

"Mmmh--mmmh--mmmmh--"

She ground her thighs together on the tile. Then he pulled out, still hard, tucked himself away, and left.

She knelt there gasping and wet, with the dryer thumping against her back. She got up and folded two towels.

At ten he found her polishing the silver at the kitchen table. He came up behind her chair, turned her face up to his and kissed her until she dropped the polishing cloth, his hand down the front of her dress and his thumb working her nipple. Then he stood her up, bent her over the table among the forks, and flipped her skirt up over her back.

He took his time with her ass. He stroked it first, slow and almost gentle, his palm gliding over the black lace and the bare, ivory curves around it. Then, without warning, a hard slap that rang off the kitchen tiles and set the whole of it quivering. Then both hands sinking deep into it, kneading, spreading her, mauling it until she gasped. Then a caress again, soft, over the hot pink print of his hand. Then another slap, on the other cheek. "Ohhh," she moaned into the tablecloth. He never did the same thing twice in a row, and by the end she was pushing her ass back into his hands and still couldn't decide which she liked more.

Then he pulled her down onto her knees between the chairs to suck him, kept her there just long enough for her to forget the silver, and pulled out of her mouth with a wet pop. He walked out whistling. She sat back down in front of a half-polished teapot with her mouth wet and her pussy aching.

The pool was next.

She was out on the deck at eleven with the long skimming net, fishing yellow birch leaves off the water in the thin October sun, when he came out of the cabana in a pair of swim shorts and sat down on the end of a lounger to watch her. She skimmed the same corner three times. When she bent to knock the leaves out of the net against the coping, she heard him laugh, low, and felt his eyes on the backs of her thighs where the skirt rode up.

He crooked one finger at her. She leaned the net against the cabana wall and went.

He didn't get up. He pushed the shorts down his thighs and sat back on his hands with his cock lying half hard against his leg, and waited. She went down on her knees on the sun-warmed stone between his feet, rough through her stockings, the sun on the back of her neck. She took him in her hand first, because he hadn't said she couldn't, and felt him fill and lift against her palm. Then she licked him from the root to the blunt head, and he let out a breath through his nose and looked up at the sky.

"Hands behind your back," he said.

She clasped them behind her, over the apron bow, and he took her head in both hands and pushed down.

Long as he was, she couldn't take all of him, and he knew it and didn't care. He fed himself into her mouth until the head was at the back of her throat and then a little past it, and she gagged around him, and he held her there and let her feel it, her throat working, her eyes running, spit stringing from her lips onto the apron, before he let her up for one gasp and pushed her down again. The lounger creaked. A leaf landed on the water behind her. She could hear the wet, choking sounds she was making come back off the cabana wall, and every one of them went straight to her pussy.

"Look at me," he said.

She looked up at him with her mouth full of him and her eyes streaming. He held her gaze and fucked her mouth in short, hard strokes, and she kept her hands behind her back because she'd been told to. When he came he held her still with the head of his cock deep on her tongue, and she swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed, her throat aching, until he was done.

He let her go. While she was still gasping he picked up the net, put the handle back into her hands, and dove into the pool, and the splash soaked her to the knees.

After lunch it was the main stairs. She was polishing the banister and he came up behind her, kissed the back of her neck, and pulled her dress open from behind to fill both hands with her tits. She was trembling before he'd even turned her around. He slapped her ass once through the dress, hard, then sat down on the step above her and pulled her head into his lap, and fucked her mouth with both hands in her hair while she held on to the banister she'd polished every Friday for eight years. Then he got up and went to take a nap.

He hadn't fucked her once, all day.

By dinner she'd lost count of the chores. She told Diana so, red in the face, while she served the roast.

"How many did you finish?" said Diana.

"None, Mistress Diana."

"Then you'll do better tomorrow," said Diana, and smiled into her wine.

Wednesday

On Wednesday it didn't stay under the table.

She came into the dining room with the coffee pot, and Edward folded the paper in half, stood up, took the pot out of her hand and set it down. He turned her by the hips to face the sideboard, where the Whitcombs' good silver stood in rows, and bent her over it with one hand between her shoulders.

He lifted her skirt with the other. He pulled the panties aside. She heard the paper rustle as he picked it up again.

He fucked her with one hand on her hip and the paper in the other, reading. Even, unhurried strokes, each one sunk deep enough to press her ass flat against his hips, and after a while she realized they were keeping time with his reading: a little quicker down a column, a pause while he turned the page. The silver jumped and rattled on the sideboard with each one. A pair of sugar tongs slid off its tray and rang on the floor. She gripped the edge of the sideboard with both hands and watched the teapot shiver an inch from her face, her tits crushed against the polished wood and her breath fogging it.

"Diana," said Edward, turning a page. "The Ashcrofts are divorcing."

"About time," said Diana, buttering her toast.

Nicole came with her cheek against the sideboard and her mouth open, trying to be quiet, and wasn't. He didn't even slow down. He fucked her through it at the same patient pace, and said, in the voice he used for the society column, "I'm going to fill this cunt every morning until it takes. Then you'll pour my coffee with my baby in you."

Then he pressed in deep and held there, and she felt him pulse inside her while he finished the article.

He pulled out, folded the paper, and sat back down to his eggs.

After that it was the rule of the house: coffee, the paper, then Nicole. Diana buttered her toast through all of it.

---

At eleven they came back from tennis.

Nicole was on her knees in the front hall with a bucket and a brush, doing the marble the way it had been done when the house was built, when the door banged open and they came in from the court flushed and laughing, rackets under their arms.

They were soaked. Edward's white shirt was stuck to his chest and back, dark with sweat, his silver hair wet at the temples. Diana's tennis whites were worse: a little pleated skirt and a sleeveless polo plastered to her, the damp cotton gone sheer over her breasts so her nipples showed straight through it, her long olive legs shining with sweat, her dark hair coming down out of its clip. The hall filled with the smell of them, hot and salty and sharp.

Edward stopped in front of her and looked down.

"You missed a spot," he said.

He pushed his shorts down. His cock swung out half hard and damp with sweat, his balls slick with it, the silver hair at the root dark and wet. He took her chin in his hand and tipped her face up.

"Clean it," said Edward.

Nicole put down the brush.

She started at his balls, because that was where the sweat was worst. She licked them slowly, all over, tasting salt and skin and the sharp, musky heat of him, sucking each one gently into her mouth while he sighed above her and leaned on his racket. Then she licked her way up the shaft, all of it, the underside and the sides and the vein she knew now, swallowing the taste of him, and felt him grow hard against her tongue. By the time she took the head into her mouth he was rock-hard, and she was soaked.

"Good," said Edward. He pulled out of her mouth. "Now her."

Diana had sat down on the third stair, still breathing hard from the court. She opened her knees, lifted the little white skirt, and hooked her tennis briefs aside with one finger. Her pussy was flushed and slick, the dark hair wet with sweat.

She looked at Nicole's mouth.

Edward took Nicole by the back of the neck, walked her on her knees across the wet marble to the stairs, and pushed her face down between Diana's thighs.

She had never had a woman. Diana was soaking, and tasted of salt and sweat and something richer underneath, and she didn't wait for Nicole to learn. She took Nicole's head in both hands and ground herself against her mouth.

Behind her, Edward knelt on the marble, flipped her skirt up over her back, and pushed her panties aside. She felt the head of his cock, wet from her own mouth, press against her, and then he drove into her in one long stroke that shoved her face deeper into Diana.

"Mmmmffff," Nicole moaned into her.

He fucked her hard, his hands on her hips, the slap of his sweaty thighs on her ass ringing off the marble. Every thrust pushed her forward into Diana's pussy, and Diana held her there and rode her face, her heels on the stair and her thighs clamped around Nicole's head. Her tits swung inside the dress beneath her, the starched bib dragging over the edge of the bottom stair. She licked and sucked at whatever she could reach, Diana's clit, her lips, her entrance, half drowning, Edward's cock driving into her from behind, until Diana arched back against the stairs with a sharp cry and came on her tongue.

Edward came a moment later. He didn't groan. He pulled her hips back hard against his thighs and held her there, and she felt every pulse of him with her mouth still full of his wife.

He pulled out, picked up his racket and his shirt, and went up the stairs past Diana.

"I'm going to shower," he said.

---

Diana didn't move for a moment. Then she stood up, peeled off the wet polo and the little skirt and the briefs, and dropped them on the stairs. She crossed to the hall table, opened the drawer, and took out something Nicole didn't get a look at.

She was long and lean and olive all over, shining with sweat. Her breasts were small, the nipples dark and hard from the court. Her stomach was flat, with the faint silver lines of a long-ago pregnancy low across it. Narrow hips, long legs, and between them a neat dark triangle, already wet. She was forty-eight, and every inch of her was looked after.

"On your back," she said.

Nicole lay down on the cold, wet marble. Diana knelt, pulled the front of the black dress open so Nicole's heavy breasts fell free, and then straddled her face, facing down the length of her body, and lowered herself onto Nicole's mouth.

Diana moaned as Nicole started licking, and rode her slowly this time, rocking her hips and leaning forward. One hand pushed Nicole's thighs apart. Then something hard and smooth pressed against her pussy, slick with Edward's cum.

Diana switched it on. It was thick and long and heavy, curved at the neck, with a fat, rounded head, and the hum of it went straight through Nicole's pussy and up her spine.

It roared. She had turned it straight up to the top, and it was big, and she pushed it all the way into Nicole in one push and began to fuck her with it, hard, in and out, while the whole thing buzzed so strongly that Nicole felt it in her teeth.

Nicole screamed into Diana's pussy.

She couldn't move. Diana's weight was on her face, and the hand that had spread her thighs was flat on her belly now, holding her down, and the vibrator kept going, relentless, the noise of it filling the hall. Her heels skidded on the wet marble. Her thighs jumped. The pleasure climbed and climbed with nowhere to go, too much, far too much, and she was sobbing against Diana's clit and licking her at the same time.

Her legs locked. Diana pressed the vibrator right up against Nicole's G-spot, and held it there.

"Keep that tongue moving," said Diana.

Nicole came, and something let go that had never let go before.

It gushed out of her around the vibrator, hot, again and again, spraying over Diana's hand and her own thighs and splashing across the marble. Diana didn't stop. She fucked her through it with the vibrator still on full, and Nicole squirted again, and again, her whole body bucking under Diana, her scream muffled in Diana's pussy, until Diana ground down on her face and came too, shuddering, with a long, low cry.

Then Diana switched it off.

She climbed off Nicole's face and stood looking down at her: the housekeeper on her back on the marble with her dress open and her tits out, gasping, soaked from her chest to her knees, lying in a wide, shining puddle that ran halfway across the floor she had just washed.

"Look at the mess you've made," said Diana softly.

"I'm sorry, Mistress. I'll get a cloth."

"No." Diana picked her tennis clothes up off the stairs. "You'll clean it up with your mouth. I'm going to shower, and when I come down, I want your nasty cunt juice gone."

She went up the stairs.

Nicole rolled over onto her hands and knees. She put her lips to the cool marble, and her tongue, and licked it up: long, flat strokes across the stone, warm and faintly salt and faintly sweet, tasting of herself, with Edward's cum running down the inside of her thigh and her face burning and her pussy aching all over again.

When Diana came down twenty minutes later, in a white robe with her hair wet, the floor shone.

"There," said Diana. "That's how a floor is done."

Thursday

Jack found her in Walter's study, on the library ladder, dusting the top shelf.

He stood at the foot of it and looked up her skirt for a while, and she let him, dusting the same three books very thoroughly. Then he lifted her down, sat on the old leather Chesterfield under the window, opened his jeans, and pulled her onto his lap.

She sank down on him with her knees on either side of his hips, her skirt rucked up around her waist and the black lace pushed aside, until she had all of Jack's long cock inside her and was sitting on him, full to the end. "Thank you, Master Jack," she said. Then she started to ride.

She rocked on him, back and forth, grinding down. He pulled the front of her dress open and her big breasts tumbled out into his face, soft and swaying, and he took one wide nipple in his mouth and sucked it, hard, then the other, while his hands went around to her ass. He kneaded it. He spread it. Then he slapped it, a sharp crack in the quiet study, and she gasped and rocked harder, and he did it again.

"Haven't come in you once all week," Jack said against her breast. One hand left her ass and spread flat on her belly. "I'm going to knock you up."

She was on the pill, she had triple-checked it, and her whole body still went hot to the soles of her feet. She rode him harder.

She didn't hear the door.

She felt it first: a hand on the back of her neck, and the smell of starch and cedar, and Edward behind her. She heard his zip. Then she felt the thick, slick head of his cock press against her ass, right against the tight pucker, and push.

"No," she gasped. "No, not there, Master Edward--"

He took a fistful of her copper hair and pulled her head back, and put his mouth against her ear.

"We own every hole," Edward said quietly. "Every hole."

He pushed.

Nicole whimpered. It was too big. She was already full of Jack, and Edward was thick, and the pressure built and built against a ring that wouldn't give, and she whimpered again, high in her throat. And she shook her ass for him. She couldn't help it. She rolled her hips back against him, wiggled, pushed back, opening herself, helping him in, and she didn't say Lemon Pledge.

Edward's mouth was at her ear, and for one second the voice was not Master Edward's at all. "Earned?" he said, very low.

Nicole nodded against Jack's shoulder. "Earned," she whispered.

It gave all at once: a hot, bright, stinging stretch as the fat head forced through and popped inside her, and she cried out. Edward held still. Then he sank in, an inch at a time, so slowly she felt every ridge of him dragging into her, until his hips pressed flush against her ass.

She had both of them.

Jack's long cock was buried deep in her pussy, Edward's thick one in her ass, with only one thin wall between them, and she could feel them both, each one separately, pressing against each other inside her. She couldn't speak. She couldn't think. She sat there impaled between the two men with her tits in Jack's face and Edward's fist in her hair, shaking from head to foot.

Then they moved.

Jack from below, short, hard thrusts up into her. Edward from behind, on his feet at the edge of the cushions, in long strokes that took their time. One in while the other drew back, so that she was never empty for a second, and the friction of them sliding past each other inside her was unbearable. The old sofa creaked and shifted on the floorboards. Jack sucked her nipple and spanked her ass, and every slap made her clench around both of them at once, and they both groaned.

"Oh--oh fuck--oh fuck, oh fuck--"

She came harder than she had ever come. It tore through her from both ends at once. She screamed, she shook, she clamped down on both cocks so hard that Jack swore and Edward's free hand dug into her hip, and she kept coming, and kept coming, dripping onto Jack's lap and the leather, while they fucked her straight through it, until she was sobbing and limp and held up only by the two of them.

Jack came first, buried deep in her pussy, both hands on her ass, groaning into her tits. "There," he panted. "Now I've knocked you up." Edward came a moment later, deep in her ass, and pulled her head back by the hair to say against her ear, perfectly level, "Every hole."

They pulled out of her one at a time. She slid off onto the Chesterfield and lay there with her dress open and her legs apart, cum running out of her from both holes onto Walter's old leather, and laughed weakly at the ceiling.

Edward zipped himself up, smoothed her hair once, and went back to his paper.

Friday

Friday was almost restful. Coffee, paper and Nicole on the sideboard. Jack twice before lunch, once in the pantry and once on the back stairs.

Diana sent for her at three.

"Bathe first," she said, when Nicole came to the morning room with her cap straight and Jack still running down the inside of her thigh. She didn't look up from her book. "Fresh stockings, fresh panties. Then come back to me."

Nicole bathed in eleven minutes and came back pink and damp under the black dress. Diana was in an armchair by the bay window with her shoes off, and behind her the lake ran silver all the way to the far shore. She closed the book on one finger and looked Nicole over the way she had looked at the tea on Monday.

"In the window," she said. "Where the light is."

Nicole sat back in the window seat with the cushions behind her and the cold glass at her shoulder. Diana drew the footstool up between her knees and sat down on it as comfortably as she sat down to breakfast. She turned the black skirt back over Nicole's belly a fold at a time. She hooked the clean lace aside with one finger, and looked.

"Still pink from the bath," she said. "Let's see how long that lasts."

She took her time. She kissed the soft skin above one stocking top and left a red print of her mouth there, then the other. She breathed on Nicole until her hips came up off the cushion, and pressed them down again with one hand. Then she licked her, once, with the flat of her tongue, from her entrance all the way up to her clit, and stopped.

"Did you finish the silver?"

"Yes, Mistress Diana."

"All of it?"

"Yes, Mistress."

Another lick. Another stop. Diana ate her the way she buttered her toast, thoroughly and at her leisure and with half her mind somewhere else, and every time Nicole's thighs began to tremble she lifted her head and asked about something: the linen closet, Sunday's lunch, whether the drawing room chimney drew. Twice Nicole got to the edge and was left there, panting, with the lake bright behind her eyelids and Diana's breath cool on her wet skin.

The third time, Diana slid two fingers into her and curled them, finding the place the vibrator had found on Wednesday, and sucked Nicole's clit into her mouth and held her right at the top, and stopped again.

Nicole heard herself make a sound she didn't recognize.

"Please," she said. "Please, Mistress Diana. Please let me come."

Diana looked up at her over the black dress. Her red mouth was wet to the chin.

"Since you ask so nicely," she said, and bent her head again.

She didn't stop that time. She kept her fingers moving and her tongue flat and steady, and she watched. Nicole came with her heels drumming on the floorboards and both palms pressed to the cold glass, her back arching off the cushions, and Diana held her open and watched every second of it, and licked her through the aftershocks until Nicole was twitching and begging her to stop, and then a little longer.

Then she sat back, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and opened her book.

"Tea at four," said Diana. "And there's lipstick on my cushion. Have it out before then."

Saturday

On Saturday at five, Jack's friends came.

There were five of them, in two trucks, with three cases of beer and a lot of noise. Brett and Trey had played with Jack in college: Brett tall and rangy and dark, who said "Thank you, ma'am" every single time she handed him a beer; Trey short and stocky with a red beard and a block M tattooed on one forearm. Gus was huge, bearded and barrel-chested, with forearms bigger than her calves. Owen was tall and quiet, with a shaved head and a long, calm face. And Reggie, wiry and gap-toothed in a jersey he swore was lucky, talked from the moment he came in the door and didn't stop.

They filled the den, put the game on the big television and their feet on the Whitcombs' coffee table, and when Nicole came in with the first tray of beers the whole den went quiet for one second.

"Jesus, Jack," said Reggie. "You weren't kidding."

She served them all night, beer and wings and chips and more beer, and every time she walked past, somebody touched her. A hand on her ass as she bent with the tray. A palm sliding up the back of her thigh to the stocking top while she set down the wings, and two fingers trailing along the wet lace between her legs before she could straighten up. Gus pulled her into his lap at halftime and kept her there through two commercials, his big hand inside the front of her dress, weighing one heavy breast while he argued with Trey about the defense. He let her go when the third quarter started without ever having looked at her. Owen didn't grope her at all. He just watched her every time she crossed the room.

She went back and forth to the kitchen with her face burning and her panties soaked through, and the score got closer.

With four seconds left, Michigan missed a field goal they should have made.

The den exploded. Reggie threw a cushion at the television. Brett swore. Trey put his head in his hands.

Nicole was standing in the doorway with a fresh tray of beer. Five heads turned and looked at her.

"Well," said Jack from the couch, very calmly. "Somebody's got to make it up to us." He nodded at her. "She's ours. Help yourselves."

---

She didn't even get the tray down. Gus was up first. He took it out of her hands, put it on the floor, turned her by the arm and pushed her face down over the arm of the couch, and flipped her skirt up over her back. The den went quiet again at the sight of her ass in the stockings and the little black lace panties.

"Fuck me," said Reggie reverently.

"Not you," said Gus, unzipping. "Her." He shoved the panties to one side with his thumb.

His cock was short and brutally thick, dark and veined, as hairy as the rest of him, and he didn't ease in. He shoved into her in one rough stroke that drove the breath out of her and fucked her hard and furious, the arm of the couch digging into her belly and her ass rippling under every slam of his hips. His big hands held her by the waist and pulled her back onto him. Every stroke stretched her open around that thickness, and the wet sound of it was loud even over the TV.

Somebody took her chin. Brett was kneeling on the couch cushions in front of her with his jeans open and his cock out, long and slim and curved upward, and he pushed into her mouth and held her by the hair.

"Fourth and two," he said through his teeth. "And they run it up the middle."

She took him deep, spit running down her chin, Gus pounding into her from behind and shoving her forward onto Brett with every stroke. Her tits had come out of the open dress and swung under her, slapping against the couch arm. She could have tapped. She didn't want to tap anything. "Mmmmmff," she moaned around Brett's cock, and felt him throb against her tongue.

Over Brett's shoulder she saw Jack, standing by the television with his arms folded, watching her face. He caught her eye and raised his eyebrows a fraction: all right? She closed her eyes and pushed back hard against Gus, and Jack grinned and looked away.

Gus finished the way he'd started, with no warning at all: three short, brutal strokes, a grunt, his palm cracking down on her ass, and then he was emptying into her, buried as deep as he could get, his fingers bruising her waist. He stayed there a moment, breathing hard. When he stepped back she felt the cool air of the den where he'd been, and his cum begin to slide.

Nobody moved. She hung over the arm of the couch with Brett still in her mouth and her ass in the air, and she could feel all of them looking at her, at the wet black lace dragged aside and Gus's cum on her thighs, deciding who was next.

Brett came while they decided. He held her head still and said "Thank you, ma'am," through his teeth and spilled across her tongue in a long salty rush, and she swallowed and came up gasping.

By then Trey had his jeans open.

He dragged her off the arm of the couch and down onto the cushions on her back and put her ankles on his shoulders. His cock was flushed dark red, with a wide, flared head that caught at her entrance each time he drew back, and he fucked her with his whole weight, cursing the kicker with every stroke, missed it, fucking missed it, while the couch springs groaned under them and Gus's cum squelched out around him. She came under him with her heels in the air. He came a minute later with a roar and her ankle crushed in his fist, the block M on his forearm jumping, and she felt that one too.

Reggie had her on her knees on the rug before she'd got her breath back, still talking. His cock was dark and slim and very hard, and he didn't stop talking even when he was down her throat. "This is what happens," he told her, fucking her mouth with his hand in her hair, "this is what happens when we lose, sweetheart." He pulled out at the last second, pulled her tits up out of the dress, and came on them, long white ropes across the soft swells, and rubbed it into her skin with his palm while she knelt there gasping and the others laughed. Then he held his fingers to her lips and made her lick them clean.

Owen waited until last.

He hadn't touched her all night. He had watched everything the others did to her from Walter's armchair, without a word, his beer going warm in his hand. Now he set the bottle down on the side table, on a coaster, and the den went quiet for the third time that night.

He opened his jeans, and Nicole stopped breathing.

His was the biggest cock in the room, long and thick at once, pale and smooth, the head dark and swollen, bigger than she'd shown the window with her hands. He let her look, and she looked her fill, on her knees on the rug with Reggie's cum cooling on her skin, and her pussy clenched, empty and sore and wanting.

He tipped his head at the rug in front of him. She went.

He pulled her onto his lap facing him, lifted her by the hips, and held her there over him with the swollen head pressed against her, and waited until she looked at him.

"Bigger than that," she whispered, and laughed, shakily, and he lowered her onto him.

She sank down a little at a time, her mouth open and her eyes going wide. He stretched her until she burned, and kept stretching her, and went on going in after there was no room left, past where Jack had reached, past anything, until she was sitting on his hips with her thighs spread wide over his, so stuffed she couldn't speak. He held her there. He still hadn't said a word. She could feel her own pulse beating around him.

Then he took her by the waist and began to lift her and drop her onto him.

She rode him with her tits swinging free in his face and Reggie's cum shining on them, the black dress around her waist and the cap long gone, the old armchair creaking under them. Somebody behind her gathered her hair in a fist. Somebody else took a handful of each cheek and spread her open around Owen's cock so the others could watch him go in. Every time she came down on him he went deeper than she thought he could, and she heard herself crying out with every one: "Oh--oh--oh--oh God--"

Owen leaned forward and put his mouth against her ear, and for the first time all night she heard his voice, low and unhurried and almost kind.

"I'm going to breed you so deep it takes," he said. "And when you're showing, every man in this room will know whose it is."

She came on him so hard she screamed. Owen held her down on him through all of it, his big hands locked on her waist, and only then, with her still shuddering around him, did he come, deep inside her, in long pulses she felt in her belly, with a single soft word.

"Good."

She climbed off him on unsteady legs with his cum running down the inside of her thigh, and looked around at the six of them, flushed and sweaty and finally quiet.

"More beer, sirs?" said Nicole.

Reggie laughed so hard he fell off the couch.

Sunday

On Sunday morning she brought the coffee to the master bedroom on a tray, because she'd been told to.

All three of them were waiting.

Edward was sitting up in bed with the paper, as always. Diana lay beside him in the white robe. Jack was in the window seat, eating a piece of toast off a plate he'd taken from her tray on the way in.

"Put it down," said Diana. "And take that off. Let's see what we bought."

Nicole set down the tray. She undid the buttons, untied the apron, and let the black dress fall around her feet on the Whitcombs' carpet. She stood there in the morning light from the lake in her stockings, her cap and her little black lace panties, with her nipples tight and her face hot and all three of them looking at her.

"The cap too," said Edward, without lowering the paper.

She took off the cap. Diana got up, knelt in front of her, and drew the panties down her thick thighs to her ankles: the first time all week anyone had bothered to take them off.

Edward put the paper down.

---

They took her on the bed she had made every morning for eight years.

Edward first. He threw back the sheet, and for the first time all week she saw him naked: an old swimmer's shoulders, silver hair across his chest and down his flat stomach, and his cock already hard against his belly. He pulled her down across the bed on her back, pushed her thighs apart and fucked her the way he had in the kitchen, unhurried, except that this time he watched her face, while Diana lay propped on one elbow beside her and played with her tits. Diana rolled one wide nipple between her fingers, then the other, then bent and took one into her mouth and sucked it, slow and hard, and Nicole arched up off the sheets between the two of them, Edward's cock deep inside her and Diana's warm mouth on her nipple, and came before either of them had really started.

Jack had watched her come from the foot of the bed. "My turn," he said.

"Not yet," said Diana. "She's not done."

Edward kept on until she was twisting on the sheets again. Then he drew back and sat on his heels, and Diana nodded to Jack.

He came up the bed, stretched out against the pillows at the head of it and reached for her, and pulled her up onto him with her back to his chest, so that she lay along him with her head on his shoulder and her whole body open to the room. He hooked his big hands under her knees and drew them up and wide. She could feel him under her, hot and slick against her ass, the blunt head pressing at the tight ring of it.

She went still.

"You earned it," Nicole said thickly, turning her face into his neck. "Master Jack."

He let her down onto him.

She'd had two of them once already, on Thursday. It didn't help. Jack lowered her by the knees, a little at a time, and his long cock sank into her ass, stretching her in a way she could hardly bear, until she was sitting all the way down on him with her head thrown back on his shoulder and her mouth open on a sound she couldn't finish.

Then Edward knelt up between their legs and looked down at her for a long moment, and pushed into her pussy.

With Jack already in her, Edward felt enormous. He had to work his way in, short, patient pushes, his eyes on her face the whole time, and every inch he gained pressed her back down onto Jack, until she could feel the two of them grinding against each other through her, one beneath and one above, and she couldn't do anything at all but tremble.

Then they moved, and she stopped thinking at all.

It wasn't like Thursday. Jack hardly moved: he held her open by the knees and let her own weight keep her on him, rocking up into her ass in small, deep nudges. Edward did the rest. He fucked her from above in long, heavy strokes that drove her down onto Jack every time, so that every thrust was both of them at once, and her tits bounced up toward her chin and slapped back down, and the headboard knocked against the wall.

Diana knelt up beside them, at Nicole's shoulder. She took Nicole's face in one hand, turned it to her and kissed her, her tongue in Nicole's mouth, for as long as she liked. Then she took Nicole's wrist and guided her hand between her own thighs. Nicole slid two fingers into her. Diana was soaking. She rode Nicole's hand with her forehead against Nicole's temple, pinched one of Nicole's stiff nipples every time Edward bottomed out, and said into her ear, over and over, good girl, good girl, don't stop.

The first time she came, it took her by surprise. Edward's thumb found her clit, and she came almost at once, short and sharp, clenching so hard on both of them that Jack hissed into her hair. The second took its time. It started low and deep, somewhere between the two of them, and climbed every time Edward drove her down onto Jack, until she was crying and laughing at once with Diana's tongue in her mouth, bucking so hard Jack had to tighten his grip on her knees to keep her on him. After that she couldn't tell where one ended and the next began, and none of the three of them stopped.

Diana came first, on Nicole's fingers, with her teeth in Nicole's bottom lip and a sharp, surprised sound Nicole felt more than heard. Jack went next. He let go of her knees and wrapped both arms around her from beneath, crushing her tits, and pulled her down onto him as far as she would go, and she felt him come in her ass in hard, jerking pulses, groaning into her neck.

Edward came last. He put one hand flat on her belly, just above where he was buried, and looked down into her face.

"Every drop stays in you," he said. "I want you showing by spring."

Then he pushed in to the root and came, with a sound she'd never heard from him, deep inside her, in slow surges she felt all the way up.

Afterward they lay sprawled across the Whitcombs' bed in the morning sun, Jack rolled half on top of her and Nicole in the middle of all of them, sticky and spent, with the coffee going cold on the tray.

After a while Edward reached over without looking and picked the paper back up.

"Did you iron this?" he said.

"Yes, Master Edward," said Nicole, from somewhere underneath Jack.

"Good," said Edward, and turned the page.

The Interview

They recorded it that evening in the drawing room, with the lake going dark beyond the windows and a little microphone on the coffee table between the teacups.

None of them told her their real names. Edward had a big, loud laugh. Diana sat with her feet tucked under her and called Nicole "honey". Jack brought Nicole a cup of tea and sat on the floor at her feet, while she sat on June's sofa in a sweatshirt and leggings with her hair down and tried to be a client.

"How was it?" Diana asked.

Nicole thought about it for a long time.

"I didn't finish a single chore," she said finally. "Not one, all week." She went pink. "It was everything I asked for."

The whole room laughed. Edward laughed until he had to wipe his eyes.

"What was your favorite part?" said Jack, from the floor.

"The soup," Nicole said at once, and went red. "Monday. I've stirred a pot of soup every night for eight years, for two people who went to bed at nine. And then somebody undid my buttons while I stirred it." She laughed. "I'm never going to make minestrone again with a straight face."

Edward slapped his knee.

"The floor," said Diana.

"Oh God. The floor." Nicole put her hands over her face. "I've polished that marble every week for eight years. I know every crack in it. I have never once wanted to lick it." She looked through her fingers. "I'd do it again. I'd do it tonight."

"That," said Diana, "was the best floor I've ever seen done in my life."

"What surprised you?"

Nicole turned her teacup in her hands.

"How much I liked not finishing things," she said. "My whole life is finishing things. Pills at eight, twelve and six. Every chore, every list, every night. This week I'd start a load of laundry and end up an hour later on my knees in front of the dryer with the towels still wet." She smiled into her tea. "I didn't care. I've never not cared before."

"And the worst part?" said Jack.

"Sunday," said Nicole. "Knowing it was the last one."

Nobody laughed at that. Jack put his hand on her ankle, and left it there.

They talked for another hour. About the stairs, and the football, and the paper that never got read. About Owen, who had texted Jack to ask if she was all right, and if she'd consider Saturdays.

At the end, Diana put her cup down.

"I think we're all good here on our end," she said gently. "Is there anything you'd like to tell us?"

Nicole looked at the microphone. The little red light was on.

She thought about the eight years. The polo and the khakis. The house going dark at nine, every night, and then going dark for nobody. She thought about the woman with the smoky voice from the South, coming in somebody's kitchen while Nicole listened at three in the morning.

"Yes," she said. "The mosaic. Take it off. Show my face. All of it."

There was a short silence.

"You know what that means," said Diana. "Everyone with a card sees you. Forever."

"I know." Nicole lifted her chin. "Somebody's going to be lying awake in a room over a garage somewhere, listening at three in the morning. I want them to see it's me."

Diana looked at her for a long moment, and then smiled.

"Then you should know," she said, "that clients who show everything get a cut."

Nicole blinked. "A cut?"

"Yes," said Diana. "We'll make sure you're compensated for this."

Nicole sat very still on June's sofa.

Then she reached over and switched the microphone off herself.

The Will

Probate closed on the first Monday in December.

Mr. Pruitt drove up from Traverse City with the papers, bringing a dentist and his wife from Grand Rapids who wanted to see the house before they signed. Nicole had done all of it: every floor, every banister, every sheet on the master bed, every piece of silver, the tops of every picture frame. She had waxed the front hall twice. It shone.

The dentist's wife looked up at the chandelier and said, "Oh, it's perfect."

"Anything to report on the house, Ms. Delaney?" said Mr. Pruitt, in the hall.

"Very quiet, Mr. Pruitt," said Nicole.

"I'm sorry it went on so long. You must have been bored out of your mind." He looked at her over his glasses. "Did you manage any fun at all?"

"A little," said Nicole. "Saturday nights."

Before he left, he told her what the Whitcombs had left her in the will: the SUV she had used to drive them to their doctor's appointments, and June's grandmother's silver teapot. There was a letter too, in June's shaky hand. It said they were sorry for always keeping her in the house.

---

Nicole made the plan that night, at the kitchen table after nine, in the same notebook she'd written the pills in.

The house would be the dentist's by Christmas, and the job would be gone. She wasn't going back to a hospital. She had found a new calling, and she was incredibly excited to start her new career. She wrote a list of what she'd need. It wasn't very long.

The first payment came on a Thursday, in her last week in the stone house, while she was polishing the silver for the dentist's wife.

Her phone buzzed on the counter beside the polishing cloth. She wiped her hands, picked it up, and read the number twice.

Then she put the phone down, picked up June's grandmother's teapot, her teapot now, and went on polishing it, slowly, and smiled at herself in it all afternoon.