Jobs

Act 15 – the Chambermaid

I wanted to make love to her an hour straight. But that’s not something a married man tells a chambermaid.

~ Trevor Yatz

My wife wanted me to be her pain in the ass.

Literally.

She wanted to use me for anal s*x.

At first I was scared. I never penetrated a woman in the rear before so I didn’t know what to expect.

I didn’t like sinking my appendage inside a place that is dark, damp and unexplored.

Anal.

Shit.

Anal is for the gay community.

It’s their way of making a connection. Not me.

Anal.

Jesus Christ.

No offense, but that’s what gay men were designed for. That’s the reason why they even exist in the first place because they’re much braver than straight people. A man who could take in in the ass, in my book, is commendable.

My wife, she’s uh...she’s bitter. She had been so removed from the world lately. She kept accusing herself that she was no longer young and equipped to pleasure me. That she was entering her menopause much earlier than scheduled, which was a phase most women dreaded cos it meant the end of a blissful marriage.

To be perfectly honest, I hated self-pity in women. I find it very unattractive. Self-pity was a bitter taste in my mouth. I didn’t like the negativity. And more to the point, I didn’t like the paranoia.

Her bloated paranoia was causing her to have all these delusions that I was mating with other women. Women in the neighborhood. Women I work with in the office. Women who flock her Sunday brunch and dinner parties. Women who gave me a loaded glance whenever I was shirtless and tending to the garden when our gardener wasn’t around.

Women, to my wife, were the devil’s spawn. And adding my own wife to that list would be an understatement.

Her paranoia. It was making her old. It was ageing her. And it was suffocating. Suffocating me.

She wanted anal.

I granted her wish.

I entered her from behind and I felt her spread open then clench tightly. Okay, maybe anal wasn’t such a bad idea after all. It did feel good. And so she backed me. She kept pumping my stiff appendage. My manhood was hard, very hard. And she was dry...and rough. Not the most pleasurable combination for a man. I could feel my skin chafing.

Women, as they get older like my wife, naturally become dry. Their bodies could no longer produce the same amount of juices as the young.

Choosing my words very carefully, I suggested we use a lubricant.

Naturally, she refused, and insisted that we kept going. She said she wanted to feel tight again...for me. She wanted me to feel her tightness.

I scoffed but didn’t say anything.

Her tightness. Jesus. Pathetic.

After a few more strokes I have had it. I pulled out of her making her wince and tossed her to the side of the bed. The undersides of my manhood were chafed, dry and red.

I grunted my annoyance.

I couldn’t take this anymore.

And so I decided that this was the perfect time to tell her. I told her that she had reason to believe her paranoia. That she was right to sink in the quicksand of her delusions.

I told her about the chambermaid.

I told her the story of our chambermaid, and how a younger woman full of life, full of hope, and full of vitality had saved me from sinking further in the quagmire that is our marriage. A marriage born out of desperation and an attempt to settle down.

I told my wife about our chambermaid and how beautiful she was.

Our chambermaid was native American. She was like pocahontas with her beauty.

I knew I wanted her the day I saw her walking up the steps of our neighbor’s front porch, with barely anything to clothe her body. That same night my wife was hosting a dinner party at a neighbor’s a few blocks away from home.

The pocahontas, she uh...she was knocking at the door of our neighbor but no one was there. And so I opened our door to her.

I accepted her.

I clothed her.

I made her our own.

My wife didn’t complain. She needed someone to tend to her whims.

Our chambermaid served us.

She served us.

She had been serving us.

She had been serving us ever since.

Our chambermaid told me her story. It was sad. She didn’t tell my wife though. She only trusted me and I liked that. It was like being young again. It was like how I remembered me and my wife before we became Mr. and Mrs. Yatz. A time when we still had our secrets. Secrets that only she and I knew about. But those days were long gone. We didn’t have secrets anymore. We knew each other too much. Gone was her mystery. She became bland.

She wasn’t like the chambermaid. The chambermaid had an allure. I liked keeping the chambermaid’s secrets. It was the best part. The feeling of two people knowing something other people don’t. It was exciting. To me. It was exciting to me. And she still have secrets. She still does up to this day, and she’s not telling me. It’s what had kept her mysterious all this time. She was still a puzzle to me. My never-ending enigma.

The chambermaid had told me that she made the most of what she had before she came into my arms. She made most of what little she had because she didn’t have plenty. I believed her and her story. Besides, it was 1912. The poor were really poor and the rich were really rich. If you didn’t have any, that meant you didn’t have anything. Not even a piece of cloth to hide your privates.

The first night I made love to our chambermaid was the defining moment of my long, hapless life. Nothing my wife ever did in our years of being together in bed could compare to the blasphemy and the magic our chambermaid wielded.

I always felt like a stick of dynamite inside her and about ready to explode in under a minute. But she taught me something special. She taught me how to harness the feeling. With her I learned to contain my excitement. The simple task of holding it in. Keeping my seeds from prematurely erupting with every stroke, with every thrust. She taught me how to pleasure a woman the right way. And I wanted to pleasure her. And I did. I would pleasure her all night during those evenings when my wife decided that spending the night over at a neighbor’s house hosting a dinner party was more exhilirating than keeping her husband happy.

Our chambermaid. She was exquisite. The way she came and kept coming on top of me. I would pump her and her body kept squeezing out her juices and it was insanity. She was so wet and hot. Her body didn’t stop copulating long after my body had had enough. It was like telling the water not to be wet with her. She was that healthy. Her insides were healthy. Her folds glistened and oozed the milky effervescence of her youth. And I savored every drop of it like an elixir.

Desire. It was the thing so hardwired in my brain that I couldn’t resist.

Every night since that blissful night, whenever my wife chose to be alone in the company of other women who wore diamonds and gems, I was...I was doing the chambermaid. I was doing her for all I was worth. She worked my c**k for her enticement and pleasure and I enjoyed it. I enjoyed her. She teased my c**k in ways I didn’t even know about. She made me feel good. My hard length required longer strokes from her. I never saw my d**k look so big before and she loved it. She loved me. Me. She loved me and my c**k.

The look of pleasure in her dark, brown eyes, whenever she and I made love, absorbed all my fears and worries. I would plunge into her deep, and pushed through her tight lips. And long after I was spent she still kept pleasuring me, impaling herself on me. And everytime she did my body kept responding like a sputtering, broken tap.

We used each other’s bodies in ways that were bound to have us both staked and burned like the harlem witches. I shot hot load into her mouth, on her chin, between her breasts. I had never given a woman that many pearl necklaces before. But I did. I gave it all to her. Only to her. Because she deserved it. Our chambermaid deserved those pearls. She looked good wearing the pearls I produced. She glowed as she wore them.

Our chambermaid, she was insatiable. I would spread her legs out into a triangle as I sucked her center of gravity. Her folds oozed with her delight and it coated my tongue as my face took many a bath in her oasis during those hot, sinful nights.

We milked every second of every night till we both became dry. And in her eyes everything was in slow motion, just like how I wanted s*x to be.

Sex with her was never hurried, was never worried, was always dirty and unholy. But I didn’t have a problem with that. No, because she was our chambermaid. She kept everything clean afterwards. No evidence, no trace, not even a speck of our shared misconduct. Nothing that my wife could use against me or accuse me of. No stain that would lead back to pinning me guilty of ruining the sanctity of our marriage. Ah the chambermaid, and her ingenuity. It’s what I fell in love with. I fell in love with her, and our shared secrecy. Our secret was the best part.

Our chambermaid was unique. Her eyes held her laughter. Her breath was warm like the summer. It was like the angels were laughing with her whenever she laughed. We didn’t have to talk about the things we had in common. We just ended up discovering that there were things we both liked. And it was beautiful to have made a comparison with another living soul. A person who knew how to live life.

It wasn’t only during the nights did I make love with the chambermaid. There were also mornings when I implied that we do it in the cellars behind the wines. She would snigger and tell me to keep it in my pants, but then I’d tell her that I couldn’t. She would ask why, and I’d respond by saying I couldn’t keep it in my pants because it was too hard. Oh, her eyes. Her eyes were loaded with lust. Like geysers brimming with magma and about ready to erupt.

We made mad love. We made mad love during the mornings when my wife was busy flirting with my wealth. I felt sorry for my wife then, for she was making love with inanimate objects and not her husband. But I let her. I let her drown in her empty frivolity. Our wealth was going to be her funeral.

She wanted to die.

I wanted to live.

And so I lived with the chambermaid. Day and night.

Our chambermaid was there in every idea I produced. In every decision I made. In every design exploit I challenged as an architect for our many clients who had enough money to spend building their frivolous, but empty houses.

She was my inspiration when I designed those houses. I wanted to do everything on this earth with her. I wanted her to replace my wife.

The significance of the ring on my finger diminished the more I made love to our chambermaid. I loved it when her struggle became so visible on her lips whenever I penetrated her without protection. Whenever I’d hit her warm core she would cry. Her cry was like an inverted cross inside the catholic church. It was wicked. It was evil. Demonic. She was insanity in womanly form. She was my naughty piece of heaven. My own personal hell.

I always loved it whenever she made me come using two hands, with her lips capping the helmet of my c**k. My d**k rigid with the pent up need to blow a huge load whenever she swallowed my helmet down her throat. I’d lick my lips in anticipation of wanting to corrupt her body so badly whenever she bobbed her head between my legs.

It was bliss. It was always bliss whenever she tried hard to hold the build up even when she knew she couldn’t. I felt the heaviest in my balls whenever I was inside her. I could feel my sacs gaining weight as my brain thought of the many things I could do to her whenever she opened her mouth to moan my name.

Trevor.

Mr Trevor Yatz.

So, my wife. My dear, inhospitable wife. I want you to know that I could feel our chambermaid and her insides expanding as we rub against each other in a way that you and I would never do. We’re doing it now. In our bed. Where you and I used to do it. The frustration of feeling too much pleasure with only one place where I want to spill my load. And that place is inside her. Inside her glistening folds. Our chambermaid. That woman you said was a w***e. That woman I’m having s*x with all this time is the woman I love. Not you.

Don’t bother knocking. I locked the door to our bedroom. But feel free to listen as I make her wail. You know, I’m not heartless like you. So see yourself out tomorrow morning, with all the possessions you could get your hands on. Don’t bother leaving anything for me. I have everything I need. I have her. I have the chambermaid.