Maid With Benefits (Part 1)

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By Lauren McAllister

I was sitting at home one pathetic and lonely Saturday night, eating my body-weight in potato chips and drinking some wind I found in a liquor store dumpster.  My boyfriend of four years and I had just parted ways.  He didn’t quite have the requisite inner-strength to commit to a long-term, loving relationship. Luckily, I had more than enough outer-strength to throw his fucking flat screen TV over the side of my apartment balcony. He used to schtupp me from behind while we watched the dirty parts from “Game of Thrones” on it. I used to fantasize that I had an evil dwarf back there standing on a stool. Sigh.  Good times, but all gone now. So, that was pretty well the end of “us” but not nearly the end of our goddamn rent payments.  

It was around my fifth bag of Frito-Lays… or maybe it was my fifth glass of found wine that I decided to see what all the other wretched and bored single people in this laugh-a-minute world were up to.  And where better to go to find that out than on Craig’s List?  I looked at “men looking for women”, “women looking for men” and then I started to delve into the more innovative categories of relationships.  “Girls looking for other girls” (I’ve done that a few times but I wasn’t really looking to become a full-time lollipop licker.) “Couples looking for women”, “couples looking for men”, “groups of people looking for people dressed penguin suits”…and then I chanced upon an ad that set my Cabernet-soaked brain a-whirling. 

“Couple Looking For Maid With Benefits.”

            Maid with Benefits?  What the fuck was that?  I clicked the link and began to enlighten myself. 

“If accepted for this position, you will be required to wear a French Maid’s outfit but no underwear.  Your duties will include light dusting and cleaning around the house plus keeping your vagina, rectum and mouth available to us at all times.  If your work is not up to standard, spankings will occur.  Apply with picture and a summary of related work experience.”

            “Jesus!” giggled I.  “What a bunch of whackos!” 

             After I’d had a little of the pot I found taped to a stop sign, I read the ad again for a further round of vigorous chuckling.  I mean, the weird shit that some people get into just to get their rocks off is truly astounding.  The more I thought about it, the more amused /dribble-faced I became.  The next thing I remember… sort of, is I’m squealing with laughter as a type up a joke response.

            “Dear Sir and Madame: I would love if you would consider me for this position and any other position you’d like to put me in.”

            I bibulously guffawed at my Chablis-drenched wit and continued. 

            “Fortuitously, I own the sinfully skimpy work attire you require and while I haven’t had much experience as a maid, I am fully prepared to be spanked frequently and with gusto, should my domestic efforts fail to meet your high maiding standards.  I anxiously await your response, and will refrain from wearing any and all underwear at all until I hear from you.”

            I had another, almost painful, spluttering laugh, enjoyed a glorious drunken wank and then fell off to sleep.  When I did arise upon the morrow, it felt like I had a family of angry badgers nesting in my brain.  My tongue tasted like I’d had it inside one of my work-shoes all night.  I suspect I may have had one too many salt & vinegar chips.  It wasn’t until after my morning coffee and aspirin that I checked my email and discovered that “Dear Sir and Madame” had replied to my pre-masturbatory missive. 

            All it said was, “You appointment is set for 5:30 on Tuesday.  Do not be late.”

            How thoroughly hilarious.  What a pair of presumptuous jokers.  Boy, were they in for a disappointment.  I would have tittered heartily at their haughty hubris if my skull wasn’t temporarily undergoing repairs.

            That afternoon, I was out buying a French Maid’s uniform on credit – somehow the card had slipped out of my ex-boyfriend’s wallet.  Not to go on this bullshit appointment, you understand.  I just figured that one day, I might land another significant other and a ludicrously short, frilly outfit might be just the right boner bait for this new, theoretical dreamboat.  And when I got home, I had an absolutely spectacular wank.

            Tuesday: 5:30

            Ding Dong.  What was I doing?  Well, I was ringing the doorbell of a house owned by a couple of card carrying perverts while wearing a costume right out of a 1960’s Playboy cartoon.  That was literally what I was doing.  But, why was I doing it?  I was still trying to figure that out when the door opened and I was greeted by this guy who old enough to be my father… or possibly even older. 

            Well, “greeted” might be overstating it.

            Granddad looked at his watch and then at me.  “Good,” he muttered to himself and gestured for me to enter.  Inside the small vestibule stood Miss Elsie, looking like she’d just come from a having all of her wisdom teeth removed.  What a cantankerous old cow.  She was definitely women’s prison-warden material.  The kind that would sadistically whack you on the tit with a riding crop while you were chained to the exercise-yard fence.  Master Steven pointed to a spot on the floor where I was to stand while he and the wifey glowered at me. 

            “Lift up your skirt,” Miss Elsie demanded.

            I was pretty nervous already, but having to expose my joy puddle to a couple of demented middle-aged sourpusses was almost vomit-inducing.  I should have had more than one drink before I caught the bus. 

            “Are you deaf girl,” barked Master Steven.  “My wife just told you to lift your skirt.”

            I blushed like the middle of the Japanese flag as I pulled the cottony fabric up the front of my thighs and gave them their first eyeful of my shaved sugar lump.  Perhaps it was time to skedaddle and check myself into some sort of clinic for loony harlots.  This was off-the charts insane.  That’s when the fucking degenerate slaps his hand right up between my legs and grabs himself a generous helping of my drink cabinet.

        “Good,” he mumbled again.  “I don’t like it when the inner lips are too large.  They should just “peek” out of the vagina.  Both Miss Elsie and I prefer a woman who possesses a well balanced genital arrangement and not cunt curtains.”  Well, wasn’t I the fortunate one?  He gave my laudatory lickables a couple of half-interested rubs and then up goes his ring finger right into my squirt cave.  I don’t gasp very often but between the shame and the shock of it all, I sucked in a righteous lungful.  Yikes!

            “Every hour, on the hour, you are to stop whatever you’re doing and thoroughly cleanse your vulva and anus.  We expect to be able to eat our dinner off them at any given moment.”  And I think they meant that literally.  “You will refer to me as Master Steven and my wife is Miss Elsie.  Any form of attempted familiarity will lead to your immediate dismissal.” 

            I know I should have been paying more attention to his oh-so-helpful instructions but all I could do was wonder when he was going to remove his finger from inside me.  

            “Perhaps you should start with some light dusting and we’ll see how you do,” he suggested and finally, finally, finally took his humongous hand out of my jam jar… and stuffs it straight into my mouth.  I sucked it clean without comment, curtseyed and said, “Thank you sir,” as he wiped his finger dry on my chest.  Then I waddled off to shudder and cringe in the living room.  I spent the next hour wiping and polishing various bits of wood (God, if only I could force myself to spend that much time and energy cleaning my own apartment, maybe I’d find that cat I used to have.).  All in all, it was as boring as shit, except for the fact that I didn’t know what I was going to be called upon to do next.  I was almost hoping that it was going to be some sort of scandalous and unspeakable violation of my modesty and not the dishes.  It turns out, I didn’t have to worry.  Old Stevie wanders in, takes a disapproving look around at my work and tells me that Miss Elsie was waiting to see me in the den.  I curtseyed again and headed off in the direction that his recently cleaned finger was pointing.  When I arrived, Miss Elsie was sitting in a plush chair and scowling.  That was pretty much the only facial expression she seemed to have mastered. 

            “Get down on your knees in front of me, child.”

            Child?  Who were these people, characters out of a Dickens’ novel?

            “Yes Miss.” I hear myself saying as I plop down onto my knees.  I can be such an obedient twat sometimes.  As soon as I’m on the floor, she lifts up her skirt and shows me her Holiday Inn.  And it’s not shaved or trimmed or anything.  I’m talking about a full on bush.  I half expected to find Tarzan swinging around in there.

            “Pleasure me but keep your hands to your sides at all times.”

            Oh shit!  She swung her legs open like the cargo bay doors of a fish trawler and I pushed my mortified maw forward into the dark foreboding forest.  Now, apart from a few after-the-bars-close free-for-alls with a pal or two, I don’t really do girls but there is something nice about feeling that soft puffy mound of flesh against your cheeks and lips as you swirl your tongue around in their syrup trough but this was certainly not that.  This was like Irish Dancing with a beaver wearing an afro glued to your face.  I had to dig around just to find her girlie opening.  Her long, thick pubic hair viciously attacked my ticklish chin, cheeks and eyes as I slid the tip of my tongue up and down her quickly moistening Velveeta strips.  I’m not going to lie, it was pretty gross.  After a minute or two of concentrated cunnilingual ministrations, the scowl dropped off her face and she started to more resemble a constipated mule. I must have be doing something right.  I began a robust lingual massage of her nibbly bit to speed up the prickly pie-eating proceedings so I could go back to dusting.  Miss Elsie began to moan and play with my hair as she writhed around in unholy ecstasy.  “It won’t be long now,” I hoped.

            That’s when she scooches her gyrating hips forward on the chair and coos at me, “Lick my asshole for a few minutes.”

            Ass licking?  Really?  What the hell was I doing?  I’d just spent the last hour polishing her fucking credenza and now I was being asked to give her poop tunnel a quick tongue bath?  It’s a good job I wasn’t being paid for any of this, because there isn’t enough money in the entire world to compensate for that kind of sick and twisted humiliation.  This decidedly unappealing procedure was especially difficult to perform without the use of my hands.  I managed to position my mouth around her turd barrel successfully, but to get any real oral action going on her pucker-palace; I had to stick my nose into her vaginal canal.  She seemed to appreciate my great sacrifice but now her pesky pubes were tickling me right through to my brain-stem and every time Elsie moved her pelvis in pleasure she practically rammed my nostrils up into my eye-sockets.  I was so itchy I couldn’t think straight. I would have gladly traded away all my future children and that moment just to pull back and scratch the bejesus out of my forehead but her orders were very clear so I persevered. 

“If you don’t start to put some energy into that, you’re going to be there all day.”

“You get down here and try this you saggy-titted old cow,” I said inside my bobbing head. 

            It was a bit of a dubious relief when she shifted back in her chair and I got to root around in her sopping lunch bucket again.  I spent a little time tongue-fucking her goo-gully while simultaneously rubbing my nose back and forth over her “go button.”  It wasn’t long before I had her bucking and moaning like a hungover horse.  “Please,” I internally begged, “blow your girly gasket soon so I can go back to drab housework.”  Quickly slipping out of her cock cave, I made my way up to her throbbing licky blister.  We were now transitioning to the serious part of the unendurable sex act.  Miss Elsie grabbed huge hunks of my hair and was grinding my face into her sauce decanter.  The louder she got, the harder I slobbered all over her bitch-switch.  Finally, she had a pelvic heave that practically knocked my two front teeth out as she came like an explosion from a John Woo film.  Holy fuck!  She was a squirter!  Emergency!  Emergency!  Within a nano-second of her first epic climactic rush, I was being biblically deluged by torrents of slut sludge shooting out of her girlie geyser.  It was like being in a scene from “Noah.”  Miss Elsie had a death grip on my head and was maniacally grinding her pulsating penis pouch into my gums as wave after wave of her billowing broth washed over me.  It completely soaked my hair and my face.  I had rivers of her sticky cunt cum dribbling down my neck and puddling between my tits.  Her massive molten orgasm was like an Earthquake – I just had to ride it out, no matter how cataclysmic the seismic seizures.  After what seemed like an hour of being subjected to vaginal waterboarding, Miss Elsie finally stopped convulsing and loosened her grip. 

            As I was trying to catch my breath and spit out the few drops of nookie nectar I hadn’t been forced to swallow, she peered scornfully down at me between her legs and harrumphed, “Clean this up child, I’m going to get changed.”  And with that, she toddled off, leaving me to mop up a veritable lake of her erogenous emanations from the hardwood floor.  

            Once I had completed my dam-bursting duties in the den, I retreated to the small powder room to try and repair the irreparable and dry the decidedly soggy.  Oh yeah, and to give my couchie and bum-hole a thorough flannelling in case Granddad showed up wanting to stick his dick into something.  When I returned to the living room, looking like a half-drowned French rat, Master Steven was waiting for me and he did not look particularly pleased. 

            “You are an appalling mess!”

            “Sorry sir,” I curtseyed, “I was just servicing Miss…”

            “I don’t want to hear your goddamn excuses.  We do not tolerate this kind of slovenly appearance from our staff.”

            Our staff?  What other batshit crazy people did he have working for him for free?

            Master Steven sat down solemnly on a stiff-backed chair.

            “Oh great, now I’m going to have to blow him,” I thought.  But no, he grabbed my arm and roughly pulled me across his lap.  His knee-bones poked into my lower rib cage as he yanked up the hem of my maid’s skirt to expose the unprotected ass cheeks beneath.

            “Perhaps, this will teach you to have a little more pride in your appearance.”


            Mother Fucker!  This wasn’t some smack me, smack me, faux-punishment/sex game.  That lunatic was slapping the shit out of my crap flaps.  I screamed.

            “Shut up you silly little girl.”


            Master walloped on my naked buttocks like he was tenderizing a big slab of porterhouse steak.  Christ, his hand had a real sting to it.  After about a dozen of the absolute best, he roughly pushed me off his knee and onto the floor and then tells me to go the fuck home.

            Go home!?

            Not, “Thank you for putting up with all this physical and sexual abuse for no pay?”  Not, “Do you need taxi money or something to eat?”

            I could hardly walk to the bus stop, my ass hurt so much.  And, I was still damp and miserable from Madam’s lap shower.  Golly, was I mightily pissed off.  But weirdly – and admittedly perversely – I was also majorly turned on.  So much so, I had a wank in the back of the bus on the way home.  In bed that night, thinking about the day’s unsavory events, I wanked it until I practically went cross-eyed.  I can’t even remember the last time I couldn’t keep my hands of myself like that.  And some of my finger-festivals were real gut busters.  Eventually a neighbor banged on my apartment wall at about 2 o’clock in the morning and I decided to call it a naughty night.

            Now, I’m just wondering just how much it costs to dry clean a maid’s uniform and where I can purchase a vaginal-squirt bib.  Life sure gets complicated for us working girls.

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Copyright Lauren McAllister 2022

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