The Falkenberg Arms crouched like a giant mythical beast on the cliffs above the Cornish coast. Waves crashed on the rocky beach below and wild countryside sprawled behind it. The stately and sombre façade belied the extravagance of its interior. It was a playground for the fabulously wealthy, an escape from reality. If, that was, the fabulously wealthy could be said to inhabit anything like ‘reality’.
That was what Emma thought anyway, as she wore her most subservient smile and said ‘sir’ and ‘madam’ and even on occasion ‘your Lordship’ and ‘your Ladyship’. Royalty never checked themselves in, of course; they had people to do that for them.
The ones with real class were lovely. Utterly charming and gracious in the way that only the very well-bred ever were. Like Lord Charnock, the gentleman who had spent the previous summer with them. He had always smiled at Emma and wished her a pleasant afternoon, treating her with as much courtesy as he would any of his peers. It was the nouveau riche who put on airs and felt the need to be treated like visiting dignitaries, to constantly remind others – and themselves – that they were at the top of the food chain now.
Emma sized them all up as they registered for their enviably long stays at the Falkenberg Arms. The resort boasted spectacular views of the sea and the surrounding countryside, as well as a luxurious spa and a world-renowned restaurant. On occasion the staff were given little treats from the kitchen – sweets or pastries that weren’t good enough for the elite clientele but were still perfectly edible. But that was as far as the generosity of the management went. There were no free passes to the spa or gratis bottles of champagne, no two-for-one meal deals. One of the maids, Kerstin, had even been sacked for eating the chocolates they left on the guests’ pillows at night.
‘Girl? Are you paying attention? Girl!’
Emma looked up, her face betraying no hint of irritation at the woman who stood tapping her thick beringed fingers on the desk. She was a substantial lady, her breasts straining at the confines of the tailored suit she had no doubt had made to her dream measurements rather than her actual ones. How she must covet Emma’s petite figure, her high, firm breasts and tiny waist, her tight little arse, which even now clenched around the rubber shaft of the anal plug Patrick had inserted that morning.
‘Yes, madam? How may I help you?’
Emma was the consummate professional, the perfect servant. The guests could flaunt their wealth and power all they wanted and they could do their best to make her feel inferior. But their petty ways never fazed her. In truth, she found some of it almost endearing. She liked to imagine that they were Victorians who’d got caught in some kind of time warp and wound up in a world where people no longer ‘knew their place’ but had ‘ideas above their stations’. They could gape in astonishment at the thought that they couldn’t just have a girl whipped because she’d spilled a bit of soot on the carpet whilst blacking the grates. Mmm, now there was a hot fantasy …
‘My husband has booked a suite for us,’ the woman said haughtily, as though the information was meant to impress Emma.
‘Certainly, madam. What’s the name, please?’
‘Mountchesney,’ she pronounced in a lofty tone, again as though Emma ought to recognise it and be suitably cowed.
Without batting an eye Emma said, ‘Ah yes, here it is. Two weeks’ stay, is it? I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time. If you’ll just sign here …’
She offered the woman a pen but she produced her own with a flourish, no doubt afraid of catching whatever ‘common’ diseases such creatures like Emma must carry.
‘Very good, madam. You’re in the Penhaligon Suite. Here is your key. I see you’ve booked dinner every evening with us as well.’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Mountchesney said, beaming proudly and clearly eager to show off that they could afford to eat £500 dinners every night for two weeks running. ‘I’m told the chef trained with Joël Robuchon himself!’
Emma knew that wasn’t true but she didn’t question the manager’s decision to say so on the website. It was just the sort of thing that hooked fish like the Mountchesneys. Emma knew their type: notorious name-droppers who would be boasting to their friends about it for years afterwards.
‘I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time,’ Emma said, her warmth as genuine as a prostitute’s orgasm. ‘And may I personally welcome you and your husband to the Falkenberg Arms.’
The woman bestowed a false smile of her own on Emma and headed off towards the lift, her meaty backside dogging her like the middle-class background she was clearly so eager to shed.
‘What a piece of work!’
Emma turned towards the male voice, maintaining her sanguine expression until she was sure no one else was around. Then her face broke into a wide grin.
Patrick stood there, lounging in the doorway. His green eyes glittered with mischief as he cupped Emma’s bottom, squeezing each cheek to make her gasp.
‘How’s it feel, naughty girl?’ he asked in his lazy Irish drawl.
Emma closed her eyes as her sphincter contracted around the thick shaft of the plug. The sensation reminded her of the previous afternoon, when they’d had anal sex in Major Duckenfield’s room while he was out shooting. Patrick had bent Emma over the gold-plated bathtub and fucked her wearing the major’s uniform jacket. Its brass buttons and medals had clanged against the porcelain with every thrust, and when they came Emma had watched them both in the huge mirror that took up most of one wall.
The night before that they’d watched the CCTV footage of Lady Hazelride giving Patrick a blowjob in the lift. The chef had lost his bet. Gallic charm notwithstanding, Jean-Michel just didn’t have that ‘bit of rough’ the wealthy older ladies seemed to need so badly, and Patrick had bagged her first.
Emma blushed. ‘It feels … very rude. I love it.’
He laughed softly and nudged his knee up between her legs. ‘So what’s on the cards for the Mounty-whatsits?’
She sighed at the contact but otherwise gave no sign that she was anything other than a hotel check-in clerk going about her duties while the room service waiter stood close behind her. She clicked through the screens showing the guests’ activities. The Mountchesneys had separate schedules. Naturally, Mrs Mountchesney would be taking full advantage of the spa, submitting her bulk for a relaxing massage – offered by a bevy of Thai girls who pretended they spoke no English – along with the full range of beauty treatments: manicure, pedicure, facial, waxing, aromatherapy. The works. She needed it too. Presumably that was why Mr Mountchesney was off to the golf course and then sailing lessons in the bay.
‘Looks like they won’t be spending much time in their room,’ Emma said, arching an eyebrow at her lover.
‘Hmm’ was all he said.
Sometimes it was all she could do not to throw herself at him. He was strikingly gorgeous, blessed with looks that would be hot on either a man or a woman. Lean, lanky body, sculpted features, sexy bedroom eyes and a lilting accent that made her weak with desire. He might have been a rake in some gothic romance, the villainous swain who could seduce the good girl away from the bland hero she was meant to wind up with.
‘What are they doing tonight?’
Emma smiled. ‘Dinner. Of course.’
‘Of course. Fancy a date?’
‘Oh, I think that could be arranged. I’m off at five.’
‘Penhaligon Suite?’
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘I’ll be there.’ He gave her bottom another pat and slipped back into the office.
Emma closed her eyes for a moment, savouring the feel of the anal plug. It filled her as his cock had done, stretching her, just painful enough to be bliss.
Dinner would take hours. She would ask Jean-Michel to make sure it did.
* * *
‘God, I love this room,’ Emma said, tossing her bag onto one of the many plush silk-upholstered chairs.
They might have been in a mediaeval castle, so excessive was the interior design. Rich dark furniture, heavy velvet curtains, unicorn tapestries. No one knew who the hell ‘Penhaligon’ was but he must have loved his King Arthur stories as a lad. There was even a pair of crossed swords above the fireplace.
‘Strip.’
Emma blinked in surprise. ‘What, no foreplay?’
‘Not yet,’ Patrick said. He was the same age she was and had no authority over her, but he was so cocksure she always wound up deferring to him. Not that she would have had it any other way. She often imagined what it would be like if Patrick were in charge of the hotel, the things he could demand of his best front-desk girl, the discipline he could administer when she screwed things up …
‘Yes, sir,’ she said, giving him a cheeky grin as she began unbuttoning her blouse.
Patrick watched as she turned the act into a little striptease for him, wiggling her bottom as she shimmied out of her skirt, bending right over to unbuckle her Mary Janes and kick them off, raising her legs to slip off her hold-ups.
When she was down to her white lace bra and knickers he placed his hands on her shoulders. Then he turned her around and bent her over so her hands were on the bed. A shiver went through her at the submissive posture and she trembled a little as he peeled her knickers down, exposing her bottom. She was still wearing the plug, of course. She wouldn’t have dared remove it without his permission.
‘Someone’s been a very good girl, I see,’ he said, patting her bottom to stimulate the plug inside her. ‘But perhaps it’s time to take this out. Hold still.’
Emma obeyed as he slowly withdrew the plug, brushing his fingertips along her sex as he slid it out and wrapped it in a tissue. Immediately she wanted it back, wanted to be filled again. With the plug or his cock, she didn’t care which. A little shudder went through her and Patrick laughed softly.
‘Don’t worry, Em. We’ve got hours yet.’ He unhooked her bra and tossed it aside, then filled his hands with her breasts and pulled her back against him. She sighed as she felt the bulge in his trousers pressing against her.
She had always wanted to fuck in the Penhaligon Suite. She imagined Patrick using one of the swords to cut her dress away, slashing her knickers and pressing the cold blade up against her warm, willing sex. The icy shock of it would only make her hotter. She smiled at the thought of replacing it above the fireplace, stained with her juices.
Patrick turned her around and stepped back to look at her. She chewed her lip as she watched his cock swell even more, threatening to burst free of his tight black trousers. It had taken some time for her to be able to accommodate him in her arse and she loved the way it filled her so completely. She couldn’t help but think of all the ladies – and gentlemen, Patrick wasn’t fussy – who ordered room service late at night merely to have Patrick bring it up to their rooms. Emma wondered if they also quailed with nervous anticipation at the size of his cock. They certainly tipped him well enough for his ‘special services’.
Emma sank back on the bed but Patrick moved away, towards the wardrobe. He opened it and began rummaging inside.
‘What are you doing?’
‘You’re so impatient,’ he admonished. He pulled something off a hanger with a clatter. ‘I said we’ve got hours.’ He tipped her a lascivious wink and moved into the antechamber.
Emma listened to the rustle of fabric and tried to imagine what he was up to. When he appeared again her eyes widened for a moment and then she burst into gales of laughter. He was wearing a voluminous dress in piggy-pink taffeta. The sight was so outrageous and brazen it was sexy. The dress was large enough for both of them and he had to hold it up to keep it from falling down. The curly dark hair peeking out of the plunging sweetheart neckline was the perfect touch.
‘I wonder where she was planning on wearing this?’ he said.
Emma grabbed her phone out of her bag and Patrick posed and pouted like a supermodel while she snapped several pictures of him.
‘Shall I send one to Jean-Michel?’ she asked.
‘Go on,’ Patrick said, beaming proudly. ‘He’ll never be able to top it.’
She called up the chef’s number and sent a picture of Patrick clutching his nonexistent bosom and making a hideous kissy face at the camera. A few seconds later the phone bleeped with an incoming text.
‘What’s he say?’ Patrick asked, still preening in front of the mirror.
‘He says it’s my turn. Fair enough!’ She tossed the phone on the bed and scurried over to the wardrobe to see what she could find to match.
Mr Mountchesney was considerably smaller than his wife and Emma climbed into his dinner suit with little difficulty. Once Patrick had helped her with the clip-on bow tie they stood side by side admiring the bizarre couple they made in the mirror. Emma sent Jean-Michel another pic and he texted back that he couldn’t hope to compete.
‘That sounds like we’ve won,’ Patrick said, ‘whatever the latest bet was.’
Emma didn’t even care. They’d had one kind of fun and now it was time for the other. She stood behind Patrick and reached her arms around his front, to clutch at the bodice of the dress.
Patrick responded in kind, thrusting his hand up between her legs to grip her crotch tightly. The touch sent a jolt of desire through her and she squeezed her thighs around his hand with a sigh.
Patrick’s cock stood out like a baton beneath the dress, a ludicrous and strangely erotic sight. Emma sank to her knees and crept underneath the tent of pink taffeta. She wrapped her hand around his cock and slid it gently up and down. She heard him moan and his legs trembled a little. Closing her fingers around his shaft, she squeezed hard, pressing her thumb just underneath the head. He dropped the dress and it fell like a curtain, pooling on the floor around them.
He lifted her off her feet and carried her to the bed. Then he set about peeling her out of the dinner suit. He flung the jacket aside and by the time he yanked her trousers down she had unfastened most of the buttons of the shirt. He didn’t even let her finish stripping; he just pushed her down on the silky counterpane and buried his face in her chest. Emma gasped and threw her hands up to grip the nearest bedpost as he pushed her breasts together, kneaded them roughly and kissed her nipples, sucking and biting.
She rolled her hips, pressing up against him as he rubbed his cock against her sex, teasing her clit with its swollen head but not entering her. He climbed on top, straddling her waist for a moment before moving up to her head. He lowered his cock to her face and she opened her mouth, taking it in greedily. Then he fucked her face, sliding his length in and out with slow languid thrusts.
Emma slowed his rhythm even more so she could catch her breath. She fluttered her tongue around the head and up and down the shaft, enjoying each little twitch and throb. The hot salty taste of his cock made her hungry to feel it elsewhere. Her pussy pulsed with need.
‘Please fuck me,’ she said in a breathless whisper.
The bed bounced as he clambered off and Emma heard the sharp rip as Patrick tore open a condom. She caught the scent of latex as he returned to the bed and then he surprised her by flipping her over onto her stomach. Then he shoved a pillow underneath her and she shuddered with submissive pleasure as it raised her bottom up, presenting it for him.
‘I’m going to fuck that tight little arse,’ he said, his voice low and husky with desire. He ran a hand over her cheeks and she trembled. ‘But first I want to feel that hot wet pussy.’
Emma whimpered a meaningless response and he slapped her arse smartly, making her yelp.
‘I didn’t hear you, Em.’
‘Yes, please,’ she gasped. ‘Please fuck my hot wet pussy.’
‘And then?’
Her insides swam with delicious shame at being made to say the words. ‘And then fuck my tight little arse.’
‘That’s better.’
He urged her legs wide apart and she braced herself as he pressed the head of his cock against her sex. Then he slid it in with one brutal thrust. She cried out, clutching the counterpane as he began to fuck her, filling her completely with each thrust. Her cries became louder as he gripped her pelvic bones like handles and drove himself in and out, in and out, sending jolts of ecstasy through her sex, her legs, her entire body. He found a steady rhythm, pounding her ruthlessly while she surrendered to the violent passion they had found between them.
‘Someday I’m going to tie you down spread-eagled over a table in the kitchen with Jean-Michel,’ he said, his words punctuated by powerful thrusts. ‘We’ll take turns licking honey off your nipples and then he can have your pussy while I fuck your arse.’
‘Oh, God, yes,’ Emma gasped, imagining the scene.
‘Or maybe I’ll take you out to the stable block,’ he continued. ‘Truss you up with leather straps and halters and an iron bit in your mouth to stop you from screaming. Then I’ll whip that little arse with a riding crop. Ride you till you drop.’
Her face blazed with the delirious mix of shame and desire. He could do anything to her, anything at all, and she’d surrender and love every minute of it.
When he began slowing his strokes she knew what was coming next. She wanted it, even craved it, but it still embarrassed her. She imagined it was how all those lonely ladies felt who bought Patrick’s services late at night. Conditioned to believe that rough, nasty sex was something ‘ladies’ didn’t want. Or shouldn’t want.
Emma had the same neurotic programming and overcoming it again and again was part of the thrill. She loved being made to beg for the rudest favours, to display and debase herself in lewd ways that left her head swimming with filthy lust. His sadistic fantasies had whipped her into a frenzy.
‘I want your hard cock in my arse,’ she panted, her legs trembling with the effort of staying spread so widely, at making such an exhibition of herself.
Patrick drew his finger up between her cheeks, making her shudder. Then he fisted a hand in her hair and pulled her head back roughly, forcing her back to arch, urging her bottom up even higher.
‘Maybe one of your posh gentlemen will order you for room service sometime,’ he said. ‘I’ll deliver you to him on a silver tray and he can play with you all night.’
Emma thought she would faint.
When he finally took her she nearly came. She felt the powerful twinges in her sex as he fucked her arse and each slow deliberate thrust made her want to scream from the intoxicating blend of pleasure and pain. Emma clenched herself around his cock, writhing beneath him. He obliged her mute entreaty with a series of sharp swats to her bottom. He let go of her hair and she buried her face in the bed, slipping one hand underneath herself to touch her clit. She slid her fingers back and forth across it as Patrick continued to fuck her, calling her a dirty little slut, his dirty little slut.
Her pussy tingled with the rising throbs of a powerful climax and then she came so hard it made her ears ring. Patrick came too, his cock spasming violently inside her arse, intensifying and prolonging her own orgasm.
It took her some time to drift back down to reality. She heard the rustle of taffeta as Patrick presumably replaced the clothes in the wardrobe. She got shakily to her feet and smoothed out the bed and pillows, then tried to get dressed. Her hands were trembling so much she couldn’t fasten her bra and Patrick smiled indulgently as he helped dress her. How he was able to manage it she didn’t know.
* * *
Emma was sore for days, the kind of soreness she loved. It made her job both challenging and delightful as she smiled serenely at the guests and told them to enjoy their stay. But after a while she began to get restless. She wanted more.
Then one afternoon she got a text from Patrick. Trade places with Oksana, it said. Emma stared at the message in confusion. Oksana was one of the maids, a pretty Russian girl she knew Patrick had his eye on. Emma had been watching her too. There was something in the girl’s impish smile that said she’d be up for some of their games.
Before she could reply her phone bleeped again. And clothes.
Emma blushed as she tucked her phone away and waited. Oksana arrived a few minutes later, her eyes dancing with mischief as she took Emma by the hand and led her into the office. She closed the door and undressed without a word, holding out her uniform for Emma with an expectant look.
Emma obeyed the wordless command and took off her smart skirt and blouse. Then Oksana helped her into the maid’s uniform, adjusted her white lace pinafore and tied it in a large bow at the back. She smoothed the short flirty skirt down over Emma’s bottom, lingering for a teasing moment before nodding her approval.
‘You go now,’ she said. ‘Trevenan Suite. I think you are in trouble.’
‘Trouble?’
But Oksana didn’t reply; she merely smiled as she took Emma’s place behind the reception desk.
Emma pressed the button in the lift with trembling fingers and took deep breaths to calm her fluttering heart. She couldn’t imagine what Patrick had arranged but the maid’s uniform made her feel both submissive and vulnerable, like a schoolgirl at the mercy of someone else’s authority.
When she reached the Trevenan Suite she raised her hand and gave a tentative little knock. A voice told her to enter – a deep and cultured English voice that clearly wasn’t Patrick’s. She thought she recognised it and as she stepped meekly inside she gasped. Lord Charnock stood there, frowning slightly at her.
She opened her mouth to stammer out an apology, although she didn’t know what she was meant to be apologising for.
‘Well, stand up straight, girl,’ he told her sharply.
She obeyed instantly, her legs shaking, her face burning. The crisp authoritarian tone was so different from the kind and gentle voice he’d spoken to her with last summer and it immediately sent hot wet pulses through her sex.
Lord Charnock crossed the room to stand directly in front of her, gazing sternly at her and forcing her to meet his eyes. He drew his finger slowly along the surface of a polished mahogany table and held it up for her to see the dust.
‘Does that look clean to you, girl?’
Emma swallowed and shook her head, her sex pounding with arousal. ‘No, sir,’ she murmured. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘No, you’re not,’ Lord Charnock said, and Emma caught the hint of a smile in his expression. He seated himself on the ottoman at the foot of the bed and rolled up his right sleeve. Then he patted his knee. ‘But you will be.’