“Welcome to Grove House Maids,” Peter addressed her. “I'm sure you'll fit in perfectly. Right, stop it you two, save it for the judge.”
The two girls reluctantly pulled apart and got up, Rhiannon to adjust her uniform in the mirror and Clementine to lead Chloe off to the bathroom.
“Shall I put my panties on?” Rhiannon asked.
“Yes,” Peter advised, “and with luck you'll be a bit less pink by the time you get to Waddesdon. James likes his girls fresh.”
“If you wanted us fresh you shouldn't have spanked us,” she told him. “Is Chloe coming?”
“No,” Peter told her. “Not without a uniform, you know that. I'll drop her back to Oxford on my way to Gabriel's and pick up Michelle at the same time. Right, let's go.”
It took another ten minutes before he could get the girls into his car, a dark green Jaguar he'd treated himself to with his uncle's unexpected endowment. Both Rhiannon and Clementine were now in full Grove House Maids uniforms, demure but well cut dresses in a distinctive mid-green and set off with white aprons and lace at the collar to give a formal, deliberately outdated look and yet still show off their figures. The frilly white panties, half-cup bras and suspender belts they wore underneath were anything but demure, but then they didn't show, while it was impossible to tell that they were wearing stockings rather than tights and their heels were sufficiently sensible not to draw comment.
The Grove was at the end of a long, unpaved track that led down into the valley below Ivinghoe Beacon, a spot at once secluded and beautiful, while convenient for both London and Oxford. Sightseers posed a minor problem, particularly in the bluebell season, but he'd taken care to make the trees and shrubs that surrounded the house a very effective barrier. On this occasion, someone had parked their car so that it half blocked the end of the lane, forcing him to let Rhiannon out to make sure there were no oncoming vehicles. So he was muttering curses under his breath as he pulled out and turned north towards Waddesdon, where Lord Justice James Dolamore-Brown lived in genteel and solitary elegance, although rather less genteel than his neighbors might have imagined.
Dolamore-Brown took particular pleasure in booking Clementine, which had always struck Peter as somewhat bad taste, given that she was the daughter of his closest and oldest friend, Daniel Stewart. Not that she seemed to care, happily indulging his favorite kink: watching her have lesbian sex on the bearskin rug in front of his fire, usually with Rhiannon, until he was ready to fuck her while she licked her friend. Dinner would follow, always of the highest standard and served with enviably fine wines, with both girls naked until it was time to leave.
The journey went uneventfully. Although Peter couldn't help reflecting that, as he'd made his way down the road in Waddlesdon, he'd noticed a car parked on the usually quiet street, possibly of the same make and color as the one he'd had to avoid at the end of the lane. As he picked up speed on the A41 he was telling himself not to be paranoid, but he found himself glancing in his rear view mirror more often than was necessary as he continued towards Oxford. The car didn't follow, or didn't seem to, and he'd quickly put it from his mind as he talked with Chloe, swapping stories of illicit and humorous incidents at Broadfields.
She agreed to be dropped off in St. Giles, which allowed him to find a parking meter and wait for Michelle, who'd spent the day shopping. He couldn't help but smile as he watched her approach, no longer the impudent, rebellious scamp he'd first put over his knee at the old Club S, but a mature, refined woman, whose smart and elegant clothes and regimen of running on the Downs made her perfectly trim and stylishâan effect in no way reduced by the swell of her pregnant belly. He kissed her as she got into the car and put his hand to her bulging tummy as he spoke.
“Did you have a good day? How are you?”
“Tired,” she answered. “But okay, except that I'm starting to leak.”
“Leak?” Peter asked, puzzled and concerned.
“From my boobs,” she explained. “But don't worry, I've bought some pads and a blouse in case I have to change, a bra too. What time are we supposed to be at the Howards?”
“Any time after five,” he told her. “But dinner will be at seven, so there's plenty of time.”
The late afternoon traffic was already beginning to pick up, and Peter concentrated on his driving until he was able to pull off the city ring road and turn south towards where Gabriel and Marcia Howard lived by the river in Wallingford. Peter and Michelle were frequent guests, both to dinner and to the garden parties and political functions Gabriel held as the local MP, at which Peter found himself constantly amused by the contrast between his friend's public and private life. Gabriel had done well, now a junior minister in the cabinet and a keen supporter of the government's drive to encourage old fashioned family values, while secretly having kinky sex with as many young women as he could get his hands on, along with a monthly visit to Karen and Violet for what he referred to as personal discipline. Peter chuckled at the thought, but Michelle didn't respond, her face now set in a frown as she examined the front of her blouse, on which two small, wet patches were clearly visible.
“Could you pull over somewhere?” she asked. “I need to change my blouse.”
“Couldn't you do it at their house?”
“No! Look at the state I'm in, and you know what Marcia's like. There are going to be other guests too.”
Peter shrugged and took what looked like a convenient turning off the main road, which proved to lead to a transport depot, now closed for the day.
“Here?” he asked, pulling to a stop in the shade of a clump of trees.
“It will have to do,” Michelle answered, already fumbling with the buttons of her blouse.
Peter watched, intrigued, as she undressed. Her breasts had grown considerably larger over the course of her pregnancy, and changed shape, becoming fuller and somehow more womanly. Despite being a devoted ass enthusiast, he'd always taken a distinct pleasure in girls with large breasts, especially if they got embarrassed about being so well endowed. Michelle could now be included in their number. The faint flush of pink that tinged her face as she hurriedly shrugged off her bra was as arousing as the sight of the smooth, pink curves she revealed. Better still, her nipples were swollen, with white drops beading on the dark skin.
“May I help?” he offered.
“I don't see how you can,” Michelle answered, plainly flustered and embarrassed. “Look, it's soaked right through my bra!”
Peter didn't bother to reply, but leant forward to take one swollen teat into his mouth and suck, instantly changing Michelle's shocked gasp to a moan, quickly followed by a giggling rebuke.
“Peter! What are you doing!?”
“Helping you with your milk,” he replied, briefly pulling away before taking hold of her other breast and extending his tongue to lap up the tiny white droplets.
“It's not actually milk, it's ⦔ she began, but trailed off with a sigh. “You're getting off on this, aren't you? You're the biggest pervert I've ever met, Peter Finch!”
“I should hope so too,” Peter answered, now with one heavy, milk-swollen breast in each hand as he continued to attend to her. “But it's nice, isn't it?”
“Yes,” Michelle admitted, closing her eyes. “But do hurry up. Anybody who came past would see.”
“They're not very likely too,” Peter answered, nuzzling and squeezing at her breasts in the hope of producing more milk, “and besides, why shouldn't a man relieve his wife's boobs?”
“For the same reason a woman shouldn't relieve her boyfriend's cock,” Michelle sighed. “Not in public, anyway.”
She didn't seem to want to stop him, and Peter ignored her comments, continuing to feed on her breasts as his cock grew rapidly stiffer all the while. The temptation to bring himself off while he suckled from her was considerable, or even to fuck her milky cleavage, but as he began to draw his zip down the clang of the depot gates brought their play to an abrupt end. A man had emerged, looking curiously at the car, then grinning as Michelle frantically tried to cover herself up while calling Peter a variety of names, most of them coupled with “pervert”.
He merely laughed and drove off, earning himself a yet more detailed description of his personal faults as Michelle, still topless as they drove through Shillingford, patted her nipple pads into place and struggled into her new bra and blouse as they drove south. Another few miles and they'd reached the Howard's turning, with Michelle still pink faced with embarrassment as they greeted their hosts, although Peter was amused to see how quickly she switched to what he thought of as her respectable mode, chatting happily to Marcia Howard about her plans for the baby.
Gabriel took him through to the conservatory, where he'd been mixing Champagne cocktails for Daniel Stewart and his wife, Celia, along with another, older couple Peter recognized as party stalwarts and supporters of Daniel in particular. Greetings made, Celia continued her conversation, explaining proudly how Clementine had turned down a job offer from a major pharmaceutical company in order to continue her research.
“⦠but then money was never all that important to her,” she was saying. “She didn't ask for an allowance, even in her gap year, although naturally we provide for her.”
Peter thought of Clementine, who, if everything had gone to schedule, would probably be sitting naked at James Dolamore-Brown's dining table after being soundly taken from behind as she licked at Rhiannon's cunt. In return, she would receive as much as most women of her age could expect to earn in a week, while she had another four bookings over the next few days.
The crunch of tyres on gravel drew his attention to the window and he saw that another couple had arrived, presumably completing the party. A man got out first, tall, lean with graying hair and an air of natural authority, followed by a woman who seemed as frail and delicate as crystal, while her dress and the collar of diamonds at her neck suggested a level of wealth far beyond that of Peter's connections.
“Is that Stephen Richards?” he asked.
“Yes,” Gabriel replied. “Now CEO of the company, and incidentally one of our best donors, gentlemen. His wife's called Vivienne, American, heiress.”
“I didn't even know he was in the country,” Peter said, remembering how he'd last seen his old friend, balls deep in Michelle's pussy as they shared her over the back of a sofa. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Stephen came inside, grinning happily as Gabriel made the introductions and quickly launched into the topic of the election.
“Are we going to win?”
“No,” Gabriel answered. “Frankly, we haven't a snowball's chance in hell. In fact, we'd have been a lot better off if we'd lost last time around.”
“As it stands,” Daniel agreed, “we're likely to be out of power for two, even three terms.”
“By which time you'll be party leader,” Stephen went on.
“Hopefully,” Gabriel told him. “But that's the difficult part, when to make our move. Daniel's the natural choice and has a lot of support, but he needs to stay in the shadows for now, maybe for quite a while. The thing is ⦔
Peter had switched off, indifferent to the minutiae of politics, while he and Michelle never bothered to go to the polls on the grounds that their votes canceled each other out. Vivienne also seemed disinterested, and after a moment admiring her slender figure through her dress, Peter rose to speak to her. The sun had made its way out from behind the clouds, and when Marcia returned she chivvied Peter and Vivienne into the garden, where Stephen quickly managed to draw Peter aside on the pretext of walking down to the riverbank.
“Vivienne is lovely,” Peter remarked as they strolled out of hearing range.
“Very lovely,” Stephen agreed, “and a lot of fun too, as you may find out if you're very, very lucky. But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. I need a favor.”
“Anything within my power. What's up?”
“You know I'm head of the company now, don't you? Well, I'm on the verge of closing a deal, a deal that's going to leave me in clover and the company the dominant force in our field. To clinch the deal I need to impress certain very important people from a Balkan country we're not particularly friendly with at present, so it's all a bit delicate. They expect to be entertained, and well. It's a prestige thing. That means the best brandies, the best Champagnes, all of which is damned expensive but worth every penny as an investment. Now, they've been hinting that they want girls, and obviously it has to be done discreetly and well. So I need some Grove House maids, at least three.”
“Easily done,” Peter assured him.
“English maids,” Stephen went on. “Tall, blonde, well built, and most importantly, with good accents.”
“I think I can guarantee that,” Peter replied.
“I'd really like to choose myself. Do you have a book or something?”
“No, that would be far too indiscreet. You know Felicity, that's one, and ⦔
“Clementine?” Stephen suggested.
Peter winced and cast a guilty glance to where Daniel and Celia had come out to admire the rose beds. But he nodded.
“Why not? She's perfect. Rhiannon?”
“Too Irish, and she's not blonde.”
“Are they that fussy? How about Henrietta Clark?”
“Too short.”
“Michelle?”
“Too pregnant.”
“That's all the blonds I've got on my books at present, I'm afraid.”
“Couldn't you persuade somebody to dye her hair?”
“I suppose so, if that counts. I signed up a new girl today, as it goes, a girl you know, Chloe Thompson.”
“Ben's daughter!? You really are beyond the limit, Peter,” Stephen chuckled. “Okay, she'll do nicely.”