Maid Sex Story

This maid sex story starts with a geyser I never fixed and ends on the floor of my own bathroom with the cold tap still running, and I am not going to dress up the middle of it.

Maid sex story

Priya went to her mother’s on a Thursday and took four days with her. Nadia came on the Friday at seven — bag down by the door, shoes off, humming under her breath that stopped the second she stood in the bathroom frame.

“The geyser,” she said.

“Still.”

She set her bag down and stood with one hand flat against the wood, looking at me a beat longer than the sentence needed. Nadia was thirty-six and carried her weight low, in the hip and the thigh, and in three years we had traded four hundred sentences and none of them about anything.

It was a hot week and the flat held the heat like an oven. She worked with the window open and a line of sweat along her neck, and I sat at the table with my thumb on the same page for an hour.

At half nine she came out with the bucket full and her wrist red off the hot tap and set it down too hard, and half of it went across the tiles in one sheet.

We both dropped after it at once and knocked heads.

“Ah— sorry—”

“It is your floor,” she said. “Why is your floor always wet.”

We were on our knees in the wet by then, both of us with a cloth, and her hand came down flat over mine to move it, and then it did not move at all.

Neither did mine.

“If you are going to say something,” she said, not looking up, “say it now.”

I did not say anything.

She turned her head and looked at me properly for the first time in three years and pressed her wet palm flat against my chest, and I felt her thumb drag once across my skin through the cloth.

“Priya madam is at her mother’s,” she said.

“Four days.”

“Four days,” she said back to me, and her thumb moved once more on my chest.

She came up off her knees and kissed me on the mouth — short, hard, the way you test a lock — and then sat back on her heels with her breath uneven.

“That was not a good idea,” she said.

Then she did it again, and that one was not short at all.

Her mouth came back onto mine and her fingers got into my hair and pulled my head down, and her tongue was in my mouth and her breath came hard through her nose and her hip was pressed into my thigh on the tile.

I got one hand up under her kurta onto her waist and the other flat on her hip and pulled her against me, and she made a low sound into my mouth and got both hands under my shirt and dragged it up over my chest.

Her palm went flat down my stomach and then back up, and her thumb found my nipple and pressed, and I stopped breathing.

“Oh,” she said, quiet, pleased, and did it again, and pressed hard.

I got her kurta up over her head. Her bra was a front-clasp and it took me two tries and she laughed at me with her mouth open on my throat, and then her breasts came out into my hands, warm and heavy, and her nipples were hard against my palm before I had touched them.

I put my mouth on one and her hand came up onto my neck, and her thighs shifted apart on the wet floor and she held me down onto her breast with her palm and let her head fall back.

“Not so slow,” she said, so I sucked hard, and her nails went into the back of my neck and she arched her spine and ground her hip into my thigh until I had to hold her waist to keep us both on the tile.

I tried to get her up onto the bed. It went wrong — she came up on one knee and slipped on the water and caught the frame in her hand, and I got an arm around her waist and we both laughed and stayed where we were, on the floor, with the tap running.

“Here,” she said, and pressed her palm flat on the wet tile. “Here is fine.”

I reached up for the towel and my elbow caught the pipe under the sink, and the joint I had put back wrong gave up and sprayed cold water over both of us in a flat line.

She rolled away laughing and I put my palm over the joint and it came out from between my fingers and ran down my wrist.

“Leave it,” she said. “It is only water on your skin.”

I got her leggings down over her hips and she lifted her knees to help me, and then her fingers closed around my wrist and stopped me.

“Wait.”

She knelt there with her leggings bunched at her knee, her breasts still filling my hands, and her breath was warm on my cheek and her thumb kept moving on my wrist without her meaning it to.

“The bedroom is further than that,” she said at last, “and I am not walking past your wedding photo.”

So it was the bathroom floor.

I got the rest of it off her and got my hand between her thighs and she was wet, and my fingers slid in two at once and her body went tight around them and she put her forehead on my shoulder and breathed out hard.

She took my hand and moved it herself — thumb up where she wanted it — and rode my fingers with her knees braced on the wet tile and her hand clamped round my wrist, and she came like that with her mouth open against my throat and my name said once into my skin, quiet, like a word she had no business owning.

She did not stop. She pushed me down flat on the cold tile and got my trousers open and got her hand around my cock and worked it slow, thumb sliding over the head on every pull, watching my face.

“You have been looking at me for one year,” she said.

“Since the rains.”

“Two years,” she said, and her hand went slower. “That is what I thought.”

She got up over me and straddled my hip and reached down and put me inside her with her own hand and sat all the way down, and her head went back and her palms went flat on my chest, and then she began to move, slow and deep, with the spilled water cold under my spine.

She rode me with a heavy roll of the hip that had nothing to do with hurry, and her breasts moved with her and her breath came in short warm waves, and every time I pushed up she put her palm flat on my chest and held me down on the tile.

“My way,” she said, and I let her have it her way, and she took her time, and the slick tight feel of her came and went around my cock in a rhythm she built out of nothing but hip and thigh.

She leaned down over me and put her breast to my mouth and I sucked it while she moved, and she held the back of my head with one hand and braced the other on the tile, and her spine curved and her knees gripped my ribs and her mouth was open against my neck.

The phone went off by the bed.

We both went still. It was Priya’s ringtone, and it rang and rang through the open door and Nadia did not get off me. She kept riding me, slower, with her eyes shut and her lip between her teeth and her hand pressed flat over my mouth, and neither of us made a sound until it stopped.

“If you pick that up,” she said, “you finish by yourself.”

She laughed into my neck and went hard and fast again, and I got both hands up under her thighs and lifted with her and she took it with her nails in my shoulders and her breath breaking against my ear.

She was close a second time. I felt it — the slick clamp and release of her going quick and uneven around my cock — and she said, “Wait. Wait,” and lifted off me and put her hand back around me to hold me exactly where I was.

“Not inside,” she said, which was the only sensible sentence either of us managed all morning.

She went down onto her knees on the wet tile between my legs and took me in my mouth — one hand at the base, the other flat on my thigh — and kept her eyes open on my face, and I finished in her mouth with my fingers locked in her hair and the spilled water running past her knee into the drain.

Afterwards she sat back against the frame with her wrist still red and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.

“Now,” she said, “you fix it,” and pulled her wrist in against her chest.

“I’ll call someone.”

“You will not,” she said, and stood up, and finished the bathroom, and left at eleven the way she always left.

The geyser is still dripping and I still have not called anyone. She comes on Fridays the same as ever, hums under her breath right up to the bathroom door, and I have not once managed to fix it. More maid stories.