Sex with the Virgin Maid (Wet Dreams)

The cab pulled away, leaving me standing alone in front of the huge iron gates. Rain dripped from the sky, making the air smell fresh and clean. I pulled my small suitcase closer and pressed the buzzer, unable to stop my heart from beating fast. 

This was it, my new job and my new life. I needed the money to help my mom back home, and live-in maid positions paid better than anything I’d ever had.

A voice crackled through the speaker. “Come in.”

The gates swung open slowly, and I walked up the long driveway, my cheap shoes clicking on the wet stones. The house, no, mansion, was even bigger than the pictures online. Three stories, white walls, and tall windows that looked like something from a movie. I took a deep breath and climbed the steps to the front door.

I rang the bell and waited, smoothing my simple black dress and white apron. I’d bought the uniform new just for this job. It felt a little tight across my chest, but it was the only one that fit.

The door opened, and I forgot how to breathe.

He stood there in nothing but a low white towel wrapped around his hips. Water still clung to his skin, sliding down his broad chest in slow drops. His dark hair was wet and messy, pushed back from his face, and muscles I didn’t even know names for shifted as he leaned against the doorframe. His stomach was flat and hard, with that deep V line disappearing under the towel. The fabric hung dangerously low; like, one wrong move and it would fall.

I felt my face go hot. My eyes dropped for a second, God, I couldn’t help it, and I saw the clear outline of him underneath. Thick and heavy, and my mouth went dry.

“Lila?” His voice was deep and smooth, like warm honey.

I jerked my gaze up to his face, and amused gray eyes stared back at me. A small smirk played on his lips. He knew I’d looked.

“Y-yes, sir. Mr. Blackwood?” I managed to say, though my voice came out smaller than I wanted.

“Damian,” he corrected. “Come in. You’re getting wet.”

I stepped inside quickly, clutching my suitcase. The foyer was huge with marble floors, high ceilings, and a chandelier that probably cost more than my mother's entire house. He closed the door behind me, and suddenly the space felt smaller. His scent hit me: clean soap mixed with something warm and male. My stomach flipped.

He didn’t move to get dressed, just stood there, towel and all, looking at me like he had all the time in the world.

“You’re younger than I expected,” he said, eyes moving slowly down my body and back up. “Twenty-two?”

I nodded. “Yes, sir… Damian.”

“Good. The last maid was fifty and scared of her own shadow, so I need someone who can keep up.” His gaze lingered on my chest for a second before meeting my eyes again. “Let me show you around.”

He turned and walked deeper into the house. I followed, trying not to stare at his back, wide shoulders, muscles moving under smooth skin, and the towel barely hiding his firm ass. Every step made my thighs brush together, and I felt a strange warmth starting low in my belly.

We went through room after room, a massive kitchen with shiny everything, a living room bigger than where I used to live, and a library full of books I’d never be able to reach without a ladder. He explained my duties in that low voice, which were cleaning, laundry, and cooking simple meals when he was home. 

He worked mostly from his office upstairs, traveled sometimes, and liked things quiet.

Every time he spoke, I felt it in my body, like his words were touching me, and every time he moved, the towel shifted just a little. I kept waiting for it to slip, half terrified and half… hoping?

By the time we reached the staff quarters on the ground floor, my cheeks were burning. My nipples felt tight against my bra, and there was a slick feeling between my legs I didn’t understand. I’d never felt anything like it before, not even when I secretly read those spicy books under my covers back home.

“This is your room,” he said, opening a door. It was small but pretty, a real bed with soft sheets, a window looking out at the garden, and even a little bathroom. “Unpack, then start in my bedroom. It’s a mess.”

He left me there, and I shut the door and leaned against it, breathing hard. My heart wouldn’t slow down. I pressed my thighs together again and felt that warm ache grow sharper.

What was wrong with me?

I’d never had a boyfriend, never even been kissed properly. My mom raised me strictly, with church every Sunday and no dating until marriage. ‘Boys were dangerous,’ she said. ‘They only wanted one thing.’

But standing in front of Damian Blackwood, half naked and perfect, I suddenly understood what that one thing was, and part of me, some deep, hidden part, wanted it too.

I unpacked quickly, hanging my few dresses in the closet. Then I went upstairs to his bedroom.

The door was open, but he wasn’t inside.

The room was huge. A king bed with dark sheets, rumpled like he’d just gotten out of it, and windows from floor to ceiling. His scent was everywhere, stronger here. I started picking up clothes from the floor: a shirt that still felt warm, jeans, boxers…

I held the boxers for a second longer than I should have, soft black cotton. I imagined them against his skin and felt that ache again, stronger now. My panties were definitely wet. I could feel it when I moved.

I made the bed, smoothing the sheets with shaky hands, fluffed the pillows, and dusted the nightstand. On it was a bottle of cologne, and I picked it up and sprayed a tiny bit in the air, breathing it in. My knees went weak.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. I cleaned bathrooms, wiped down counters, and folded laundry, but every few minutes, my mind went back to him. That towel, those eyes, and the way he’d looked at me like he could see right through my dress.

I saw him only once more that afternoon. He came into the kitchen wearing gray sweatpants and a tight black t-shirt that clung to his chest. Then he poured himself coffee and leaned against the counter, watching me wipe down the island.

“You’re doing good,” he said. “Quiet and thorough. I like that.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

His eyes dropped to my legs, then back up. “Dinner at seven. Make something simple, and then you’re off for the night.”

He left, and I stood there gripping the counter, breathing like I’d been running.

By the time evening came, I was exhausted and aching. My body felt hot and restless. I made him grilled chicken and vegetables, and he ate in his office, barely looking up from his laptop. I cleaned the kitchen, then went to my room.

I took a long shower, letting the hot water run over my skin. My hands moved over my breasts, and I gasped at how sensitive they were. My nipples were hard little peaks. When I washed between my legs, I lingered. The slickness wasn’t just water, it was me. My body was making itself ready.

For him.

I dried off and slipped into bed wearing only an old t-shirt. The sheets were cool against my heated skin, and I stared at the ceiling, trying to sleep, but I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

About what he looked like under that towel, about what it would feel like if he touched me.

I squeezed my eyes shut, but the images came anyway, and then I was dreaming.

In the dream, I was back in his bedroom. He was waiting for me, sitting on the edge of the bed, still in that towel, but this time, when I walked in, he stood up.

“Come here, Lila,” he said, his voice rough.

I walked to him, heart pounding. He reached out and cupped my face, thumb brushing my lip. Then he kissed me, slowly at first, then deeper, his tongue sliding against mine. I moaned into his mouth.

His hands moved down my body, pulling my dress up and over my head. I stood in just my panties, shaking. He looked at me like I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“So innocent,” he murmured. “So ready.”

He pushed me gently onto the bed and climbed over me. The towel fell away, and there he was, naked, hard, and huge. My breath caught. He was thick and long, the tip already wet, and I wanted to touch it so badly.

He kissed down my neck and my breasts, sucking one nipple into his mouth. I arched off the bed, crying out. His hand slid between my legs, finding my panties soaked.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “You’re dripping for me.”

He pulled my panties down and spread my thighs wide. I felt cool air on my wet folds, then his hot breath. His tongue touched me, slow, flat licks from bottom to top, and I grabbed the sheets, moaning loud.

He licked my clit in circles, then sucked it gently. One finger pressed inside me, stretching my virgin tightness. It burned a little, but in the best way. He added another finger, curling them, and hitting a spot that made me see stars.

“Please,” I begged. “Please, Damian…”

He moved up my body, positioning himself between my legs. The thick head of his cock nudged my entrance.

“Gonna make you mine,” he whispered.

He pushed in slowly, and I felt myself stretch around him, the pressure building until…pop…he was inside. The fullness was overwhelming, and he stayed still, letting me adjust, and kissing my tears away.

Then he started moving. Deep, steady thrusts that hit that spot again and again. My legs wrapped around his waist, and I clawed at his back. The pleasure built and built until I couldn’t take it.

I came hard, screaming his name, my body clenching around him in waves. He groaned and thrust deeper, filling me completely.

I woke up gasping, my hips rocking against nothing. My t-shirt was twisted around my waist, my panties soaked through. The ache between my legs was worse than ever.

Without thinking, I slipped my hand inside my panties, and my fingers found my clit swollen and slippery. I rubbed in small circles like he’d done with his tongue in the dream. It felt so good I whimpered.

I imagined his mouth on me again, his fingers inside me, and his cock stretching me open.

My hips lifted off the bed, and I rubbed faster, pressing harder. The pleasure coiled tight in my belly, then snapped.

I came with a soft cry, thighs shaking, wetness coating my fingers. It wasn’t as strong as in the dream, but it was real. My first orgasm, given to myself while thinking of him.

I lay there panting, staring at the dark ceiling. My body felt loose and warm, satisfied for the first time all day, but the ache wasn’t completely gone.

It felt like it was just beginning, and somewhere down the hall, I heard a low sound, like a deep, male groan.

Was he awake? Was he thinking of me too?

I pulled the covers up to my chin, my heart racing again.