Free The Maid For Service Bundle by Nadia Nightside Page A

me. Looking after other people’s stuff and all. But whatever, it’s good money. And this latest job? Hoo boy. It’s damn good money. It’s great money. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars for a year of work? Are you kidding? Who do I have to blow to get that kind of deal all the time?
    Well, nobody, apparently. They said the position was open continuously, just so long as I could stand the work.
    Uh, yeah, a hundred fifty-thousand dollars? I can stand it. Trust me.
    Not that this place—Mister Castle’s Estate, as it is constantly referred to—doesn’t have its weirdness.
    Anyway, earlier today I arrived here. Mister Castle’s Estate, like I said. It’s a big, old place. You’ve seen the type—imagine any sort of rich person’s house from any movie ever—that’s this place now. It’s an amalgam of everything rich. Beautiful ceilings, beautiful floors, art everywhere and all of it very masculine and sexist. I’m sure Castle, if he were around, would say he’s “celebrating the female form” with all his portraits of big-titted women, but in all reality he’s just perpetuating the myth that women are property to be traded around, so long as they are gorgeous first.
    Oh, side note: I got a ride to Mister Castle’s place with an old man. His name was Eduardo. He looked like an Eduardo—a scraggly beard that only really seemed to occupy one side of his face, and a scar sliding from his ear to his shoulder. The whole time, he was trying to warn me away from the Castle place. He kept saying how he would never let his daughters work there, not ever. I smiled and nodded, but still, I couldn’t wait to get out of the car.
    Nobody tells me where I can and can’t work. I had enough of that from my parents, thank you.
    I found this job through a random encounter on the street, believe it or not. I had been idling through a bulletin board at the laundry mat, looking for easy graphic design work. I’m no expert at graphic design, mind you, but I can handle photoshop and the like better than most of the population. I had put together a few jobs for doctor’s offices, stuff like that. The problem is that nobody really wants to hire you—or not for very long—if you don’t have a degree or any formal training. Just plopping together gif files on tumblr doesn’t really cut it as a resume, most of the time.
    (Also, side note: I just found out there's no internet here. What the hell, Castle?)
    Anyway, this gorgeous Asian girl in a tight, tiny business suit asks to take me to coffee. I’m excited, right? I think she’s hitting on me—and I’m all for that because I haven’t eaten a quality pussy since Diana broke up with me like six months ago or however long it was.
    Bummer news, she wasn’t hitting on me.
    Awesome news—she thought I was perfect for a job her boss was putting together.
    Anyway, so a week later after some interviews and blood tests, there I was, standing with my lone suitcase in front of this enormous manse.
    (Mansion? Manse? Are those the same thing? Nobody ever told me and, like I said, there's no internet here. Which is just SUPER, by the way.)
    I knocked on the door, and out came the most enormous set of tits I’ve ever seen.
    I normally dislike using the word “tits.” It’s sort of automatically degrading. But—you know this, I’m sure—for some pairs, there’s really nothing else that works as a descriptor. The mammaries on this beautiful, blond creature were not “breasts” or even “boobs.” They were crowd-pleasing, man-melting titties, and there was really no way around saying that. They were enormous, round, shiny, bouncy, sporting the sort of hot tanned skin that contrasts so brilliantly with perfectly arranged blond hair—which she also had.
    This...was Claudette.
    “Hi! I’m Claudette!” she bubbled. Everything she said could be alternately described as “bubbled” or “gushed” or “giggled” or “purred.” She was like sex incarnate.
    Honest to god,