My Life in Pink - Part 10

The woman, whom I was to address as Madame, greeted me in an incongruous combination of meticulous makeup and a silk dressing gown of the sort women who enjoy sleeping naked commonly have hanging on the backs of their bedroom doors. I curtsied for her, and she laughed delightedly. “Aren’t you the pretty little doll!” She invited me inside and showed me into the room where I was to put on my serving outfit — which included a pair of black platform mules with marabou on top. I put everything on and stepped in front of the mirror and laughed in delight at my own reflection. I was hot stuff!

I heard a bell ringing. It rang again. The woman was calling someone named Babette. It dawned on me that I was Babette. I headed toward the sound of her voice, went back for my serving tray, and then hurried to her.

She was in her boudoir, reclining on the bed in her dressing gown, smoking a cigarette through a long, lavishly rhinestoned cigarette holder. She looked straight out of a 40s movie about a femme fatale, except in full color. She’d put on shiny black stockings and chandelier earrings. She looked sensational, and sensationally sexy. She seemed equally delighted with the way I looked. She winked at me and said, “It may join us,” whereupon a closet door opened and a naked guy with close-cropped gray hair and a pot belly stepped timidly into view, eyes on the floor. “This is Babette,” the woman announced, not taking her eyes off me, not ceasing to beam delightedly.

“Of course, Madame,” the guy said after clearing his throat nervously.

“Is she not gorgeous?” the woman asked. “Have you ever seen anything more delicious?”

“Never, Madame,” the guy said, reddening, stiffening.

She beckoned to me, and I went to her, curtsying again when I reached her. She handed me her cigarette to put out. I normally find cigarette smoke sickening, but the sexiness of the whole scenario had me wholly distracted. As I removed the cigarette, with its lipstick-red tip, from its holder and began to extinguish it, she put her hand on my leg just above the stocking. Now the closet-dweller wasn’t the only one in the room stiffening. She reached under my dress and felt my erection with delight. “Oh, Babette!” she marveled. “Who’d have guessed?” I hadn’t been warned that sexual services would be involved, but do you suppose I was arguing? She pulled herself to her feet with my erection. We were eye to eye — mine, of course, averted. Her lips touched mine. Our tongues got acquainted. As we kissed, she removed one of my wrist-length lace gloves. She guided my hand to her wet spot; wet was an understatement. She pulled my panties down and lay back on the bed. “Come, Babette,” she said. “Don’t keep Madame waiting.”

I didn’t need another invitation. As we fucked, I could hear Him From the Closet working himself into a frenzy. I guessed he was her husband, and that this was the closest they came to actually making love. But if it worked for them — and from the sounds they were both making, it certainly seemed to be working — who was I to judge, especially when I wound up getting my full $1000 for only 40 minutes’ work.

While saving to attend the Fashion Academy, I continued to work at the restaurant and, occasionally, as a male maid. Given how much I was earning, I figured I’d be able to concentrate solely on school when I finally started, rather than having to work too — though I promised Dressing Gown Lady and Him From the Closet to keep myself available on Sunday mornings. They’d turned out to be very nice, and devoted to each other in their way. There was no cruelty in DGL’s cavorting with me in front of HFC; he’d actually had to beg her to start doing it. Real-time cuckolding was as thrilling for him as a fivesome with Hugh Hefner’s four indistinguishable blonde girlfriends would have been for Joe Sixpack.