The Five Steps of a Man's Fall

PROLOGUE

In order to chart The Fall of a Man one must first select a suitable candidate. A man on the top of his game. A man who believes he is in control of his own destiny. A dash of arrogance helps. Generally, the farther they have to fall, the harder they land and the more spectacular it is to regard for the spectator. Call it schadenfreude. Call it slowing down to stare at a car crash. We enjoy it.

It is, however, impossible to predict such a Fall. So many pieces of a puzzle must fall into place. Fate plays it's wicked role. Coincidence can never be ruled out. But when a man falls, he falls far, lands hard and stares up the walls of the hole he tumbled down, wondering how he ended up there. If the Fall is complete and decisive he will fear that he will never rise again. What's more, he will fear that he doesn't wish to.

Take a man like Victor V. Brochard, for example. A short time ago, he stumbled. He slipped up and took the first wobbly steps towards his Fall. It wasn't his fault. It never is. But he wandered into a pocket of time that would prove to turn his life upside down against his wishes. A little erotic quantum space from which there is no escape.

Let us peer through the window of Victor V. Brochard's life right this minute. There he is on his bed. On his back, propped up on some pillows. Victor is in his late 40's. Fit, all things considered, not unattractive at all and greying at the temples. He is naked.

Between his legs a naked female form is hunched over, with her back to us. You'll notice her back first. It is a beautiful back. Perfect olive skin, tanned to perfection. Her torso tapers gloriously towards a narrow, girlish waist, only to flow out again when it meets her round, firm ass.

There is little doubt what she is engaged in at this moment. Her black, curly hair hides her face from us, but it bounces playfully in Victor's crotch. With every gentle but insistent bob of her head, her curls spring to life. Her body reveals that she is in her prime. It's hard to say, but we guess at early twenties. It is when we are afforded occasional glimpses of the girl's breasts that we can confirm our suspicions. They are round and firm and tremble tightly as her body moves. Definitely early twenties. Tits rarely lie.

Look back at Victor V. Brochard. Look at his face as he stares down at the girl in his lap. There is pleasure on his face, as one might expect of a man getting his cock inhaled by a sweet young thing. But I beg you to look closer at his expression. Do you see that odd blend of pleasure, confusion and disbelief? The pained expression of a man who is unable to act. Unable to stop the tide. Unable and unwilling to return to his life as it was only a short time ago. Paralysed by unsuspecting desires and needs that he could never have prepared himself for.

Even when Victor cums his expression remains the same. In awe. In fear. In submission. The orgasm rocks his mind and body and soul and the girl appears to suck every droplet of his cum into her mouth, still hidden behind her hair. Victor is unmoveable. If you look closely he appears to shake his head every slightly. Disbelief.

Victor has fallen and can't get up. He is resigned to his fate.

But that is now. Before The Steps began. Let us leave Victor to it for now and explore the beginning of the Fall.

STEP ONE - THE CATALYST

The journey is like any other at this point. It requires a catalyst. A seed from which to grow. As a rule, the catalyst is unexpected. It appears suddenly. Like a sudden glimpse of knickerless cunt when the hem of a dress is lifted by a breeze.

In this case it was innocent enough. Victor V. Brochard wanted for very little in his life. He ran a profitable art dealership and had made his fortune. If you saw him on the street you would smell the money and the attitude that accompanies it. We could call him arrogant despite the fact that 'arrogant' is a label given to self-confident people by insecure souls. Victor filled a room with his presence and his perceived arrogance and he knew it.

He had laid down his own rules for living and didn't give a shit if anyone else disapproved. He demanded excellence and settled for nothing less in every aspect of his existence.

At the moment Victor's primary complaint was, "you can't get good help these days." His house on the Mediterranean coast was large and he couldn't seem to find a good maid. He had hired and fired over a dozen over the past year and was good and tired of it. Either they were too lazy, too incompetent or too inclined to theft. Bloody irritating.

His friend Jens had just the thing. Jens was sympathetic about his complaints about finding a decent maid. He had, after all, had the same problems. Hasn't everyone? But he told Victor that he could send over a maid who kept a house of any size spotless and who fulfilled her duties to perfection.

There was a twinkle in his eye as he relayed this information to Victor one evening at a bar. Victor didn't ask him to elaborate - he had an inkling as to what his friend was hinting at. Dabbling in fun and games with your maid was not a foreign concept, of course. At this point, however, getting his hands on someone who could clean was paramount. Finding girls who could suck golf balls through garden hoses were a dime a dozen. Wealth is a magnet to young, willing things. That fact was well-known to Victor.

Jens promised to send her over to Victor's place, whispering that it was best that he let her go from her current employment at his house - too much friction with his young wife, Nadia, apparently. Victor thanked him and looked forward to receiving her.

While Jens went through young girlfriends like Thierry Henry scores goals, Victor was marginally more stabile in his domestic status. Like many a Frenchman before him he had acquired a Danish wife - Marie-Louise. She was 35 these days and Victor encouraged her to keep herself trim and slim and aesthetically appealing. He stumbled upon her at a party some years ago and she serves her purpose well. In return for a life of ridiculous wealth and luxury Victor gets a hard-bodied blonde who has excelled at pleasing him in sexual matters. It is mutual. Victor isn't a monster, after all. He enjoys very much giving her pleasure. He just likes to keep the pecking order in... well, in order.

Victor, where he is now, is no doubt looking back in the rear-view mirror of life to the moment he agreed to overtake Jens' maid. It is odd that fateful decisions can always be traced back to a specific and numbingly concise moment in time.

The die was cast. The catalyst appeared and was accepted. However inadvertently.

STEP TWO - THE AROUSAL

In Victor's world punctuality is next to cleanliness. He was most pleased when the doorbell chimed at 8:59 the next morning.

At that precise moment he had just floated back to earth after yet another splendid orgasm. Marie-Louise was scooping an errant strand of his cum off of her chin. The rest was on it's way down her throat. Victor had woken her with his stiff cock in her cunt but then decided that he wanted to cum in her mouth. He had worked hard at teaching Marie-Louise exactly how he liked his cock sucked and she had almost perfected the technique.

Victor spotted a dribble of cum on Marie-Louise's tit and he rubbed it into her firm tit with his thumb. The doorbell chimed again.

"Get that, will you darling?"

Marie-Louise pulled on a housecoat and padded out of the bedroom. He heard her voice mingle with the girlish voice of the new maid when she answered the door.

"Hello. We've been expecting you."

"Hello, Mrs Brochard. I am Giselle. Mr Jens Fischer sent me."

"Do come in."

Victor slipped on a pair of shorts and a polo, double-checking himself in the mirror, ensuring that he was the very image of authority and cool. He smiled upon discovering that he was. As ever. He headed out to the kitchen where his wife was chit-chatting with the new girl.

He wouldn't soon forget his first impression upon seeing this Giselle. She was far from your ordinary maid - who tended to be older, uglier and scruffier.

"Victor, this is Giselle. Giselle, this is Mr Brochard. Giselle is from Polynesia, Victor."

"Polynesia? How lovely."

Victor extended his hand and Giselle shook it firmly and with steady eye contact. Again, most unusual, thought Victor as he appraised the girl.

A girl. Mid-twenties. Olive-skinned. Long, curly, jet-black hair around her shoulders. Those were the dull, practical details that Victor first noticed.

But she was more than all that. This girl was exquisite. Petite to perfection. Wearing a light, airy summer dress with a floral pattern. Long, tanned legs and round, pert breasts.

She was pleasing to Victor's eyes. Especially her eyes and lips, which were now the focus of Victor's attention. The lips were full and thick and moist. The eyes hazel and wide as saucers. She had an odd combination of looking shy and yet completely in control at the same time.

Victor was taken aback but did he best to conceal it. He was so used to wretched looking girls and women from the wrong side of the tracks tidying his house up. Why this little bundle of sensuality hadn't been picked for marriage by some wealthy man was beyond him.

The twinkle in Jens' eye was understandable. But Victor channelled his thoughts to the matter at hand. Cleanliness.

After laying down the rules in a matter-of-fact tone, he let Marie-Louise show Giselle to her room. A trial period of a week was agreed upon and Victor left Giselle to it. Sink or swim. He hoped though that he soon be would able to stop worrying about finding decent house help and that Giselle would prove to be a satisfactory maid.

He poured a glass of orange juice and started focusing on his golf game later that morning.

It was late afternoon when he returned. Coming out of the garage he was not a little surprised to see Giselle lounging by the pool, reading a magazine. Before he could react angrily to her laziness, she looked up at him and smiled.

"Hello, Mr Brochard. Your wife said that I was welcome to use the facilities when I was finished. I hope you don't mind..."

"What are you saying? Are you finished your duties?"

"Yes, sir."

"Impossible..."

Victor marched into the house and did a walk-through, insisting on finding flaws or forgetfulness on the part of Giselle. To no avail. The house was spotless. He had cleverly planted various 'tests' around the house. A knot of hair in the shower drain, crumbs under the pillow on the sofa, smudged cigarette ash on the floor in the hall. His first reaction was chagrin but that quickly shifted to admiration. It was, after all, an effective maid he had sought for so long. Now, it appeared, he had be given the ultimate maid.

Heading back into the kitchen he found Giselle chopping vegetables. Again she disarmed him with a smile.

"I know I'm not required to prepare meals but I saw the perfect ingredients in your fridge for paella so I took the liberty of preparing dinner for you and Mrs Brochard. I hope you don't mind, sir."

"Not at all. Not at all."

Victor Brochard was in seventh heaven. A lovely young girl with a good old-fashioned work ethic was what he had longed for for ages. He smiled briefly at her and headed off for a shower.

The lazy days of Provence ambled into weeks and Giselle's abilities at keeping the Brochard residence spotless turned into a Tour de Force. A more effective maid was not to be found anywhere in the Med. So said Victor when boasting to his friends. And believe me, in these circles good help is a boasting issue on a par with new yachts, successful hostile takeovers and trophy supermodel fucks. Oh, and the paella was heavenly, as were the occasional other dishes Giselle felt inspired to create for her grateful employers.

Giselle's effectiveness granted her ample free time to lounge by the pool reading Marie-Louise's considerable library of glossy fashion magazines.

If Victor didn't meet Giselle bustling busily around the house he would find her by the pool. There are many inevitabilities in this tale but the most base one would be a man's reaction at having a new, fresh pretty-young-thing around the house at all hours. And if Giselle was anything, she was a pretty-young-thing. Her working uniform was invariably a tank top that flattered her round, firm breasts. Her nipples were always just visible beneath the cotton. She wore a pair of short shorts - not tight but loose enough to provide glimpses of the promising shadowy regions beneath. A simple pair of white Havaianas added a pleasant flip-flop sound as she padded across the marble floors of the house.

Victor noticed all of these things. Victor approved of them and admired her form as any man would or should. Poolside was a different matter however. Giselle would change into a bikini. Not as skimpy as Victor might like - the top was revealing enough with its two triangles of sheer white fabric held in place by strings - but the bottoms were more like hotpants. Hip hugging but without the saucy cut of most bikinis in these parts.

But no matter. They were tight and sheer and they left plenty to the imagination. Girlish... that was Victor's best description of them in private conversations with himself. And he had done enough visual research to be able to make such judgements.

Gradually, ever so gradually, Victor's admiring glances developed into erotic leering and lusting. Giselle's pleasant smile only made matters worse. And when her pleasant smile began to appear with narrowed, searching eyes and coquette body language, Victor's desire only increased.

When Marie-Louise's lithe body was astride Victor fucking his cock with her well-trained cunt, it was Giselle's cunt and Giselle's tits bouncing up and down. Just as it was Giselle's succulent lips inhaling his shaft and Giselle's eyes looking up at him with that smoky, pleasured look as his cock emptied it's cum down her throat.

He couldn't be sure but it seemed that Giselle was somehow aware of Victor's fantasising of her person. His lust-filled stares were obvious enough, but she seemed to have developed a habit of returning them of late. Her nipples appeared erect in her tanktop and bikini more often than not.

Victor, for all his desire and all his instinct, refrained from taking this flirt to the next level. The house was cleaner than it had ever been, for god's sake. He was loathe to jeopardise that fact by getting all sticky with the help.

STEP THREE: THE EXPLOITATION



He kept to his word, Victor Brochard. He didn't take the flirt one single step further. He resisted all his basic instincts to act.

The problem was that Giselle took matters into her own hands. She wasn't stupid. She could see Victor's interest in her and she thought him an attractive man.

She turned her female charms up a notch and started playing. The usual stuff at first; more revealing clothes, walking in on Victor 'by mistake' when he was getting dressed or in the shower. All accompanied by coquette eyes and lip nibbling.

When she was convinced that Victor was primed and there was no doubt about his reaction she acted.

She had heard Marie-Louise obliging him with a morning fuck from the hall. She had heard Victor cum. She had busied herself about the house while Marie-Louise hurried out of the house to get to her tennis lesson. When the sound of her car faded and the gates closed, Giselle boldly entered the bedroom with her feather duster.

She was wearing a tight tank top and hotpants. Her nipples were erect and straining at the fabric. Victor was lying on the bed reading the newspaper. He was used to Giselle 'inadvertently' entering rooms with him it but he was surprised to see that she didn't make any moves to leave this time.

'Yes, Giselle?'

'Yes, Mr Brochard...' A little sexy smile. A signal. His eyes remained on hers and his failure to reply was reply enough.

'There is something I have been wishing to do, Mr Brochard...'

'Indeed.'

'I know how cleanliness pleases you...'

Victor nodded. Wasn't that the god's honest truth. But what exactly was Giselle up to, he wondered.

Giselle arrived at the end of the bed. She tossed her feather duster down and pulled the sheets towards her. Victor was naked beneath them. Giselle's eyes quickly found his cock. Still half-erect from the morning's coitus, lazing contentedly on his upper thigh, dazed and sleepy but happy.

She crawled up between his legs like a panther, eyes on his, burning with desire and the promise of satisfaction.

Victor let her. Wondering how far she would go. Hoping he knew the answer to that.

Didn't take long to find out. Giselle's slender fingers gingerly lifted Victor's lazy cock up and snaked around the shaft. His cock responded accordingly.

His cock was lovely. Victor liked it and with good reason. Longer than average but not crude in it's appearance. Giselle jacked it gently as she appraised it. It was still sticky with his cum and the juices of Marie-Louise's cunt.

'It seems to require cleaning after its exertions, no?'

Victor nodded and finally put down his newspaper, watching her intently. Watching his cock harden in her hand. Watching her full lips part as though in slow motion. Watching her suckle his cockhead into her hot, tropically moist Polynesian mouth. Watching her smile as he moaned in approval.

Giselle suckled his cock tenderly. Her hair bobbing and dancing gently on his thighs as she cleaned his cock, swallowing the remnants of his cum and Marie-Louise's cunt juices. Licking it clean slowly and luxuriously, her tiny hand jacking the base with just enough squeeze.

When she was satisfied that Victor's cock was clean, she smiled sweetly at him and began the next phase: the road to orgasm. She changed character. Her fingers gripped him more tightly. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked his cock harder. Her mouth and throat inhaled him deeper and her bobbing increased in depth and intensity. Tiny, vibrant moans caused Victor to shiver and thrust his hips up into her face. She took those thrusts in her stride.

Victor was hypnotised by the sight of her sucking him. A common occurrence for men when a new, unexplored mouth swallows their cock but his lusting for Giselle had built up his desire for weeks.

Her other hand tugged and rolled his balls as she urged him to cum. It took a while because of his cumming deep inside Marie-Louise's cunt a short while before.

But Giselle was gifted and soon Victor felt his cum boiling and rising up his shaft. Giselle's slender pointer finger sliding past his ass muscles only sped things up. With mouth gaping and eyes wide, he emptied his hot cum into Giselle's mouth. She watched him cum and kept her mouth over his cock, swallowing every drop, milking the last gooey bits out of his shaft and leaving his cock shiny with her spit.

'Fucking christ...' That was all Victor could muster.

Giselle smiled.

'I hope I pleased you Mr Brochard.'

He nodded.

'Yes, Giselle. That was exquisite... come up here and let us continue...'

She shook her head and smiled.

'I have other cleaning to do, sir... I'd better get to it... perhaps I'll feel inclined to help you out another time. Perhaps...'

'Perhaps...' Victor wondered what she meant by that teasing remark that hung in the air between them as she wiggled her sexy ass out of the bedroom. Victor smiled to himself as she left.

Victor tried to keep it cool from then on. He was loathe to have Marie-Louise sense anything and was loathe to appear too desperate for a continuation of the fling with Giselle.

He was convinced that he was the King of playing it cool. He didn't realise that wasn't even related to the royal family. Giselle knew exactly where she had him. She knew exactly how to play the game. She knew exactly what he was thinking and she was biding her time.