The Boat Maidbysxncndyhere©
None of my clothes fit since I moved to Venezuela. Lazy days of eating what I wanted had swelled my tits from a B cup to a C cup, and my ass was now poking out the top of my jeans. It was embarrassing in a new country. Just going to the supermarket to shop for apples was an exercise in harassment. Cat calls followed me everywhere.
As my body swelled from leisure, my finances dwindled. I was running out of money. I had to find a job, and fast. Rent was due to the mean old Venezuelan landlord, and I suspected I would need to move out if I could not pay up. It was now that I found the job ad that would change my life. One of the few written in English, it was also something I could do: it said simply: "Boat Maid: Room and Board in Exchange for Cleaning Boat."
I tried my best to button-up and look professional. But the top two buttons of my shirt would barely close. My best interview shirt was straight-cut. But my boobs were round and swollen, even pouring out of my old lace bra. My nipples were barely covered by the insubstantial fabric, and my nipples threatened to pop out completely and rub against the stiff cotton of my oxford shirt. The top buttons of the oxford across my chest were buttoned but gapped between my breasts. I was literally popping out of my clothes. Humiliating as it was, this was the best shirt I had. It would have to do.
Pants were out of the question. All I had were jeans, and each pair showed the top of my thong, and little moons of my ass cheeks as well. I was not disciplined enough to diet, and all of my clothes were suffering from my recent swelling. I chose a smart navy skirt instead. It was almost knee-length, although my round ass caused it to hitch up a little in the back, and the fabric was clearly straining against the roundest part of my ass.
Always blessed with a tiny waist, my new fatness seemed to make me almost comically hourglass-shaped. Pulling on stockings had been a challenge. My ass would stretch the thin nylon and cause a run. If the stockings fit my slender legs, they would inevitably be too tight for my ass. My last pair of stockings was ruined with tears. It was too hot for stockings anyway. I put on the only shoes I had: strap heels of shiny black leather. Not exactly business wear, since they showed my pink-painted toes, but they would have to do.
As I combed my hair in the mirror I saw my flushed face. I was embarrassed at how I looked: ashamed to be seen falling out of my clothes like this. Why had I not planned on needing a job? Why had I not foreseen I would need good interview clothes? Oh well. I sighed to myself and shut the bathroom light off.
It was a long hot walk to the pier. My heels crunched on gravel roads and little pebbles got into my shoes and hurt me. I was relieved at last to find the boat the gentleman told me to look for. It wasn't a boat, in fact, it was a full-fledged yacht! I inhaled a little breath of surprise. The Patient Muse, it was called. The name was sprawled on the side of the boat in curling maroon letters. No-one seemed to be there. I stood there in silence, wondering what to do. Maybe there was a door onboard to knock on. I held a rope and gingerly stepped on, balancing myself as I tried a high heeled foot onboard.
Still, there was no sound onboard. I saw a door below-deck, so I tiptoed down the stairs and knocked lightly on it; terrified that I somehow had the wrong boat. I hoped to hear someone say, "Come in," but instead the door opened slowly.
A man was holding the door. He was tall, maybe six foot two, at least. He had pale skin, piercing black eyes and a head full of wavy silver hair. His shoulders were impossibly wide, and his fingers, holding the door, were long. He wore loose gray trousers, a button-up shirt and a suit vest. He had a vaguely professorial air about him. He was maybe forty five or fifty years old. His cologne smelled expensive and smoky. He was intimidating, poised.
I fully expected him to say something. At least "Hello," or "You must be Clara," or "Have you come for the job?" He didn't say any of these things. Instead, he reached down with his long fingers toward my blouse. My breath stopped. "Your button has come undone," he said, disapprovingly, and buttoned my top button, which had indeed popped open between my straining tits. My embarrassment and shyness turned to instant shame and I could feel my cheeks turn red. As if to comfort me, he said: "Come in."
I came into what looked like a study. It was dim compared to the sunlight outdoors. My eyes tried to adjust to the dim light. The walls were covered with bookcases filled with books. The floor had a wine-colored carpet. I sat in a leather chair across from a desk. He did not sit down at the desk but stood next to it. It was then that I noticed the leather whip, hung on the wall behind him. It was artful. It must have been an artifact from somewhere. From his many travels? My mind was wandering. I swallowed. He began to speak. I was relieved he was speaking, because after he had touched my blouse and buttoned my button, I suddenly felt mute.
"I am looking for a boat maid," he said. I nodded, looking down at my too-tight skirt. Of course I knew this. How would I impress him that I was the best person to clean this boat? Words failed me. The boat was beautiful, big. I wondered how much he paid. And where would the room and board be provided? Did he have a hotel, also?
"I live on this boat, travel here and there, to different places, or sometimes I just like to take a pleasure sail. Of course I cannot do this alone, so I am hiring a young woman to help me on the boat."
"I'd be glad to do that," I said, as if to my shoes.
He ignored me and said, "I'd like you to look at me now." I looked up. Why was my face so hot? I blinked. I swallowed. He seemed to smirk, just a little. "Please continue looking at me while I describe the duties of this position. Can you do that?" This time when I swallowed it sounded like a gulp. I exhaled. "Yes. Of course." I was almost whispering now. Why was it so hard to look directly at him? "Good." He continued.
"The position requires living full-time on this boat," he announced, beginning to stride back and forth, punctuating his words. My heart skipped a beat. I was excited. It was a beautiful yacht. Could I be so lucky?
"The position includes a very rigid schedule, and you must be available to me at all times."
"Yes, Sir!" I almost squeaked out the words and surprised myself at my compliance. Was I really so desperate for a job that I would call a stranger "Sir?' I tried to stuff my self-criticism back down and was relieved when he did not seem to notice but simply continued.
"Every morning at 11 a.m. you will take Positioning Yoga." My eyes opened wide, now staring at him in confusion. "I'm sorry, Sir, what is Positioning Yoga?" I was truly confused. None of this made any sense.
He smirked again. "Aha. I will explain in a minute. Let me back up. I'll get to that detail later. Do not interrupt. Let's talk about uniform and cleaning duties first, shall we?"
I nodded, perplexed, a little line forming between my eyebrows as I continued to listen.
"I have rigid uniform and schedule demands that you will be required to conform to. They are not negotiable. Nothing in this position is negotiable. You will need to submit to the rules and regulations of the position."
I wondered if he had military training. I suspected that he might. He certainly did seem rigid. Why did this inspire in me some feeling like infatuation?
He stopped and looked at my chest with disapproval. I felt a little panic.
"I will require you to wear a maid's uniform at all times. It is the only decent uniform, and I have had it especially tailored to fit the way that I require."
My confusion grew. Why would a boss pay attention to such minute detail as tailoring?
"Your tits are too large for your interview shirt and I suspect they will be too large for the uniform."
I felt myself blush hotter and was angry that he would speak so inappropriately to me. What did this have to do with anything? As my confusion grew, my pussy began to feel something. I was really getting distracted. This was the strangest job interview of my life. But I didn't want it to end.
"You are not allowed to bring any other clothing onboard. It would undermine your role and position. I have one uniform for you. If it gets soiled you will be required to hand wash it. I would be aghast to find you improperly or under-dressed, so I will require that I do not catch you washing your uniform, or I will need to take punitive and corrective measure with you."
Was this man insane? Was he saying I could wear the uniform or be naked but he could not catch me naked? And what were corrective measures? I glanced at the leather whip on the wall and wondered...what...goes on here? I knew that I was beginning to hear something that was amiss, somehow just wrong. I should leave right now, I thought. Instead, I stayed glued to my chair. I felt my pussy began to seep moisture. "I should leave right now," I thought. But my body would not move. In fact, it seemed to glow and melt into the leather chair.
"You will have only one very crucial cleaning duty," he continued. "You must dust everything higher than your reach." This made no sense to me. At five foot two, most things were beyond my reach. And why would he want me to dust things only beyond my reach?
"Uniform is very important for dusting," he began to intone in a whisper, as if I were a frightened child and he were consoling me. "You see, I cannot have your skirt too long. And you must always wear regulation panties." What were regulation panties? I was staring at his mocking face like a deer in headlights now. Whatever strange pact I had begun with this man was bound to continue. Of that I was sure. My breath started to come ragged, short. I tried to mask the heaving of my chest by fidgeting in my seat.
"Your ass is very important to me. I need to get to know it, to see it from underneath while you are working. Your regulation panties are somewhat like a thong. They will rub your pussy but allow me to supervise your ass while you are working."
I could not believe what I was hearing.
"Your tits are also very important to me. You have fat tits, but I am disappointed they are not fatter. If you were employed already you would be punished for this. But of course this is just an interview." He sighed, and smiled at me. I blinked at the insult, unable to comprehend what he might possibly say next.
"Because your tits are too small I will need to work with you in a training program to get you up to size. Every morning at ten a.m. you will have a breast massage with hormonal creams. our goal is to get you to a D cup or greater. Despite your small size, I think we can get there, and I will postpone any punitive measures until we see how your tits swell up with proper attention."
So my tits were too large for the uniform but too small for his requirements? So this was the kind of maid he wanted. It really had nothing to do with cleaning. Or very little to do with cleaning. I felt as if I were in some strange movie. I wanted to pinch myself to see if I would wake up.
I wanted him to pinch me. The thought of it hardened my nipples, and the one nipple that had spilled out of my push-up bra strained against the fabric of my blouse. he looked at the darkened protrusion on my blouse and smirked. I was discovered. I did not move a muscle. Moving even a muscle would be admitting to embarrassment, and I was too terrified to move.
"Don't worry. Punishment is light, and regular. It will train you to perform better. Every morning at 9 a.m. I will tie you to a ship's mast and you will be pinched and slapped lightly." I blinked, incredulous. Not only because he seemed to read my fantasy about him pinching me, but because he offered no explanation for regular punishment. I had entered an alternate universe indeed - one where nothing made sense. But somehow everything did make sense -- at least to my pussy, which was undeniably wet, and my nipples, which were so hard that they seemed to have a mind of their own.
He was now standing with his hands on his hips, legs spread wide, as if giving a political speech. His soft gray trousers looked impossibly expensive. What looked like a bulging cock was pointing the fabric of his fly right at me. I could not believe it. He had a hard-on and was smiling right at me, wickedly, unashamed. He looked as if he controlled the universe and his cock was a cannon, pointed to shoot at me.
"I have a rewards program as well as a scale of punishment. Every day at 3 p.m. you will suck my cock. I will train you to become a better and better cock sucker. This is your most important test of the day. If you fail, you will be tied back up to the mast, and left there. If you succeed, you may be tied doggy style to a bench and you may request that I fuck you."
With this, he reached down and lightly stroked the fabric of his pants, where the head of his cock was straining to come out. He smiled pityingly at me. I wanted the job. I wanted the job so badly and had no idea how to get it. I could not remember feeling so frustrated, ever.
Your Yoga Positioning class will be aimed at correcting your angles - most importantly the angle of your hips when I doggy-fuck you. I require very specific angles. I want you to be able to bend exactly as I see fit. If you do well in Yoga Positioning, you will become flexible enough to be almost a contortionist. I require a completely flexible maid, as I regret to say that I am quite rigid. Do you feel that you could bend to my rigid expectations?"
It was the first actual question that he had posed and I had no answer. I only swallowed and looked down, my cheeks burning.
"Now show me your pathetic little tits," he suddenly ordered me. I was too shocked to move. My tits that the boys in the street had called "juicy" and "fat" this man was calling pathetic and little. I did not know what to do. Did he mean for me to open my shirt? I looked up at him, and my mouth opened a little, as if to ask a question, but nothing came out.
He was now standing with his arm on the back of my chair, leaning ever so slightly toward my face and quivering chest. "This is a pre-job screening. I want you to pass this test. If you fail, I will be angry and disappointed, but I will train you to do better next time." I was relieved. However I was supposed to interpret his command, it sounded like he would work with me. Failure could not be too bad. I did nothing. I did not move. he leaned in closer and whispered, his breath now moving the strands of my hair. "Now you have failed. Stand up please."
Relieved to be told what to do when feeling so confused, I stood up. With one hand, he casually pulled my blouse between my tits and the two straining buttons popped off and landed on the carpet. Now my tits were half-exposed, like two round, fat white moons pushing out of my push-up bra. Was he going to rape me? I had no idea what was happening. Was I going along with it out of excitement, curiosity or fear? I did not know. I felt all mixed-up.
"Are you lactating?" he asked me, suddenly stern.
"No. Of course not." I stuttered, confused. Why would I be?
"You will also be my milk maid. Every morning after yoga positioning and the twelve o'clock fuck, I will milk you. I will milk you with my hands, my mouth and with machines. Your tits will be milked not only until they expand but until you begin to produce milk. This will be one of your employment goals." He leaned in closer to my ear again, suddenly tender and whispering, "Okay? You must be my Milk Maid Slut to succeed."
I swallowed and nodded my head. Suddenly mute again.
He walked and stood in front of me, his erection larger, as if that were even possible. I wondered how big he was. Seven, eight, nine inches? I suddenly felt afraid. That was a lot of cock for my small frame. And he did say, "fuck." Did he say he would fuck me?
"Now take your tits out for me to inspect, Milk Maid Slut." He looked stern again, angry. I immediately complied, fearing some punishment I could not imagine. I pulled one tit and then the other out of my bra and let the round globes flop over my blouse, suddenly cold and shivery in the air. My nipples were hard and the air tickled them. The tickling feeling made me feel ashamed and hot.
"I don't require fingerprints for job screening," he said, reassuringly. "I only need to mark you to signal acceptance to the position and your belonging to the boat."
What did he mean? Was I a cow? A piece of property? My naked tits shivered, exposed. I was afraid for them. Would he hurt them? Surely not if he expected milk out of them. My confusion grew.
"I will suck your tits so hard you will be marked - by my teeth. If the markings fade, it will be time to be marked again. If this is not sufficient I can certainly brand you with a hot iron, but let's leave that for later punishment if necessary. Please hold up the right tit for me now."
Was he kidding? I did as asked. I cupped my right tit with my right hand. His face remained impassive and did not seem to change. he slowly walked over, as if inspecting both my hand and my tit. His nearness to me made my knees weak. He had some sort of power over me. I was attracted, terrified, mesmerized. He pinched and twisted my nipple, hard. I cried out. "What a slut you are to let a strange man touch you like this!" he scolded me. "Tell me you are a good little slut and I can suck your tit hard now." I complied, "I am a good little slut" - it was true, wasn't it? I was petite, yes, little. And only a slut would acquiesce to this. So it was true: I was a good little slut. I felt shocked at my new identity. I owned it.
"If you are a good slut you will beg for it," he said. I did beg. It seemed to be all I wanted: to put my tit in his mouth. I stared at his mouth and begged him in a whisper, "Please, Sir, suck my tit. Please Sir." When I said "Sir," the faintest smirk flickered on his lips and he pulled himself straighter, looking both emboldened and angry.
He looked me in the eyes with sad disapproval. Suddenly, he picked me up with both hands and stood me on the chair so that my tits were level with his face. I was shocked with the ease at which he picked me up. He grabbed my right tit with a hand that was rougher to the touch than it looked. He quickly pulled my fat tit to his mouth and began sucking it, hard. My back arched and I let out a little moan. My left tit's nipple got harder, as if jealous, and the cold air taunted it as he drew my right nipple harder into his mouth, almost down his throat. I began to whimper with pleasure. His mouth was hot and wet and hungry. He sucked my tit as if it were a serious job, as if the tit itself needed punishing.
When I thought I could whimper no more, he reached into his back pocket for what looked like a little red switch. He slapped the switch against my left tit and it stung with a jolt of electricity. I cried out in pain. I did not know if he would then slap the switch against the other tit, now wet with his spit, or if he would start sucking the punished left tit.
He stepped back. "Cover yourself up." He turned around and looked at the bookshelf. I froze. I did not understand. Did I get the job? Did I do something wrong? I was a slut indeed. Why did I go along with this? He must have been disappointed, disgusted. Was I supposed to resist?
"I'm sorry, Sir" I whispered as I pulled my tits back into my too-small bra.
He turned around. He looked almost sad. "You must be very sorry. Your nipples get hard very easily. And your skirt is stained from your wet pussy. This is not at all what I had in mind."
I was aghast. I didn't understand.
"I thought it would be easier," he continued. "I thought you might not be so reactive. So young. So naive."