Maid To Order update

Bruce grabbed her by her supple hips and pulled her down, down to be filled by his cock as he lunged up into her, impaling all of her on his swollen manhood. His face contorted with his orgasm and Natasha felt the hot burst of his cum, his seed running straight into her sex. She ground her crotch hard against his belly, milking his prick dry, the pressure on her mons enough to bring her off.

It was even better than when his fingers had made her come—there was a headiness to it, a freedom to enjoy it brought about by the fact that she wasn’t vulnerable, that he had come too, giving into the sensations as much as her. She writhed almost joyously on top of his cock, feeling their entangled pubic hairs sodden with cum.

Then she slid off him, looking down at the streak of jizz that ran from her tingling opening and marked her sleek thighs, glistened on her pubic fur. She petted herself, feeling the aching sensitivity left by the fuck, then licked the taste of it from her fingers. She always enjoyed a man’s cum better when it was mixed with her own cream. Much as she might enjoy the power of sucking Bruce off, tasting him straight from his engorged knob, something about the mixture spoke of vulnerability and intimacy.

Nothing so impersonal as mouths or fingers. They’d melded, or at least their fluids had. Natasha was of mixed emotions as to being satisfied by that, now that the physical heat was dying down, but she could at least be honest about it. He’d fucked her. She hadn’t hated it. She hadn’t even done it as part of some cover, some job. Not that she was a stranger to casual sex, but in hindsight, it now seemed oddly important that it be him.

She was so used to not needing anything—doing without everything—that realizing how much she’d missed this felt like an addiction.

In the afterglow, she smoked and Bruce didn’t care. His hands caressed her naked body, petting it as lightly as the smoke issuing from her barely moving nostrils, and she didn’t feel lust in his touch. At the moment, he seemed to have only an aesthete’s appreciation for the softness of her skin. Like he was a man who hadn’t touched anyone in decades and now he got to know again the feel of another human being.

But maybe she was projecting.

She felt his stroking touch catch on a scar. She registered no disgust at his encountering the jagged keloid tissue; he followed it as avidly, with the same coolly affectionate interest as the rest of her curvy body. But he didn’t move on as quickly. Her tits and ass hadn’t given him cause to linger, but this did. He traced its shape as if trying to teach himself something about how it laid on her creamy skin.

Leather and lace. The phrase floated through Natasha’s head. Some old ad jingle, maybe—slogan for a perfume, most likely. The contrast, so different yet so alliterative, appealing to some. She wondered which Bruce liked more, the leather or the lace. If it was the lace, he was in for a disappointment. Natasha felt like a snake shedding its skin. On the outside was all the softness, but on the inside—one layer down—her hide was as raw and tough as that scar.

“I don’t remember this from last time,” Bruce said at last, his fingers on her scar finally still, feeling how it stretched and pulled with her breathing. Maybe trying to feel how it throbbed, at least to Natasha’s senses, with him touching it.

“I hid it. Men don’t like seeing scars.”

“I don’t remember body make-up either.”

“I get new ones.”

Natasha picked up his big hand and moved it to her breast, plump and succulent, but she didn’t wrap his fingers around it for him. He kept his fingers interlocked with hers as she held the back of his hand against her cleavage. Through his palm, she felt her heart’s heavy bass thumps. Funny, how she couldn’t feel it thumping in her own chest.

“You should be interested in this.”

“I am.” Bruce bent low to kiss her shoulder. He was laying against her, on his side while she was on his back, and having his broad body downed but still looming over her made Natasha think for some reason of a mighty oak toppled over, or Ozymandias’s statue cut off at the legs. “But you must not think I have much curiosity if you believe that’s all I’m interested in.”

“Maybe there’s not much for you to be interested in.”

His hand was still in hers; his thumb stroked her knuckles. Natasha felt a note of panic, imagining him somehow feeling all the tiny healed fractures from punch after punch after punch. “Do you have a place to stay?”

Natasha knew she should’ve demurred, thrown up a cover, but somehow he’d caught her off-guard. “No…”

“Stay with me.”

“I can’t.”

“There’s plenty of rooms in the mansion. You can come and go whenever you like. I’ve known women like you before. I know how much you value your independence. I don’t want you to be my kept woman.”

Natasha grinned wryly, finally feeling on familiar ground. No, he didn’t want to fuck her—not just fuck her—he wanted to save her. She was used to that. She wondered sometimes if the Red Room had given her such a sob story because it made her so damn tempting to rescue. Like some method actor... “No, you just want to take care of me.”

“Yes,” he admitted readily. “Why shouldn’t you be taken care of?”

A million reasons. Natasha kissed his hand instead of giving Bruce a tenth of them. “It’s easy for you to want to save me when you don’t know my past.”

“It’s easy for me to want to save you when I know you,” Bruce shrugged. “Come on. Stop getting scars for a while. See what it feels like to be taken care of for once.”

“What makes you think I’ve never been taken care of?” Natasha teased.

“Because you don’t seem to know how to be.”

***

Natasha felt a sense of well-being wash over her as she and Bruce dressed, then went to the elevator, Bruce calling ahead to have the car waiting for them. She didn’t believe it was due to placing herself in Bruce’s hands. She didn’t consider herself in his care. But she thought of herself as having a new mission: to romance this man, see if she could pass as his lover, convince as his woman.

The car left them off at the steps that led up to Bruce’s front door, then purred off to be parked in the garage. Bruce led her up the stairs with his arm casually around her waist, her thigh brushing against his.

“I know you’ve been here before,” Bruce said, “but if you don’t mind indulging me, I’ll give you the grand tour.”

“Why not?” Natasha replied. “I tend to enjoy indulging you…”

He led her through the oak-paneled halls of the mansion and up a richly carved staircase to one of the mansion’s wings. There, he flung open the doors to a dozen bedrooms, each tastefully decorated in a subtly different style, all befitting the larger aesthetic of the house.

“Take your pick,” he said. “It’ll be yours for as long as you like.”

“And where do you sleep?” she asked leadingly.

“Who said I sleep?”

At the end of the wall, they descended a spiral staircase to the main dining room. There was a table with space for dozens running the length of the room, silverware cabinets lining the walls, crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Bruce led her through the room to a parlor out the door at the far end, where there was a bar. He fixed her a drink, then she asked to mix him one and he let her. They sipped each other’s concoctions for a few minutes, catching up on old times. Natasha dipped into the cover story that she must’ve subconsciously worked on, it sprung to mind so elegantly, even with her not having wanted one. Bruce dutifully informed her of all the things she could’ve gleamed from having a subscription to a given tabloid. Then Alfred came in and told them that dinner was ready.

They went out onto the patio, a glass-encased dome dominated by a table for four. Two glasses of white wine glistened in the light of a burning candle, giving the room an intimate atmosphere despite the view that stretched on for dark, quiet acres, all Bruce’s estate. Alfred served them dinner, then took his leave. Natasha was glad. Not only did she want Bruce alone, but she felt bad for the old guy, having to spend his evening at someone else’s beck and call. She’d see what she could do to help Bruce get along without him.

The wine, the candlelight dinner, the temptation of Bruce’s company, even the darkness, it all combined to fashion a mood that couldn’t have been better if Bruce had planned it. Even if he was wearing just his unbuttoned business suit and she was in her rumpled dress, her heels off, her hair as tousled as his.

“Feel like finishing your tour of the grounds?” Bruce asked her.

“It’s dark out,” she told him. It might’ve only been sixish, but evening in Gotham was like midnight in most places she’d been to.

“It’s a warm night,” Bruce reasoned. “And the path is paved.”

“Then you must take a lot of girls along that trail,” Natasha teased. “What do they all see when it’s this dark?”

“It’s more what they feel,” Bruce said musingly.

“Warm?” Natasha suggested.

“You must prefer the nights cold,” he retorted.

“It’s not a matter of preference, it’s a matter of familiarity. And I’m familiar with lonely nights, hot or cold.”

“Let’s see what I can do to make you forget about them,” Bruce said, getting up with his jacket left on his chair.

As they walked down a narrow cobblestone path winding through a grove of trees bordering the mansion, Natasha leaned her head on Bruce’s broad shoulder. She knew he was going to try and fuck her again—more of that inexhaustible appetite of his. She wanted him to be a little worried whether she would agree to it or not. Even people who kept black widows as pets had to be wary of their venom.