Maid To Order

“Oh, Mr. Wayne,” Natasha gasped. “You startled me.”

She was on her hands and knees, cleaning the carpet of a stubborn stain (which she had placed there) with a spray can and cloth rag. Although the work attire of Wayne Manor’s serving staff was anything but fetishistic, her position on all fours, with her juicy ass shoved up in the air, made it a fetish all its own. Especially when she casually toyed with the white apron-string that dangled behind her back. 

A seemingly careless gesture, but one that emphasized all the thoughts she was trying to put into Bruce’s head, from her servile position as his employee to the obscenity of her stance.

“Don’t let me be a bother,” Bruce said. “I was just getting a drink at the end of the day. I’m sure you were about to leave too.”

“Almost,” Natasha said, coming up to her knees, though not going any further. She knew men liked her on her knees. And seducing men made her job so much easier. “Although I don’t think I can afford what you drink.”

“Sure you can,” Bruce said, offering her a hand to gallantly help her up. “Just take a minute and let me pour for you from my bottle.”

“Oh, Mr. Wayne, I couldn’t,” Natasha said quickly.

Bruce glanced down—Natasha preened with her black-clad stockings. She knew how to invite the eye without looking like she was inviting it, while at the same time making the sight irresistible. But what Bruce was looking at was the stain.

“Whatever that stain was, you got it out. I’d say that concludes your duties for today; now you’re a free woman. So you can do whatever you want.”

Natasha responded to his suave smile with a flutteringly flattered grin of her own. “In that case,” she said, her abashed voice moving up in pitch, giving in to his seduction enough to encourage it. “I’ll have whiskey, just a little water, and ice, Mr. Wayne.”

“Call me Bruce.”

“Is that what you like to be called?” Natasha asked, putting enough of a purr into the words to return the ball to his court with some English on it.

“In polite company,” Bruce retorted.

“I can’t picture a debonair man like you ever being rude… Bruce.”

“Wait a while,” he advised her. “We are going to get some whiskey into me.”

“Then don’t start without me. I’ll get changed while you mix the drinks,” she told him. 

Natasha went into the servants’ quarters and stepped out of her shoes. Excitement was already stirring in her belly. At her level of expertise, she wouldn’t have chosen to seduce Bruce if she didn’t get anything out of it, but rather than only exciting her as a notch on a bedpost, his repartee and the way he held himself were stirring thrills in her belly. She untied her apron, then unzipped her dress, pulling it over her head and leaving herself in only stockings, bra, and panties. 

This time of night, the manor was nearly deserted. She had deliberately worked late to make sure of it. She went to the site of Bruce’s liquor cabinet, surprising him while he had a drink in each hand. He spilled a little with the sudden start of seeing her as she was, a dribble of whiskey coming over the rim and dripping down over his hand.

“My turn to startle you,” Natasha drawled, walking up to him. 

Bruce’s lips pinched together. He had known some beautiful woman in his time, both in the Gotham social scene where beauty was pampered and sculpted and trained for, and in the Justice League where in a rare touch of fairness, a woman’s beauty seemed to be proportional to her nobility. 

Natasha easily outpaced both fields. She was second in voluptuousness only to Power Girl, but Karen was a little too full-bodied, at least for Bruce’s tastes. Natasha cut that curviness with just the right amount of athleticism, slender muscles thrumming in her arms, taut hardness stirring in her flat belly. Even her tousled hair spoke of a certain grit, an edge, that appealed to him—reminded him of Catwoman in a small way.

Her eyes sparkling, she stooped to trace her tongue up over his knuckles, licking away the whiskey that had spilled. Then she swallowed, smiling at the taste, sucking it off her own tongue. “I love the way a good whiskey burns.”

Bruce smiled back at her. He could tell that something else was burning, tightly snuggled inside of her panties. She was making a play for him and he wasn’t offended at all by her making the first move. Not that he was above establishing dominance, but he’d do it with satisfaction, not by means as petty as browbeating her. 

It was almost funny how the most well-laid plans went awry when a little pleasure was added into the mix.

He held out one of the glasses to her. “I feel bad for whoever makes your lingerie. The body makes them redundant and your eyes do them one better.”

“Do you like my eyes or just how I look at you?” Natasha took the glass, held it to her lips, and emptied it halfway without a single pause. 

As she’d guessed from her little sample, Bruce had used only enough water to pay lip service to her order. The mix was strong enough to take her breath away. It burned all the way down, but when it reached her stomach, it still wasn’t as hot as her pussy.

Natasha nodded to a daybed. “Sit there while I make myself comfortable. You keep this mansion too hot for a bra.”

Bruce obligingly sat down. “I haven’t met a woman yet who wants me to cool things down.”

Natasha emptied her glass and set it down on an end table. She was ready for it, but the whiskey buzzed in her head, making it easier for her arousal to pound between her legs. She turned her back on him, displaying her long, supple back. “Unhook me?” she asked, putting enough lilt in the request to make it even more irresistible than it already was.

When the clasp opened up, she turned to face Bruce, letting her bra fall slowly off her chest and down her arms. Finally, to the floor. Her breasts beautifully full, her nipples dark, standing firm with their excitement—the only thing that could’ve added to the perfection of her buxom cleavage.

“Feels good to have that off,” Natasha cooed.

“It doesn’t look bad either,” Bruce quipped.

Natasha smirked. Even with all her acting skills, she couldn’t not sound sarcastic as she said “Really? You like the way these look?”

“They’re gorgeous. But then, so’s the rest of you. And you’re still more than the sum of your parts.”

Natasha arched her back to make her breasts look bigger—not that they needed the help. “Light me a cigarette.”

“I only smoke after sex,” Bruce replied.

“I’m sure you’ve already had some experience.” Natasha chopped her hand from the left to the right, putting a jiggle through her impressive chest. “Hence, ‘after sex.’”

“And before,” Bruce pointed out, taking a cigarette case from his pants pocket, a lighter from another one. Though Natasha didn’t doubt he only smoked post-coital, even with his apparent need to have cigarettes on hand at all times. The man had a reputation for leaving his DNA all over town. 

“Unless there is no after for you.”

Bruce held out the smoke to her, right to her lips. At first submissively, then willfully, Natasha moved down to take the cigarette between her plump lips and hold onto it. “Have I run across one of those creatures that prefers eating to mating? A… praying mantis?”

Natasha smirked, though she felt a cold shiver run down her spine. Was she blown? No, it was impossible. Wayne was just a clueless playboy who happened to know his way around a woman’s erogenous zones, both verbal and physical. She was the Black Widow. “Then you’d better try to fuck better than you taste.”

Bruce offered his lighter next, the flame scorching the tip of Natasha’s cigarette until it was red-hot. “I’ll give it my all. A man hates to mix his comings with his goings.”

Natasha took a deep drag. “Then a man should have a lot of ‘all’ to give—but I’ll find out about that soon enough.” The cigarette smoke came out in little wisps with each word. “I’ll put something on and then we can have another drink. I’d hate for my fire to die down.”

Bruce smiled to himself as she went off to an adjoining guestroom. As a maid for the past few days, she of course knew where to find clothes for a guest. And as Natasha Romanoff, the infamous Black Widow, she probably knew every aspect of Wayne Manor before she stepped foot into her job interview.

Well, not every aspect.

He was thoroughly enjoying himself. Natasha was an amazing young woman. Bruce didn’t have to exert any control over his body to make his cock hard and ready in his trousers. Dealing with a bit of corporate espionage was a nice break from routine—more thrilling than board meetings, but without crimefighting’s risk. Except maybe to his lungs.

***

Natasha selected a sheer robe from the guestroom’s closet. It was a smoky black and came down almost to the floor. She took off her stockings, then pulled the robe tight across her belly and tied off the belt. Her breasts strained at the material, her nipples showing through it in their stiffness.

When she came back, she offered her hand to Bruce. “That second drink,” she said. “Let’s see if it’s enough to corrupt my virtue.”

Bruce took her hand and let her pull him to his feet. “I don’t think anything could do anything to you if you didn’t want it to.”

“Not now,” Natasha said, a note of melancholy in her voice—the Russian in her, morose and useless. She stuffed it back down to stay in character. “If you give me a kiss, that might be enough.”

Bruce didn’t reply except to kiss her, kiss her long and hard. Natasha had been kissed a lot of ways, even ways like how Bruce kissed her, but she enjoyed it, finding it more stimulating than she would’ve thought an older man would be capable of. Even one almost old enough to be her father. Whatever Bruce had been doing before she’d met him, he had learned a great deal.

“No,” Natasha said. Bruce’s face didn’t fall at her gambit. He knew he had her. She could feint all she wanted; he had his hooks into her bone-deep. “Not enough to corrupt me. Try again.”

He kissed her again, his hands sliding down her back, the satiny robe nearly as soft as her creamy skin, until he was gripping her plush buttocks with both hands.

Natasha held her mouth to his for almost a minute, then she pushed her hands against his chest. With some force, he rocked back on his heels. “Take off my panties,” she told him.

“You wasted time in wearing them?” Bruce asked, eyebrow cocked.

“I wouldn’t deprive you of depriving me,” she retorted. “I don’t ask twice, by the way.”

“I bet you never have to.”

Bruce undid her belt, spread her robe away from her luscious body, and took careful hold of her panties. He tugged them down slowly, watching the neatly trimmed hair of her pussy come into view. 

Natasha eyed his expression as he saw her cunt, seeing the cool exterior melt away into rapturous greed. She let him take her panties down her thighs—Bruce went to his knees to lower them to the floor, where Natasha stepped out of them. She stood with her legs akimbo, her hands on her hips, the robe totally thrown back from her sumptuous figure.

“Kiss me,” she ordered.

There was no point asking where. Bruce pressed his lips to her mound, the exquisite cunt he had just been given the honor of admiring, and now he gave it the kiss that its elegance was due.

“Yesss, like that,” Natasha whispered, arching her back to give herself over to Bruce’s kiss, his lips crushed against her mons, his tongue teasing her by tracing between her labia but not going any deeper. She knew, just by those minute touches, it could go so far into her, go to her core. “Kiss me, kiss me… I’m so hot…”

She panted for breath, hunched against Bruce’s face. For all her independence, all her self-sufficiency, all her skill, her own hands couldn’t compare to a man’s face between her legs, a man’s tongue inside her cunt… so long as it was the right man. 

Natasha was about to come, but she didn’t want to come yet, didn’t want to lose control. Or did she?

She did. God, she did. Yes, yes, she was almost there! Natasha grabbed Bruce’s head and pulled his mouth tighter against her.

“Yes, Bruce, don’t stop!” she cried. “I’ll come! I’m going to come! Bruce, Bruce, it’s happening!”

Bruce kept licking her, his tongue riding hard on the most sensitive spots of her inner folds, until she was limp and wrung out, slumping to the floor with a happy smile at her own defeat. He took her beautiful face in his hands and kissed her. Natasha tasted her own sex, her own climax, on his lips. It was a good taste—she wondered if Bruce had liked it anywhere near as much as she had liked coming.

“You’ve very good,” she said after several more kisses, several more tastes. “Now undo your belt. Take your cock out. Let me show you how good I am.”