Every Halloween party needs a theme, and Kyle's theme, apparently, was me. He was hosting, his house, his party, thirty people in costumes, and two weeks before the party he texted me the sentence that rearranged my whole October. Wear the maid outfit. Not a costume version, baby. THE maid outfit. The little black dress, the lace headband, the stockings, the whole uniform from my actual job, worn in front of his actual friends, serving actual drinks. I said yes so fast I scared myself.
The thing about wearing the maid dress to a party instead of a booking is the audience. I worked that room all night with a tray in my hand and a feather duster I used purely as a prop, bending over the coffee table to set down drinks, shaking my ass just a little extra every time I walked away, listening to a whole party try to be polite about staring. And Kyle? Kyle watched me the way the host should never watch the help. Every kitchen refill, he was there. Every ice run, there. By ten o'clock his hand was landing on my waist when he passed me, and staying a second longer every time.
"You did this on purpose," he said, cornering me by the refrigerator with two empty bottles in his hand and a whole party on the other side of the door.
"You invited the maid, sir," I said, and curtsied, in his kitchen, close enough to feel the heat off him. "The maid just showed up and did her job."
He kissed me against his own refrigerator with the party laughing through the wall, his hands sliding straight under my skirt like he had been planning the route all night, and I melted into it with my tray still in one hand like a professional. He spun me around, bent me over the kitchen counter between the chip bowls and a plastic pumpkin, pushed my skirt up and my panties aside, and worked two fingers into my ass right there, slow, with the party ten feet away, while I bit my own wrist to keep quiet. Then he undid his pants, pressed that thick cock against me, and pushed in an inch at a time while I gripped the counter and shook, my stockings rustling against the cabinets, whispering his name and the word sir in a combination that made him groan into my hair. He fucked me bent over that counter hard enough that the pumpkin rattled, one hand over my mouth, the bass from the living room covering every sound we made, and I came untouched all over the front of my maid dress like the filthiest trick of the night.
He was not finished and neither was I. He pulled out, sat me on that counter facing him, lifted my legs over his shoulders, and slid back into me while I held my own skirt up and watched his face, and after, when the last guests were finally wobbling out the door, he took me upstairs to his own bedroom and I rode him in his bed, skirt around my waist, headband still on, bouncing on his cock with my hands on his chest while he called me his good little maid loud enough for the whole empty house. He filled me up and we laid there laughing about the state of the kitchen.
The dishes were still in the sink the next morning. A maid has limits, and mine start at other people's dishes when I am off the clock.
We have a standing arrangement now, every party he hosts. Which brings me to you, sweetheart. Trick or treat works differently at my door. You knock, and you get the maid, in the skirt, on her knees, shaking her ass and then bending over whatever furniture is closest. All of us girls are in costume this season on the Halloween page, but mine comes with references. Find me on PhoneBuckFuck for a dollar a minute of halloween femboy phone sex, and if you have not read about my regular Tuesday client yet, the maid story is waiting. Knock knock, baby. Say trick. I dare you.