Chapter 5
"Don't spill that!" Tyne shouted in a shrill, high-pitched voice as she rushed into the kitchen.
Mandy held the punch bowl and took in a deep breath. She was in no danger of spilling it. It was just Tyne over-reacting. She did that a lot. Constantly.
She had a lot of habits that dug Mandy. The way she drove nearly gave her heart failure. And the way she ordered people around. Played the boss, the heavy.
Such a tiny little thing to push so much weight around. But she was one hot little number, still. And if anything, the five years they had spent together had given him a new outlook on life.
Thinking back on it now, setting out the silverware in neat little half-circles on the white linen tablecloth, they had been good years. And as snotty and brazen ask his wife had been, she had always come home finally to him. Always made love like a hot tart on Spanish fly in the last act.
She was, in her way, totally dedicated to him. And he to her. Why else would he be standing her, setting a table? That was man's work. He thought of the players on his hockey team. What the hell would they think if they could see him now? They were a butch bunch of guys. But then, so was he.
"I've got a surprise for you," Tyne called from the hallway. She turned the corner and popped out of the darkened space holding a large flat brown package.
Mandy took her in. She was devastating looking. She had on a hot fire engine red pair of satin pegged pants. Good thing she didn't have any wrinkles on her thighs, they would have shown through these suckers. And a white see-through blouse.
And what a sight to see into! Her fabulous knockers tamed inside a lacy white push-up bra that held them up so hard the nipples showed. Not just the top half, but the whole silver dollar's worth. He could see those round red buttons flashing under the gauzy tissue of the fabric. If the little cat arched her back, she could knock somebody's teeth out with those tits.
The seam between her legs tucked up tightly into her cunt crack. Her panty line was visible through the material. She must have been wearing a Brazilian cut pair under there. They hugged her buns and honed her cunt lips to a stark outline. And with those hot red jobs on over, she was about as hard-edged and ready as a dame could look.
"Here," she said, "put it on, while I watch."
Mandy caught the package she threw him and rattled it around. Something soft inside. That girl and her surprises. They went on and on. First, that splendid little array of undies she had brought home during their engagement and now this.
"Here?" Mandy said, holding the package by the string, "in front of the silverware?"
"Right here and right now, Toots," Tyne ordered, "like I say."
Always like Tyne said. It was always that way. What the hell did she want her to do now? life with this woman was sure trying his patience.
Mandy flung the package down on the coffee table and yanked at the string. It broke on the edge of the box and she tore it open quickly. She lifted the lid and pawed the tissue paper until she put her hand on something. Something soft and nylon, rayon, lace ... what the hell was it?
She lifted the thing out and held it up. Tyne suppressed a giggle.
It was a uniform. Not a cop's uniform or a meter maid's even. It was the uniform of a maid. A French maid, if Mandy's memory served her right.
"Like it?" Tyne purred, walking over and lifting out still another piece of apparel from the box.
Mandy stared at it, stared at the white thing Tyne was holding. She was holding an apron. A see-through white crisp, starched apron with a row of vertical ruffles around the edges. Stand-up ruffles, old-fashioned ruffles. Regimented ruffles.
And Mandy was holding the uniform that went with it. A tiny, short starched black crisp nylon affair. With puffy sleeves, buttons down the front, a short flared skirt and a curious hole right in the center of it.
No, she wasn't imagining things. There was a slit, a hole, dead center. What the hell was that about?
She looked over at Tyne who was holding little maid's hat. A white starched band of nylon, crisp, like the other stuff, lacy, diminutive.
"What is this?" she said, sinking with the feeling that she already knew exactly what it was.
"Your uniform, darling," the blonde bitch said, throwing the things in her lap. "I thought since you were serving tonight, you might want to dress more ... more ... appropriately. I'm a little tired of your usual hostess gowns and caftans. I thought this might perk things up a bit."
"I won't," Mandy heard herself say, her voice curling up, up, up toward the rafters with apprehension.
"I think you will."
"I can't wear this thing. I don't want to look like a ... "
"Like a maid?" the woman said, her eyes gleaming with bitch power. "Don't be absurd, darling, that's what you are. Face it. Face it like a good girl and get into your dress."
Mandy felt the humiliation pour into her cheeks, reddening them to a bright crimson. How could she humble herself like this? All the guests knew who she was. She was Mandy, Tyne's friend. They had never seen her as a maid, a serving wench. Christ, they'd probably treat her like shit and pinch her ass all night.
But there were the consequences. If she didn't go along with Tyne's plan. Tyne would bitch, storm, throw a tantrum. Threaten to expose her. Probably try. Or pull a fast one. A fast one like only she was capable of. A fast one like the night she had gotten that bully little beach boy to beat him up and tie him down to the four poster of their honeymoon suite.
She grabbed the stuff up and stood up. Might as well swallow hard and just do this thing. There was no other way out. She was here, her darling Tyne was here. There might even be time to ball the shit out of her before their guests arrived.
"Put it on," the little blonde vixen said again, seating herself in the big, leathery sofa. Mandy marveled at how she could sit down in those tight pants, but she was used to such cumbersome entrapments.
"Help me," Mandy said, trying to worm at least a little work out of her.
"No way, Luv," she said, reaching for a cigarette from the silver tray on the coffee table, "I'm here to watch."
"But I don't know how to ... "
"You'll figure it out," Tyne blurted out, grabbing the silver lighter next to the tray and stuffing the end of the cigarette in her mouth.
Mandy began to unbutton the blouse she was wearing. Her fingers found their familiar niches, wrapped themselves around the tiny pearl buttons and slipped them out of their holes automatically.
She had taken off a blouse like this hundreds of times, but this was different. She felt like she were unwrapping her skin for Tyne to see. And Tyne would judge her every move, every faux pas. Damn little critic anyway.
She slipped the filmy blouse off her shoulders and let it slide down her arms. Those muscular barbells she called arms. How sinewy they were and at this moment, how completely willing. Willing to give in to the orders and stringent demands of blonde mistress.
She pulled the blouse all the way off and threw it over the coffee table. Then, the skirt. That tight satin skirt with the slit up the center, the slit that ran all the way to her panty line. It was a mite theatrical for day time wear, but then, Tyne had picked it out.
Typical of the woman's highly dramatic tastes. Foxy little cunt.
"Hurry." Tyne said, drawing in a lung full of thick, perfumed smoke and letting it seethe out her lips again.
Mandy obeyed as best she could, considering she was in a bit of pickle. It was a pickle now, but it would grow into a very long cucumber.
She unhooked the skirt and let it fall onto the floor with a hiss. She kicked it away and stood there a moment facing Tyne, exposed in her hot little undies.
She had chosen red and black that day. Red garter belt with black lace trim. Hot little red panties with the same kind of trim. And a black bra, with reverse red trim. The effect was like a sexual game of checkers. Her stockings were dark, with a light pattern running up the leg, a snaking, diamond pattern that accentuated her curves. The curves that turned heads wherever she went.
"Let's get it on Mandy," the blonde said, flicking her ash into the ash tray. "Len and Kay will be here any minute. You know they always arrive early.
Tyne was brisk, direct, commanding, but she couldn't help noticing the whole time she spoke that this adorable French maid to be had a fat, wiggling little hard on. Wet, squirming and alive, like some specimen of marine life pulled fresh and writhing from the sea.
Caught up in that tight little nylon stranglehold. That fisherman's net of desire. Tucked in, held back, packed in and over and curling around itself. Inside its transparent cage. The effect held her like glue.
She almost forgot to shout out her next order. "Comb your hair," she said suddenly remembering to keep her in line.
Mandy smoothed her hair down as best she could, considering she didn't have a comb on her. Tyne was so fussy about the way she looked. Always nagging her.
"And get those things on," she snapped, her eyes ablaze. "God, you're slow."
Mandy stepped into the tiny, tight maid's uniform. It fit her snuggly, clinging tightly to her tit mounds, her waist, her high, hard buttocks. It rose very high on her legs. And there was that slit. It hung there, in between the folds of the little pleated skirt. Useless. Just a slit.
Tyne threw Mandy the white hat. "Pin it in there," she said indicating the little sliver of a white cap. "That's the only way it will stay."
Sure enough. She had to pin it. Tyne had provided the bobby pins for it, to. She walked to the mirror and took a look. It rode up on the crest of her head like a white crown. She looked less than regal, though, considering the whole outfit.
It was definitely a servant's uniform. Those drab colors of black and white. Still, the patterned stockings provided a neat contrast. But, still in all, it was the uniform of an employee, a servant, an object.
"Don't forget this," Tyne said, hurling her the ball of white starched stuff.
"Ah, yes," Mandy retorted, "my apron."
"See that you know how to use it," Tyne said, crossing one of her red sheathed legs over the other one and leaning back to take in the spectacle.
Mandy wrapped the little apron around her slender waist and tied the sash in back into a bow. She had seen it done like that in the movies. And this was proving to be every bit as filmic as they were. She felt like it was Halloween and this was a costume party.
"Ah," Tyne whispered at last, "I almost forgot."
"What, Hon?" Mandy said, looking in the mirror and adjusting her cap.
"This," she said, tossing her a rolled up tuft of nylon.
"Panties?" Mandy moaned, not wanting to take the trouble to change from the ones she was currently wearing.
"Special panties," Tyne added quickly, "very special."
Mandy held them up for inspection. They were special all right. They were black, shiny, see-through, soft, luxuriant and they had a slit right down the middle of the crotch, running from stem to stern.
"Oh," she said, the light starting to dawn.
If she put these things over her cock, it would have nothing to hold it in once it started its firing up process, as it usually did when Tyne teased or bossed or dominated her for any length of time.
Then, that big randy cock stick shut up, up, up and out, if she wore these particular panties. Right out the slit. And wearing the maid's uniform over these, that would mean, if the slits matched up ...
"You filthy little bitch," Mandy sighed, connecting events quickly in her head.
Tyne threw her head back and laughed a long, low wolfish laugh.
"I thought you'd find it amusing," she said, grinding her cigarette out in the ash tray.
Tyne took a hard look at her handiwork. She watched Mandy bend over and pull her bikini panties off. She caught them as Mandy tossed them to her. Then she watched with renewed interest as Mandy pulled on the torrid tight black things with the slit. The delicious, naughty little slit. So far, her idea had worked like a charm. She was getting turned on already.
Mandy tucked the thick cock wad into the tight panties and patted it down. God only knew how long it would stay there. She gazed down at her shapely legs and suddenly remembered that her high heels didn't match the outfit. They were much too pedestrian looking.
She wanted something a little more revealing. Something with an ankle strap. She wondered if she might have any to fill the bill when Tyne's shrill roar sawed through her musings.
"Time to empty the ash tray, Manon," she said quietly, "please don't forget to do that."
"Manon?" Mandy said, tilting her head to one side, feeling her curls brush against her neck as she did so.
"Manon happens to be the name of the maid around here, Goofy," she said, sizing up Mandy's reaction to this game. "I like it and that's what I'm gonna call you tonight. I don't much care whether you like it or not."
Tyne felt her tits grow hot under her bra. They always did when she got excited. When she felt the first flush of excitement wash over her. That's where it came on first. In her tits. And she always got excited bossing Mandy around. Bossing her husband dressed as Mandy around.
What the hell was it? Why did it stir her so? She loved the guts out of that man, so why did she dress him up like this, torment him, boss him, curse him, belittle and accuse him? Why? Because she loved to, that's why.
"Christ these damn things are tight," Mandy moaned feeling the wicked little piece of nylon grip her flesh. It bound and cut mercilessly. And that prick was responding to the push and paddling it was getting every time she moved a muscle.
"I think I asked you to empty this ash tray, Manon," Tyne said, reaching up absent-mindedly to scratch her ear.
"Yes," Mandy said, knuckling under the woman's insipid demands.
"That'll be 'Yes, Ma'am,' Manon," she said in a quick, dismissive voice, "if you know anything about manners."
"A little," Mandy remarked, swaying her hips slightly, just enough to let the breeze cut up under her skirt and flare it out a bit. She bent over the coffee table and felt another freeze tickle her under pants. Christ, that damn little skirt was short!
Just then, the doorbell sounded and Mandy stood up straight.
"Who the hell could that be?" Tyne sniffed, as though she weren't expecting anyone at all. As though her privacy were about to be interrupted.
"Probably Len and Kay," Mandy said, forgetting for a moment that she was the maid. The underling around here.
"I'll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself," she said, flashing her luminous green eyes and brushing past her serving girl, "now answer that door before I scratch your cheek bloody."
Mandy, now Manon, padded to the door carefully. She didn't want that short little skirt flying up for the guests. As she moved, she looked down to see the white apron flapping in the breeze. And under that, lay that black skirt with its revealing, deadly little slit. And under that, curled up in its nylon home, but who knew for how long, was Manon's long, thick, luxuriant fuck stick. A he-man cock the size of a salami and much harder. How the hell was he going to get away with this?
The possibilities danced around in his head like angels on the head of a pin.
"Come in," he said, casting his head low down onto the carpet of the foyer as he held the door open for the first of their guests.
Their Chatham friends. That cozy, intimate bunch who loved to drop by whenever they were invited for a peek at the goings on in this household. Wealthy, landed, fashionable and trendy. And as far as Mandy was concerned, a bunch of thrill seeking dirty little voyeurs. The parties held at this house were definitely considered the ones to get invited to at this resort spot. They were lavish, costly, featuring the best food and liquor and of course, that one added feature. The darling lithe lean model of a girl who accompanied Tyne everywhere. What was her name? Ah, yes, Mandy. Mandy, the one Tyne loved to humiliate in front of them. The one with the cock.
"Good to see you," Tyne said, "Manon, show them into the living room."
Len and Kay Wasterson filled their eyes and then filled their pockets. They'd seen a lot of bizarre behavior around here, but nothing matched the spectacle Tyne and Mandy put on. And tonight Mandy had become Manon. Charming. Fascinating. And no, doubt, worth every moment of their time spent here. You couldn't buy entertainment this good.
They and their friends loved to come here. In fact, it was all they talked about until the next party the two threw. After leaving here, Kay and Len would go back to their cottage overlooking the ocean and ball for hours. Sex was never so good as after they left here. Whatever hypnotic little spell these two were under, they loved coming over here and getting under it a while themselves.
"New drapes?" Kay said, admiring the white eyelet curtains hanging in the kitchen.
"No," Tyne said, pulling a bottle of seltzer out of the refrigerator. "Fraid not. Nothing much changes around here."
"Not so," Kay said, turning her head about a hundred and eighty degrees to take in the spectacle of the lean, shapely French maid, "I see you've got a new maid. That's new."
"Oh, her?" Tyne said, tossing the whole idea out with a turn of her curly blonde head. "Manon? She's only here for a night."
"Well, she's a damn cute piece of ass," Kay said, baiting her. She was jealous of Tyne, jealous of her looks, of her money, of the way her husband served her and was totally devoted to her. And now, tonight, here he was, done up as their French maid and carrying seltzer to the table. Where the hell could you ever even buy such love and loyalty as this?
"Ah, she's a rental," Tyne said, sounding disgusted with Kay's attention to her char girl. "Got her from an agency. Let me tell you, if she doesn't behave herself, I'll have to get tough with her. It doesn't pay to be nice to servants."
Mandy grew tense. Did this mean Tyne was going to talk down to her all night, the way she talked to all the people in the world whom she considered beneath her station? The surly little cunt. She could be in for some big trouble later on if she tried it. But right now, there were other things to think about. Like getting the booze on the table.
"Mix Mr. Wasterson a drink, Manon," Tyne said, brushing a soft blonde curl away from her forehead. "Find out what he wants."
The two women stayed in the kitchen, chatting about this and that. Manon could hear them as she stepped into the living room to speak to Ken Wasterson.
He was a middle-aged man, a lawyer, very athletic, agile, dapper and something of a leech. As Manon was about to find out.
"Care for a drink, Sir?" she said, respectfully.
"Scotch and water," he said, "but not right away."
"Very good, sir," Manon replied, bowing a little and hoping to hell her skirt wouldn't ride up too high in the back.
No such luck. It did and Ken Wasterson had caught a damn good look up there. Vile-minded little peeker.
"You're a cute kid," he said, sticking his hand in his pocket and shifting his weight to a rakish angle. "What do you charge?"
"I think you've gone nuts."
"I don't know," the man said, casually, as if he'd done nothing, nothing wrong, nothing to offend her, "I've seen a lot of maids around, you know, at parties, that sort of thing. Most of them could use a little extra money. It's common knowledge that they try to make it on the side whenever they can. No use getting uptight about it. And with your looks and body ... "
"Excuse me," Manon replied, trying to maintain her dignity, but finding it taxing, "I have to go."
She ran out into the kitchen, her little skirt flying up in back as she did. The nerve of that man! Coming onto her like that. She had thought this was supposed to be an elegant party, with sophisticated guests, but this guy was just a ringer. Low life. It disgusted her.
It also made the big, plump cock wad cram up close against its silken cage confines. Rub tenderly toward its material net. Brush against the soft, downy lustrous silky box.
"What's with you?" Tyne said, staring at her rudely, as though she, Manon, had done something wrong.
Manon opened her mouth in her defense just as the doorbell rang again.
"Get that," Tyne commanded, as though she were a field marshall.
Manon strolled toward the door. She didn't want to run and kick that short little skirt up behind her again. Christ, you could see the tops of her nylons when she stood straight up as it was.
She opened the door to let in the next couple. The Buford's. A swim club and tennis set couple. He was a horse breeder who had a stable not far away and she took her time at the beauty salon, most of it, from the way she looked:
Pat Buford was a gorgeous woman. A redhead. A striking full-breasted woman who simply adored Tyne's parties. Talked of little else to her friends. They all tried to get an invitation, but it was a very closed circle of friends. Outsiders weren't permitted, for obvious reasons.
Lance Buford was one fine specimen of manhood. He was tall, rugged, craggy-faced with a skin that looked as ruddy as the leather of the saddles he put on those horses at his ranch.
Manon eyed them shyly and offered to show them into the next room.
"Get them a drink," Tyne bellowed from the kitchen.
"Yes, Ma'am," Manon shot back, not daring to skip a beat, afraid the bitch would scream again or come running out with her fingernails poised ready to strike, like a vampire.
Manon eased her way to the bar, full-well knowing that all eyes in the living room and those that could see her in the kitchen were trained on her behind.
"New girl?" Pat whispered in the direction of the kitchen.
"Paaaat!!!!" Tyne squealed as her old friend faced her across the room, "so glad you could make it."
The two of them ran at each other and embraced like school girls. Bitchy school girls.
"She's adorable," Pat shot back, eyeing the tall stately beauty in the cute little maid's uniform, "Where did you get her?"
"What the hell is everyone making such a fuss over my fucking maid for?" Tyne said, her green eyes flashing with envy.
"Sorry, kid," Pat said, "I didn't mean ... "
"She's a little ignorant low class cunt I got from an agency," Tyne said, shaking her curly locks and stamping her foot hard onto the carpet, "big fucking deal."
"Nobody meant to offend you, Tyne," Kay Wasterson spoke up, "we just like your taste, that's all."
"Oh, fix them a drink, Manon and hurry," Tyne said, acting the martyr, "let's just forget about it, okay?" "Sure, Hon," Kay said, in the most smoothing voice she could muster, "all forgotten about."
"Gin and tonic," Lance said, quietly.
Manon moved toward the liquor supply cabinet. She reached for the bottle of gin just as her elbow found the bottle of tonic, uncapped at the time. It toppled over and rained fizz and liquid in its path before it hit the carpet and poured out.
"Fucking little clumsy bitch!" Tyne seethed under her snarling white teeth, "clean it up!"
"Right away," Manon said, scurrying toward the kitchen.
"Where are you going?" Tyne shrieked in her ear as she passed by.
"To the kitchen to get a ... "
"Never mind that, this mess has to be cleaned up right now."
"But I don't have anything to mop it ... "
"Get down on your knees and drink it up, smart-mouthed little cunt!" Tyne was a flurry of near-hysteria.
She was making a terrible scene. A terrible embarrassing scene. And she wasn't finished.
"I'll teach you not to talk back to me," she grabbed the back of the dining room chair and held it over her head.
Manon held her hands up over her head. She was certain this woman meant to thrash her with that chair.
Tyne held it there, suspended for a moment, her eyes eerie green flames.
"Now do as I say," she said, defying her girl to reproach her.
"Yes, Ma'am," Manon said, sinking to her knees and pressing her lips down onto the carpet. She sucked in the cool, still-fizzling liquid. It stung her lips. It burned her mouth with shame and indignation. And it made that mighty baseball bat cock slam a home run right out the slit of the helpless, frail panty holder.
"Clumsy cunt!" Tyne said, striding over and digging the toes of her pumps into the carpet and edging in close to ogle the sight of this big, tall, svelte Amazon drinking juice out of her rug. It was too delicious, too incredible to believe. It gave her a hot rush. A hot, tempting, undeniable rush.
"Look at that," Len Wasterson said, elbowing his wife, "can you believe the nerve of that Tyne, talking down like that to that sweet, adorable girl. You wouldn't treat a dog like that."
"Let me help," Lance Buford said, dashing in to save the day. He pulled his white handkerchief out of his pocket and bent over to assist the serving girl with the cleanup chores.
"Don't touch the little shit!" Tyne erupted, pulling him back by the sleeve. "She doesn't deserve any help, she's a clumsy, silly ignorant girl. I'm gonna call the agency and complain."
"Don't," Pat said, imploring her friend with her eyes to let sleeping dogs lie. "What good would that do? Let's just go out in the other room and ... "
"No!" Tyne said, her vengeful voice rising to a haughty crescendo. "We're all gonna stay here in the middle of the audience. Why else would she have done what she did?"
"She didn't do it on purpose, Tyne, Len Wasterson spoke again, feeling that as he did so, he was out of turn and risked being put down by the ball busting blonde.
"She did, too," Tyne raged on, her anger seemingly knowing no bounds, "she's a teasing little twat if there ever was one. She's not gonna get any kind of recommendation from me, I can tell you that."
"Couldn't we just stop this and sit down and talk about something else?" Lance said, showing his discomfort by shifting his weight from one thick, muscular leg to the other and fumbling in his pocket for a cigarette.
Manon pressed her knees into the carpet and reached for a hand to help her back on her feet. Lance's went down automatically and lifted her up.
"Thank you," Manon muttered, trying to regain whatever was left of her dignity. Her soiled, degraded dignity.
"Don't mention it," Lance said gallantly. He held the statuesque, stacked girl in his arms and for a moment forgot where he was.
She was a tight-packed little number all right, with a hard, supple body and really cute. Maybe it was that high-rising little behind or those endlessly long legs, possibly her smile, or the way her grey eyes reflected something distant and mysterious, but he liked her. He wished to hell the broad-mouthed blonde wasn't there at that moment.
"Take your hands off her," Tyne insisted, shoving in between the two of them and nudging Manon back as hard as she could.
So hard in fact, Manon almost fell of her high heel perch. Fucking little blonde tornado. And this regal, handsome gentleman so close, so close she could hear the breath steaming out of his nostrils.
"Oh, God," Tyne said, as she pushed Manon back far enough to get a look down the front of her skirt. "Look, everybody, here's an addition to the party. Another guest. An impertinent, uninvited one."
Manon blushed about fifty shades of purple. Tyne was pointing to the slit in her dress. The slit where the bald head of that throbbing baseball bat was thrusting up and flailing from side to side rudely.
"Can you believe it?" Tyne said, shoving her back hard so that all those assembled in the dining room could see the spectacle she was mocking. "This adorable, sweet, angelic little maid, the one everybody here is making such a fuss over, the one you all think is such a dimple-kneed darling, the innocent I'm giving such a rough time to, this little doll here has a hard on!"
Manon wanted to reach down and grab that hard, aching dick, the one thrusting up through the little slit, aiming toward the tree tops. It was too late to turn back now, too late to try and hide the fact that this was indeed, a mighty walloping wang thrust up in the middle of the little circle of friends.
It was hard to even make a comment about it, but Tyne would manage. She would also manage to humiliate and demean it every single chance she got.
"I see this working class bitch has no idea about to clean rugs," she said, holding her hands against her curvy hips and hugging them in close. "Why don't you learn to clean things properly, Manon? Ah, but then, I guess you were born in a barn and there isn't much to clean up when you live in a manure pile, is there?"
Manon blushed hard and the thick, probing hard on pushed up even harder against the tight parted curtain of silken panties. She could feel it tickle, torture, garrote, the hilt of the hard, ogling cock. That cock that was so anxious to get out and parade around in front of everyone. That cock that was now causing Manon so much shame. So much hot, raging shame.
The doorbell sounded again, ding donging its little welcome notes inside the group of party goers.
"Get that and get back here," Tyne said, pointing her long red fingernail directly at the front door. "Step on it."
Manon rushed to the door, not even taking the time to watch how she was walking; and her skirt was flying up in back. She no longer cared. They'd all had a pretty good look at her front, hadn't they? What difference did it make now?
"Don't know who the hell that is, anyway ... " she said, snarling her upper lip and cursing beneath her breath.
Manon opened the door and held stood staring out into the darkness. Under the porch light stood a tall, handsome erect man. She had never seen him before. He was new. A stranger, possibly someone to be afraid of? Someone who threatened the intimacy of the little group assembled here? Whoever he was, it was hard not to notice him.
He was over six feet tall and well-muscled. Auburn hair, with a touch of grey at the temples. Sun-tanned, hardy, rugged looking. Handsome enough to be a male model, but a touch too he-man looking to stand around in blue men's briefs or tight jeans long enough for the photographers to adjust the lights. He was obviously a man of action, a man on the move. It crossed Manon's mind that he might be an athlete. Like some people she knew.
"Well, hello there," the man said, leaning one leathery tanned hand up against the door frame and sighing right into her face, "who are you?"
"Care to come in?" Manon said, taking a chance. After all, he might not even be one of the invited guests. He night have driven up here and gotten out of his car just to ask directions.
"I thought you'd never ask," the rugged hunk said back to her coolly stepping into the dimly-lit foyer. "Am I late?"
"No, sir," Manon said, still unsure who the hell this delicious dish was and why in the world Tyne would be leaving them alone so long.
Maybe he had come to service her. That made her burn. That woman would, do anything to stir up humiliation and degradation. She was a walking disaster film. "Been living here long?" the man intoned, striding along the parkay floor in his rubber soled shoes as though he owned the place.
"I'm just the maid," Manon said, in a small voice that told him she felt embarrassed by his comments.
"Maybe," he said, letting her comment roll of him like water off a duck's back. "But I don't think you started out that way, did you?"
Fucking impertinence of this guy, anyway. He wasn't even talking to her like she was a maid. He was talking to her like she was the lady of the house. He just didn't buy that she was hired help. Maybe she was a touch too aristocratic, too jaded too be able to behave like an underling.
"Carl!" Pat Buford's voice rose up, tinkling the chandelier prisms with its shrillness. The phony little bitch.
"What the hell is this?" Tyne said, following her friend into the foyer. "I don't remember inviting him."
She sounded piqued, annoyed, put out, pissed even.
Hearing her nervousness made Manon breath a little sigh of relief. This was indeed a new face. Someone she hadn't invited. Someone who had penetrated the closed circle of intimate acquaintances and threatened her authority. Could be interesting.
"I'm sorry, Tyne," Pat said, turning to her friend and looking a little sheepish "I meant to tell you, but I forgot.."
"Some friend you turned out to be," Tyne spat back to her, baring her fangs, "now introduce us."
Tyne ogled her hot little body in between the two of them and thrust her tits into his line of vision.
"Weeeeeeellll," she said, knowing full well the power she had over most men and hoping this guy would prove no exception, "hello, there."
"Hello," the tall hunk said, inclining his body slightly toward her and standing up straight again.
"Tyne," Pat said, remembering her manners automatically, "this is Carl Whitcomb. He's my tennis instructor."
"Pleased to meet any friend of Pat's," Tyne said, covering her earlier disdain with a wicked little grin, "even if it was unexpected tonight."
Manon listened as other greetings and hi signs were exchanged. They all made much fuss over being introduced to each other and it was clear that she was going to be left out of the greetings all together. She edged her way over to the wallpaper and leaned against it, feeling dejected, hurt, but curious. Curious about what would happen next.
The laughing friends began chatting to each other and started to make their way into the living room again. Carl lagged behind. He pulled on the sleeve of Pat's blouse a moment and drew her over toward the wall. And then, leaning into her he spoke loud enough to Manon to hear quite plainly what he had to say.
"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend, the cute one?"
"I did, didn't I?" Pat answered, covering herself least she had committed any faux pas she wasn't aware of.
"You didn't introduce her," he said, pointing to Manon who stood shyly braced against the door frame and lit by a flickering overhead mood light.
"That's Manon," Pat said, trying to dismiss the whole idea that her friend should be so interested in the maid, even though she was cute.
"That's good," Carl snapped back, encircling his arm around Pat's waist and leading her into the dining room.
Manon distinctly heard his parting remark and it made the schlong in her nylon panty drawers wiggle with passion.
"She's cute," he said, "and a turn on. A real turn on."