Contessa
Chapter 1: Plan

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Mult,

Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1: Plan - The Contessa offered me a job when I needed one. I was broke. She ran a tight establishment with me and Kitchen Girl, and she didn't hesitate to get physical when she didn't like something we did. That is, until Kitchen Girl and I decided to teach the Contessa a lesson she wouldn't forget. There's a bit of rough-ish sex in this story but it's not severe enough even to code for it.

AS LAKES GO it wasn’t much to look at. Barely more than a hundred meters to the far shore, probably three times that long as it sat in the old river valley, its lower end blocked by an ancient landslide. The locals had a story about it, the way locals do everywhere about these things. No one knows how deep it is, they said. No one has ever been able to measure it.

In these days of super-sensitive sonar gear I thought the story pretty unlikely, but they laughed when I said so.

“There are layers in the water, friend,” said Samuel, the proprietor of the second-best pub in the village a couple of miles away from the Contessa’s summer cottage. To hear him talk he knew everything and everybody around, and perhaps he did. His establishment was pretty ordinary, although I noticed what looked like scuba gear in the corner behind the bar. Maybe he knew more about the lake than I thought.

“Which means every time they try to measure they get a different reading,” he added.

Samuel leaned across the bar and lowered his voice.

“Some people think there’s an underground connection to the sea.” He stepped back a little to watch my reaction to this bit of news.

“Are you kidding?” I didn’t bother to hide my skepticism. “The shore is three miles away and the lake water is fresh. How does that work?”

“Ah, my friend. That’s just it. You can’t tell by looking at the surface of the water and you can’t feel it when you swim, but there’s a current down deep, an underground river, and it’s strong enough to keep the sea water out. It’s been tested.”

He looked at my empty glass and I nodded.

“So, how long you worked for the Contessa?” he asked as he poured me another drink. “Is she really a contessa?”

I smiled, although it might have come across as more of a grimace than a smile. My back was still sore from the Contessa’s work earlier that afternoon.

“Going on ten years now, give or take.” I shrugged and felt another stab when my shoulders moved. “She gave me a job when I really needed one, and I won’t forget that.”

It came out almost as a prayer even if I didn’t mean it to be one, exactly.

“Who’s she related to? I mean, how is she a contessa?”

“Her business cards say she’s a contessa, Samuel. That’s all I know.”

I figured it was up to the Contessa to tell her own story.

“I hear she rented the place for the whole summer. That right?”

“Right. Just the three of us. Me, the Contessa, and her kitchen girl.”

Samuel stuck out his hand. “Glad to meet you. Everyone calls me Sam, by the way.”

“My pleasure, Sam. I’m Bernard, but the Contessa makes the rules and she decided a long time ago on Bertuccio for my staff name or work name or whatever you call it. I think maybe she’d read The Count of Monte Cristo or something, even if I’m her gardener, not her butler.”

Sam laughed.

“I’ve met people like her, Bertuccio. Sooner or later they wise up. Sometimes they need a little help, if you know what I mean.”

To judge by the glint in his eye I think I knew exactly what he was talking about. I’d started to think about how to provide that help, and I’d seen signs Kitchen Girl might want to assist.

“I’ve got to get back, Sam. See you later.”

Bottomless lake. Underground current. Connection to the sea. Sure, I thought to myself as I walked back to the cottage. Sure.


I knew the lake water was fresh because the three of us, the Contessa, Kitchen Girl, and I, began our vacation here the way the Contessa had decided we would, with a swim in the lake at dawn. It was healthier to swim without suits, she said, and that’s the way we swam back home. She did not explain why a dip in near-freezing water, with or without a swimsuit, contributed to one’s health, but as a wake-up it couldn’t be beat.

After a week or so of this I began to change my tune. The shock was intense, yes, but the cold water woke up every single square inch of my skin. It burned and it tingled. More than that, it aroused. Not that I was in a position to do anything about that immediately as I observed my shriveled self after twenty minutes or so in the water. But after the rubdown with a nubby scratchy towel woke every single nerve ending up, I took notice.

When we got back to the house that morning I was right behind Kitchen Girl, my eye on her tight butt, and I followed my instinct. I grabbed her. She squealed. She fought me. Her wet hair slapped my face as she turned from side to side. She struggled but it was no use. I was erect and ready and I was going to have her. I had her. Kitchen Girl’s skin was electric, goosebumps and all, and she was wet, very wet and not only from the lake. Her eyes opened wide and locked on mine when I turned her to face me.

I lifted her and shoved her up against the wall and spread her and entered her in a single stroke. I didn’t wait, didn’t ask, didn’t say anything. It was a straight gallop start to finish, and the only things to suggest she wasn’t entirely upset were the way her mouth fastened itself to mine as soon as I began to fuck her and how tight her legs wrapped around my butt as I held her cheeks and ploughed her like my life depended on it.

She bit the side of my neck as I came. I bit her back. Her nipple, the one I’d been sucking. Hard. She screamed and came herself, I could tell from the sudden heat around my cock.

The Contessa stood just inside the door, silent, and watched the whole thing. When we calmed I let Kitchen Girl down easily. She sank to the floor, legs akimbo, her face flushed and her chest reddened. I left her splayed where she was and stood up, my softened cock wet with her juices and my own. I sketched a salute to the Contessa and walked nude out the door to the little garden studio where I slept and its outdoor shower.

I felt the Contessa’s eyes on me every step of the way. I’d pay for this later but I didn’t care. I could take anything the Contessa dished out. I was starving and I hoped Kitchen Girl would get started on breakfast fast.


Officially I was gardener for the Contessa, which meant really I got stuck with anything she wanted me to do, from actually planting something or watering it or weeding a flower bed to driving her on errands when Kitchen Girl wasn’t available.

I’d met the Contessa under somewhat straitened circumstances. That’s a fancy way of saying I was broke.

“If you want a job come see me tomorrow at noon.”

The woman I came to know as the Contessa stuck a cigarette in an absurdly long holder and turned to walk out of the lecture hall.

“Wait,” I called after her. She paused but didn’t turn around. “What kind of work?”

“Noon sharp,” she replied, and continued out the door to the street.

I must have looked as bad off as I was. My stipend for the research project I’d spent the previous three years on had been cancelled. I’d failed to make satisfactory progress on my dissertation, and I cringed when I remembered the last conversation I’d had with my faculty advisor.

“This is it, Bernard,” Professor Jameson had said, not unkindly. “Your stipend won’t be renewed, and I’ve been asked to inform you the university will require you to withdraw at the end of Summer Quarter. We have a long relationship with the University of --, however, and we expect you to deliver the lectures you agreed to present over the summer.”

Crap, I thought to myself. I’m screwed.

“You know, there are other things to do in this world, Bernard. What you’ve been working on isn’t everything. Finish the lectures this summer and get on with your life.”

Accordingly, I’d found myself down to my one remaining dime in the Contessa’s city that summer after my last presentation, the one she attended. I never found out exactly how she knew my situation but I suspect she had some connection, through my advisor or someone in the field, with the university I’d called home for so long.

It didn’t matter. I needed work and she’d offered me a job. I showed up at noon the following day at a house that seemed to stretch out forever on either side of the front door and a garden that looked enormous from the street. The Contessa received me in the back sunroom. Beside her was a petite female the Contessa introduced as Kitchen Girl. Her nickname was a misnomer, I quickly learned. Kitchen Girl was an accomplished cook and aspiring chef, with her own kitchen girl to act as sous chef and do the scut work. She’d been with the Contessa for at least five or ten years by then. Given her apparent age I wondered if she’d started working while still a child.

“I understand this was your last lecture here, Bernard. Is that right?”

“It is, Ms...”

“You may address me as Contessa. You may address her,” she nodded at the small female, “as Kitchen Girl. Is that clear?”

I wasn’t in any position to argue or even bargain. My hotel bill was due and I couldn’t pay it.

“Yes, Contessa.” I turned to Kitchen Girl and nodded. “I’m pleased to meet you, Kitchen Girl.”

I thought I saw the faintest of smiles from Kitchen Girl but it was gone before I could be sure. She nodded in return.

“I will provide room and board as part of your compensation.” She named a figure anyone would consider miserly. “Is that satisfactory?”

Beggars can’t be choosers.

“Yes, Contessa. Thank you.”

“From now on in this house you will be known as Bertuccio.”

She held up her hand when I opened my mouth to respond.

“There will be no discussion. You are Bertuccio here, just as she,” nodding again at Kitchen Girl, “is Kitchen Girl.”

I was silent. This was freaking weird.

“Is that understood, Bertuccio?”

I resisted the urge to shrug my shoulders.

“Yes, Contessa.”


I never found out exactly how the Contessa came by the title she claimed. She’d been married off early to an older guy, but he was out of the picture by the time I met her. Was he a count? Perhaps. Kitchen Girl wasn’t much help when I asked her one evening after dinner while her assistant cleaned the kitchen. I’d been in the Contessa’s employ a little over a month by then.

“So, what’s the story with the Contessa?”

Kitchen Girl shrugged.

“She’s always called herself Contessa and she insists on the title.”

“Was there a count?”

Another shrug.

“How old is she?”

Kitchen Girl put down her coffee cup.

“Why the interest, Bertuccio?”

“Because I like to know who I’m working for. And with,” I added, gesturing with my own cup.

Kitchen Girl smiled.

“My story is pretty simple, Bertuccio. Kind of like yours. I needed a job and the Contessa offered me one. She’d had a meal in the place I was working and liked it. I was ready to move on.”

“Really, how old is the Contessa?”

I figured she couldn’t have been much over thirty, which meant she must have married really young.

“Does it matter? She is who she is and she seems to have plenty of money.”

Kitchen Girl didn’t say it out loud but she didn’t have to. Her “Why rock the boat” message was pretty clear.

“What do you think of her morning swims, Bertuccio?”

I laughed.

“I especially like her swimsuit policy.”

Kitchen Girl’s turn to laugh.

“Yup. Not bad, huh?”

The Contessa favored what she termed a healthy lifestyle. Thank god this didn’t involve eating nuts and berries all the time. Kitchen Girl’s presence in the kitchen was evidence the Contessa ate everything and liked to eat well, although not to excess. Her slim figure reflected her discipline. I found out later proper eating wasn’t the only discipline she liked.

I was all for the swimming nude part of this healthy life. There’s something about water all over you that liberates and makes you one with the world. I’m not big on philosophy but the feeling is primal, even primeval. Also, and I’ll be honest about this, I found it arousing and I didn’t bother to hide myself. The Contessa and Kitchen Girl noticed, but in the beginning neither one seemed to care.


It was a year before I fucked the Contessa, and then only because she made it impossible for me not to. At the time I thought I was saving Kitchen Girl, somehow, but I was wrong. She didn’t need saving.

From the beginning the Contessa made it plain she wanted things done her way and she had little patience when the way they were done did not comport with her standards. I learned quickly to just do it and not worry about it, although I found out gradually the Contessa would listen to a proposal presented clearly and quickly, like when I came up with a way to irrigate using less water. Or when I found a better and cheaper mechanic for the car.

Kitchen Girl seemed to read the Contessa with telepathy, or perhaps she’d learned the Contessa’s routine well and the Contessa rarely varied her pattern. So I was shocked the first time I saw the Contessa slap Kitchen Girl. It was late one night. Kitchen Girl and I were having our regular conversation in the kitchen after the Contessa had retired for the evening. Kitchen Girl’s assistant had done so as well when she’d finished cleaning up.

I almost dropped my cup when the door to the dining room slammed back and the Contessa marched over to Kitchen Girl and slapped her face, twice. I jumped to my feet to restrain the Contessa when out of the corner of my eye I saw Kitchen Girl shake her head ever-so-slightly to warn me off.

“You cooked the asparagus to death, Kitchen Girl. What the hell is the matter with you?” The Contessa was in control of herself but her red face and furious eyes said she was close to the edge. Dinner was two or three hours ago. Left unsaid was why she’d waited until now to complain.

“I’m sorry, Contessa.” Kitchen Girl kept her eyes down. “I got distracted. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

The Contessa raised her hand as if to strike Kitchen Girl again but she stopped at the last minute. With a look in my direction that said, “Shut up, you,” she executed a perfect turn and marched out of the kitchen.

I grabbed an ice pack from the freezer and wrapped it in a towel and handed it to Kitchen Girl. I saw tears in her eyes but she refused to cry. After a few minutes she put the ice pack down and stretched out her hand to touch mine. She wasn’t smiling.

“Thank you, Bertuccio.”

I squeezed her hand gently.

“What was that about, Kitchen Girl?”

She shrugged.

“The Contessa gets like that sometimes. It’s no big deal, really.”

“Kitchen Girl, there wasn’t a damn thing wrong with the asparagus tonight. You know it and she knows it. She picked that as an excuse.”

I’d had the asparagus. It was perfect.

“So why do you put up with this?”

Silence.

“Kitchen Girl?”

Now there was a small smile.

“She makes up for it in other ways.”

Another pause.

“Don’t ask, Bertuccio. Maybe you’ll find out later.”

She was right.


I found out the hard way.

The Contessa hit me one afternoon when she didn’t like the way I’d raked the gravel on the side path and I grabbed her and threw her down on the grass and fucked her. It sounds like rape but it wasn’t. It wasn’t rape because within seconds after I’d ripped her shirt and threw it away and pulled her shorts and underwear off and skewered her she urged me on and kicked “Giddyup” on my buttocks on every stroke. Her eyes were wild and never left mine. Her lips released me only when I couldn’t breathe, and her stream of “Gimme gimme gimmes” in between kisses acted as the spur she intended. I fucked her. I bit her nipple and the side of her neck. I reamed her. I was the power and the glory as I rode her, I swear it, and she took it all and asked for more. I gave it to her.

That’s why it wasn’t rape. It was theatre. It was kink, but it wasn’t rape.


The Contessa had decided on this vacation at the end of last year. She was a little vague on why it had to be this place near a fairly desolate coast, but quite clear on what she wanted. A small cottage for herself and Kitchen Girl, and a detached garden house or studio for me. When I saw what she’d chosen I thought “shed” rather than “studio,” but it had a bed, a bookcase, a window and an easy chair. An old but fairly serviceable rug filled most of the floor space. Behind a door in the south wall there was a tiny bathroom with toilet. The shower was outdoors at the side of the house.

An old oak tree shaded a tiny patch of lawn in front of the shed. Two chairs and a small table completed the scene. The tree’s shade would be welcome on hot sunny days, if there were any in this seemingly godforsaken corner of the country during our summer sojourn.


On the morning I had Kitchen Girl up against the wall I knew I’d have to pay later. I did. The Contessa made sure of that.

By now the pattern was clear. The Contessa would take offense at some action by me or Kitchen Girl, or something we’d failed to do, and would take it out on us with her palms or some kind of implement, a hair brush, a whisk, whatever she found handy.

Kitchen Girl had warned me, or perhaps promised me, there would be an upside, and she was right about that. A beating, no injury serious enough to require a visit to the emergency room, followed by hard fucking. No quarter. The Contessa gave as good as she got, and if Kitchen Girl or I ended up with scratches as well as bruises we made sure the Contessa got her own share.

On this afternoon, I couldn’t believe it happened this way, the Contessa walked up behind me in the garden and tripped me. I almost forgot the pattern and was about to jump back up to pay her back when that little voice told me to hang tight and see what happened.

“You hurt Kitchen Girl this morning, Bertuccio, when you put her against the wall.”

It was nothing of the sort. Kitchen Girl loved it. So did I, and I suspected the Contessa might have got off on it as well.

“Contessa,” I began, but she cut me off.

“Shut up, Bertuccio,” and she swatted me with something, I’m not sure exactly what it was. She was leaning down as she did so, hitting me with repeated cross cuts. She panted with each stroke, from exertion or arousal or both, I didn’t know, but I could see she was almost to orgasm or exhaustion.

Three more strokes and that was it. And then one more. It was too much. My turn to reach out and pull her down. She fought me but it was play fighting. We knew the script by heart and I showed her no mercy, no tenderness in the moment. She didn’t want any. In our frenzy I gave her scratches to remember me by but I couldn’t bring myself to strike her hard this time, really.

She was going to make me pay for that failure. I could see it in her eyes as we rested after we’d fucked each other to orgasm. I looked up to see Kitchen Girl standing a few yards away. I caught her eye and smiled. I think I saw her smile in return.

That night after my visit to Samuel’s pub I thought about the bottomless lake. I remembered the extra lash the Contessa had given me earlier in the afternoon when she’d made me pay for how I’d taken Kitchen Girl against the wall following our early morning swim. It was enough. I’d had it. I’d talk to Kitchen Girl as soon as I could get her alone and together we’d plan a lesson the Contessa would never forget. If she survived it, that is.

Bottomless lake.

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Fa/Fa / Mult /