Breach of Contract
wandanat x f!reader
The employee handbook didn’t cover the way Wanda looks at you when you’re on your knees scrubbing the floor, or the way Natasha’s fingers feel when she tangles them in your hair to tilt your head back. You were hired to be their domestic chatelaine, but the professional lines didn't just blur. They dissolved entirely the moment the married couple decided that the only thing missing from their perfect home was you.
details: nasty smut (poly), porn w/ some plot, hurt/comfort, employee/employer to complex? to partners/dating/married, switch/gentle strict dom!wanda, top/sharp quiet dom!natasha, bottom/sub!reader, personal cook/maid!reader, rich/well off couple!wandanat, oral/fingering/strap in v, (kinks such as... hair pulling, spit, dom/sub, impact play, praise, ownership, overstimulation)
The kitchen is steeped in the soft amber glow of golden hour, sunlight spilling lazily across the countertops and catching on the edges of polished glass. The open window lets in a gentle breeze, just enough to stir the curtains into a slow, rhythmic sway. It’s peaceful—quiet in a way that makes the clink of utensils and the low hum of the oven feel almost comforting.
You’d finished your usual list earlier than expected today. With time to spare, you decided to start dinner—something more involved than usual, a recipe that required patience and care. The kind of meal that fills a home not just with aroma, but with warmth.
It’s been about a year since you started working here, and you’ve settled into the rhythm of it all with ease. Wanda can be particular—precise in a way that keeps everything running just so—but never unkind. And Natasha balances her out effortlessly. Together, they’ve made this place feel less like a job and more like somewhere you belong. The small home they’ve provided nearby only adds to that sense of comfort.
You’re pulling the dish from the oven, the rich scent of slow-cooked herbs and roasted vegetables (or perhaps a carefully layered lasagna, bubbling at the edges) filling the air, when you hear the front door open.
Voices follow. Familiar, welcome. A small smile tugs at your lips as you set the dish down carefully.
“We’re back,” Natasha calls, her tone lighter than usual, travel always seems to wear on her.
Wanda, however, makes a beeline straight for the kitchen, drawn in by the scent before anything else. She pauses in the doorway, breathing it in, her expression softening.
“What smells so good…?”
You glance over your shoulder, slipping off the oven mitts. “It’s a slow-baked recipe—took most of the afternoon,” you say with a small, proud smile. “Figured I’d make something special. Welcome back.”
Natasha appears behind her, resting a hand lightly on Wanda’s arm, a knowing look in her eyes. “Tempting,” she says, “but we should probably get out of these airport clothes first.”
Wanda hesitates for just a second longer, clearly reluctant to leave the kitchen, before allowing herself to be guided away. You chuckle softly, turning back to the counter to finish plating.
“I’ll have everything ready when you’re done,” you call after them.
The dining room is already set. Candles waiting to be lit, plates placed just so.
Their footsteps return not long after, quieter now. Changed, settled, the fatigue of travel softened into something more relaxed. Wanda lingers near the doorway again, though this time she leans lightly against the frame, arms crossed, watching as you finish up the last touches.
Dinner passes easily. They ask about the house, about anything that might have come up in their absence. It’s brief, casual—more habit than concern—and you reassure them everything’s been smooth. No issues, no surprises.
Wanda hums in quiet approval, exchanging a glance with Natasha before looking back at you. “We appreciate you,” she says simply, but sincerely.
Natasha offers a small, warm smile. “You’ve done more than enough. Go ahead and call it a night.”
You nod, returning the smile. “Enjoy dinner. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
They thank you again as you step away, settling in at the table just as you disappear back into the kitchen. The routine comes naturally now—plates rinsed, dishes loaded carefully into the dishwasher, counters wiped down until they gleam faintly under the soft overhead light. The house quiets again, save for the low murmur of their conversation drifting faintly from the living room.
By the time you’re done, the last of the sunlight has faded, leaving behind a gentle dusk. You grab your things, slipping out the door with a quiet ease, the cool evening air greeting you as you step outside. The short walk to your place feels familiar, almost grounding after a full day.
The ocean breeze greets you the moment you step outside, cool and laced with salt, drifting up from the waves crashing steadily against the rocks below the cliffside mansion; you take your time walking the familiar path to your small home tucked along the ledge, letting your gaze wander out over the endless stretch of darkening water as the last of the sunlight fades into soft blues and grays, and for a moment you simply pause, breathing it in, enjoying the quiet and the view that never quite gets old, before finally heading inside, closing the door behind you, and settling in for the night.
It seems as if something had shifted during their trip, you notice it before you can quite name it.
They’ve always been kind. From the awkward, careful beginnings when you first started working for them, to the easy rhythm you’ve settled into now, there’s always been warmth there. Gentleness. Familiarity that never crossed a line.
But something is different. You’re in the living room, cloth in hand, carefully wiping down the edge of the TV table, more out of habit than necessity.
Wanda is there too. She’s settled into one of the armchairs with a glass of wine, posture relaxed, but not absent. She isn’t doing anything obvious. Just watching. Or at least, it feels like watching.
At first, you try to ignore it. Focus on the surface in front of you. The grain of the wood. The steady motion of your hand.
But you feel it anyway.
“We don’t know too much about your life outside of here, do we?” Wanda asks, her voice smooth as velvet, casual on the surface in a way that doesn’t quite match the weight of her attention.
She tilts the glass toward herself and takes a slow sip of wine, watching you over the rim. Patient, unhurried, like she’s not expecting an answer so much as a reaction.
You pause.
“Um…” Your hand stills briefly against the cloth before you force it to keep moving. “I guess not, no.”
There’s a small, thoughtful hum from her. Soft, almost approving, though it’s hard to tell exactly why.
“I suppose that’s partly my fault,” she says after a beat, as if considering it for the first time in that moment. “We do tend to keep things… focused here.”
Wanda leans back slightly in the chair, glass resting loosely in her hand.
“You’ve been with us a while now,” she adds, softer. “It’s strange how little we know about you.”
A pause.
Then, lighter. Carefully so, like she’s stepping around something:
Wanda hums softly at that, the sound low and thoughtful as she turns the glass slightly in her hand. The last of the light shifts across the room while she watches you a moment longer, as if weighing something quietly in her mind.
“Is it alright if I ask you a couple of questions then?”
The request is gentle. Polite, even. Still firmly within the boundaries of employer and employee,but there’s something in the way she asks that makes it feel more personal than procedural.
You hesitate just briefly before nodding.
“Yeah… that’s fine.”
“Wonderful,” she says simply.
And just like that, the conversation continues.
At first, the questions are harmless enough, small things, things that could pass as curiosity after a year of shared space. Your routines. What you like to cook when you’re on your own. How you found your way into this work. Wanda listens to every answer with an unusual kind of attention, like she’s not just hearing you, but remembering you.
Time slips in quiet increments.
The sun lowers further, golden light fading into softer tones as your conversation carries, the house shifting gradually toward evening. Somewhere along the way, her wine glass empties, left resting on the arm of the chair as she forgets to refill it or even notice.
It was the most tame of what was to come. Of how quietly, almost imperceptibly, things would begin to shift.
A couple of days later, the house has settled back into its usual rhythm. The library is warm and dimly lit, the kind of space that feels even quieter after a long day—books lined in perfect order, the faint scent of paper and polished wood in the air.
Wanda and Natasha are there after work, speaking in low tones, their presence relaxed in that familiar way that only comes after years of sharing space. You pass through briefly, intending only to retrieve something you left behind.
You barely make it a few steps inside when Wanda’s attention shifts toward you.
“I showed Natasha some of your artwork,” she says gently, as if continuing a thought rather than introducing a new one. Her gaze flicks briefly to her wife, then back to you. “From what you shared with me last night… if that’s alright.”
“Oh,” you blink slightly, caught off guard but not uncomfortable. “That’s… quite alright.”
Natasha looks at you then.
“They were beautiful,” she says simply, no hesitation in her voice. A pause. “Did you paint them while we were gone last week?”
You nod, still a little unsure where this is going. “Yes. I had extra time… not as much to clean.”
A faint hint of amusement passes through Natasha’s expression at that, though it never fully forms into a smile.
“Right,” she replies, tone even, thoughtful. Then, after a beat: “Well… we were thinking we’d like to put your artwork in a showing next week.”
That lands differently.
You stop for a second, processing it. “What…? I— that’s very kind, I…”
Wanda watches your reaction carefully, something warm in her expression that isn’t quite pride, but close.
“It’s very beautiful,” she says softly. “It deserves to be seen.”
Natasha gives a small, confirming nod beside her.
Your surprise eases into something quieter—something touched, almost disbelieving. “I’d love to,” you say finally.
And for a moment, the conversation pauses there—not ending, but settling into something that feels a little more deliberate than before.
The museum is everything you expected it to be, and a little more overwhelming than you care to admit.
High ceilings, polished marble floors, and soft, controlled lighting that makes every piece of art feel curated to perfection. People move through the space in quiet clusters, dressed with the kind of ease that comes from never needing to think too much about where they are or why they belong there.
You stand near your work, hands loosely at your sides, trying not to look as out of place as you feel. The painting is hung beautifully—better than you’ve ever seen it displayed, but your attention keeps drifting to everything else instead of it.
A few guests pass by, offering polite nods or brief comments, but it all feels slightly distant, like you’re watching it happen rather than part of it. Then you see them.
The moment your eyes meet theirs, something in your shoulders loosens without permission. Wanda notices first, her expression softening as she approaches.
“There you are,” she says gently, as if you’d only been briefly misplaced rather than standing in the middle of a formal exhibition.
Natasha follows beside her, gaze briefly flicking to your work before returning to you. “How are you holding up?”
It’s a simple question, but it lands with more weight than it should here.
You manage a small breath of a laugh. “Alright,” you say honestly.
Wanda hums, understanding immediately.
Natasha’s eyes linger on you for a moment longer before she gives a slight nod. “You did well.”
There’s a pause. Not awkward, but fuller than before.
And then you notice it. Wanda steps slightly closer than she usually would in public. Not enough to be obvious to anyone else, but enough that you feel it. Natasha’s hand briefly touches your arm as she adjusts her position beside you, guiding you gently through the flow of passing guests as they speak.
It isn’t dramatic. Nothing about it is. But it’s different.
As the conversation continues, small comments about the turnout, a few quiet remarks about the piece. You become aware of it in fragments: Wanda’s attention resting on you a little longer than necessary, Natasha’s hand lingering just a second too long before letting go.
By the time they eventually guide you away from the painting to greet someone else, you realize the shift isn’t something you can point to clearly.
Their touches, once fleeting, have begun to carry intention.
Their glances, once brief and forgettable, now tend to linger just a little too long.
Even now, kneeling on the floor with a cloth in hand, wiping a section of tile that doesn’t really need attention, you feel it. The quiet weight of their presence behind you, the way you feel their gaze drift to areas they maybe shouldn't.
You keep your focus down, continuing as if nothing has changed, as if you haven’t been carrying this awareness with you for weeks. You’ve been ignoring it, even as it follows you into the night and sits restless in your chest when everything else is still.
A month passes like that. Supporting your art, inviting you to sit while they chat quietly in the library. Investing in learning more about you, and you about them. Blurring a line from before into something warmer, friendlier.
Then they leave again for the weekend.
The departure is familiar by now. Bags by the door, last checks, calm instructions spoken in that easy rhythm of theirs. But the goodbyes feel different. Slower. Softer.
Wanda pauses at the door longer than usual, stepping closer as her hand brushes your arm with a deliberate gentleness. “Take care of yourself,” she says quietly.
Natasha follows, her touch brief but steady as it settles on your shoulder a moment longer than necessary. “We’ll be back,” she adds, her voice lower than usual.
Then they’re gone, and the house settles into a silence that feels heavier than it should.
One weekend later and all your usual preparation for their return is already in motion by late afternoon. The house cleaned, the air subtly refreshed, a simple recipe planned for dinner that will be ready around the time they’re expected back. Even a small arrangement of flowers sits on the coffee table, something soft and thoughtful you added without really thinking about it.
But somewhere between checking the oven and straightening the living room for the third time, exhaustion catches up with you.
It’s been building for days—late nights, early mornings, the quiet tension you haven’t fully admitted to yourself. And when you finally sit on the couch for “just a moment,” it becomes something heavier. Something you don’t fight.
The next thing you register is warmth, and the feeling of being watched.
Your eyes open slowly, focus slipping into place. Natasha is beside you, sitting close enough that you feel her presence immediately, her hand gently resting against your cheek. Her fingers move with quiet care, brushing hair away from your face.
“Good evening,” she says, her voice low and calm, like she’s been speaking for a while already and only now expects you to hear it.
You jolt slightly as awareness snaps back into place, not just of where you are, but of how close she is. Natasha notices immediately.
“Hey, hey—whoa,” she says, her tone shifting as her hand stills against your skin. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah… yeah, I’m alright,” you manage, pushing yourself upright quickly, the sudden awareness making you hyper-conscious of everything at once. “I just— I must’ve fallen asleep.”
You sit up fully, adjusting your position on the couch, suddenly too aware of how you’re sitting, of your uniform, of the space between you. Natasha shifts slightly to give you room, though she doesn’t move far.
Wanda is there too, standing a few steps behind the couch with her arms loosely crossed. Her expression is harder to read, but her attention is fixed on you in that quiet, steady way you’ve started to recognize.
For a moment, no one speaks. The air feels different than it did when you fell asleep; it no longer feels like you are just waiting for her to come home.
Over the last month, everything has started to catch up. The tension has built steadily through every conversation and every touch, everything done with quiet intent.
Your chest rises and falls quickly, the sound of your breathing loud in the silence. Your eyes search her face, while her gaze remains steadier, watching you back. Her eyes dart to your lips, as yours dart to hers.
Before you can make a move or say another word, her lips meet yours. With a month of built-up pressure finally breaking, you lean into the kiss far quicker than you’d like to admit.
Your back hits the couch cushion again, and your hand reaches out to grip her shirt. With eyes shut and your face tilted, you settle back, moving with her.
It was a kiss, a long winded one.
Lingering kisses eventually deepened into long make-out sessions, and those sessions inevitably blurred into the arrangement you had now.
With Natasha at work, the house was quiet, leaving only you and Wanda. At her request, you were on the floor scrubbing the tiles in the foyer. Her focus was lower than usual, her gaze fixed intently on the backs of your thighs. She watched with a quiet hunger, wanting nothing more than to pull your skirt up just a few inches to see more of you.
You swallowed hard, a soft "oh..." escaping your lips when you felt the point of her heel press against your skin. She dragged it slowly up the back of your thigh, inching toward the hem of your work outfit and pushing the fabric of your skirt higher and higher.
Wanda hummed in low approval at the sight, her eyes tracing the curve of your hips and the lace of your underwear, the only thing obscuring the view she wanted most.
The air in the foyer felt thick as you slowly turned your head. You didn't meet her gaze directly; instead, your eyes traveled up her legs, to the line of her shoulder, and finally to the soft curve of her cheek. The silence stretched between you, charged and expectant, until she spoke with a quiet, firm command.
"Continue."
Taking a deep breath, you turn back to the tiled floor, forcing yourself to focus on the scrubbing. You try to work as if you don't feel her gaze on you, heavy with a sense of deep entertainment.
When you finally finish the spot Wanda had pointed out earlier, she reaches down, her fingers firm against your jaw. She tilts your head up until you're forced to face her, then leans down to capture your lips in a brief, searing kiss.
"Good job..." she murmurs against your skin, her voice laced with a quiet, lingering satisfaction.
This whole thing was torture.
The memory of their kisses and the heat of their hands seemed burned into your skin, dragging you deeper into a hazy, unfocused mindset. They would pin you against the wall, hands sliding over your curves, feeling the shape of your body until you were breathless. They’d press feather-light kisses up the sensitive line of your neck or grip your hips just to hear the sharp catch of your gasp. These were hot, quiet, random spikes of intimacy that promised everything before they were stopped.
It was driving you up the wall. You felt like you were losing your mind because it never went further.
You’d be cleaning a counter and feel a hand drag slowly up the back of your thigh. Your back would arch instinctively, a silent, desperate plea for them to keep going, but they would just pull away. Every time, they took everything back right before it could progress, leaving you shivering and stranded in the silence they left behind.
You had finished for the day, your body burning from a weeks worth of teasing. Your forehead pressed against your shower wall, sighing from the coolness on your hot skin. Your mind kept replaying the moments, the scenes from earlier. And your fingers unknowingly dipped in between your thighs to feel the soaked mess. You keen at the touch, finally getting something.
You rub your clit, thighs shaking. Leaning heavily against the cool surface, bottom lip dropped open as you whine and keen at the feeling. Your mind full of all the moments between you and Natasha, Wanda... the both of them. Imagining if you went just further, how they'd take care of you. They're kind, so incredibly so. You can only imagine how their touch would feel there, how their voices low would sound against your ear.
"G-gods," you cry softly, shuddering. "W-wanda... Natasha... please...!"
Thighs clenching together as your thighs drip with your arousal as you fall down from your climax. Unaware Wanda had come by to your little home to try and return your laptop that you had left in the library, her ears perked to hearing your moans from the small space inside the front door.
As you breath heavily, your mind feeling a dazed mess. You jerk awake at the knock to your door, heart falling into your stomach. Wrapping a towel around your body, you hear towards the front door. Cheeks flushed, embarrassment and shame filling your body at the possibility that she's heard you.
"Wanda... I-"
She shuts your hesitant explanation up, grabbing hold of you and pulling you into a kiss. She places your laptop on a surface that she passes by, her eyes opening briefly to place it there before her attention turns back to you.
"Listen to me, shh." She explains, tone too sweet. "We're going to put a name in place if you wish to stop at any time, alright? Tell me you're listening, lovie."
You whine, arms crossing around the back of her neck, nodding, "Yes..."
"Any word you'd like?"
"I... um, Pear?"
"Alright, you say pear if you wish to stop. Okay?"
"Okay.. I will."
She's not wasting time after to back you up until you're falling back onto your bed. Her lips run down your neck, fingers tugging the towel around your bare body off. She runs her hand down your chest, rubbing at your nipple to hear you moan.
"Please...!"
"Shh," she murmurs, sliding her hand down your side to touch you directly. Her eyes, dark and lidded, watching your head fall back as she swirls her fingers around your wet pussy.
You bite your bottom lip, "mm..!"
You were already hovering on the edge, your nervous system frayed from the back-to-back stimulation. Every time her thumb swiped over your clit, a jagged bolt of lightning shot straight to your core. Your breath came in ragged, broken sobs, your fingers digging into the bedding as you tried to find some purchase in the storm she was creating.
"Wanda, please... I can't—"
"You can," she countered softly, leaning down to catch your whimpers with her lips. She tasted like expensive wine and authority.
The door to your cottage creaked open again, neither of you locked it in your sex-crazed haze. The heavy, measured tread of boots on the wood floor told you exactly who it was before she even spoke.
"I thought I'd find the two of you here," Natasha’s voice drifted in from the bedroom doorway.Her eyes took in the sceen. Looking from the discarded towel, your flushed, shaking form, and Wanda’s hand buried between your thighs. Natasha walked to the edge of the bed, her shadow falling over you. Your teary eyes looking up to her, hands clutching at the sheets beside your head.
"Heard her touching herself in the shower, moaning our names," Wanda explains, angling her hands so Natasha can bring her hand alongside Wanda's.
The addition of Natasha’s finger pushing into you was the final breach. Her fingers stretching you in a way that made your breath hitch and stay trapped in your throat.
"Is that so?" Natasha murmured, her voice dropping to a gravelly low as she watched the way your body reacted to the dual invasion. She didn't look away from your eyes, holding your gaze even as she began to move in tandem with her wife. "Using us to find your little thrill while you're all alone?"
Wanda leaned over you, her hair draping like a silken curtain around your face, sealing the three of you into a private world of heat and friction. "It’s a breach of contract, really," Wanda whispered against your lips, her thumb never stopping its relentless, grinding circles on your clit. "Taking what belongs to us without asking."
The sensation was overwhelming. Too much, too fast, and yet exactly what you had been dying for during those long, lonely months of "professionalism." With Wanda’s thumb pushing you toward the sun and the combined weight of their fingers filling you, your internal muscles began to clench in desperate, rhythmic pulses.
"She’s close," Natasha noted, her eyes darkening. She hooked her thumb into the crease of your hip, pinning you down as you tried to buck upward. "Don't you dare close your eyes. Look at what you've done to yourself. Look at how we're taking care of you. Open your eyes."
You let out a broken, high-pitched keen, your fingers losing their grip on the sheets as your back arched off the mattress. The world narrowed down to the point where their hands met inside you.
"Please," you sobbed, the word a frantic prayer. "Please, I—I can't—"
Your climax hit with the force of a tidal wave, your internal walls squeezing around them in tight, helpless spasms. Your overstimulation turned into a white-hot blur. You were vaguely aware of the way Wanda’s hand stayed exactly where it was, holding you through the aftershocks, refusing to let you retreat from the intensity of what they were doing to you.
As the room slowly stopped spinning, you lay there shivering, completely exposed and utterly claimed in the quiet of your own room.
"Good girl," Natasha whispered, finally withdrawing her hand to stroke a damp strand of hair from your forehead. Her touch was suddenly, jarringly tender as she looked down at your spent form.
Wanda hummed, leaning down to press one last, lingering kiss to your heated temple. "Rest now, darling," she murmured, her voice returning to that smooth, employer-like calm that felt so much more dangerous now. "We expect you at the main house at dawn. Breakfast won't make itself."
Same from before...
Torture. This was torture.
The granite was cold against your palms, a sharp contrast to the heat of Natasha’s body pressed firmly against your back. You had barely started on the morning’s routine before her hands were on you, dragging the fabric of your uniform up until it bunched at your waist.
Your head fell back against her shoulder, a broken sound escaping you as she reached around to find you. Her movements were steady and deliberate, her fingers sliding over your skin with a familiarity that made your knees weak. She didn't say a word, her quiet focus more overwhelming than any command.
"The stove," you managed to whisper, your fingers white-knuckled as you gripped the edge of the counter.
"Ignore it," Natasha murmured against your ear, her thumb finding your clit and applying a slow, heavy pressure that made your breath hitch.
Across the island, Wanda leaned against the counter, her dark eyes fixed on the way you moved under Natasha’s hands. She didn't move to help or stop it; she simply watched, her presence adding a weight to the room that made the air feel thick. She reached out, her fingers trailing idly over the morning paper, but her attention remained entirely on you.
Every time you tried to regain your footing, Natasha shifted her weight, pinning you more firmly against the stone and increasing the pace of her fingers. The friction was relentless, grinding against you in all the ways she knew you couldn't handle.
Your back arched, a sharp gasp leaving you as the stimulation became too much to fight. The kitchen was quiet, save for the hum of the house and the ragged sound of your own breathing as they watched you come apart.
The study was quiet, the air thick with the scent of old paper and the soft clicking of Natasha’s keyboard. You stepped inside, your grip light on the handle of your duster as you caught her eye.
"Hi," you murmured, offering a soft, tentative smile. "Is it alright if I start on the bookshelves?"
Natasha leaned back slightly, her expression warming as she looked up from her screen. "Yes, of course. Thank you."
You moved to the far wall, the steady rhythm of your work filling the silence as you reached for the higher shelves. You could feel her gaze occasionally flicking away from her work to follow your movements.
"How is your latest painting coming along?" she asked, her voice casual but attentive.
You paused, your hand hovering near a leather-bound spine. "Oh... it’s fine. I just haven't had much time to get back to it lately."
Natasha’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer, a thoughtful look crossing her face. "Then take the evening off," she suggested.
Your hand faltered, the duster stilled against the wood. "B-but... I still have the dinner service and the—"
The study was quiet, the only sound the soft friction of your cloth against the wood until Natasha spoke. Her suggestion caught you completely off guard, the professional habit of always being available momentarily clashing with the genuine excitement bubbling up in your chest.
"Truly, I mean it. Take the time."
"Really?" you asked, pausing with the duster still in hand.
"Really," she confirmed, a faint, knowing tilt to her lips.
You didn't need to be told twice. After a quick, grateful goodbye, you practically floated out of the main house. The walk back to your cottage was brisk, the salt air feeling particularly invigorating.
Once inside, the evening was a blur of focused energy. You set up your easel by the window, catching the last of the golden hour as it washed over the canvas. The brushes felt like an extension of your hand, the colors blending with a fluid ease you hadn't felt in weeks. The tension of the house, the complex stares from Wanda, and the weight of Natasha's attention seemed to channel themselves directly into the pigment.
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving only deep purples and bruised oranges across the sky, you were covered in faint splatters of paint and feeling a sense of profound peace. You stepped back to survey the work, your chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.
The snap of a twig outside made you turn.
A silhouette stood on your small porch, framed by the darkening ocean behind them. The door wasn't locked, you rarely felt the need for it here. Wanda stepped inside, her movements as graceful as ever, her eyes immediately finding the canvas before they drifted to you.
"Natasha said you were inspired," Wanda said softly, stepping closer. She didn't look at the mess on your hands or the smudge of blue on your cheek; she looked at the painting with a quiet, intense reverence. "It seems she was right."
"I... I didn't hear you come up," you whispered, suddenly very aware of how small your home felt with her inside it.
Wanda didn't answer right away. She walked around the easel, her silk dress rustling faintly, until she was standing directly in front of you. The air between you hummed, charged with the same unspoken current that had been vibrating through the kitchen and the library for months.
"It’s beautiful," she murmured, reaching out. Her fingers didn't touch the painting; instead, they brushed against your jaw, her thumb ghosting over that smudge of blue paint on your skin.
"Thank you..."
Wanda’s thumb lingered on your jaw, the blue paint smearing slightly under the warmth of her skin. The silence in your home was heavy, broken only by the distant, rhythmic crash of the waves against the cliffside. Her gaze dropped to your lips, and before you could draw another breath, she leaned in.
The kiss was deep and inevitable, the culmination of a year of stolen glances and professional restraint finally snapping. You whimpered into her mouth, your hands coming up to clutch at the silk of her sleeves as she pressed forward, her body a firm, commanding weight that forced you backward. Your heels hit the base of the wall, and the cool glass of the window pressed against your spine as she pinned you there.
She pulled back just an inch, her breath hot against your skin. "I've wanted to do that since the day we hired you," she whispered, her voice low.
Without waiting for a response, her kisses began to migrate. She trailed them down the line of your throat, her tongue grazing your pulse point before she dropped to her knees. The transition was fluid, her hands sliding up the insides of your thighs to gather your dress, bunching the fabric at your waist.
You gasped, your head hitting the windowpane with a dull thud as she moved between your legs. The cool evening air from the slightly ajar window hit your bare skin, but the heat radiating from Wanda was all you could feel.
"Be good for me," she murmured, looking up at you with lidded, intense eyes. "Be very still."
She didn't give you a choice. Her tongue swiped along your clit, tasting the arousal you’d been carrying all day. You bucked instinctively, your fingers tangling in her hair, but she gripped your hips, her fingernails digging in just enough to anchor you.
"I said still," she repeated against your skin, punctuating the command with a sharp, sudden nip to your inner thigh.
You let out a strangled cry, your legs trembling as she settled in. She ate you out with a slow, agonizing thoroughness, her tongue swirling and pressing in all the ways that made your vision blur.
Every time you tried to shy away from the intensity, her grip tightened, holding you ruthlessly against the glass until you were nothing but a shivering mess of sensation under her quiet, focused care.
The house felt unusually cold that Tuesday, the coastal fog pressing thick and grey against the windows. You were in the dining room, your movements mechanical as you adjusted the floral centerpiece, but your heart wasn't in the work. You’d been feeling the shift. A strange, growing silence between the three of you that felt less like peace and more like a withdrawal.
As you stepped toward the foyer to retrieve a fallen leaf, you heard their voices. Low, serious, and stripped of the warmth that usually colored their private conversations. You froze behind the heavy oak door.
“It’s getting complicated, Natasha,” Wanda said, her tone measured, quieter than usual. “We didn’t exactly set rules for this, and now… we’re just letting it drift.”
There was a brief silence. You could almost hear Natasha exhale.
“I know,” she said, her voice softer, but edged with something firmer underneath. “But we can’t keep guessing how she feels and calling it enough. She hasn’t said anything. She just… goes along with it.”
Your chest tightened.
Another pause.
“And if that’s all it is for her,” Natasha continued, a little more distant now, “then we need to stop pretending it’s more. Either she actually wants to be part of this, or we step back and let things be what they were before... We should ton-"
You didn't stay to hear the rest; the floor seemed to tilt beneath your feet. You retreated to your small cottage on the ledge, the salt air stinging your eyes as you spent a sleepless night convinced that the "arrangement" had finally reached its expiration date. You weren't just losing a job; you were losing the only place you’d ever felt you belonged.
The next morning, you moved through the main house like a ghost. You kept your eyes down, your uniform pressed and perfect, returning to the invisible persona of the domestic chatelaine. You avoided the study. You stayed out of the kitchen. You were back to being the help.
You were on your knees in the hallway, scrubbing the baseboards with a desperate, shaky intensity, when two pairs of shoes appeared in your peripheral vision. You didn't look up, your fingers white-knuckled around the brush.
"Look at me," Wanda commanded. It wasn't the playful, dark command from before; it was soft, laced with a sudden, sharp concern.
"I’m almost finished with the hall, Ma’am," you whispered, your voice thick and brittle. "I’ll be out your way."
A hand settled on your shoulder, Natasha. She knelt on the floor beside you, her strength forcing you to stop the frantic scrubbing. "Why are you calling her that? And why have you been hiding in the shadows all morning?"
“I heard you,” you said, the words breaking out of you before you could stop them. Your voice shook, eyes stinging as you looked between them. “About the distance… about things getting complicated. I know I’m just—” you swallowed hard, “—I know I work for you, and things got… blurred, but I can’t just go back to how it was. I can’t pretend none of this happened.”
The hallway went still.
For a split second, neither of them reacted—like your words hadn’t landed the way you thought they would.
Then Wanda moved first.
She dropped down in front of you, not cold, not distant—something in her expression cracking open instead. Her hands came up, hesitant at first, before gently steadying you.
“Oh, sweetheart…” she murmured, her voice soft with sudden understanding. “That’s not what we meant. Not even close.”
Natasha stepped in beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of her, the tension in her shoulders. “We weren’t talking about pushing you away,” she said, quieter now. “We were trying to figure out if we already crossed a line we shouldn’t have.”
You blinked, breath catching.
Wanda’s thumb brushed lightly under your eye, catching a tear before it could fall. “You haven’t said anything,” she added gently. “You’ve just… gone along with us. And we started thinking—what if you felt like you had to?”
Natasha exhaled, rubbing a hand over the back of her neck. “We didn’t want you stuck in something you couldn’t refuse. That’s what the ‘distance’ was about. Giving you room, if you needed it.”
The words hit differently now. Not sharp—just heavy in a completely different way.
“I don’t want room,” you said, the truth rushing out of you, uneven and fragile. “That’s the problem. The idea of going back—to just being your employee, pretending this didn’t happen—” your voice broke, “—that’s what scares me.”
They both stilled.
You forced yourself to keep going, even as your chest tightened. “I thought you were… done with me. Like this was just something that got out of hand and now you were fixing it.”
Wanda’s expression softened instantly, something almost pained flickering across her face.
“I don’t feel like ‘the help’ anymore,” you admitted, quieter now. “And I don’t want to. I want it to mean something. I want… all of it to mean something.”
The confession hung there, fragile and exposed.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Natasha stepped closer, her hand coming up—slow this time, deliberate—giving you time to pull away if you wanted.
You didn’t.
Her fingers curled gently at your jaw, grounding. “You should have told us,” she said, but there was no reprimand in it. Just something softer. Regret, maybe.
Wanda leaned in beside her, her hand finding yours and holding it tightly. “We thought we were protecting you,” she said quietly. “Not losing you. We should've said something too.... We're sorry, lovie."
The distance you’d been bracing for didn’t come. Instead, they stayed right there—close, careful, and waiting. Like this time, whatever happened next… would actually be your choice.
"Oh," Natasha moans, her head falling back into the pillows, her fingers tangling deep in Wanda’s hair as Wanda works between her thighs with a slow, devastating hunger.
The sound carries through the heavy oak doors of the primary suite, but you’re already inside, clutching your cleaning tray. It’s the standard schedule, the routine you’ve followed for a year, but the air in the room is different now—thick, charged, and smelling of salt and expensive perfume. Your cheeks flush a deep, hot crimson as you freeze mid-step, your eyes catching the sight of them on the expansive silk bed.
"O-oh, I... I’m so sorry. I’ll come back—"
Natasha’s eyes snap open, dark and lidded, "stay... if you'd like."
When you nod after a moment, she reaches out, her hand trembling slightly as she waves you further into the room.
"Sit," she commands, her voice a low, gravelly rumble. She gestures to the edge of the bed.
Wanda pauses, her lips slick as she starts to move toward you, drawn by your presence, but Natasha’s grip tightens. She tugs Wanda back to her core by her hair, a sharp, grounding pull. "You’re not finished," Natasha murmurs, her gaze never leaving yours.
You sit, your legs feeling like lead, your thighs squirming against the soft duvet as you watch them. You watch the rhythm of Wanda’s shoulders, the arch of Natasha’s back, and the way they move together until Natasha finally breaks, a long, shattered breath escaping her as she finds her release.
When she’s done, Wanda finally pulls away. She crawls across the silk toward you, her eyes glowing with a dark, affectionate possessiveness. She reaches out, tilting your chin up, and spits into your mouth—a raw, visceral claim that ensures you taste both of them before she crashes her lips against yours. You kiss her back, a broken whimper escaping you as you finally receive the attention you’ve been starving for.
As Wanda makes out with you, her tongue searching yours, you hear the quiet, rhythmic click of a harness. Natasha moves toward you, her movements steady and clinical. She doesn't say a word, but the intent in her eyes is absolute.
Your legs are guided open, wrapped tightly around Wanda’s waist. You take Wanda’s fingers into your mouth, sucking on them as Natasha moves behind you. The first thrust is slow, a heavy, filling stretch that makes your eyes roll back. You moan into Wanda’s palm, your body shaking at the sheer scale of the sensation.
Wanda shifts her body, her hands firm on your shoulders as she maneuvers you onto your elbows and knees. Your back arches instinctively, a sharp, jagged keen escaping your throat at the way your body is being opened and used. It’s a beautiful, overwhelming stretch.
Wanda moves directly in front of you, settling onto the mattress and parting her legs, her gaze fixed on your face.
"Good girl," she whispers, her voice a dark velvet caress.
She pulls you forward, making you eat her out with a desperate, frantic hunger, while behind you, Natasha takes you with a relentless, punishing pace. You are pinned between them—the damp, intoxicating heat of Wanda in front and the sharp, rhythmic force of Natasha behind.
Every thrust drives you further into Wanda’s core, the dual stimulation turning your world into a blurred symphony. The rhythm behind you shifts, becoming sharper and more deliberate. Natasha’s hand leaves your hip, and the air hits your heated skin for only a split second before the first crack of her palm meeting your flesh echoes through the room.
A sharp, shocked cry breaks from your throat, muffled only by the proximity of Wanda’s body. The sting is immediate—a bright, stinging heat that radiates across your cheek and down your thighs, grounding you in the intensity of the moment. Natasha doesn't let up; she finds a punishing cadence, alternating between the heavy, filling thrusts of the strap-on and the stinging weight of her hand against your backside.
In front of you, Wanda’s fingers suddenly entwine in your hair, tugging just enough to pull you away from her. She grips your jaw, her thumb and forefinger squeezing your chin with a firm, unyielding pressure that forces you to look up. Your eyes are watery, your vision blurred by the sheer overstimulation of being taken from both ends, but she waits until you meet her gaze.
"Look at me, darling," Wanda murmurs, her dark eyes searching your face, drinking in the flush of your cheeks and the way your lips are parted and trembling.
The sting behind you continues—crack, crack—and your back arches with every impact, your breath coming in ragged, desperate hitches. You are completely undone, a shivering mess of arousal and surrender pinned between the two women who own every inch of your world.
"Tell her," Wanda commands, her thumb dragging across your bottom lip, catching a stray drop of moisture. Her voice is a soft, velvet blade. "Thank Natasha for taking you so thoroughly. Let her hear how much you love it."
You let out a broken, keening sound as Natasha delivers one final, heavy swat that makes your entire body shudder. The friction, the heat, and the weight of their attention culminate in a crushing wave of affection and need.
"T-thank you," you sob out, your forehead dropping to rest against Wanda’s chest as the last of your composure shatters. "Thank you, Natasha... please! thank you... thank you."
The room felt small, the air heavy and still as the frantic energy of the last few minutes began to settle into something deeper and more permanent. You were slumped against Wanda, your body vibrating with the aftershocks of a pleasure so intense it felt like grief.
"Good girl," Natasha rumbled behind you. She didn't pull away; instead, she held you flush against her, her arms locking around your waist like iron bands. She pressed her face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your skin and the salt air. "Look at her, Wanda. She’s perfect when she’s broken down like this."
Wanda’s hand moved from your chin to cup your cheek, her thumb wiping away the tears that wouldn't stop falling. Her expression was luminous, a terrifyingly beautiful mix of pride and hunger.
"She is," Wanda whispered, her voice a soft, melodic hum. "And she did so well for us."
She leaned down, her lips ghosting over yours, and the mere contact sent a fresh spark through your sensitized nerves. She didn't let you rest. Her fingers drifted back down, finding the core of you that was already raw and weeping, and she began to move with a slow, agonizingly precise rhythm.
"One more, darling," Wanda coaxed, her eyes locked onto yours, forcing you to stay present in the sensation. "Just one more for us. Show us how much you belong here."
You let out a weak, desperate protest, but your body was no longer your own. Natasha’s hands squeezed your hips, grounding you, while Wanda’s touch drove you back over the edge. You came with a shattered, silent cry, your head falling back against Natasha’s shoulder as your muscles seized and finally went limp. You were completely ruined, your strength drained, leaving you a soft, pliable weight in their arms.
Wanda leaned in close, her lips brushing your ear. The words she spoke next were quiet, but they carried the weight of a life-changing vow.
"We don't want to just hire you anymore," she breathed. "We want the truth. We want total ownership of you—body, heart, and soul. How does that sound, lovie?"
The question hung in the air, thick and sweet. You didn't even have the breath to speak, but the answer was written in the way you slumped into them, seeking their heat. You nodded frantically, your chin brushing Wanda’s collarbone as you let out a small, pleading whimper.
“Yes,” you breathed. “I want this. I choose this, both of you.”
They didn’t rush. They just stayed. Together, you sank into the bed, their warmth on either side of you, no space left for doubt. Wanda’s arm curled around your waist. Natasha’s hand found yours, holding it gently.
note: I hate this 🙂
