Maid for It (A Maids for It Novella) (12 page)

Not that the rest of the getup leaves
anything to the imagination. Between the cupless bra I’m wearing,
which significantly enhances my cleavage but does nothing to
camouflage my assets, and the thin material covering my breasts, I
might as well be naked. The thought causes my nipples to stiffen
and a rush of moisture to gather between my legs. If he wants to
fuck me in the car before we even leave the airstrip, I won’t
object.

Of course, it wouldn’t matter if I objected
anyway. That’s sort of the point.

I finally reach level terrain and continue to
walk toward him. I’m a bit surprised that he isn’t coming to meet
me halfway, but then, I didn’t bring any luggage—everything I need
will be provided here—so it’s not as though I need help carrying
anything. Still, it’s oddly nerve-wracking to have him studying me
so intently as I approach, not saying a word. He reminds me of a
lion watching and waiting to ambush its unsuspecting prey.

I’m hardly unsuspecting, though.

When I get within five feet of him, I find I
have
to say something to alleviate my growing tension.
“Thank you for coming to meet me, Mr. Huntley.”

He lowers his glasses with one finger and
looks over the rim at me. “Master.”

I stop in my tracks. Despite the warmth of
the Caribbean sun, I shiver. It’s a word I’ve longed to say to a
man. To say it to a virtual stranger is exhilarating. “Thank you,
Master,” I say, lifting my skirt as I dip into a wobbly
curtsey.

The gesture earns me a curve of those full
lips that’s almost a smile. Almost, but not quite.

Without another word, he opens the car door
and gestures for me to get in. For the first time, I realize he
didn’t drive here himself. A man in a chauffeur’s cap sits in the
driver’s seat. The inside of the Mercedes is air-conditioned and
inviting, and the chauffeur doesn’t even turn his head to
acknowledge me as I get in.

I scoot across the cool ivory leather, coming
to rest on my naked ass on the passenger side as Gavin folds
himself in beside me. When he closes the door, the driver takes
that as a signal and pulls away, with no words exchanged.

Despite my mathematically oriented
professions, I’m a fairly talkative person, and all this silence
strikes me as worrisome. I came here for sex—the hardest, dirtiest,
most extreme sex possible—but I assumed there’d be at least
some
conversation. Gavin was chatty enough in our IM
sessions, describing to me in lurid detail every depraved and
delicious way he planned to have me. That he’s so quiet now makes
me wonder if he’s changed his mind. Or worse.

A wave of panic crashes over me. I did my
research. I’m not stupid enough to put myself in the hands of a
stranger without some assurances that he’s not an axe-murdering
lunatic. But just for a minute, I consider the possibility that a
man who owns his own Caribbean island inhabited only by people who
work for him might be able to keep something like that a secret.
Then I remember the very large bond
Maid for It
requires men
to pay as an assurance that the women in these arrangements won’t
be harmed, and some of my concern dissipates. Even rich men don’t
like to waste money.

Especially
rich men.

“How was your flight?”

I jump, surprised by the sudden foray into
conversation. “Um, fine.” Then, deciding that response might imply
I didn’t appreciate the opulence of his private jet sufficiently, I
add, “The leg from Miami to here was fantastic.”

He nods. “Did you have any trouble getting to
the hangar in Miami?” His voice is dark and creamy, like a
perfectly pulled double espresso.

“It was a little tricky,” I admit, squirming
in my seat as another rush of moisture dampens my pussy. “But once
I found the right person to ask, it was no problem.”

“Good.” A few seconds of silence tick by.
Just as I think that might be all he has to say for now, he says,
“I hope you’re ready to work, Libby, like you’ve never worked
before. I have a lot in mind for you to do for me.”

I assume
work
is a euphemism for
fuck
, which Gavin probably doesn’t want to say with his
driver listening. Although as far as I can tell, the guy is deaf,
dumb, and blind. Well, except for the fact that he seems to be
negotiating the narrow roads that carve through the dense jungle
that surrounds the airstrip, which I don’t suppose he could do if
he were blind.

“I’m definitely ready to work,” I answer, a
little breathlessly. Right now, in fact. If he lifted me onto his
lap and plunged his cock into me this very moment, think I’d come
in two seconds flat.

Sadly, he doesn’t do that. Instead, he points
out the window at the passing landscape. “What do you think of my
island?”

There isn’t much to think, since I haven’t
seen much of it yet, but as a Southern California girl, there is
one thing I can say. “It’s really green.”

To my surprise, this pathetic observation
brings a smile to his face. “In more ways than one.”

“I don’t understand.”

He looks almost boyish, suddenly, like a kid
who knows he brought the best present to the birthday party.
“Everything about what we’ve done on this island is green. Pretty
much everything we’ve built here is powered by a combination of
solar and wind generation. We have a few backup generators that run
on liquefied natural gas if we get into a pinch, but that’s only
happened twice since we started. And do you notice how quiet the
car is?”

Well, no, I haven’t noticed. I guess I just
assumed a high-end Mercedes like this would
be
really quiet.
But now that he mentions it…

I nod.

“It’s electric. No gas engine at all. Of
course, on an island this small, it’s not like you’d ever need a 40
miles range anyway, right?”

That’s true enough, and I wonder what it
would be like to live permanently on an island so small, you could
walk from one side to the other in less than an hour. Having grown
up in LA, where there are streets like Sepulveda and Sunset that
are easily as long as this island, it’s hard to imagine being
confined to such a small space. Almost claustrophobic.

I’m glad I’m only staying for two weeks. But
Gavin doesn’t know that, and I can’t let him know that. Not
yet.

“That’s really impressive,” I say, trying to
focus on the conversation. It’s obvious he’s proud of what he’s
accomplished here, and honestly, it’s worth being proud of. Most
businessmen would think about the bottom line first and do whatever
was cheapest. That he’s developed this island in an environmentally
sensitive way says a lot about him, and I’m feeling better again
about my decision to turn myself over to him. “Did you do most of
the industrial design?” I ask.

Industrial design is how Gavin Huntley got
rich enough to afford to buy his own private island off the coast
of Puerto Rico before his thirty-fifth birthday. He’s nothing short
of a genius when it comes to designing robotic and electronic
devices and interfaces. Or so Wikipedia told me. The entry on him
listed several dozen devices he’s designed that revolutionized
industries, but none of them meant anything to me because I don’t
know anything about manufacturing.

“Yep,” he confirms, “this island is pure
Huntley, from top to bottom. Well, except for the parts Mother
Nature created.” He points out the car window, and I gasp.

We’ve exited the jungle and turned onto a
road that hugs the coast. As a California girl, I’m not usually all
that impressed by ocean views; I see them every day when I look out
my window, after all. But this coast—it’s like nothing I’ve ever
seen before, except maybe in pictures or on TV, and even then, I’m
not sure any of those places could outshine this.

The road runs along a curved bluff that
overlooks a vast ocean that’s so sharp a blue, it almost stings my
eyes. In some places, waves crash against a rocky shore, while in
others, they wash lovingly over narrow stretches of sandy beach. At
the far end of the small bay created by the bluff, opposite the
direction we’ve turned, there’s a small harbor where a half a dozen
or so pleasure craft are anchored. A few more ply the waters, their
sails puffed out by the wind like marshmallows. On one of the small
beaches we pass, a couple has pitched umbrellas in the sand, and
they sip on large drinks while their two young children frolic in
the water.

It’s absolutely idyllic.

Gavin must see my appreciation in my stunned
expression. “I know. I felt the same way the first time I saw this
view.” He leans over me and point to our left, toward the high
point of the bluff at the other end of the cove. “That’s my house,
there.”

At first, I don’t understand what he’s
talking about. What house? All I see is a black stone cliff rising
from the turbulent blue waters and the jungle cover atop it. But
then, I begin to make out the shape of something that
isn’t
cliff jutting from the top edge of the precipice, and I realize
it’s a man-made structure. I’m not completely sure of this until
the sunlight happens to catch it in just the right way, glinting
off what can only be glass. Windows.

He’s built his house right
into
the
cliff, so seamlessly that it’s almost invisible. As we climb the
hill and round a bend, the far end of the cove disappears behind
the jungle, and I’m left to imagine what on earth such a house
could possibly be like inside.

“So, are you glad you came?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say truthfully. Even if all I ever
get from this trip is this incredible view, it will have been worth
it.

But I’ll be even gladder when I’ve come.

~
End of Excerpt ~

And Coming Early 2013

I
nvestigative journalist Ekaterina
Tarasova needs to get out of Russia and fast. She finds her escape
in the form of an online dating service called Maid for It. In
exchange for her agreement to enter into a sexual relationship with
one of the service’s clients, she can emigrate quickly and legally
to the US. Desperate to put as much distance between herself and
Russian authorities as possible, Katya jumps at the opportunity.
After all, once she’s in the US, she can apply for political
asylum.

As soon as her flight touches down in LA,
however, she’s whisked to the home of her “mate”. Once she meets
the handsome and compelling Lawrence O’Neill, Katya discovers she
isn’t in a tearing rush to apply for asylum. After he introduces
her to the pleasures of sexual submission, she’s even less inclined
to do so. That is, until Lawrence makes it clear he’s not the only
person she’s expected to submit to. Katya knows she must leave or
risk becoming nothing but a sexual plaything, but how can she now
that she’s learned she’s made for submission?

Lucy Rodgers writes dark erotic tales that
explore the three C’s: consent, coercion, and captivity. Her
stories include some combination of forced seduction, questionable
consent, lack of safe words, indoctrination,
and slavery/ownership. Lucy’s books are intended for mature
readers who understand the difference between fantasy and reality
and who are looking for erotic literature that explores not
just the physical but also the psychological and emotional aspects
of sexual bondage and domination.

You can learn more about Lucy and her books
at http://lucyrodgers.wordpress.com.