Maid for It (A Maids for It Novella) (5 page)

“Fucking hell, I can’t wait.” His voice is
thick and coarse as gravel.

I don’t understand what he means until he
stiffens and shudders, and I feel the warm jet of his seed spurt up
into my womb, the hand that still steadies my hip digging into my
flesh.

He pulls out a few seconds later, and there’s
an instant gush of wetness as his cum pours out of me. I keep my
face buried in the damp cushions, the pain resolving itself into a
raw soreness that’s almost bearable. His feet pad across the floor,
and a few seconds later I feel a soft, terry cloth pressed against
my dripping cunt, soaking up the remnants of his spend and my
arousal.

The cloth slips away, and there’s
silence.

Then suddenly, his fingers bite into my arm,
and he yanks me to a sitting position.

“You
were
a fucking virgin,” he
accuses, his eyes hot and furious as he shoves the white cloth,
marred with streaks of blood, under my nose as proof.

Panic sets into my stomach as my mind races
for the proper response. Is he angry because I didn’t tell him or
because he hates virgins? I didn’t think he’d care one way or the
other about my virginity, but now that I know he does, I’m not sure
what to do.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Christ!” He flings the cloth to the floor
and rakes his fingers through his hair. “You’d better come clean
with me, Gabriela Marquez Lucero, and fast.”

“Come clean?” I squeak, although I understand
the metaphor perfectly, buying time.

His eyes narrow. “Come clean as in tell the
truth. As in how the hell does a
virgin
know she’s into
sexual submission? As in how the hell can a virgin
willingly
wind up with a procurer like Daniels?”

Terror coalesces in my chest like a cold,
gripping fog. It stops my heart from beating, my lungs from
breathing. I feel pinned, trapped, entombed. The wrong answer could
lead me to the grave.

“How does anyone know? I just do, just did.”
The tears that stopped when he finished fucking me begin anew. If
he doesn’t believe me, doesn’t settle for the only explanation I
can give him, I’m not sure what I’ll do.

He studies me, his features impassive, but I
can see the gears turning inside his head. He knows I’m holding
something back, but maybe he cares for me enough by now that he
doesn’t really want to let me go. I think I’ve pleased him with my
obedience and that he likes the way I suck his cock and how it
feels to fuck me. If the truth might ruin what he’s found in me,
something I know he hasn’t found in anyone else, he might not be
dead set on discovering what that truth is.

And so I slide off the bench and kneel at his
feet, wrapping my arms around his thighs. “Please, Sir, you know
what I say is true. What you do to me, what you make me do to
you…it arouses me, makes me wet, turns me into a dirty little
whore. I know what I need, and what I need is you.”

A wry smile twists his lips. “Perhaps you
just need anyone who’ll force you to submit.”

“If I do, would that not be proof that I know
what I want, that I came to you willingly?”

“Hm, perhaps it would,” he admits. “But since
I’m the first man ever to fuck that sweet little pussy of yours,
I’d like to think I’m special now.” There’s a note of triumph in
that statement that gives me hope.

“You are special, Sir. If any man would do,
why would I beg you to keep me?”

“Is that what you’re doing?” he asks,
filtering his fingers through my hair as if it’s the softest,
finest silk.

“Yes, Sir, please, I am begging you not to
send me away.” The tears cascade down my cheeks now, a veritable
deluge. “I want to be with you, to suck you, to fuck you, to do
whatever you bid.”

Please, please, let him believe me.

He twists his hand in my hair and hauls me to
my feet. It doesn’t hurt, really, but I wince anyway.

“Whatever I bid?”

I nod as vigorously as I can with his fingers
wrapped in my hair.

His mouth sets in a grim line. “Very well. I
know there’s something you’re not telling me, but frankly, I don’t
think I give a shit anymore. If it’s me you want, then it’s me
you’ll get, but you may find you don’t like the real me, especially
now.”

Now I shake my head. “I will like you.”

He lets out a short, sharp bark of laughter.
“I don’t need you to like me. What I need is for you to be my
slave. Do you understand what that means?”

I bite my lip. “I think so,” I answer
shakily, although I’m only guessing how being his slave is
different from being his whore.

“For starters, it means you no longer have
the privilege of asking for mercy. You will do whatever I want,
whenever I want, no matter what. If you fail to obey to my
satisfaction or if you beg me to stop, I won’t send you away, but I
will
punish you. Severely. And finally, from now on, you
will not call me Sir, but Master.”

My mind races to process this shift in
our...I shy away from the word
relationship
and settle on
contract
.

It’s not as if I’ve ever wanted to ask for
mercy. Even when he was fucking me and it hurt almost unbearably, I
didn’t consider stopping him. So it’s not as if I’m giving anything
up by losing that privilege. And since I also won’t ever fail to
obey him, the threat of punishment is no threat at all, especially
when it comes with the promise that he’ll never send me away. That
certainty sends a thrill through me, the opposite, I’m sure, of the
fear and revulsion he expects his demands to evoke.

“Do you agree?”

I meet his eyes, steady and firm in my
conviction. “Yes, Master, I agree.”

“In that case, my dear slave, it’s going to
be a long, hard night for you. You may find before it’s over that
you wish you’d asked me to send you away.”

A smile tugs at my lips, because I’m starting
to sense that he’s not nearly as cruel or callous as he wants me to
believe. Somewhere beneath that ruthless façade is a man I’ve
touched in some way that’s more than sexual, and we both know
it.

More than that, he must know his warnings
strike inside me a chord not of fear, but of desire. The idea that
he’s going to force me to have sex with him all night long—and that
it will be rough, unrelenting sex—fills me with a dark, primal
longing. I know it won’t be easy, and it will probably even hurt.
I’m already sore, and I’m likely to be much more so by morning.

And I don’t care. I even
want
that
soreness, a physical reminder of his possession of me, of his
promise to keep and protect me. In an odd way, I hope it
always
hurts when he fucks me so that I can never forget I’m
his.

I’m contemplating the perversity of my
thoughts when he slides open a pocket door in the rear wall of the
gym that I hadn’t even realized was there. Behind it is another
room, and I wonder why Travis didn’t show it to me on my first day.
Surely it’s another room of the house that requires cleaning.

But then I catch a glimpse of what the room
contains, and I catch my breath. Now I
am
afraid.

It wouldn’t be accurate to call the room a
dungeon, because it’s not dark or dank or filled with the skeletons
of dead bodies chained to the walls. But the
implements
it
contains would certainly be right at home in a dungeon. I catalog
them with a growing sense of hysteria.

Leather straps, some clearly meant to be used
as restraints, others intended as whips.

A variety of shackles and, yes, chains.

A bench similar to the one in the gym, but
narrower and fitted with manacles clearly meant to hold the
occupant’s hands and feet in place.

Finally, a set of ropes that hang from the
ceiling, the purpose of which I imagine is the suspension of a
human being. Of me.

Madre de Dios
, what kind of monster
have I given myself to?

I glance furtively at the door that leads out
of the gym and into the main house. Can I make it in time?

But of course, that’s silly. Where would I
go? I’m stark naked, and it’s the middle of the night. Even if I
made it to the street, which is unlikely, what then?

“You’re not thinking of running away, are
you?” my master asks, his voice low and, unaccountably, a little
amused. He takes a step toward me and, reflexively, I take a step
backward.

That’s a foolish move, because he’s instantly
right next to me, grabbing me by the arm. He marches me into the
room, where I get an even closer look at his instruments of
torture, items clearly designed for the purpose of rendering his
victims helpless. If this is what he wanted of the other maids who
came before me, I understand why they refused to obey.

But I’ve not only agreed to obey, I’ve ceded
the one bit of protection I had. I’ve given him everything. Mexico
and certain death suddenly seem welcome.

“Don’t be afraid, Gabi.” The words are so
gentle, so unlike his usual unyielding persona that my pulse slows
from sprinting to merely racing. “This room isn’t for punishment,
but for fun. For both of us.”

Fun? Is he insane? “How can I have fun if I
am chained up and beaten?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I
wish them back. Will he be angry that I’ve questioned him? Will he
chain me up and beat me here and now for my insolence?

He slips his hand under my chin and lifts my
face. There is no anger in his eyes. In fact, what I see there
looks like…sympathy.

“You will just have to trust me that, when
the time comes, you
will
enjoy everything here as much as I
do. Pain and pleasure are closely linked, two sides of a single
coin. You’ll learn as time goes on that I will never give you more
of either sensation than you can bear.”

I want to believe him, but I’ve only known
him a day. The enormity and finality of what I’ve done by binding
myself to this hard, inscrutable man crashes over me like the waves
on the beach below his house.

“In any case,” he continues, perhaps sensing
he won’t convince me right away that his intentions aren’t
malevolent, “I’m not ready to introduce you to this side of
pleasure just yet, so you’re safe from chaining and beating today.
It’s just that I keep all the toys in here, and I have in mind to
use some of the more…standard ones tonight.”

My mind blanks out, refusing to contemplate
what “standard toys” might be. He leaves me and opens a cabinet,
retrieves a plastic box that’s about the size of two shoeboxes,
then returns to my side.

“Go up to my bedroom now, Gabi, and lie down
on the bed. I have a small matter of business to take care of
before I meet you there.”

My eyes drift from that box to his face. His
features are set again, the ruthless, brook-no-arguments dominant
securely in place again. The face of my master.

I turn and head for the stairs to his room.
What other choice do I have?

He wasn’t exaggerating when he told me it
would be a long, hard night. The box turned out to contain an
assortment of dildos and vibrators in various shapes and sizes. The
reason he wanted them became apparent after he fucked me the first
time—rather slowly and sweetly in the missionary position the
Church considers most holy. After he came, he needed some time to
recover before he could take me again, but I was to be given no
opportunity for recovery. My pussy has never been empty, filled by
turns with toys, his fingers, or his cock, and I’ve come with the
help of his fingers or mouth or one of the vibrators so many times,
I’ve lost count.

Now, as dawn seeps in through the cracks in
the curtains, I’m so raw and bruised from the relentless
penetrations that when I feel his slick fingers probing my rear
entry, I’m actually relieved. The sensation as he slips past the
tight ring of resisting muscles is strange but not unpleasant, and
certainly not as painful as being divested of my virginity was.

His eyes grow heavy-lidded as he pumps his
finger in and out, adds a second finger, and slides his thumb
across my weary clit. I don’t know how I can possibly come again,
but when he replaces his fingers with one of the average-sized
dildos—I think average because they’re not enormous like my master
is, but perhaps six inches long and an inch and a half in
diameter—and then places his mouth on me, I know I’m wrong. There’s
another orgasm in me, and it builds with surprising speed under his
expert tongue and the biting fullness of the dildo in my ass.

This is bad. Dirty. Wrong. And I fear that’s
exactly why it feels so good.

I stiffen and arch as the climax hits me. He
raises his head, removes the dildo, and mounts me. I’m still coming
as he thrusts his cock into me with a deep growl of satisfaction.
He’s too big, but somehow my body stretches to accommodate him and,
although it hurts, the pain is almost like pleasure. He called them
two side of the same coin, and even though I can’t believe I’ll
ever like the toys in that room, I have to admit it’s true. Agony
and ecstasy are close cousins, and what I’m feeling now is
both.