Maid for It (A Maids for It Novella) (8 page)

It’s the height of summer, and even this
close to the beach, the days are hot and gorgeously sunny. My
master and I are outside on the terrace beside the swimming pool.
Although we’re above the level of the beach, passersby can still
look up and see us—or at least, our heads and shoulders. We
undoubtedly look like a couple cuddling innocently together, me
sitting on his lap, my head resting against his shoulder, his arms
wrapped around my waist.

What they can’t see is that his swim trunks
are pulled down, my thong bikini is pushed to one side, and his
cock is in my ass, his fingers stroking my clit as he rocks slowly
in and out of me.

Ever since I gave him that blow job in front
of the President, he’s found more and more ways for us to have sex
almost in public. The fear of getting caught at it, of someone
realizing what we’re up to, is a potent aphrodisiac for me and, I
think, for him, too. We both get off on it.

I’m close to coming now, but my master is
holding me off, waiting for just the right moment to pull the
trigger and make me disintegrate in front of strangers while I try
desperately not to show it. I’m grateful when the opportunity
arrives in the form of an older couple—perhaps in their mid to late
sixties—walking hand in hand just below the house. The man, seeing
us, smiles and raises his hand in greeting.

My master touches me in just
that
way
and twists his cock just
so
in my ass, and I shatter.

“Wave back at the nice man, my dirty little
anal slut,” he murmurs in my ear. “What bad manners you have.”

Shuddering with bliss and smiling a little at
his characterization of my penchant for anal sex, I force myself to
raise my hand and wave back. The man nods and the woman waves, too.
Do they notice my glazed eyes, my slackening jaw, my trembling
limbs? I don’t think so, but as they continue past the house, I’m
not sure because they bend their heads together to talk.

Once they’ve passed, my master stiffens and
comes, too.

We’re both sweaty from exertion and sticky
with the fruits of our labors. As we separate, my master says,
“Jump in the pool and cool off. I’ll go have Travis bring us some
iced tea.”

After I slide from his lap, he rises from the
chaise longue we’ve been occupying and turns toward the French
doors that lead into the house.

I walk to the edge of the pool and stare into
the water. It doesn’t look very deep. I might be able to stand on
the bottom. Images of
that room
loom in the back of my
mind.

Taking a deep breath, I do what I always do:
I obey.

The water is cool and refreshing, but it’s
deeper than I thought. I can’t stand on the bottom and keep my head
above water.

I thrash to get back to the surface. I gasp
for air, inhale water instead, cough as I go back under.

Calmate, calmate
.

But I can’t calm myself. I know it’s only a
pool, I should somehow be able to get myself to the side, but logic
can’t overcome panic, because I’m not just in a pool anymore.

I’m five years old and I’m wading in the
ocean and a huge wave crashes down over my head, drags me under,
pulls me away from shore. I open my eyes, the salt stings, seaweed
floats in front of me. I tumble and spin in the current, with no
idea of which way is up and which way is down.

A sudden turbulence in the water pushes me
down and forward, and something wraps around my waist. My instinct
is to fight, to struggle, to escape. Whatever it is, it’s trying to
drag me under, to drown me, and I won’t let it.

But it’s stronger than me, and my head breaks
the surface, and I cough and gasp as I hear my master say, “For
Christ’s sake, stop fighting. I’m saving you, you little
idiot.”

At the words, I relax against him, the
flashback to my near-drowning in childhood fading as I come back to
the present.

I’m still hacking violently when he gets me
to the side of the pool and then onto the deck. Shivering, I lie on
the hot pavement and retch, although whether I’m throwing up
because I actually nearly drowned or because I was so frightened I
would, I can’t tell.

The vomiting subsides, and my master helps me
to sit up. He searches my face with his perceptive eyes, trying to
gauge if I’ve suffered any permanent harm. Apparently, he’s
satisfied that I haven’t, because he yanks me abruptly to my
feet.

I’ve never seen him so angry.

“Why didn’t you tell me you can’t swim?”

In answer, I shrug and quote his words from
our first day together. “No questioning. No bargaining. No
hesitation.”

He turns away, water beading off his powerful
shoulders and arms. When he looks at me again, though, his eyes are
filled not with anger, but pain. “You honestly believe I would
punish you or send you away if you told me you couldn’t jump into
the pool because you can’t swim? What kind of monster do you think
I am, Gabi?”

The question pierces my heart like a serrated
knife, leaving torn and jagged edges in its wake. “No, of course
not.”

But even as I say the words, I know they’re a
lie. I
was
afraid to disobey. More afraid than I was of
drowning. And that, I suddenly realize, is the most damning
condemnation I can level against him. I’ve told him that although
I’ve given him my life, I don’t truly trust him with it.

I want to throw myself at his feet, beg him
for forgiveness, promise him that next time, I’ll do better. It’s
too late for that, though. Something has been broken beyond repair,
and truth is beginning to drag me back to earth.

He pulls me down onto his lap in a deck
chair. With a sigh that carries a world of both patience and
exasperation, he says, “I’ve known for a long time that you weren’t
telling me the whole truth about how you came to work for Daniels.
I promised myself I’d find out eventually, work you into trusting
me enough to tell me, but after this, I know that was never going
to happen. But now, you’re going to tell me anyway. All of it.
Because I don’t for one moment believe you came here with any idea
of what you were getting yourself into.”

I close my eyes, the nausea I felt when I
first hit the pool deck rising to my throat again. I’ve already
wounded him with my lack of confidence in him. Now, I’m about to
destroy everything we’ve built in the past two months.

But God help me, it’s what I have to do.

The story comes out through my tears in
halting, disjointed sentences. How I turned the wrong corner from
the Instituto Technologico and looked Sinaloa’s most notorious drug
lord in the eyes as he shot two of his rivals in an alley. My
family’s certainty that Cantavares would soon discover my name and
send someone to ensure I never revealed what I saw to the
authorities. The desperate effort to pull together enough funds to
smuggle me to the United States through the most expensive, most
dependable
pollero
in Sinaloa, known as El Nariz for his
formidable nose. How after two days of travel over bumpy roads,
paying off multiple
federales
and passing through multiple
checkpoints with ease, the drop house was busted by
La Migra
on the day I arrived.

Looking back, it all seems to have happened
so fast, but at the time, every minute was excruciating as an hour.
The constant fear, first of being caught, and then of what would
happen after we
were
caught.

I explain about the judge and his order that
I work for
Maid for It
in exchange for avoiding deportation.
Ben’s eyes narrow even farther at this revelation.

“A
judge
ordered this? Are you
sure?”

“Yes, of course, I’m sure.”

“In the courthouse? With bailiffs and
attorneys and robes and all that?”

I don’t know what he’s getting at, but I
nod.

He bites out a curse.

“Is that bad?” I ask.

His expression is black but he strokes my
back gently, reassuring me. “It is bad, but not for you. You did
nothing wrong.”

“So you understand why I couldn’t tell you
the truth? You forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” He slides me
from his lap and stands up. “I have work to do now.” He turns in
the direction of his office.

“Oh,” I say, baffled. I was expecting
something more dramatic to happen. Like for the sky to fall or the
earth to stop revolving around the sun. His response—or lack of
one—is an anti-climax of epic proportions. “What should I do?”

He looks over his shoulder at me, but I can
see by his distant expression that he’s already gone. Where, I’m
not sure. “Relax. Watch TV. Read a book. Enjoy yourself. God knows,
you deserve it.”

As I watch him go, committing the outlines of
his back and ass and legs and the fluid, easy way he moves to
memory, the same panic that gripped me when I was thrashing in the
pool threatens to overwhelm me. Although this time, I’m fairly
certain I’m really going to drown.

Six days have passed since my tearful,
poolside confession. In that time, I’ve been relegated to the
position of a pampered houseguest. Travis informed me the following
morning that Mr. Hardcastle would not require my cleaning or
“other” services any longer. I am to make myself comfortable and
entertain myself however I deem fit.

I am no longer my master’s slave. I am not
even his Slut, his Whore, or his Cunt. Although I still wear his
collar around my neck, it seems I am nothing at all to him
anymore.

For the first three nights, I slept in his
bed, praying he might come in one night, find me there, and,
despite his anger and disappointment, fuck me one last time. My
body craves his touch and his dominance with a hunger that borders
on starvation. As the days wear on and I don’t even catch sight of
him, I feel myself shriveling, shrinking as though from
malnutrition or dehydration.

I remember my fear of
that room
like a
childhood bogeyman, defanged and declawed. Where once it was the
monstrosity I dreaded most of all, now I would welcome its torments
if it would mean having my master back. If it would mean belonging
to him again.

Sometimes, I put on my maid costume just to
remind myself of who I was, of who I became. Perhaps who I always
was. But it only makes me feel emptier than ever.

This morning, I dragged myself downstairs for
breakfast a little after eight. Despite his inability to cook,
Travis still manages to provide me with coffee and a meal each
morning, and I manage to eat it by putting my head down and plowing
through it despite the fact that everything tastes like sand.

I jump as a newspaper slaps down on the table
next to my plate.

Ben!

He pulls out the chair catty-corner from mine
and sits down in it. “Read the front page,” he says.

Well, at least he is giving me orders again.
That’s progress.

I open the paper and see the headline midway
down, above the article that I’m sure he wants me to read.

Helio Cantavares, Head of Sinaloa’s Most
Powerful Drug Cartel, Killed by Authorities in Raid

The subtitle adds, “Entire Cartel Leadership
Either Dead or in Custody.”

I don’t need to read the whole thing. My jaw
drops along with my stomach, and I stare at him. “You did
this?”

“Well, not directly, but yes, I saw to it
that it happened. You can go home now.”

“How…?”

“You don’t need to know the details. Just
that I knew the right people in the right places to get the job
done.”

“But—“

“No buts. Turn to page three now.”

What I see when I get there makes me gasp: a
picture of Evan Daniels in handcuffs. The caption beneath reads,
“Evan Daniels, CEO of Daniels’ Enterprises, was arrested yesterday
on allegations that one of his businesses,
Maid for It
, was
a front for a human trafficking network that turned unsuspecting
women into sex slaves. Also arrested was Judge Mitchell Van Cleve,
who apparently assisted Daniels by holding sham trials in which
victims were threatened with deportation if they refused to work
for Daniels.
Maid for It
billed itself as a sort of
‘mail-order bride’ service matching wealthy men to foreign women
who were willing to become their live-in maids and mistresses.”