Maid for It (An Erotic Novella)

by Lucy Rodgers

  Maid for It

  By Lucy Rodgers

  Cover art: Robin Ludwig Design

  Editor: Natasha Fondren

  © Lucy Rodgers, 2011

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment and may not be copied or given away to other people, although your copy can be loaned to one other person at a time if desired. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Publisher’s Note:

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

  are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Contact: lucyrodgerserotica@gmail.com

  Author Website: http://lucyrodgers.wordpress.com

  Maid for It

  “Will the defendant please rise?”

  My attorney, a middle-aged white man whose mottled complexion reminds me of an old corn tortilla, nudges me in the ribs and stands up. I get to my feet, my knees wobbling.

  What if the judge sends me back to Sinaloa? I’m as good as dead. My family scraped together the money to get me out of Mexico, to send me to the United States where I’ll be safe. They won’t be able to afford to do it again. And if I so much as show my face on the south side of the border, Helio Cantavares will have me killed.

  I need to stay here. I clutch the crucifix that dangles from my neck and say a silent prayer.

  “Gabriela Marquez,” the judge intones, “you have been found guilty of entering the United States without proper documentation and should be subject to immediate deportation.”

  My stomach sinks, a stone hitting the bottom of a well.

  “However, in your case, the court will make an exception. The company, Maid for It, has indicated that it will hire you and apply for a proper visa should your work prove acceptable.”

  The sharp corners of the cross dig into my palms, the pain the only thing that keeps me from slumping to the floor in a flood of relief.

  “Do you understand the ruling of this court, Miss Marquez?” The judge gives me a stern glare.

  “Sí, I mean yes, sir,” I say.

  “Very well, then. You are released to the custody of your employer.” He bangs down his gavel.

  I am sick with gratitude and turn to search the gallery of the courtroom for my savior. A man rises to his feet and beckons me. He’s not much taller than I am, but in his prime and powerfully built. His eyes are hard, like marbles. Instinct tells me I have leapt from the comal and onto open flame, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing this man can do to me can be worse than what Cantavares can.

  It can only be just as bad.

  The marble-eyed man leads me to a limousine waiting outside the courthouse and motions me to get in. A driver wearing a suit and chauffer’s hat shuts the door behind us.

  As the car pulls away from the curb, the man asks, “You speak English, Miss Marquez?”

  “Yes,” I answer.

  He gives a curt nod. “Good. A rudimentary command of the language is a requirement for the job.”

  I want to ask what, exactly, the job is, but I don’t. Instead, I say, “My English is more than rudimentary. I used to teach English.” Before I stumbled into the cartel’s business and made myself a target.

  “Excellent,” he says.

  I can see I’ve impressed him. Whether that is good or bad, I’m not sure.

  “So, Miss Marquez, I’m certain you are curious to learn why I’ve hired you and what you will be doing for my company.”

  “I will do anything that keeps me in the US.”

  He chuckles. The sound is more sadistic than amused, and a ribbon of fear curls down my spine. What have I gotten into? Surely a US court wouldn’t send me with him if he weren’t a legitimate businessman.

  “I’m glad you’re willing to do anything, because that is the first requirement of the job. But before I go any further, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Evan Daniels, CEO and owner of Maid for It, and you, my dear, are my newest maid.”

  “Maid? As in you wish for me to clean houses?”

  I can do that. It’s a step down for someone who used to be a teacher and hardly a use of my education, but I didn’t expect to do better as an illegal immigrant, anyway.

  He laughs again, the sound so humorless it’s chilling. “In a manner of speaking, yes.” He reaches down and undoes the buckle of his belt. “You see, Miss Marquez,” he says as he pulls the belt free and unbuttons his slacks, “Maid for It offers what we call ‘specialty cleaning services’ to upscale clientele. In addition to cleaning houses, you may also be asked to perform other, slightly dirtier tasks, if you take my meaning.”

  I do take it, and how can I fail to as he extracts his partially erect penis from his shorts? My gut twists with a combination of shame and loathing.

  I’m going to be a prostitute. A sex worker. A whore.

  He sees my horror and reaches out to caress my face. Bile rises in my throat at his touch.

  “Now, now, Miss Marquez, it’s not as bad as all that. The men I cater to are all single, extremely wealthy, and considered quite good catches. Most of my ‘maids’ eventually catch on—that is, if they can do the job well enough. And there’s no time like the present to prove you have the chops to satisfy my demanding customers.”

  He slides his hand around the back of my head and pushes my face down toward his crotch. My first instinct is to resist, but I’ve always been a practical girl. What other choice do I have? I’m at Mr. Daniels’ mercy, trapped in his limousine as it rolls through the unfamiliar streets of Los Angeles, and I’ve been entrusted to his care by the law. If I escape, I’m sure to be caught. Sure to be sent back to Mexico. And there’s no place safe for me on that side of the border. I need Evan Daniels’s protection, and if I need to suck his cock or anyone else’s to stay alive, I can do that just as well as I can clean houses.

  Opening my mouth, I flick my tongue over the spongy head before closing my lips around the shaft. Just like the rest of him, his dick is on the short side but thick. I’m untutored at this sort of thing, but I go with my instincts, sliding my mouth up and down along his length, squeezing my lips tight as I go. His cock gets harder and thicker, which I take to mean I’m not doing it wrong.

  After a few minutes of this, he grunts. “Not bad for an amateur, but if you’re going to be a pro, you’re going to have to learn to go all the way.”

  I don’t understand what he means at first, but then his fingers twist in my hair and he forces my mouth farther down onto him, until the head of his cock is seated in the back of my throat. I make a desperate, choking noise, but he ignores it.

  Raising my head slightly, he pushes me back down again.

  “Breathe through your nose and relax,” he orders.

  Breathing through my nose I can do; relaxing I’m not so sure about. I’m afraid I’m going to gag, maybe even vomit, but as he keeps at it—up and down, in and out—something odd happens to me. A tingling sensation starts in my belly, and moisture gathers between my thighs. My heart beats erratically, and I’m hot all over.

  I hear a moan and realize it’s me, and more, that it’s not a sound of fear. It’s a sound of need.

  “That’s right, baby,” he encourages. “A man needs to fuck that pretty mouth hard and deep to be satisfied. You’re doing great.”

  I clench my thighs together, trying to stem the rising tide of arousal that gathers there. I don’t know how I can be turned on by this, but I am, and it’s more frightening than being raped because it’s not coming from outside of me, but inside. He’s flipped some strange switch inside of me and turned on a thousand-watt bulb, and I c
an’t turn it off.

  “Oh fuck, yeah.” He groans and stiffens and drives in one last time, so far I think I’m going to swallow his entire dick, and then his cum spurts down the back of my throat. I can’t taste it, but the thick, hot liquid slides down in waves, and I’m shivering as though I’m freezing.

  He releases his grip my head and lets me up. Semen is still leaking from the head, and my tongue darts out to lick my lips.

  I don’t know if he sees it or not, but maybe he does, because he says, “Lick it clean. The maid’s job is always to leave her workplace clean.”

  I don’t even think about resisting. Bending over, I lap up the bitter-salt remnants of his spend like a cat.

  He settles back against the leather-cushioned seat and sighs. “Well, one thing is for sure, Miss Marquez. You were definitely made for it.”

  I’m dressed in a French maid’s costume. The skirt is so short, passersby can probably catch a glimpse of my ass cheeks when I lean forward to knock on the door.

  The door belongs to the palatial home of one Benjamin Hardcastle, the ridiculously rich and notoriously reclusive cybersecurity expert. From what Mr. Daniels has told me, Mr. Hardcastle is paid insane sums of money to hack into government and business computer systems, thereby demonstrating the flaws in their security. He does all of this from the comfort of his lavish, Italianate villa overlooking the coast in Malibu.

  Mr. Hardcastle is also Maid for It’s most exacting, most demanding customer. No maid has ever lasted in his employ for more than six weeks, and most have been fired within two days.

  As I lift the ornate brass knocker and rap it against the door, I flash to the scene in The Sound of Music where Julie Andrews arrives at the von Trapp estate. The only difference between Maria’s dilemma and mine is that I have no convent to return to.

  I’m trembling by the time the door opens. In another echo of Rodgers and Hammerstein, the person answering the door is clearly not Mr. Hardcastle himself, but the butler. Unlike Maria, I’m not fool enough to imagine that a computer hacker would hang around his house all day wearing a tuxedo with tails and a red bow tie. Of course, her assumption wasn’t as absurd in 1936 as it would be today.

  The butler has hair that’s elegantly gray around the temples and a nose that’s long and straight—“All the better to look down at you with, my dear”—gives me a brusque nod. “Punctual, I see.”

  It’s an odd greeting, but it appears to be all I’m going to get as he opens the door and steps aside to let me enter.

  The foyer is circular—a detail I could have intuited from the turreted exterior—and elegantly appointed in dark wood and travertine. Light streams in from a rose window more than two stories high, making colorful patterns on the pale marble floor. I find this simultaneously beautiful and foreboding, like entering a church and a dungeon at the same time.

  The butler shuts the door behind me. The sound of it latching is as loud as a gunshot. Having heard a lot of gunshots not so long ago, I have to fight the urge to throw myself to the floor.

  “I’m Travis, Mr. Hardcastle’s butler, valet, and man of business. And you are…?”

  “Gabriela Marquez.” Travis. I wonder if that’s his first name or his last name. And what does he mean by “man of business”? A strange turn of phrase I’ve never encountered before.

  “Would you prefer I call you Gabriela or Miss Marquez?”

  I blink, baffled. What anyone calls me is the least of my concerns. I wonder which would please the heretofore unpleasable Mr. Hardcastle, and I decide on familiarity over formality. “My friends at home called me Gabi.”

  Travis arches an eyebrow. Perhaps I should have chosen formality.

  “Very well, Gabi,” he says, his tone managing to be slightly more condescending than before, which hardly seems possible. “As you may have already been informed, Mr. Hardcastle not only lives here, but works here as well. He is currently engaged in a significant project and won’t be able to meet with you and explain your”—he coughs delicately here, his wan cheeks turning ruddier—“duties for some time. In the meantime, I will show you around the house and then to your room.”

  As he’s speaking, however, I’m gaping, because he’s led me into the largest, most exquisitely furnished living room I’ve ever seen. Every piece, from the brocaded sofa to the velvet-upholstered armchairs to the Persian rugs to the paintings hanging on the walls, is a work of art. The far wall of the room is sheer glass and frames the blue-green expanse of the ocean, a different sort of art altogether.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Marq—er, Gabi, but you do speak English, don’t you?”

  “Oh yes, sir, I most certainly do. I’m just a bit…overwhelmed by all of this.” I gesture around the room. I’ve never seen anything like it. Not even in a museum.

  This seems to placate and please the butler. He smiles and nods. “I understand completely. I imagine I would have much the same reaction had I not been with Mr. Hardcastle almost from the beginning. Now, as I was saying, this is the living room…”

  He drones on as he leads me through the house, drawing my attention to paintings by Rembrandt and Picasso and even a very tiny Renoir. Mr. Hardcastle is not just ridiculously wealthy, I realize, but insanely so. This frightens me but also excites me in ways I don’t want to examine.

  I’m no longer paying attention to Travis, but instead trying to imagine what Mr. Hardcastle is like. I envision a spindly man with horn-rimmed glasses and bad, pale skin. After all, he spends all day indoors and reportedly doesn’t socialize at all. What if he has bad breath and sweats too much? Maybe the reason none of the maids who’ve been here before have lasted is because he’s so socially and physically awkward, they couldn’t stand to be touched by him. How will I survive if he disgusts me so much, I can’t bear to be in the same room with him, much less have sex with him?

  The answer is obvious. Nothing and no one can disgust me so much that I’ll risk being returned to Mexico. Somehow, some way, I will cope.

  And with that certainty, I trail Travis politely through the remainder of my tour.

  I have to admit, I didn’t expect there to be so much actual cleaning associated with this job. After Mr. Daniels forced me to give him that blow job in the limo, I sort of assumed the majority of my time would be spent fucking and sucking my employer.

  But it’s been two days and I haven’t even seen Mr. Hardcastle yet, let alone fucked or sucked him. And I’m starting to feel antsy, although whether that’s because I’m afraid I’m going to be sent away or because I don’t much like scrubbing toilets, I’m not sure.

  At the moment, I’m scrubbing the marble-inlaid floor in Mr. Hardcastle’s expansive bathroom. On my hands and knees, my bare ass points up toward the ceiling. I know there are security cameras in many rooms of the house, and sometimes I suspect the butler watches me when I take on these kinds of tasks because when we pass each other in the hallways, there’s a look in his eyes that says he’s seen me in my knickers or lack of them, as by Mr. Daniels’ decree, thongs are the only appropriate underwear for a Maid for It maid.

  Of course, there are no cameras here, so for the moment, I’m safe from prying eyes.

  “Well, what a pleasant surprise,” a deep voice purrs behind me.

  I nearly jump out of my skin. I don’t have to turn all the way around to find its source, however. As I come up to a kneel, I see his reflection in the mirror. I register tall and muscular and drop-my-jaw gorgeous before I register naked.

  Naked and armed—though that word doesn’t sound right at all—with a cock that’s easily as long, when flaccid, as Mr. Daniels’ was hard. And it’s not staying flaccid.

  Surely this can’t be Mr. Hardcastle. He’s too…my mind searches for one English word to encompass him and fails miserably. He’s too hard, handsome, masculine, virile, huge, hot in every way to be a computer geek.

  But I say meekly as I turn to face him, “Mr. Hardcastle?”

  “In the flesh.”

  And oh, what fle
sh it is! That cock is growing longer and thicker before my very eyes.

  He takes a step toward me, and I realize I’m at just the right level to take that cock into my mouth and suck him off. Instinctively, I want to. But I’m also afraid. Even half-aroused, he’s enormous. I’ll never get him all the way down my throat the way I did Mr. Daniels.

  My fear blossoms, unaccountably, into a wet ache between my thighs. I’m terrified. I know now why none of the previous maids lasted more than a week. They couldn’t take that huge dick in all the places he wanted to put it. And his hard, green eyes tell me he’s the kind of man who wants to put it everywhere—mouth, cunt, ass. I shiver, my nipples pebbling against the fabric of my nearly sheer white blouse.

  “You’re much prettier than I expected. Your photo didn’t do you justice.”

  “Gracias,” I whisper, my heightened nerves slipping me into my native tongue. I don’t say the other Spanish words that run through my head. Lo mismo para ti. The same for you.

  Of course, I hadn’t had a photo to go by. Just my silly, fevered imagination.

  He takes his cock between his thumb and forefinger and strokes it, almost idly. I’m so hot with anticipation and terror, I’m glad I’m on my knees. No chance of falling to them when I’m already there.

  “Travis tells me you like to be called Gabi.”

  I nod. “Yes.” My voice is raspy, as though I’m suffering from laryngitis.

  “I’ll try to keep that in mind, but there are other things I’m more likely to call you. Like Slut and Whore and Cunt. Does that bother you, Gabi?”

  My cheeks heat. It does bother me, but probably not in the way he means. I’m so aroused now, it’s all I can do not to press my palm between my legs to stem the ache.

  I shake my head. No.

  “Good. Because I’ll call you whatever I like. You, on the other hand, will call me Sir. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Sir,” I answer. The tension rises and rises in me. I’m going to explode soon.

  “Good Slut,” he praises. His fingers continue to work his dick, up and down. It’s fully erect now and beautiful. My mouth and my pussy are watering, empty, hungry. “I have only one rule for my whores, Gabi, and it’s a very simple one. But before I tell you what it is, I need to know that you are here of your own free will. That you chose this because it’s the life you want.”