by Lucy Rodgers
My own free will? The life I want? A bubble of hysteria forms in my throat.
I haven’t had a will of my own since I turned a corner by mistake and caught Helio Cantavares in the process of gunning down two rival drug lords. Nothing that’s happened since then has been my decision, my choice. Everything has been driven and decided by others, from my parents’ decision to scrape together every peso to send me to the United States and safety—a lot of good that had done—to the judge’s order that I become an employee of Maid for It to Mr. Daniels’s pronouncement that I was the perfect maid for his most difficult customer.
As for the life I want? I want the one I had. The one I was forced to flee. I want my tiny two-bedroom adobe house five blocks from the Instituto Tecnologico where I taught English. I want my family—parents, brother, two sisters, and a passel of nieces and nephews. I want the chance to meet a nice man, fall in love, have a family. Above all, I want Sinaloa, the place I was born and raised and still love.
But more than I want any of those things, I want a life. To live.
“Yes, Sir,” I answer, though I keep my eyes studiously focused on the intricate tile pattern of the floor. “This is the life I choose.” I avoid saying it’s my will, because that would be a lie. I have to hope what I can say truthfully is enough.
His hand grabs my chin and forces my face upward. “Then why are you crying?”
He swipes at the warm tears rolling down my cheeks, and I realize to my horror that it’s true. That I am crying.
Puta! What a fool I am, to let thoughts of home bring me to tears. Why now, when it is critical that I convince this man I want him to use me as his whore, his cunt, in exchange for my life?
“I’m sorry, Sir. I am just thinking of my home and family, and I cannot help feeling sad that I will never see them again.”
“So go home to them. I will not keep a woman against her will.” He caresses my face, an unexpected and tender gesture that makes the tears want to come all the more freely. “Even a woman as perfect as I think you may be.”
Longing rises in my chest at the roughness of his tone, the sweetness of his words. As much as I want to live, I suddenly want even more to please him, to be perfect for him. Not just to save my life, but because something in him calls to me, makes me ache and yearn to be whatever he wants, whatever he needs.
He is alone. Like me.
I don’t know where that thought comes from, but instinct tells me it’s true. And instinct also tells me he’s my only chance. The one person, the one place I can be safe. I need him. If he sends me away, I’ll die. If not literally at the hands of Helio Cantavares when Daniels has me deported back to Mexico, then figuratively when I’m forced to become the whore of a man who isn’t Benjamin Hardcastle.
“Please, Sir,” I say, pressing my hot, wet cheek against his palm. “I want this. I want you. I want to stay with you and please you. I’ll do anything you ask, just don’t send me away.”
He tips his head to one side, considering. “I am not an easy man, Gabriela Marquez Lucero.”
I blink, surprised. I haven’t heard my full name used since the day I left Sinaloa. Americans are utterly baffled by the Mexican system of surnames, and always mistake the mother’s maiden name, which comes last, for the father’s last name and actual surname, so I haven’t bothered to use the Lucero since I came to the US.
“You may have heard that none of the women who have come here before you have lasted more than a few weeks. Do you know why not?”
I shake my head. I asked Mr. Daniels, but he wouldn’t tell me anything except that he felt sure I would be the maid to please Mr. Hardcastle. I tried to find out why he thought that, but he wouldn’t explain.
“Well, then, I might as well explain now. It is because I demand complete and total submission. I told you I have only one rule for my whores, and it is this—you must never say no. Whatever I require of you, you must do. If I tell you to lick the floor clean with your tongue, you will do it. If I tell you to walk down Sunset Boulevard naked, you will do it. And if I tell you to bend over in the driveway, lift your skirt, and take my cock up your ass right then and there, you will do it. Without hesitation, without bargaining, and without question. You can ask for mercy, and I may give it to you. Or I may not. But you will not say no. Do you understand?”
As he talks, the wetness between my thighs grows, spreads. I don’t understand why, but the idea of him controlling me in this way is deeply, almost painfully erotic.
“Yes, Sir,” I answer.
His lips twist in a sardonic smile. “Well, we’ll see. None of your predecessors was capable of obeying that very simple dictate, despite their initial promises. Some managed for a few days, even weeks, but most didn’t even last for the first five minutes.”
An icy tendril of fear coils in my chest. What does he want in the first five minutes that’s awful enough to drive away desperate women like me?
“I will last forever,” I say staunchly.
He smiles, more genuine now. “We shall see. But I like your determination. Now, stand up and turn around for me. Slowly. I want to get a better look at my merchandise.”
Well, that’s easy enough. I get up, a bit slowly—because I’ve been on my knees so long, I’m stiff—and execute a pirouette.
His bright irises are almost engulfed by his pupils when I meet his eyes again. Although he stopped stroking his cock some time ago, he’s still huge and erect.
He takes my breasts—too big, I’ve always thought, with embarrassingly large nipples and areolas the size of dinner plates—in his hands and tests their weight. Daniels prefers his maids wear no bras at all, but that’s not an option in my case; my double Ds would be sagging to my waist within a few months without regular support, which is why I’ve been fitted with a cupless bra.
Without warning, he yanks open my sheer white blouse, sending buttons clattering to the floor. “You have amazing tits. Daniels got that part right at least.”
Bending his head, he takes one bare nipple—the size of a grape and just as distended—into his mouth and sucks it hard before lashing it with his tongue. My knees threaten to buckle, and I clutch at his broad, muscular shoulders for support, dimly wondering how a computer security expert came to be as ripped as most star athletes.
His hand is up between my legs, raising my skirt, pushing my thong aside so that his fingers can delve into my pussy. He slides a finger inside me and grunts in approval as my muscles clench around him.
Releasing my nipple, he lifts his head and points out of the bathroom, toward the large bed that occupies his room. “Go to the bed.”
Knees wobbling, I do exactly as I’m told. He follows me, a few steps behind.
So far, I can’t imagine what it is he’s going to ask me to do that will make me want to disobey him. Everything he’s done so far has only made me wetter and more aroused, more ready to do anything he desires.
“Take off your panties,” he says when I’m standing next to the bed.
I do it, letting the tiny bit of fabric fall to the floor beside my feet.
“Sit down.”
I comply.
“Spread your legs.”
The flutter in my stomach becomes a frantic beating of wings as I open them, exposing my most intimate parts to him.
“Make yourself come.”
This command knocks me sideways. Not because it’s shocking or potentially painful, but because it’s so unexpected. He wants me to masturbate? This is the request that’s been the downfall of so many other girls?
He’s looking at me, and it’s only been a few seconds, but I can see his impatience. I’m hesitating. One of the things I’m not supposed to do.
Don’t ask questions. Don’t wonder why. Just do what he tells you.
I slide my fingers between my pussy lips and begin to rub myself. Heat suffuses me as I’m acutely aware of him watching me as I try to bring myself to orgasm.
“I’ll know if you’re faking, by the way.
”
I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I’m not eager to test him. But even as aroused as I am, there’s too much pressure to perform, and as I work and work and my climax remains just out of reach, I’m almost tempted to try to pull it off.
Almost.
His expression is stern as I circle my clit vigorously, desperate for release for more than one reason. I’m beginning to understand why so many others before me failed, and I’m afraid I’m going to fail, too. Hot tears gather in the corners of my eyes and then spill over, wetting my cheeks. It’s not going to happen. I simply can’t do it.
And then he drops to his knees in front of me, pulls my hand away, and replaces it with his tongue. The strokes are firm, gentle, and commanding. His breath fans across my sensitive flesh, hot and urgent. He slides two fingers up inside my cunt and fucks me with them as he continues to lick me. My climax hits me all at once, like a wrecking ball taking down a building. I’m groaning, keening with it, relief and rapture washing over me in equal measure.
He lifts his head and looks up at me as I come back to myself, his eyes dark and inscrutable.
It hits me. I failed. I didn’t make myself come. He had to do it for me.
The panic starts in my stomach, spreads to my chest and my limbs. I want to throw myself at his feet, beg for mercy, promise to do better next time. Anything to get him to let me stay.
Perhaps he reads my fear, because a smile that’s almost tender curves his lips. “You passed,” he says.
“But…but I didn’t do what you asked.”
He shrugs and gets to his feet. “But you tried. Very hard. And you didn’t ask me why or tell me you couldn’t. As much as I like success, I appreciate work ethic even more. You demonstrated a great work ethic, my sweet little whore.”
I’m overwhelmed. So overwhelmed I can’t think of anything to say. Except, “Thank you, Sir.”
He strokes my hair with one big palm, then releases it from the tiny cap that holds it in place. My hair falls, thick and heavy down my back. Then he pulls me forward and positions his dick in front of my mouth.
“Suck me off.”
I open immediately and let him in. To my surprise, he doesn’t force me to deep throat him, but simply allows me to find my way around his enormous length and girth myself. I marvel at the feel of it in my mouth—hard as steel inside, soft as satin at its head. His hands feather through my hair in a way that tells me he finds it beautiful. I feel blessed by the admiration in his touch and by his peculiar brand of kindness. When he comes, he tightens his fingers in my hair and holds me steady, his seed spurting against the back of my mouth in thick, ropy strands.
When it’s over, I do what Daniels taught me and lick him clean. Like a good maid.
He goes to take a shower, which I suppose was what he was planning to do when he found me on his bathroom floor. I lie on the bed, drowsy and oddly content.
I wake in a dark room. Where am I? Pulse racing, I scramble to sit up and gain my bearings, then remember.
I’m in Benjamin Hardcastle’s room. Sir’s room. The man whose every dictate I have promised to obey in exchange for my safety.
That should frighten me, I know, but it doesn’t, because I realize this is the first deep, restful sleep I’ve had in months, the first when I haven’t woken in a cold sweat because the malevolent eyes of Helio Cantavares have followed me in my dreams.
I roll over, wondering what time it is. It was mid-afternoon when he interrupted me in the bathroom, but it’s dark outside now. Hours must have passed. Why did he let me sleep instead of waking me up to finish what we started? Didn’t he want to fuck me? Perhaps I disappointed him after all, and he’s decided to send me away?
Confused and more than a little anxious, I reach for and find the bedside lamp. I switch it on, blinking as my eyes adjust to the light.
I’m alone and naked on the bed, but lying beside me is a long, satin gown in a dark shade of purple.
Perhaps it’s wrong to call it a gown. That implies it’s something I could wear outside. This garment is definitely not intended to be worn in public, although as I recall Sir’s speech about following his every order without question and the fact that it included walking naked down Sunset Boulevard, the possibility that I might be expected to wear this flimsy, barely-there concoction out of doors seems not entirely unlikely.
As I lift the thin shoulder straps to admire the delicate black lace of the sheer cups, a small square of paper flutters to the floor. I pick it up and read the note, written in bold, black lettering.
When you wake, put this on and come down to the dining room. I’ll be waiting for you.
Sir
Some of my consternation at having been left alone for so long dissipates. He wouldn’t ask me to put on a provocative item of clothing like this if he didn’t want to use my body for sexual gratification.
I slide it on over my head. The lace bra cups are too small to cover my breasts adequately, but the lace stretches enough to provide a modest amount of support. Although the skirt falls all the way to the floor, both sides are slit from ankle to thigh. The material clings to my body everywhere else, emphasizing the nip of my waist and the curve of my hips and ass. I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I turn around and gasp in shock. With my hair falling down my back and my breasts on display, I look like the slut or whore he calls me—and yet, I’m gorgeous and elegant, too.
A sex toy. Or goddess, depending on your point of view.
But I can’t think about this too much. If I do, I may remember I was raised to be a good, Catholic girl, to save myself for marriage and then only to do my marital duty for the purpose of procreation. I’ve done a good job of compartmentalizing that part of myself since that shocking day in Mr. Daniels’s limousine, knowing God won’t judge me for doing what I must to stay alive, but I might not be able to continue to separate Gabi the Slut from the real Gabi if I start to see myself as her.
As I make my way down the stairs, the mouthwatering scent of food assaults my nostrils. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and I’m struck by a pang of hunger so intense, it nearly doubles me over. Through some force of will, I keep myself from breaking into a run and continue my slow progress to the dining room.
For a house the size of this one, the dining room is remarkably small and its furnishings understated. This is because, as Travis explained on my first day, Mr. Hardcastle has no interest in entertaining and so doesn’t require a room or a table that can seat many guests.
The small, square table is covered in a white tablecloth, and there are two complete place settings on it. The china is exquisite and thoroughly masculine with its black-and-white geometric design, and the silver is so polished, it sparkles in the illumination from the recessed light fixtures overhead. I resist the urge to pick up and admire one of the delicate crystal wine glasses, which look as though they might easily snap in Sir’s large, capable hands.
“There you are, sleepyhead.” Sir’s voice rumbles from behind me.
I jump and turn to face him. My heart cartwheels at the sight of him. Dressed in a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt that cover but don’t completely conceal his musculature, he’s almost sexier than he was naked. Perhaps because I can’t stop myself from imagining that he is naked. Naked and hard and forcing me to take him…
“I-I am sorry, Sir,” I stutter, flustered by the frankly carnal images sweeping through my brain. “I didn’t mean to sleep so long.” I hadn’t meant to sleep at all, in fact, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.
His lips curve in something that’s almost a smile, but isn’t quite. “I let you sleep that long. If I wanted you here sooner, I would have woken you.”
I understand what he doesn’t say. I’m his to use as he pleases. Everything I do—even sleep—is at his mercy. If he wants to make me stay up all night, he can and he will.
“You are very kind, Sir.”
His expression hardens. “I’m not kind at all. I am, in fact, a misant
hropic bastard. I didn’t let you sleep out of the kindness of my heart. I let you sleep because I plan on keeping you awake all night long.”
The combination of threat and promise in those words causes that now-familiar heat and weight to swell between my legs. No matter what my mind thinks, my body wants what he’s offering. No, not what he’s offering, but what he’s telling me he’ll take whether I want it or not. I don’t have to agree to fuck him; I just have to do it. I am unreasonably, inexplicably aroused by this fact.
I’m too confused by my own thoughts to say anything, so I merely bow my head in acquiescence.
The sound of a chair’s feet scraping over the floor makes me look in that direction. Sir has pulled out a chair for me. I do the obvious thing and sit in it.
“Travis,” he barks, “bring in dinner.”
The butler appears almost instantly in the arched doorway that separates the kitchen from the dining room. He spoons a mixture of stuffed pasta—I don’t know what shape, exactly, since I only know the names for a few different kinds of Italian noodles—bathed in a golden orange sauce across my plate, then Sir’s. He disappears into the kitchen and returns with a plate filled of grilled asparagus, which he places in the center of the table between us. Finally, he retrieves a decanter of red wine from the sideboard and pours us each a glass.
“Will that be all, Mr. Hardcastle?”
Sir nods. “Yes, Travis. We won’t be needing you again this evening.”
The butler executes a sharp bow and exits.
My stomach emits a low, painful growl at the sight and smell of food. I daren’t eat before Sir does, however.
“Eat,” he says. “You’re going to need your strength.”
That sets off a different sort of flutter in my belly, but I obey. The first forkful is so delicious, I almost faint with the wonder of it. The sauce is silky and piquant, the pasta al dente and filled with a salty-savory cheese and herb stuffing. I’ve never eaten anything like it.
