Maid for It (An Erotic Novella)

by Lucy Rodgers

  Sir watches me with something akin to pride. “You appear to like it,” he says after taking a few bites himself.

  “It’s wonderful. What is it?”

  “Asiago-stuffed tortellini in a pumpkin sauce. My own recipe.”

  My head snaps up in surprise. “You made this?”

  I immediately wish the words back. They imply a curiosity and forwardness I’m not sure I’m permitted to have.

  But Sir smiles and pins me with his gaze. “Who else?”

  The question and his hard eyes make me want to squirm. “I just didn’t think…that is…I thought perhaps you had a cook.”

  “Travis is my only employee—well, unless you include yourself in that number—and he can’t cook his way out of a paper bag. I wasn’t always rich, and before I was, I taught myself how to cook. I like good food, and since I prefer not to go out, cooking for myself ensures I eat what I like.”

  I’m still too unsure of myself to observe that if he hadn’t made a fortune as a computer security expert, he probably could have gotten rich as a chef. I simply continue to eat. When he prompts me to drink my wine, I do that, too. I finish the portion on my plate in embarrassingly short order, and he serves me more, encouraging me to eat more.

  By the time I polish off my second portion, I’m both very full and a little tipsy. The wine is headier than I expected, and he kept refilling my glass before I drained it, so I’m not entirely sure how much I’ve had. I’m floating on a haze of contentment when he pushes his chair away from the table and gets to his feet.

  “Undress me,” he orders.

  It takes me a second to process the command, but once I do, I slide from my seat—really, as lightheaded as I am, sliding is all I can do—and begin by pulling his T-shirt up over his tightly muscled abdomen toward his chest. As the fabric bunches around his pecs, though, I realize he’s not planning to do much of anything to help me get the shirt off over his head. He’s more than a head taller than I am, and unless he bends over to assist me, there’s no way I’m going to get it off him.

  He’s watching me, amusement glittering in his eyes, as I ponder this dilemma. This is another test, then—to find out whether I truly will obey his every command, no matter how outrageous or difficult.

  I consider for a second, then pull my chair in front of him and stand on it. Now I’m taller than he is, and he nods with approval as I drag the shirt up again, and this time he obliges me by raising his arms so I can tug it off over his head.

  The sight of his broad, bare chest makes my stomach do a swan dive, and now my fingers are trembling as I get down from the chair and begin to work on removing his pants. The bulge in his jeans is unmistakable as I unbutton his waistband and tug down on the zipper. Heat radiates from him along with the musky scent of male genitalia. His cock pops free as I pull downward, not quite fully erect but nearly so, and I want to take it in my mouth, to lick and suck it, but that’s not what he asked me to do, and so I work his jeans and shorts over his hips and down to the floor.

  When I’m kneeling at his feet, he lifts each one to assist me as I remove his loafers and then again when I tug each pant leg down and off. He’s wearing only socks now, and these I peel off his tautly muscled calves, reveling in the sensation of the prickly hair of his legs against my fingertips.

  I look up at him, waiting for his next command and doing my best to ignore the lure his dick presents as I gaze upward.

  He gives me one of those almost-smiles and says, “Go to the gym.”

  Fortunately, I know exactly how to get to the workout room from here, since Travis showed it to me on the day I first arrived. Perhaps the existence of that room with its plethora of weights should have signaled me that my employer would not be a 98-pound weakling, but at the time, I’d imagined it as more for show, especially after the butler told me Mr. Hardcastle spent most of his time working.

  Outside the workout room is a long, narrow swimming pool, the end of which appears to fall into the Pacific Ocean beyond. I thought before it was for show, too, but now I suspect Sir has logged many, many miles in that pool.

  When I reach the designated room, Sir brushes past me and lies on his stomach on a wide bench that’s about waist high. The muscles of his back, ass, and legs stand out in high relief as he settles himself.

  “I’ve been tense all day. Give me a massage.”

  A massage? Once again, I’m flustered by the unpredictability of his requests. Suddenly, I’m the one who is impatient. The suspense and anticipation are going to drive me mad. Does he want to fuck me or doesn’t he? Will he keep me or won’t he?

  “You can start at the shoulders,” he suggests, his tone a little terse. He’s giving me a chance to pretend I’m simply not sure how to begin, but if I don’t start now, I’ll be in violation of the one rule.

  No hesitation, no questions.

  I stand beside the table and place my hands on his shoulders. I’ve given massages to friends and family members, of course, but they were always brief and certainly never when the person I was massaging was naked and sporting a physique that literally made me weak in the knees. I knead the muscles around his neck and shoulder blades uncertainly, not sure how much pressure to apply—or how much I can apply with my small, not particularly strong hands.

  “That’s it,” he murmurs in encouragement. “A little harder.”

  I exert more force, though it isn’t easy for me, and he groans with obvious pleasure. I like the sound, and so I continue, working my way down his back to his butt and thighs and calves. By the time I finish his feet, my hands are cramping up until they look like claws, and I pull away, assuming I’m done.

  But then with a low rumble of satisfaction, he rolls over onto his back and says, “Now this side.”

  My eyes widen with horror. I can’t go on. My hands are aching. I can’t question and I can’t hesitate, but I can ask for mercy. Except the stony expression on his face warns me he’s in the mood to brook no arguments, and so I flex my fingers and begin again, starting from the bottom up this time.

  When I reach his thighs, the pain in my hands is so intense that tears well in my eyes. I know he sees the tears, but he doesn’t release me from my torment. Not even when I gaze longingly at his now fully erect cock and lick my lips in a desperate attempt to signal my willingness to suck him if only he’ll let me stop.

  Please, Sir, please. I won’t ask for mercy. That might be all it takes for him to send me back to Daniels, and then for Daniels to have me sent back to Mexico. It’s too great a risk, no matter how much pain I’m in.

  I knead his marbled abdominal muscles, my tears dropping from my face and onto his skin. He seems utterly unmoved by my distress until I reach his pectorals, and then he closes his hands around my wrists.

  “Do you want to suck my cock now, Slut?”

  It’s the first time he’s ever asked me what I want, and I don’t know how to respond. If I say yes, he may be angry because it means I don’t want to finish the task he demanded of me. But if I say no, he may be angry because, as his whore, I should always want to suck him.

  “I want whatever you want, Sir,” I finally manage to say.

  That makes him smile, and this time, the smile reaches all the way to his eyes. “What a diplomat you are. I may keep you yet.”

  Oh God, I hope so.

  He releases my wrists and circles his penis with one hand, angling the head up toward me. “Take it in that sweet little mouth of yours. I want it nice and wet before I fuck you.”

  Wet heat flickers between my thighs. I’ve been anticipating this for so long, just hearing the word from his lips is a kind of completion. He really means to do it this time. Maybe it’s foolish for me to think that it matters this much, that if I give him my body, he’ll understand the true depth of my willingness to obey him, but I can’t shake the notion that he’ll be more committed to protecting me once we’ve crossed this barrier.

  I bend over and touch my tongue to the silky tip, lapping up a d
rop of precum before licking the length of him from stem to stern. My hair tumbles down like a waterfall, shielding my face from him as I close my mouth around him and begin to suck. He makes a guttural sound in his throat as I slide his cock toward the back of my throat. I can’t accommodate all of him, but I manage to encompass a solid two-thirds of his shaft before I glide up again.

  He reaches down and lifts the curtain of my hair with one hand so he can watch me work. “That’s it,” he groans softly, and I redouble my efforts, forcing even more of his length into my throat.

  I startle when I feel his free hand slide along my thigh, under the satin fabric of my gown and then between my legs. He dips his fingers between my pussy lips, and the slippery fluid of arousal gushes from me in answer.

  “God, you’re wet. You really love cock sucking, don’t you, you dirty little whore?” The words dirty little whore are an endearment coming from his lips.

  I’m too engaged in the actual act of cock sucking to answer the question, but he doesn’t seem to require a response since the answer is clearly that I do. As I continue to bob my head up and down, he searches for and finds my clit, stroking it hard and fast. I come quickly, in a fiery burst that’s as short and satisfying as a single firework, which is to say glorious, but somehow inadequate.

  “All right, that’s enough,” he says, roughly disengaging his cock from my mouth. “Take off the dress and get up on the bench.”

  My heart pounds in my throat. This is it. I slip the straps of the gown from my shoulders. It makes a satiny sigh as it collapses to the floor. By the time I step out of the purple circle of fabric, he’s vacated the table. I climb onto it and find the leather padding pleasantly warm from his body heat.

  His eyes rake over me, hot and dark as coals despite the light green rings of his irises. The pure carnal intent in his gaze blisters my skin, makes me painfully aware of the weight of my breasts, the sensitivity of my hardened nipples, and the swollen dampness of my pussy.

  The bench was waist-high to me, but it’s perfectly level with his hips. All he needs to do to fuck me is spread my legs and slide inside me, but perversely, he doesn’t do that.

  “Get on your stomach.”

  My breath hitches but I roll onto my belly, my nipples aching as they press against the bench. I wonder what he has in mind as he walks behind me. Or at least I wonder as long as it takes him to position me the way he wants me at the very end of the bench—my knees drawn up beside me, my forehead pressed against the leather padding and my ass tilted up toward the ceiling.

  He slides a finger in and out of my sopping cunt a few times, dragging the slippery moisture outward to saturate my entry. My muscles tense in apprehension as he withdraws his finger and presses the velvety head of his cock there instead. I know I should relax, but I can’t. Not now.

  Without warning, he grabs my hips and thrusts forward.

  Santa Maria, Madre de Dios!

  I clench my hands into fists, my fingernails scoring my palms. The pain is brutal as I go from empty to torn asunder in a single heartbeat. I’m not sure what hurts more, his girth or his length, but it hardly matters. Either way, I’m sure he’s shifted the geography of my body, and I wonder if the land feels this way after an earthquake—broken, buckled, ruined.

  Ruined. The use of the word to describe a fallen woman makes sense to me now. I’m sure I’ll never be whole again.

  “Jesus fucking God, you’re as tight as a virgin.” His breathing is harsh, uneven, and I realize he’s trembling as he twists himself a deeper inside me.

  That’s when the tears start. I can’t stop them, because I am a virgin. Or I was. Now, I’m damaged goods.

  But the instinct for self-preservation tells me not to communicate the true measure of my distress to him, and so I remain obediently motionless as he works his cock in all the way to the balls. I bury my face in the leather padding and steel myself to endure this for however long it takes.

  With a grunt of satisfaction, he begins to fuck me, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out, each withdrawal and thrust another assault on my raw flesh. Though he doesn’t piston me hard and fast, there’s nothing gentle about his frank possession of my body, the way he drives in and out of me telling me I’m his to take whenever and wherever he likes. Whether I like it or not.

  And I don’t like it, or that’s what I tell myself, but then he reaches around my waist and finds my breast. He takes the distended nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling and pinching it, and it’s the oddest thing because it’s as though my nipple is connected to my clit. Each throbbing, pleasurable sensation his fingers awaken blossoms between my legs. The pain of his invasion hasn’t lessened in the slightest, but now it’s becoming muddled with arousal, and I can’t decide if I hate it or love it.

  “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 g
ives 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.